False Positive

by Andrew Grant

  Devereaux went to check on Loflin. She was sitting on the top step, her head between her knees, breathing heavily, pale as a ghost. Then he moved on to the next room. He paused outside, dreading what he might find, but spurred on by the fading hope that he could still save Ethan.

  Devereaux pushed open the door. This room smelled of leather. It was set up like a baseball stadium. The Twins. There was a diamond marked out on the floor, complete with ochre sand. A pitcher’s mound in the center. Seats painted on the walls, with false perspective carefully employed to extend right up to the bleachers. And at the plate—in the angle of the walls at the far corner—was a little boy. A little boy’s body, anyway. It was propped up, somehow. Dressed in pinstripes. Bat raised, ready to receive a pitch. Its face was obscured by the peak of its cap, so Devereaux had to get uncomfortably close to be certain, but it wasn’t Ethan.

  Devereaux was about to leave when he spotted something that made his skin crawl even more. A webcam. It was mounted on the wall, tucked in amongst the painted cameras of the press corps. It made him wonder how many others there’d been in the house. Downstairs. In the basement. The awful mortuary room. Miranda’s bedroom. And then a worse thought hit him: Was Loflin’s mother watching him, right now?

  Pushing thoughts of Big Brother aside, Devereaux moved on to the next room. Here the theme was space. The ceiling and three of the walls were painted a bluey purple and speckled with stars. On the fourth wall there was a magnificent mural of the earth rising above the moon. Beneath it was a mock-up of the inside of a Saturn V command module, but with only one seat. And strapped into it, wearing a tiny astronaut costume complete with NASA mission patches, sat a perfectly preserved six-year-old girl.

  The next door opened onto a replica of Andy’s bedroom from Toy Story. All the main characters were there: Woody. Jessie. Bullseye. Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. Slinky Dog. Etch. Wheezy. Stinky Pete. And on the bed, Buzz Lightyear.

  Buzz was much bigger than the other toys. He was the size of a seven-year-old child. For a moment Devereaux’s heart refused to beat. Then he rushed across the room. Pulled back the visor. And saw the face he’d last seen staring imploringly down at him from the FBI’s projection screen.

  There was no doubt this time. The search was over.

  He’d found Ethan Crane.

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Tuesday. Early Afternoon.

  Loflin appeared at the door thirty seconds after Devereaux called her.

  She was pale, and she clearly did not want to come inside. But when she saw Ethan’s body lying frozen on the bed she pushed her fear aside and took her place next to Devereaux.

  “Did you check for a pulse?”

  “Yes. There is one. It’s faint as hell, but he’s hanging in there. And look…”

  Devereaux pointed to a clear tube that emerged from Ethan’s left sleeve and snaked up to a bag of fluid tucked away behind Bo Peep and her sheep on a narrow shelf above the head of the bed.

  “Angel of mercy killers usually sedate their victims before they finish them. They believe they’re saving them, so they want to avoid causing pain. If your mother hasn’t gone beyond that stage yet, Ethan’s still got a chance. You stay here. Watch over him. And call 911. I’ll keep looking for her.”

  “Wait.” Loflin looked like she was on the verge of panic. “I don’t have a gun. I had to surrender it, until the verdict comes back on the Carver shooting.”

  “No problem.” Devereaux took out his gun and offered it to her. “Here. Take mine. I have a spare.”

  —

  The room next to Ethan’s—the last one on the same side of the corridor—was a bathroom. So was the room opposite it. The next one, working back toward the stairs, was another bedroom. The walls were plastered, but not decorated in any way. A pink carpet lay rolled up on the floor. The mattress and the frame of the bed were bare. In the center of the room several boxes of Barbie dolls were stacked up next to some cans of paint and a pile of books with pictures of the world’s most famous dollhouses. But there was no kid. And no sign of Loflin’s mother.

