Fatal Judgment

by Irene Hannon

  Once she’d done so, he checked it, tightening it a notch for good measure.

  “Please, could I have a drink of water?” Liz doubted he’d respond, but she’d had no fluids in eighteen hours, and her mouth felt as dry as the shriveled cornstalks in the rural Missouri fields.

  As she’d suspected, he ignored her request. Pulling on his own latex gloves, he took a sheet of paper out of the envelope on the kitchen table, extracted a pen from his pocket, and walked over to her.

  Now that he’d gotten rid of the mustache and the baseball cap, she had no trouble recognizing him as the man who’d given her such a venomous stare after she’d directed the verdict in the malpractice case. The loathing and hate in his eyes hadn’t diminished one iota.

  “Take this.” He shoved the pen at her.

  She fumbled it as he retrieved a yellowed magazine from the table. Setting a typed document on top, he put it in her lap. She noted that it bore today’s date.

  “Write these words at the bottom. Then sign your name.”

  As he recited the single sentence, a chill raced through Liz that had nothing to do with the penetrating cold in the cabin. Her hand began to shake so hard her script was barely legible.

  When she finished he picked up the sheet of paper. For a moment, he studied it, as if deciding whether it was readable. Apparently satisfied that it was, he returned to the table, folded it, and slipped it inside the envelope. Once he’d sealed the flap with a rag he dampened from a water bottle, he pocketed the envelope and exited through the front door. A couple of minutes later, she heard the engine of his car, followed by the crunch of gravel.

  Liz had no idea how long he would be away. But she didn’t intend to assume she had another day to live. Every hour he held her captive increased his risk of being found. He had to know that.

  Maybe she could find a way to free herself and get away before he returned.

  Although the isolated cabin was deep in the woods, she’d paid attention during the drive and knew she could find her way to the tiny town they’d passed through a few miles from here. If she succeeded, the police could be waiting to welcome Martin home.

  Clinging to that hope, she set to work.

  18

  ______

  Midmorning on Monday, as his BlackBerry began to vibrate, Jake took one hand off the steering wheel and pulled the device off his belt. A quick glance at caller ID set his pulse racing. Mark.

  He wasted no time on a greeting. “Did the ERT come up with something?”

  “No. But our man sent a letter to the Post-Dispatch. We just got the call. A couple of our guys are on their way over to pick it up now and get some elimination prints from whoever’s handled it there.”

  “What does it say?” Jake switched lanes on I-64, heading for an off-ramp so he could reverse direction. His quick trip home from Liz’s condo for a shower and change of clothes could wait.

  “Apparently it’s a long anti-government diatribe. From the initial read, it doesn’t offer any clues about where he’s taken the judge. But his intent to use her to gain attention for his cause is clear.”

  “Maybe we’ll find some prints. Or DNA, if he licked the envelope.”

  “Only if he was sloppy.”

  They both knew he wasn’t.

  “What’s the postmark?” Jake sped up the exit ramp.

  “Afton.”

  A South St. Louis suburb. “That could be the direction of his destination. Why would he drive around with Liz in the car any longer than necessary and risk detection? My guess is he wanted to get wherever he was going ASAP.”

  “I agree. Where are you?”

  Crossing the overpass, he wove around several cars, then turned onto the entrance ramp. “Heading eastbound on I-64. Are you at your office?”

  Sometime during the night the higher-ups had made the decision to relocate the operations center to the FBI field office. There was no need to hang around the condo anymore.

  “Yes. We may have the letter in hand by the time you arrive.”

  Jake floored the Trailblazer. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Eight minutes later, Jake pushed through the front door of the FBI office. After clearing security, he was directed to one of the conference rooms that lined the cubicle-filled bull pen in the center of the first floor.

  Mark and a mid-fortyish man with salt-and-pepper hair were seated at the rectangular table, poring over copies of the letter as he entered. Mark handed him one as he introduced Luke Garavaglia, assistant special agent in charge of the St. Louis operation.

