by Andrew Grant
“The girl you told me about? The lawyer?”
“Right. We broke up right after Thanksgiving that year.”
Loflin waited for Devereaux to do the math.
“You think she was pregnant when we broke up?”
“I think you guys broke up because she was pregnant. You said she cut you off? No explanation? And she wouldn’t even see you? I think she didn’t want you to know, because she didn’t want you in the baby’s life.”
Devereaux let the blood-soaked T-shirt fall to the floor. His head was suddenly swimming. His whole life—ever since he was six years old—he’d dreamed of having his father back. He’d have done anything to be reunited with him. His absence had been the driving force behind everything he’d done, good and bad. It had cast a shadow over every chapter of his life. And now, to think that he had a daughter who’d been deprived of her father, not by a murderer’s bullet—or a cop’s bullet, as it now appeared—but by her mother’s whim? Her judgment that Devereaux would be an unsuitable parent? Her decision to cut him off, as if he were dead? Devereaux was struggling to comprehend.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Devereaux forced himself to focus. He got up, fetched a clean T-shirt, and pressed it into place. “When we were talking. At the cabin.”
“I didn’t know if I could trust you, back then.” Loflin winced. “My mother had convinced me you were some kind of monster. It was natural to believe the girl’s mother wouldn’t want you in her kid’s life. And I was focused on saving Ethan. Would you have still helped me, if you’d known your daughter was at risk, too?”
“Of course I would. By stopping your mother.”
“Stopping her how?”
Devereaux didn’t answer.
“Exactly. I couldn’t hand my mother to you on a platter. And I didn’t get the danger your daughter was in. I’d never been here, then, remember. I didn’t know what my mother was doing to the kids. Not exactly.”
“You didn’t know what she was doing? What did you think? She was throwing tea parties for them?”
“Maybe I didn’t want to know. How did you feel, when you found out your father was a murderer? Did you welcome it? Did you rejoice? Relive all the terrible things he’d done, in your head? At least my mom thought she was helping the kids.”
Devereaux was silent for a moment. The truth was, he actually had felt a morbid compulsion to learn about Raymond Kerr’s crimes. And that was long before he’d known they were father and son.
“Did your mother say where my kid lives?” He eased the pressure on Loflin’s side.
“No.” Loflin looked down to assess the bleeding. “In Birmingham somewhere, I guess. She never mentioned a specific address.”
Devereaux took another shirt from the rack and tossed it to Loflin.
“The blood loss is slowing, but you need to keep the pressure on. I’m heading back to the city. I’ll call Hale on the way. And I’ll tell her to send more paramedics. Can you watch Ethan till they get here?”
“Sure.”
“Good. And Jan—do you even know my kid’s name?”
Loflin shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Cooper. I hope you find her before my mom does.”
Chapter Eighty-five
The woman didn’t have time to change vehicles.
She only had one more car available, and it was too far away. Not that she was guilty of poor planning. The location she’d chosen to hide it was entirely logical, in view of her overall scheme. The problem was that she’d positioned it before snatching Ethan. Before her daughter had turned traitor. Before she’d been seduced by that devil, Devereaux.
The woman could no longer trust her daughter to keep quiet. She knew about Devereaux’s progeny. There was too high a likelihood she’d tell him. Devereaux himself was temporarily marooned but he had a phone, no doubt. He’d seen the Mercedes. He would undoubtedly call his people and put them on alert. They’d be looking for her. Trying to head her off before she could reach the girl. But the woman wasn’t worried. Because there were two things she knew that the police didn’t.
There were four spare sets of license plates in her trunk, each from a different state.
And she knew exactly where the girl was.
Chapter Eighty-six
Tuesday. Afternoon.
Devereaux ran along the landing and down the stairs, then stopped dead when he reached the porch.
All four of the Subaru’s tires were flat. Devereaux hadn’t heard any bangs, so Loflin’s mother must have fixed the valves before she fled in the Mercedes. And done that despite carrying a gunshot wound. The professional in Devereaux saluted her thoroughness. The newfound father in him cursed her with every bad word he knew. Then he pulled out his phone and called Lieutenant Hale.
“Don’t yell until you hear what I have to say.”
“You have three seconds.” Hale didn’t sound like she was expecting to be placated.
“First, I’ve found Ethan. He’s safe and well. He was anesthetized, and I have paramedics en route to check him out.”
“Really? Cooper—that’s fantastic. Seriously. All is forgiven. Where are you?”
“I’ll get to that in a second. Right now, I need you to get every unit we have out looking for a black M-Class Mercedes, Alabama license plate A68 0508, probably inbound to Birmingham from the southeast.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“The woman who took Ethan—she’s driving that Mercedes. I think she has another target in the city. A seven-year-old girl this time. She knows her cover’s blown, and she’s on her way to snatch the kid right now.”
“What’s the address for this little girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her surname’s probably Cunningham. Her mother’s name is Alexandra Cunningham. Or was. She may have gotten married, I guess. That’s all I have right now.”
“OK. Hang on.”