  Devereaux opened the next door and was faced with an expanse of crisp white paintwork. The drapes at the window were steel gray. A chrome-finish twin-bell mechanical alarm clock sat on the nightstand. There was a single picture on the wall. Of a cabin. His cabin. Below it there was a clothes rail on a wheeled stand. Devereaux moved closer to examine the garments hanging on it. There were blue button-down shirts. Khaki pants. Black T-shirts. And at the end, a Clash “I Fought the Law” shirt. Devereaux took it off its hanger and checked the back. There was a hole. It was in the right place, but it was freshly made. And cut with nail scissors, rather than ripped during a brawl.

  “Cooper! It’s so good to see you.”

  Devereaux spun around, still holding the shirt. A woman had appeared in the doorway. She was five-feet-four tall with fine, shoulder-length blond hair. In every way a gaunt, older version of Loflin, right down to the absence of her right earlobe. She was holding a stainless steel tray in her hand with a can of beer and a glass balanced on it.

  “Would you like a drink?” She held the tray out. “I got you Avondale Battlefield. Your favorite.”

  “Thank you.” Devereaux threw the T-shirt on the bed, then took the tray and set it down more gently. “What should I call you? Madison? Rebecca? Mrs. Loflin?”

  “Call me whatever you like. Now drink your beer. I got it for you specially.”

  Every muscle in Devereaux’s body was straining to grab the woman and shake the truth out of her about what kind of drugs she’d given Ethan. But over the years he’d learned the hard way. With some people, you have to vary your approach.

  “Thank you.” Devereaux sat on the bed, bringing his head down to the woman’s level, and poured himself some beer. The can was already opened. The “glass” was made of puny plastic, and Devereaux nearly crushed it when he picked it up. He readjusted his grip and lifted it to his lips. But he didn’t take a sip. He just wanted to sniff the liquid, to try to get a sense of what kind of sedative the woman was using.

  Whatever it was, it had no discernible odor.

  “Do you like your room?” The woman was staying well out of his reach. “I want you to feel at home.”

  “I do like it.” Devereaux sniffed the beer again. “The other rooms are good, too. Very imaginative. Great attention to detail. Do you have a favorite?”

  “No. The rooms aren’t for me. It’s what the children think that counts.”

  “I’m hardly a child, Madison.”

  “We’re all our parents’ children. We’re defined by the genes they pass on to us. It’s about biology, Cooper. Not chronology. The fact you’re a little older is neither here nor there. It’s just a result of it taking me longer to find out about you.”

  “To find out what about me?”

  “About your father. Who he was. What he was.”

  “John Devereaux? A Birmingham PD detective?”

  “Are you in denial, Cooper? Or are you trying to play me? We both know the truth about the stock you come from. And why you’re here.”

  “OK. You’re right about me. But what about Ethan Crane? You know there was a screwup with the records?”

  “There was no screwup.”

  “There was. You wouldn’t know, because it didn’t come to light until we started investigating his disappearance. It’s not your fault. It’s Child Services’. They got the paperwork switched around when Ethan was put into the system. His real father was a welder. He was burned alive in an accident at a construction site. He wasn’t shot by the police. The kid in the Buzz Lightyear suit? He doesn’t belong here. His genes are normal. So let’s do this. Let’s get him out of here, so you can save the right little boy. The one who needs your help. Just confirm one thing for me—you’ve only given Ethan the sedative, right? Whatever comes after that—the thing that finally puts him to sleep—he hasn’t had it?”

  “He hadn’t, when you were poking and prodding him
a few minutes ago.” The woman checked her watch. “But it’s OK. He’s getting it right now. My daughter’s taking care of everything. It’s her first time, and I’m truly proud.”

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Tuesday. Afternoon.

  The two women were working together?

  Of course they were! Loflin herself had told him she was being groomed to take over from her mother. Then she’d shown up at his cabin with her whole “pity me” spiel, which ended up with her bringing him out here. On his own. With no backup. Even Lieutenant Hale had no idea where they were. No one did.

  Devereaux couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to leave Loflin alone with Ethan. If the boy died, it would be his fault. His only hope was that Loflin was dragging her feet, if this really was her first time. Devereaux stood up. He had to get back to Ethan’s room…

  “Stop!” The woman had produced an orange Taser gun from behind her back. “You know what one of these can do, don’t you? You’ve probably used one yourself. So sit back down. And drink your damn beer.”