  Sparing the man no more than a quick handshake, Jake read the typed note, beginning with the bold quotes at the top of the page.

  “Don’t interfere with anything in the Constitution. That must be maintained, for it is the only safeguard of our liberties.”

  Abraham Lincoln

  “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people, it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government—lest it come to dominate our lives and interests.”

  Patrick Henry

  Today, I abducted federal judge Elizabeth Michaels.

  Soon she will die.

  Here is why.

  America is disintegrating. Our Constitution is being destroyed. Our rights are being violated by our government, just as they were in the days of our founding fathers.

  Much of the blame rests in the hands of the decaying judiciary—the very courts that are supposed to serve us. We, the people. Instead, they are stripping away our rights. Day after day they break their vow to support the Constitution.

  Our corrupt government has become an intimidating big brother filled with terrocrats, and the judiciary is its enabler.

  It is time to stop the courts and the lawyers and the judges from crushing the life out of our Constitution and snatching away our freedoms. They are the criminals—not the people they prosecute . . . and persecute.

  Look at what they’ve done to our constitutional right to bear arms. The restrictive rules and regulations that have been put in place are a direct threat to our life and liberty.

  The courts of America belong to the people, not to government prosecutors and tyrannical judges. It’s time we took them back . . . and took the first step in returning this great country to the principles on which it was founded—self-reliance, respect for life and personal property, and the protection of our unalienable God-given rights.

  When peaceful measures fail, as they have, it is our right—our duty—to use force to remove and replace abusive government and its agents.

  Wake up, Americans. If you are a patriot, heed this call before it is too late.

  Take back your country.

  One terrocrat at a time.

  At the bottom, handwritten and signed by Liz, was a brief, bloodcurdling message.

  I am a sacrifice in the cause of liberty.

  “Wow.” Jake fought back a wave of nausea as he groped for a chair and sank into it, the slight tremble in his hands the only visible indication of the roiling in his gut.

  “That was our reaction.” Mark folded his hands in front of him. “We’re couriering the original to the lab, along with some handwriting samples we got from the judge’s office, and we’ve already faxed this to our profilers in Quantico. But I suspect we’re dealing with a fanatic associated with one of the sovereign citizen groups. Some of this stuff sounds as if it was pulled right off their literature and websites.”

  “I agree.” As a U.S. marshal charged with protecting the judiciary, Jake was well briefed on the loose network of disgruntled individuals who claimed no accountability to the federal government and who often lashed out at courts and judges they felt had wronged them. The fifty-year-old movement was a mixed bag of tax protestors, white supremacists, fringe religious groups, desperate individuals—even prisoners.

  Although its popularity had ebbed and flowed through the decades, he knew the past few years had seen a sharp increase in activity and threats
against the judiciary. That was one of the reasons the Marshals Service had opened a high-tech Threat Management Center in Virginia, where intimidation tactics against judges were monitored and analyzed, and personnel could tap into classified FBI and CIA databases. He’d had contact with the center on a couple of occasions.

  This might be another one.

  As Jake scanned the copy of the letter again, his lips settled into a grim line. “This guy’s over the top.”

  “Yeah. He’s way past paper terrorism.”

  That was the typical tactic of such groups, Jake knew. They liked to file frivolous lawsuits and liens against public officials and law enforcement officers to intimidate them and clog up the court system.

  Unfortunately, Liz had run into one of the zealots who had no compunction about using violence to dismantle the system. All in the name of patriotism.

  “Do you think this has any connection to the Patriot Constitutionalists?” Luke asked.

  Jake narrowed his eyes. “Who are they?”

  “A very active local sovereign citizen group,” Mark replied. “I’ve been doing some undercover investigation on them, but I haven’t discovered anything incriminating. The leader, a former IRS agent turned psychologist named Jarrod Williams, is very charismatic—and very careful. I’ve been to a dozen meetings of his group, and I’ve never heard him advocate violence . . . or anything illegal. He’s masterful at coming up with ways to subvert the system within the confines of the law.”

