“I’m driving,” she admitted, trying to keep her shaky hands on the wheel. “I’m on my way to Bentonville.”
“No. No. Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“What do you mean it’s not a good idea?” And the words were pure anger. All the helpless rage she was feeling boiled up to spill over Clay. “You just told me that some perverted child molester has my son, and you’re telling me to… what? Go home and wait? Do nothing while he violates my b-baby?”
Her voice broke. She couldn’t help it. “This is like… my worst nightmare come to life.”
“Believe me, I know. It’s unthinkable for any parent, but given what you experienced as a child…”
His words trailed off, and Tate couldn’t stand it. She shoved the images from all those years ago out of her head.
“Tate.” The renewed energy in Clay’s voice cut through her misery. “I know this is unbelievably difficult, but I need you to listen to me for a moment. Can you think of any reason, any reason at all, for the man in that composite to know what happened to you at camp?”
“What? Why would he? And what does that have to do with Max? Why did that man take Max?”
“I don’t have time to go into the full psychological explanation, but I believe he’s seeking revenge on everyone he construes as having screwed things up for him. You saw his partner with Casey, you started this whole ball rolling, so to speak, and he decided to make you pay. However, the means he used – abducting Max – and the risks he took to go about it, suggest some kind of more personal connection to you. It’s too out of character for him to take those risks for this to be just some passing irritation. He… despises you, wants to punish you in the worst possible way. I believe he knows you, and has some knowledge of the summer you saw the camp director molesting that boy.”
Tate blinked, thinking that was absurd. How could anyone she knew be capable of this? “It’s not something I go around discussing.”
“Then could it be someone who had a personal connection to what happened? I’m assuming the camp director went to prison. Did he have a son? Or how about the boy you saw with him?”
Tate blew out a frustrated puff of air. “Donald Logan wasn’t married and didn’t have any children as far as I know. And the boy he molested… his name was Timothy Russell. But surely you don’t think it could be him. Why on earth would he hate me for putting a stop to what was happening?” She nearly missed the exit to Bentonville, and jerked the steering wheel to the right.
“The psychology that goes along with child abuse – particularly sexual abuse – is complicated stuff. The abuser can twist the situation until the child believes that what has been done is an act of love. But because the child knows that it’s inherently wrong, his confliction over the situation results in a whole stockpile of anger just looking for a suitable outlet. If the victim isn’t counseled, they might misplace their anger by turning into abusers themselves.”
“So you think that this man might be one of the boys Logan abused, he turned to a life of crime, and somehow found out that I had been the one to see his accomplice? And he remembered me?” She laughed, completely without mirth. “I don’t mean to question that you know what you’re doing, but that just seems so far-fetched.”
“Truth’s stranger than fiction, sugar. Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who might fit the bill? The more I know about the man inside that house with Max, the better chance I have of knowing what needs to be done to get Max out.”
Tate looked at the composite again, wondering how she was supposed to recognize anyone after all these years. And how did they even know for sure that this was what he really looked like? Her uncle had said that this man used disguises. That he had in fact checked into the Inn, dressed like an old lady. Tate shuddered, thinking about the fact that she’d been so close, and hadn’t even realized. She’d felt so bad when Mrs. Walker spilled the tea on her hand…
“Oh my God.” Her stomach turned, and she studied the drawing closely, pulling off to the side of the road to give it her full attention. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as she slammed the car into park.
The eyes, she thought. Something about the set of the mouth…
“What is it? You remember something?”
Tate’s hand shook as she straightened out the paper. “I could be wrong,” she said, heart sinking at the possibility. “But there’s a chance this could be Lifeguard John.”
KIM was on the phone with one of the Bureau’s information specialists, who was turning up everything they could possibly get on Jonathan Robert Walker.
Clay had no doubt that was the man inside with Max. The pieces of the puzzle fit.
From what he could piece together, Clay determined that Walker was probably a classic case of a neglected child falling victim to an opportunistic child molester – in this case a revered camp director who worked with several churches to create a program for underprivileged youth. In reality, a pool of needy, vulnerable children for him to systematically abuse. At Donald Logan’s trial, it had been determined that the man had been molesting boys from the church program for years.
From the information he’d been able to glean from Tate, Clay determined that Walker had started out attending the camp around the age of ten, and had returned every summer thereafter, eventually moving into a position of counselor by the time he reached his late teens. That was several long years during which his abuser twisted their relationship into something that approximated caring. To a child who probably had virtually no adult attention or interest in his life, that relationship – however wrong – became a critical part of his identity.
When Tate witnessed Logan molesting Timothy Russell, a major thread of Walker’s sense of self began to unravel. When Logan was convicted and sent to prison – publically accused and punished for his criminal behavior – it forced Walker to face that what had happened between them was wrong. Psychologically, however, he couldn’t handle it. So instead of feeling anger toward the perpetrator of the crimes committed against him, he embarked on a life of using the repeated and systematic abuse of others in the most clinical way possible – as a means of gaining wealth. It both gave him an outlet for his abnormal and aggressive sexual tendencies, and yet at the same time allowed him to believe that he was firmly in control of them.