  Devereaux sank back onto the bed. He moved the tray to his lap, then raised the glass. His hand was shaking. He lifted the drink almost to his lips. And spilled it. Beer ran down his chin and onto his chest. He cursed and grabbed the Clash T-shirt with his spare hand. He wadded it up. Made as if to use it to mop his face. Then he flung the glass at the woman. He gripped the tray through the T-shirt. Held it in front of him like a shield. And charged forward.

  The Taser darts deflected off the tray and buried themselves in the wall, away to Devereaux’s right. He kept moving. Dropped the tray. Grabbed the woman by the arm. Spun her around. Pulled his handcuffs off his belt and snapped one around her wrist. He reached for her other arm. And felt something cold and hard pressing against the back of his skull.

  “Let my mother go.”

  Devereaux spun around, aiming to grab the gun, but Loflin had been expecting the move. She sprang back, out of his reach, and kept the weapon trained on his head.

  “Stop!” Loflin’s voice was loud and shrill, but far from panicky. “Now sit down. Near the wall. Cross your legs. Put your hands on your head. And keep them there.”

  Devereaux took a moment to assess the situation. Loflin was clearly serious, so he slowly positioned himself on the smooth wood floor. The woman stepped toward her daughter, beaming with maternal pride.

  “Darling, your timing’s beautiful.” She held up her wrist with Devereaux’s handcuffs dangling from it. “Have you got a key for this thing?”

  “Mother, you sit down, too. This isn’t what either of you think.”

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Tuesday. Afternoon.

  The woman almost fell into Devereaux’s lap.

  She lowered herself to the ground and the loose handcuff banged into his knee. Her hand fluttered like a butterfly against his ankle, bringing home to him just how frail she was. It seemed incongruous to him that someone so tiny could be the cause of so much trouble, and like when her daughter shook his hand in Lieutenant Hale’s office, three days ago, it made him feel clumsy.

  “Jan?” Devereaux kept his eye on the gun. Loflin was holding it steady and aiming at a neutral point on the freshly painted wall, midway between his head and the woman’s. “Let’s remember why we came here. We need to think about Ethan. To make sure he’s safe. That’s the best way to help your mother.”

  Loflin didn’t respond.

  “How is Ethan?” Devereaux was trying to make eye contact. “Did you give him anything to…put him to sleep?”

  “Of course I didn’t.” Loflin didn’t move the gun. “He’s fine. I disconnected the sedative and replaced it with saline. He’ll be awake pretty soon.”

  “That’s fantastic, Jan. But we need to be sure. We need to call the paramedics, and—”

  “I already called them. An ambulance is on its way. And two squad cars.”

  “So why are we still here?”

  “Because I’m looking to end this properly. I’m happy to take whatever consequences come my way. But I need a promise from each of you first.”

  “Don’t know if I can do that, Jan. You know how this works.”

  “Hear me out, at least. Then decide. I need you to understand something about my mom.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s crazy. Literally insane.”

  “You think?”

  “Hey!” Loflin’s mother stiffened.

  “Mother, be quiet.” Loflin’s voice was calm and controlled. “Let me help you. Cooper, what I need you to understand is that however awful the things my mom did were, she honestly believed she was helping. She was wrong, but she believed she was right. And she doesn’t have much time left. I don’t want her to spend what little she has in jails and courthouses. I don’t want her story splashed across the tabloids. I don’t want her to die as some kind of sideshow freak.”

  “I’m not turning a blind eye, Jan. I’m not letting her walk away.”

  “I’m not asking you to. But when you’re writing up what happened, I want you to remember what I said. Be balanced with the facts. Don’t go for the jugular. Take the middle road. Can you do that?”

  Devereaux took a moment to weigh her words.

  “I’ll do my best to see she gets what’s fair.”

