False Positive

by Andrew Grant

  “Why would she do that?”

  “You know who her father was, right? She wanted to get out of his shadow. She saw the opportunity. And she took it. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

  Devereaux took a moment to think about it. Could things have been bad enough for her to steal another kid’s identity? He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t doubt it strongly enough to dismiss her story out of hand.

  “Let’s talk about the present.” Devereaux took a bottle of water from his pile and wiped away a layer of dust that had fallen from the roof. “You’re saying your mom has taken Ethan?”

  Loflin nodded.

  “Did she take all those other kids, as well?”

  “There were some others.” Loflin nodded again. “I’m not sure if it’s as many as the FBI think.”

  “What did she do to them? Did she kill them?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. I’m still piecing things together.”

  “Is Ethan still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. But I know she has something planned for him. I think it’s something bad. We have to stop her. You have to help me, Cooper. I can’t do it on my own.”

  “Hold your horses. You knew your mom had kidnapped Ethan the whole time we were searching for him. You were stringing us along. Not to mention that poor kid’s parents. Why should I trust you now?”

  “No.” Loflin shook her head violently. “Listen. I didn’t know what she was doing. Not all along. I was in denial. Looking back, all those years ago, there were clues, I guess. I can see that now. But it only became fully clear two nights ago. My mom’s sick. She’s terminal. All my life she talked about me following in her footsteps. Carrying on her work. It’s only since her cancer brought us closer that I realized what she meant. I humored her for a few months. Who can say no to a dying mother, right? At first it was easy. She talked me into sweeping up a couple of drug dealers and a gang enforcer who’d got off on technicalities. She had me use my contacts at the department to find new evidence. They were people with bad genes, she said. And after them, it was you. She sent me a whole file making you out to be the new Al Capone. Then, Sunday, at the Roadside Rendezvous, I saw her on the CCTV. She’d hidden her face, and she was in disguise, but it wasn’t enough to fool me. That’s why I left the manager’s office when I did. Not to avoid the clerk. So I could call my mom. We fixed to meet, that night. And she laid it all out. Ethan. The other kids. All of it. The FBI found a couple of things of Ethan’s that she’d given me as proof, at my house. And some of the tranquilizer she’d used on him. They put two and two together, and skipped a generation. I should have told someone—you, Hale, Bruckner, Grandison—I get that. But I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. We’re talking about my mom, Cooper.”

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Tuesday. Late Morning.

  Ethan missing for eighty-eight and a half hours

  Devereaux had been watching Loflin the whole time she was talking.

  The years he’d spent with the police department had honed his instinct for sensing lies, and he wasn’t picking up anything that worried him. But he was also aware that Loflin was light-years away from the people he normally pulled off the streets. She was no drug dealer, claiming not to know how a dead rival’s blood came to be on a baseball bat in the trunk of her car. Or a factory worker, denying she’d found out a co-worker was sleeping with her husband the night before the slut mysteriously disappeared. Loflin was an undercover detective whose life depended on her ability to deceive.

  “You told me your mom was a psychologist.” Devereaux took a sip of water, still unsure whether to believe her. “It’s quite a leap, from counseling to kidnapping. How did it happen?”

  “It was a gradual thing.” Loflin straightened her blouse. “She’d always been obsessed with genetic inheritance, since she was a little girl. Because of her father, I guess. She was always reading theories about destiny and such. She studied it at graduate school.”

  “How could a kid in her shoes afford graduate school? Did someone give her a scholarship?”

  “She didn’t need one. Everyone thought she was Rebecca, so after the fire she inherited the Nesbitts’ money. A ton of it. College, graduate school, starting her own practice, funding her research, none of it even scratched the surface. And whether it was her destiny, I don’t know, but she went on to get hired by the FBI. As a contractor, not an agent. Her specialty was helping people deal with trauma. Kids, in particular. Including, one day, the daughter of a serial killer in New Mexico who’d been shot by the police.”