Hale put Devereaux on hold while she made the necessary calls, and was back on the line after sixty seconds.
“It’s all in hand. So, who is this woman who took Ethan?”
“She was Madison Nesbitt. She didn’t die in that house fire, after all. Long story short, she switched identities with one of the DOAs and is now known as Rebecca Loflin.”
“Another Loflin?”
“Detective Loflin’s mother. She’s a psychologist. She contracts for the Bureau. That’s the law enforcement connection.”
“Is Detective Loflin involved in this?”
“She played a part, yes. A smallish one. But she was manipulated by her mother. In the end, she’s the one who saved Ethan. She shot her mother, and took a bullet herself.”
“What about you? Are you hurt? Where are you?”
“I’m fine.” Devereaux gave her the location as precisely as he could, along with an outline of the horrors he’d found in the other bedrooms.
“More help’s on its way. And Loflin’s mother—she’s wounded, too?”
“Yes. Gunshot wound to the upper left arm.”
“Good. I’ll alert the local hospitals. Hold the line—I have another call coming in.”
Hale was reconnected after two minutes.
“OK. If that Mercedes shows itself within city limits, we’ll find it. And there’s progress on the girl. We’ve nailed down a possible address for her. A unit’s on its way there now. We haven’t found a school registration for her yet, so we’re putting units on all the grade schools in her district.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I’ll get back as soon as I can. The vehicle I was using is out of commission, so I’ll have to grab a ride back to the city in a squad car when one arrives.”
“One more question, Cooper. The name Alexandra Cunningham sounds familiar to me. Weren’t you seeing someone with a similar name, a few years ago?”
“Yes. I was. With the same name. It’s the same person.”
“So why would Loflin’s mother be going after your ex-girlfriend’s kid?”
—
Devereaux hung up and went back inside, intending to check on Ethan and Loflin while he waited for the squad cars to arrive. But when he reached the landing, he walked past the room they were in. He continued to the next one, and went inside it instead. The one that was being made over. Prepared, he now realized, for his daughter.
An image formed in Devereaux’s head of a small figure lying on the bed, inert, as Ethan had been. A little girl. But he couldn’t picture her face. He didn’t know what his own daughter looked like. Or what she was called. He poked at the boxes of Barbies with his foot. Were they his daughter’s favorite toys? Or a random selection, based on a gender stereotype?
He had no idea.
Just like he had no idea how to save her.
Chapter Eighty-seven
The woman was taking a chance, exposing her real hair in public. But she needed to look convincing, and wigs don’t look right when they’re wet.
The bullet her daughter had fired at her had only nicked the fleshy part of her upper arm, and the woman had been able to stop the bleeding on her own without too much trouble. Now she changed into a tank top so the bandage would be visible. Splashed water on her head. Mopped up the excess with her discarded blouse. Slipped the blouse into her bag. Concealed herself in the cubicle nearest to the entrance. And waited.
Devereaux’s daughter was the only girl in the afternoon swim class and there was no one else in the women’s locker room when the kid wandered in, dripping and pleasantly exhausted, at the end of the session. The woman discreetly watched her get changed—agonizingly slowly—then emerged from the cubicle. She made a play of trying to swing her bag over her shoulder, wincing at the apparent pain, and clutching at the bandage on her arm.
“Are you OK, miss?” The girl kept a wary distance, but she was too inquisitive to ignore the woman’s plight altogether.
“I will be! Thank you, young lady. I’m having a bit of trouble with my arm. I had a little surgery on it, and I think I came back too early. I thought swimming would help it get better quickly, but I guess I was wrong.”
“What’s the matter with your arm? Why did you need the surgery? Did you get hurt?”
“Kind of. I’m a police detective, and I got in a shoot-out with two very bad people. It worked out OK, though, because they’re in prison now—they’ll be there for a very long time—and my arm will be better soon.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes it does. Like right now. It’s killing me. Say, you wouldn’t be an angel and carry my bag for me, would you? I’m having a real hard time dealing with it.”
“Carry it where?”
“Just out to the foyer. My husband’s meeting me there. How about you? Is your mom here to take you home? Or your dad?”
“My mom is. She’s waiting for me in the pool cafe.”
“Great! That’s right through the foyer. What do you say? Will you help me out?”
The girl took the bag. She held the heavy door open, and followed the woman out of the locker room. But when they reached the open expanse of the foyer the woman stopped, sagged over, and put one hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Oh my goodness, I’m not feeling good at all. Help me look for my husband, would you? Is he here? He’s short. And fat. He has gray hair and little round glasses. Can you see him?”
“No.” The girl scanned the area around the reception counter, the notice board advertising forthcoming events, the entrance to the cafe, the door to the men’s locker room, and the two exits to the parking lot. “Don’t think so.”
“I need to sit down.” The woman staggered over to a wooden bench beneath a large framed photograph of Jennifer Chandler, Olympic gold medal in hand. “Are you sure my husband’s not here?”
“Don’t think he is. Can’t see any old fat guys.”