  “Good enough. Thank you. Now, Mom. You heard what Detective Devereaux just said. He was reasonable, right? And all the things you told me about him? All the things you said he’d done in that dossier, which were supposed to prove how he was just like his father? To convince me to bring him here? They’re not true. I’ve talked to him. Watched him in person. Worked with him. Is he perfect? No. Does he have flaws? Yes. Make mistakes? Sure. But his heart’s in the right place. Look how he busted his ass to save little Ethan—which is the same thing you thought you were doing.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I want you to drop this whole Devil-in-the-blood thing. It stops here. No one else needs to die. I want your word on that.”

  “OK.” The woman raised herself up onto her knees. “I give you my word. Detective?”

  The woman reached out toward Devereaux as if to shake on it, then dropped her hand to his leg. She pulled the backup weapon from his ankle holster and threw herself sideways, toward the door. Loflin fired at her. A bullet smashed into the wall, to the side of Devereaux’s elbow. The woman loosed off three shots in rapid succession, still scrabbling for a way out. Loflin fired again, and the woman shrieked with pain. Blood blossomed from her upper arm. She was knocked off balance. She righted herself. And loosed off two more shots.

  Devereaux grabbed the woman’s feet. He spun her onto her back, dived on top of her, and knocked the gun out of her hand. Eight feet away Loflin dropped her gun, too. Then she crashed to the ground. She was clutching her side. Blood was oozing out between her fingers. Devereaux scrambled forward. He picked up the Clash T-shirt from where he’d dropped it earlier and pressed it against her, trying to stem the bleeding.

  “Stop her.” Loflin’s voice was weak, and she struggled to raise a hand to point at the door.

  The woman had disappeared.

  “Keep up the pressure on that wound.” Devereaux jumped to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  —

  The corridor was empty. Devereaux had no way of knowing which way the woman had gone. Down the stairs, to fight another day? Or to Ethan’s room, to finish the job Loflin had interrupted?

  Devereaux wasn’t in the mood to take chances. He headed to Ethan’s room. The boy was on his own, still in his Buzz Lightyear costume. He was starting to stir, and the line had become detached from his sleeve. Outside, Devereaux heard a car engine roar into life. He shook his head. Picked Ethan up. And went back to check on Loflin. Clearly she was crazy, too, but at least she’d done the right thing with the boy.

  The blood was still flowing, mixing a sharp metallic tang that caught in Devereaux’s throat with the harsh residue of cordite in the air. Devereaux ch
ecked Ethan’s breathing then set him down on the bed, took a fresh T-shirt from the rail, and used it to add more pressure to Loflin’s side.

  “Where’s my mom?” Her voice was barely audible.

  “She got away. But don’t worry. The uniforms will pick her up. And if they don’t, we’ve got plenty of time. We’ll find her. She can’t get up to too much harm, right? She’s hurt. She’s sick. And there can’t be too many kids like Ethan out there for her to save.”

  Loflin tried to struggle into a sitting position, but Devereaux gently eased her back onto the floor.

  “We’ve got to stop her.” Loflin’s fingernails dug into Devereaux’s forearm. “Right now.”

  “Why? What’s the rush?”

  “I know where she’s going.”

  “Great. Tell me.”

  “Not great, Cooper. Terrible. She’s going after your daughter.”

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Tuesday. Afternoon.

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have a daughter. I don’t have any kids at all.” Devereaux tried to get Loflin to lie down so that he could increase the pressure on her wound.

  “But you do!” Loflin fought against him. “My mom found out about her when she was building her file on you.”

  “No way. This is bullshit, Jan. Just some other line your mother spun to make me look bad. There’s no way on earth I’d abandon a kid, if I had one.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, Cooper. Her mother kept it from you, I guess.”

  “Who’s her mother supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know her name. My mom didn’t tell me, and I didn’t think to ask. An old girlfriend?”

  “I haven’t had a girlfriend in years. How old is this kid supposed to be?”

  “Seven.”

  “I wasn’t with anyone seven years ago.”

  “And the year before, Cooper? Babies take time to grow.”

  “I’d have been with Alexandra Cunningham.”