  “So how did it work? Your mom had suffered when she was a kid, so she wanted to pay it forward?”

  “No!” Loflin’s eyes blazed. “She’s crazy, but she’s not evil. She thinks she’s rescuing them from their fate. She thinks that without her, the kids would be doomed to follow in their parents’ footsteps.”

  “So why take Ethan?”

  “You don’t know?” Loflin stepped forward and touched Devereaux’s shoulder. “Cooper, all the kids she took? The orphans? Their fathers were all serial killers. That’s the link. From mom’s father, to her, to them.”

  And from my father to me. Devereaux was stunned.

  “Ethan’s father killed his mother.” Loflin took her hand back and swept her hair out of her face. “She was his seventh victim. He cut her throat when she found out about victim number six. An au pair they’d hired illegally from Venezuela. The neighbors heard screaming. The police were called. The father was shot. And Ethan was taken into care.”

  “Did Ethan know about his father?”

  “I’m not sure. He was pretty young. He may not have.”

  “Your mom was his caseworker?” Devereaux forced himself to change tack. “Why wasn’t this flagged up? Bruckner or Grandison should have done a full background check on her when they came up with the law enforcement angle.”

  “Bruckner and Grandison wouldn’t have known about her. These days, all the records are centralized. My mom’s senior enough that she can get printouts of the entire database. A kid doesn’t have to be her patient for her to find out about him.”

  “Then how did she find out about me? I didn’t even know about my father.”

  “Because of the cancer, indirectly. She was cleaning house, ready for when the end came. The old guy Tomcik was the one who’d gotten her placed with her foster family. She knew he’d been keeping tabs on her, up till the fire. She suspected he’d kept a file. She didn’t want any records left behind, so she went to get it. And found yours at the same time. You’re another child of a serial killer, and she believes it’s her mission to save you.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  “You think?”

  “Crazy, but smart, too. It was she who lied to the lieutenant to get me put on ice then brought back in time to catch this case, I bet.”

  “Right. But I didn’t know at first. She just told me to report on what you were doing. I thought it was just for background, not to confirm her plan was working.”

  “She wanted me close, but not too close. So she had you jerk me around like a puppet, swallowing her misdirections like I was fresh out of uniform.”

  “No. I didn’t know about any of that until Sunday night, when she told me about Ethan.”

  “How did you leave things with her, Sunday? Does she believe you’re doing what she wants? Going to meet with her?”

  “Yes. What else could I do? If she stopped trusting me, she’d cut me off. We’d lose touch. I figured our only chance of saving Ethan was for me to play along. And it was working. I know where she’s taking him. We still have time to get there ahead of her.”

  Devereaux had heard enough. He’d made his decision.

  “Come on.” He checked that he had his keys and headed for the door. “We need a cell signal. Then we need to contact Lieutenant Hale. Get her to put a hostage rescue team—”

  “I already tried, Cooper.” Loflin ha
dn’t moved. “She didn’t believe me. And you can’t blame her. The evidence against me looks pretty compelling.”

  “That’s crap. I’ll talk to her. She’ll believe me.”

  “What if she doesn’t? Didn’t you already tell her my mother was the kidnapper? You didn’t know she was my mother then, and you used her old name, but might the lieutenant not think you’re flogging a dead horse, here? Trying to save face? And if she doesn’t believe you—which she probably won’t—she’ll order you to arrest me. What would you do then?”

  Devereaux was running through rescue scenarios in his head, weighing the odds of needing reinforcements.

  “I’m not worried for myself.” Loflin shrugged. “I’m innocent, and I can prove it. It would just take time. But if I don’t show up when my mother’s expecting me, she’ll think I’ve betrayed her. It’ll be the kiss of death for Ethan.”

  There were ways in which involving Lieutenant Hale made sense. But in one respect, her presence would be a major disadvantage.