“He’s such an airhead. Maybe he forgot what we arranged. Maybe he’s still in the car. Could you go to the window and look out? See if there’s a black Mercedes SUV parked nearby? Do you know what SUVs look like?”
The girl nodded, scampered to the floor-to-ceiling window, then came straight back.
“It’s there. Right outside.”
“Great!” The woman tried to stand up, but couldn’t straighten her legs. “Oh no. This is terrible. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t make it. Could you help me up?”
The girl tried to pull on the woman’s good arm, but didn’t have the strength to get her on her feet.
“This is terrible.” The woman was on the verge of tears. “This has never happened to me before. I need my husband to help me. I don’t want to be stuck here for the rest of my life!”
“Would you like me to go get him?” The girl’s face lit up at the idea. “He’s right outside. It’ll only take me a second.”
Chapter Eighty-eight
Tuesday. Afternoon.
Devereaux was on I-65, haring down the Birmingham side of New Hope Mountain, when his phone rang.
“Cooper, I have news.” Lieutenant Hale’s voice was tight with tension. “Alexandra Cunningham? She called 911 half an hour ago. Reported her daughter missing. Nicole. She disappeared from Underwood Swimming Pool on South 26th. Your daughter, I should say. I’m so sorry.”
So his daughter’s name was Nicole? What a way to find out.
“She disappeared from a swimming pool?” Devereaux gestured to the officer who was driving him to pull around an open-top Lexus that had merged from the Montgomery Highway. “How? Why was she there in the first place? Why wasn’t she at school?”
“It turns out she’s home-schooled. Her mother takes her to the pool for swim lessons every Tuesday. She has done for the last semester and a half. Today was no different, until Nicole went to get changed after the lesson and didn’t reappear from the locker room. She must have come out, obviously, but no one saw what happened to her.”
Devereaux was stunned. A vision of Loflin’s mother drugging his little girl filled his head. Dragging her to an SUV. Driving her somewhere. Freezing her in time in a freaky facsimile of her bedroom…
“What’s happening now?” Devereaux fought to push the images away.
“An Amber Alert has already gone out. Nicole’s description has been circulated. Along with Loflin’s mother’s and details of the Mercedes. Alexandra Cunningham’s phones are being intercepted. And a female officer is with her, in case of developments.”
“Where is Alexandra? Is she still at the pool?”
“No. She’s at her home. She had to be smuggled out of the pool. The press got wind that another kid was missing and started hovering like flies round a you-know-what.”
“Give me the address. I’m going over there.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Cooper.”
“I’m going, Lieutenant. This kid’s my daughter, too. So it’s up to you. You can give me Alexandra’s address, or I can get it myself.”
“OK.” Papers rustled on Hale’s end of the line. “Give me a minute. Let me find where I wrote it down. But you’re not going on your own. I’ll meet you there.”
Chapter Eighty-nine
Tuesday. Afternoon.
Nicole missing for one and a quarter hours
The house Alexandra Cunningham had moved to was smaller than the one she’d lived in when Devereaux had been seeing her. And it was in a less prosperous neighborhood—the southern edge of Homewood, rather than the center of Vestavia Hills. He’d assumed she’d relocated to get away from the memory of the time they’d spent together, and had expected her to have chosen something similar to what she’d had before. Or better. But her motivation had actually been quite different.
Alexandra Cunningham had been taught at home by her mother, and had sworn she’d do the same for any kids she ever had. Nicole w
as unexpected—and Alexandra was bringing her up alone—but she saw no reason to break her promise. She was a successful woman. Independent. She’d made good money as a lawyer, for a good number of years. She had plenty stashed away. Admittedly, an adjustment to her lifestyle had been necessary. A change in the standard of her accommodation. And a shift to shorter hours, doing consulting work for other law firms. But taken together, those measures gave her the flexibility she needed to educate her daughter the way she chose.
If Devereaux had called by twenty-four hours earlier, he’d have sworn Alexandra Cunningham hadn’t aged a day in the eight years since he’d last seen her. But the woman who opened the door when she saw Devereaux and Hale hurrying up her front path looked eighty years older. She was stooped. Her eyes were red from crying. Mascara streaked her cheeks. Her red hair was tangled, where she’d been frantically twisting it while she waited for news.
“Cooper?” Her voice was hoarse. “What are you doing here? Have you found Nicole?”
Devereaux shook his head.
“Then you can’t be here. You can’t be involved. You—”
“Alex, I know.”
“You…Oh. How?”
“I found out. This afternoon. Someone told me.”
“Who did?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You need to go.”
“No. We need to talk.”
“We don’t. I can’t. Not while—”
“All right. Knock it off.” Hale was looking over her shoulder, anxious that someone would spot them and bring down a horde of reporters and TV people. “We can do this inside. The last thing any of us needs right now is a public scene. Plus, Detective Devereaux has been working a related case. He might have some useful insights, which could help us bring Nicole home. And if she is his daughter, I think he has the right to know what’s going on with her.”
Chapter Ninety
Tuesday. Afternoon.