Until another thread began to unravel.
Almost a decade ago, Logan was murdered in prison.
Then just last year, another thread.
His accomplice – and though they didn’t yet have positive identification, Clay felt certain that the other man was either a friend or relative from those early days, possibly someone who’d shared similar abuse – had begun a series of mistakes which led them to flee Atlanta and take up their business in Charleston. Where, ironically enough, they’d run into Tate. Who’d driven a significant nail into their business coffin by witnessing Casey Rodriguez talking to her abductor. By drawing in himself, and the FBI.
By completely unraveling Walker’s life.
Hence, he’d gone after Tate in the worst way imaginable – by abducting her son.
And Clay had no doubt now that the man had intended to take Max out of here alive, because in his mind – even if Tate had no idea what was happening – he would be hurting her every time he abused Max. Killing Max would have been too simple, not fitting enough punishment for what he saw as her crime. By taking Max and forcing him into the same kind of twisted relationship he himself had had with Logan, he was both punishing Tate and creating a new sense of purpose for himself. And in some ways, attempting to justify his feelings for Logan.
But now, with his latest plan being thwarted after he’d gone through so much trouble to set it into motion, Clay strongly suspected that Jonathan Walker was going to come unglued. He felt there was very little chance of them using negotiation to talk the man down.
He was not going to let Max out of there alive.
Realizing this, feeling sure of his conclusion,
Clay trotted over to the van near which Agent Beall was standing. Heart racing, he stepped into the other man’s line of sight. “He’s not going to negotiate,” he told him baldly. “We’re wasting our breath trying to get him to talk.”
Beall looked him up and down. “Thanks for that newsflash.” Then he turned to study some information the computer had spit out.
Clay grabbed the older agent’s arm. “Look, what I mean to say is that he will not let Max go. He will not be talked down. The longer we wait, the more time it gives him to hatch whatever plan he’s in there hatching. He’s going to… kill Max, and look for a means of ending this on his own terms.”
Beall squinted as he digested that opinion. “You think he’s suicidal?”
“No,” Clay disagreed. “I don’t. But I do feel that if that were the only option left available to him in order to stay on top of the situation, he would take it. My guess is that given no other choice, he’d choose death over going to prison. And he’d be sure to take Max with him.”
“So what are you suggesting we do?”
Clay took a deep breath, and just said it. “I know how this is going to sound, but I need to go in there.” Beall started making negative noises, but Clay talked over him and forged ahead. “I know about his background, and I have a personal connection to Max. I’m also Max’s mother’s lover. He has a need to wreak vengeance on her, and if he has me, there’s a real chance that I can provide at least enough of a distraction that one of the snipers can move in and take him out.”
Disbelief radiated. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already given you the answer to that proposition, Agent Copeland. Look, I can appreciate what you’re going through –”
“No,” Clay said. “You really can’t.”
“But,” it was Beall’s turn to bulldoze Clay. “This is precisely why you shouldn’t be part of this. Your judgment simply cannot be trusted.”
“What other choice do we have?” Clay shouted, in a rare display of losing his cool. “Just sit out here and wait for him to kill him?”
“I’m not,” Beall said evenly “going to give the okay for allowing a federal agent to sign his own death warrant.”
“Better me than that little boy! How is it going to look, sir, when they show Max’s body being carried out of that house in a black bag, right alongside your face on the five o’clock news?” Clay gestured toward the news vans which were being held back at the end of the driveway. “You know how that’s going to play? A whole hell of a lot worse than an agent being killed in the line of duty.”
Clay could tell that he’d struck a chord with the older man, and lowering his voice, stepped closer. “I’ll make it look like I didn’t have your approval. I’ll stomp off right now, you can climb into the van, and when your back’s turned I’ll approach the house. You can make all kinds of angry noises and no one will be the wiser. It will help make the situation tenable for you, and may even play well with our HT. If he believes I’m that desperate,” which he was, truth be told. Totally desperate. “It will add to his feeling of control. Come on, sir.” Emotion stripped Clay’s voice bare enough to break. “What do you have to lose?”
Beall’s eyes narrowed as they assessed Clay’s, and he gave a brief nod before moving back. “The answer is still no, Agent Copeland.” He said it loud enough for others to hear. “Now don’t come to me with this nonsense again.”
Beall struck off toward the back of the van, and Clay hung his head, defeated.
Then affixing an angry mask to his face, tried not to smile as he stormed off.
JR emerged from the tunnel’s back entrance at the edge of the field. Sapling pines and saw palmettos grew thick, affording cover as he crept out. Moving closer, on hands and knees, toward the tree line that meant salvation, he pulled out his binoculars and studied the scene.
Cops and federal agents were scurrying about like rats in a lab, and as he shifted the field glasses higher he picked out one, two…three snipers positioned in trees near the house, waiting for him to actually be dumb enough to pass in front of one of the windows. Or perhaps step out onto the porch to offer them all some iced tea.