  “She’s not going to buy it, Cooper. Believe me. I spoke to her right before I drove over here. Her mind’s made up. Look, this isn’t about me saving my own ass. I’ve done nothing wrong. Except break procedure, and I’ll take whatever’s coming my way on that. I’ll turn myself in. I’ll resign. I’ll go to jail, if I have to. But first, we’ve got to save that kid. I couldn’t live with my conscience, otherwise. It’s down to you and me, Cooper. Whether he lives or dies. At this point, we’re Ethan’s best hope. Actually, we’re his only hope.”

  Devereaux was confident he wouldn’t need help to save Ethan from a cancerous old woman. But that wasn’t the clincher. Another factor was weighing on his mind. The likelihood that Loflin’s mother was the one who’d killed Tomcik. And the drawback of facing her in front of an unnecessary witness.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Tuesday. Late Morning.

  Ethan missing for eighty-eight and three-quarter hours

  Once they were in the car, Loflin wasn’t interested in any more talking.

  Several times Devereaux tried to spark up a conversation—to apologize for the way he’d treated her back at the cabin, to ask about her experiences growing up, to explore the common ground that must have given them—but on each occasion she shut him down with a grunt or a wave of her hand. All her concentration was devoted to guiding the old Subaru away from the cabin, and then getting away from Birmingham itself as quickly as possible.

  They’d been on the road for seventy minutes when Loflin made a sharp right into the mouth of a tiny track. She kept going for another mile. The car was pitching and bouncing like a boat in a storm but still she refused to lift her foot off the gas.

  The expanse of cotton plants on the right hand side of the track abruptly gave way to a patch of scrubby woodland. Soon an old wall became visible through the trees. After another half mile the undergrowth parted, giving access to a gate. It was made of wrought iron, ten feet tall and twelve wide with fancy Doric motifs set into the rail at the top. A length of chain with a heavy-duty padlock was dangling near the center. The pillars on either side were stone—stained and crumbling—with polished granite spheres perched on top. The one on the left was leaning inward, threatening to collapse at any moment.

  Devereaux wrestled the gates open just wide enough for the Subaru to fit through. The ground on the far side was softer. It was lined with tire tracks. He counted four sets. Three were starting to fade, but one was definitely fresh. Loflin saw them, too, and shot Devereaux a worried frown as he climbed back into the car alongside her.

  The track followed a gentle arc through what Devereaux guessed had been formal gardens before the forest started to reassert itself, and led to the front of a huge plantation-style mansion. Six Doric columns held up a portico with a peeling Greek-key frieze above two rows of classically proportioned windows. The roof was steeply pitched, and a cupola—the largest Devereaux had ever seen—extended the whole length of its peak. Steps ran up to the porch between the central pair of pillars, leading to an ornately paneled double-width front door that had definitely seen better days.

  One side of the door was standing open. And parked near the bottom of the steps was a black M-Class Mercedes.

  “Shit.” Loflin pointed to the SUV. “That’s Mom’s car. She made good time. And she could be anywhere. This place looks massive.”

  Loflin was in favor of charging straight in and getting the confrontation over with, but Devereaux took a more measured approach. He insisted that they walk around the perimeter of the house first to get an idea of its layout and possible alternative entry points. They moved slowly, trying to lessen the sound their feet made as they crunched through the sun-dried grass, and by the time they’d completed the circuit Devereaux had counted thirty ground-floor windows. They were all the same size. All their shutters were closed. And all were covered with sturdy, inch-and-a-quarter-diameter steel bars. The bars definitely weren’t part of the original design. But they were the only things in a decent state of repair.

  The only other potential entry point—or escape route, if things went badly—was an angled trapdoor three-quarters of the way along the left side of the building. It was situated next to a cluster of standpipes like the kind used to fill heating tanks with oil. The hinges showed signs of having recently been opened, but when Devereaux drew closer he saw the trapdoor was held shut by another industrial-strength padlock.