Scanning toward the driveway, he saw several news crews gathered like vultures, waiting for some flesh to pluck.
Ha! Weren’t they going to be happy when that damn house blew all to hell?
JR lifted his head briefly, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he considered a slight problem. How could he be sure that one of the pigs actually fired off a shot toward the house?
Damn. Why hadn’t he considered that before? He would have, if he hadn’t been penned in, the surprise of it all making him sloppy. How the hell had they found him so quickly, anyway? Was it that damn pretty boy he’d shot? He probably should have gone outside and given him an insurance tap to the head, but the guy had looked like a goner.
And he’d been in a hurry to get out, so…
He lifted the binoculars again, trying to gage what the Feebs were going to do. Lo and behold, if it wasn’t Agent Copeland, little Tate’s screw buddy, getting all fired up and causing a scene. Maybe he should call that damn number the negotiator kept repeating, and tell them that he was going to kill the kid. Once Copeland got word of that, he’d go racing into the place, gun blasting.
Then, boom.
Just as he was trying to work out the angles for making that a viable plan, he caught sight of a commotion near the driveway. Somebody was causing a ruckus, yelling at some cops, and a couple of reporters were scrambling.
Then the crowd parted and he saw…
Tate.
JR smiled with something approaching giddiness. She’d made it to see the show after all.
He swung the binoculars around, and saw Copeland getting ready to… walk up to the door?
Damn, the asshole had balls.
And just as he was getting ready to slip his phone from his pocket, he heard a noise in one of the trees several yards away.
“What the hell is that idiot doing?”
Startled, JR quietly lifted his binoculars, and saw that the question had been uttered by sniper number four, who was perched in a tree not thirty feet in front of him.
Damn, that had been close. If the sniper hadn’t been keeping his full attention on the house through the scope of his rifle, he probably would have spotted JR.
Sweating from the heat, and from his own frayed nerves, JR started to slink away.
But then another thought occurred, and had him reaching for his weapon.
CLAY focused on the farmhouse door, absolutely ignoring the fact that he could be shot down at any second. He’d removed his sidearm and kept his hands raised high to show Walker he wasn’t carrying.
Behind him, Beall was indeed going through the motions of outrage, and he heard both Kim and Kathleen’s anxious voices.
He blocked it all out.
All he saw right now was the door to that house, and a vision of the child who was behind it. Holding his hand, laying his head on his shoulder in that sleepy, trusting way kids had… asking if he was going to be his daddy.
Yes, he wanted to tell Max right now, wished in fact that he’d said so yesterday morning. If Max and Tate would have him, he was utterly prepared to step into that role.
“Clay!”
He heard the voice, frantic and filled with pain.
“Clay!”
He turned, halfway to the front porch, and met Tate’s eyes across the dirt and scrabble of the front yard. She stood next to Kathleen, who’d wrapped an arm around Tate’s shoulders, helping to keep her on her feet.
“I love you.”
Willing away the tears that stung the back of his eyes, Clay briefly put his hand over his heart before turning back toward the house. If he tried to speak now, he’d probably lose it.
Then Kim called to him again, urgently, Beall’s voice ringing along with hers.
Clay ignored them both.
He’d just taken another step toward that front door when it blew off its h
inges and splintered toward him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
NO.
Every cell in Clay’s body screamed the protest, reacting to the shock. The house had freakin’… blown up.
“No.” This time he managed to mutter it aloud, despite the fact that something sat like an anvil atop his chest. Blocked the sun from his face. Prevented air from reaching his lungs.
He lifted one arm in a feeble bid for freedom, but pain propelled through it like a rocket. “Shit.”
“Clay!”
The voice rang familiar, frantic and female. What sounded like boards clattered, followed by the peal of sirens and the whoosh of water. Around him, fire cackled and roared. He wondered how close he was to the flames.
“I think he’s over here!”
Kim. That was definitely Kim.
“I need a hand with this!”
More clattering, then light speared his eyes. Until a cloud of black smoke roiled to obscure the sun, its acrid scent falling like dirty rain.
“Oh, thank God.” Kim’s worried frown hovered. She touched his cheek, brought her fingers away bloody. He wondered if she knew that her face was smudged. “Just hang on a minute, Clay, and we’ll get this off of you.”
With the admission of daylight, Clay could see that he’d been pinned by a chunk of door. The door that had been connected to the house. The house that had just blown up.
With Max in it.
“On three…”
Clay cried out as the heavy piece of wood was lifted, oxygen filling his lungs in a painful rush. Two men he didn’t recognize carried the door off to the side, and tears flooded his eyes as he attempted to lever himself onto his good arm. “Max.”
“Shh,” Kim cajoled, closing in, easing him down. Concerned blue eyes darted over him, visibly widening at the sight of his arm. “Don’t try to move yet. Max is fine.”
Yeah, right. Like he was going to believe that. Kim was just trying to pacify him to keep him from moving – as if he cared if he’d broken a few bones. “Don’t lie to me, dammit.” And heaving his weight, pushed her off. “Where’s Tate?” Jesus God, he had to see her. “Tate!”
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