  Their only option was to go straight through the front door, as Loflin had originally suggested. Devereaux went first, and found himself in a wide hallway with a broad, curving staircase in front of him. All around, the paint was peeling from the walls, revealing patches of plaster and brick. Niches on both sides of the staircase stood empty. Two gilded picture frames were still hanging away to the left, but their contents had long since been removed. A white alabaster statue of a Greek god lay smashed on the floor in the corner. The space was illuminated by a weird greenish light and Devereaux was immediately hit by the smell of chemicals mixed with damp, like at a swimming pool.

  Loflin followed, and after the echo of her footsteps died away they stood still for thirty seconds, listening. The house was completely silent. There was no clue which way to go.

  “Where did your mom tell you to meet her?” Devereaux kept his voice to a whisper.

  “She wasn’t specific.” Loflin shrugged. “She just gave me directions to the house.”

  “Try calling her.”

  Loflin yelled, “Mom, you here?”

  There was no reply.

  “Try calling her on the phone.”

  Loflin pulled out her cell, feeling embarrassed, and hit a speed dial key. They could hear the muffled ringtone coming from her handset, but no answering melody from her mother’s end. The house remained obstinately and unhelpfully silent.

  “Shall we go up?” Loflin put the phone away. “Down? Or search the ground floor, since we’re already here?”

  —

  It took them less than three minutes to establish that Loflin’s mother wasn’t in any of the eight large, empty, moldering rooms on the ground floor. Devereaux’s instinct was to go down, so next they checked the basement. The front section was empty, save for leaves and other detritus that had blown in through the holes that time had worn in the stacks of ventilation bricks beneath the porch. The rear section, which could have been reached from the trapdoor they’d seen on the outside, was separated by a rough brick wall with a rickety wooden door near one end. It opened easily. But they couldn’t go through. Because behind it was another door.

  It was made of shiny steel.

  And it was locked.

  Chapter Eighty

  Tuesday. Early Afternoon.

  Ethan missing for ninety hours

  The lock was a solid one.

  Solid, but not impregnable. It took Devereaux just over a minute to get it open. He mimed a countdown from three. Pushed the door. Stepped forward, his gun and flashlight held steady in front of him. An
d immediately regretted not choosing to go upstairs.

  The space was effectively a room inside a room, and it was kitted out like a private mortuary. There was a stainless steel dissection table, with a porcelain headrest that made the hairs on Devereaux’s neck dance like they were blowing in the wind. There was a bench full of cutting tools. A small autoclave. A shelf, with a dozen or so empty glass jars lined up, large to small, left to right. A thing like a glass coffin, set on a gurney trolley. Three shiny cylinders, six feet tall by two feet in diameter, plumbed in against the wall. But no sign of Ethan. And nothing to persuade Devereaux to stay.

  “What the hell was that?” Devereaux couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough.

  Loflin shrugged. “Are you OK? Do you need some air?”

  “No.” Devereaux got hold of himself. “Let’s keep going. We should try the second floor.”

  —

  The grand staircase opened onto a landing with ten doors leading off it. Devereaux waited for Loflin to catch up, then pointed to the first one on the left. He pushed the door open and crept inside. The room was set up as a kid’s bedroom. A girl’s. It smelled of lilac. The floor was covered with soft, pale pink carpet. The walls were papered with jungle scenes, showing dozens of exotic animals in their natural habitats. Hampers overflowing with cuddly animals covered the floor. And in the bed—in animal pajamas, under an animal comforter—was a creepy-looking, little-girl-size doll.

  Loflin turned and sprinted for the door. Devereaux heard her feet clattering down the landing, and then the sound of vomiting. For a moment he was puzzled. Then the truth hit him, and he felt his own stomach start to rebel. The figure in the bed. He recognized the face. It was Miranda Gonzalez. The actual girl. Her own body, preserved. Not a doll. The one who’d disappeared in New Mexico, sixteen years ago. Loflin’s mother’s first victim.