  “You think our guy might be part of that group?” For the first time, Jake allowed himself to hope they might have a lead, however slim.

  “I don’t know.” Mark tapped his finger on the table as twin creases appeared on his brow. “The members are very close-mouthed. Most only share first names, if that. And I’ve never heard anyone mention violence. That doesn’t mean there aren’t some fanatics in the group, though.”

  “We can’t blow your cover by sending you to talk to the guy,” Luke said. “I’ll have Nick pay Mr. Williams a friendly visit. See if he can ferret out any names of potential suspects.”

  “I’d like to go along,” Jake spoke up. At least he’d be doing something; sitting around waiting for leads would drive him nuts.

  “Okay by me.” Luke rose. “I’ll round up Nick. Mark can brief the two of you on Williams, and then you can head over to his office. Let’s take him by surprise. Give me five minutes.”

  As he exited, Mark looked at Jake. “I know the judge said she never received any threats, but she clearly made an enemy somewhere along the line in her career.”

  “Yeah.” Jake massaged his forehead with one hand. “I take it none of the files she turned over to you produced anything?”

  “Not yet. We’re still checking out a few personalities. A lead may yet surface.”

  A muscle clenched in Jake’s jaw. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I know.” Mark’s somber expression matched Jake’s mood. “Let’s hope Quantico comes up with some trace evidence on the letter. Or Mr. Williams shares a piece of information that’s helpful.”

  As they waited for Luke to return, Jake reread the letter, the word hope echoing in his mind. He hadn’t thought a lot about hope—or faith—since Jen died. Nor communicated much with God. His last plea to the Almighty, torn from his heart as he’d knelt on the snow-packed slope beside her, had been to spare her life.

  God hadn’t listened.

  And after she died, he’d realized his so-called faith had been a sham. It was Jen’s faith that had carried them as a couple. It was her urging that had compelled him to attend church each week. But though he’d gone through the motions, he’d never achieved the personal connection his wife had found so comforting.

  He supposed dealing with criminals day in and day out was one of the reasons for that—along with the senseless violence he witnessed on a regular basis. On some subliminal level, the juxtaposition of evil and good must have negated his faith.

  But until tragedy had shattered his own life, he’d never given that paradox much thought. And when he’d tried to reconcile a loving God with all the bad things that happened in the world—including Jen’s death—he’d failed. The admonition of the minister at her funeral, to trust in the Lord’s goodness and mercy, had fallen on deaf ears. His trust had been shattered. So he’d walked away.

  And one visit to church, thanks to Alison’s prodding, hadn’t reestablished his connection with the Almighty.

  Now, however, faced with another life-and-death situation, he was tempted to again ask the Lord to show him some of the goodness and mercy the minister had talked of.

  But the words wouldn’t come. He’d have to leave the formal prayer to his mother.

  And hope God might tune into the desperate plea echoing in his heart.

  As Patricia stepped through the front door after her extended lunch with Molly, anxious to escape the wind that was making the thirty-five-degree temperature feel more like twenty, she frowned. The house was far too chilly.

  With a loud meow of complaint, Josie padded in from the hall and twined herself around Patricia’s legs.

  “I’m with you, kid.” Patricia leaned down and gave her a distracted pat.

  Leaving her coat on, she walked to the thermostat in the hall. It was still set on seventy-two, as it had been since she’d arrived. But the temperature gauge read only sixty degrees.

  Patricia huffed out a breath. It figured that Marty’s furnace would wait until he was out of town to act up.

  She hadn’t planned to bother him during his short trip, but rather than pick a heating and cooling company at random from the phone book, it might be best to see if he had a preferred service company.

  His cell number was where he’d left it, tucked between the canisters of tea and coffee on the counter, and she tapped it into the portable phone, hugging her coat around her.

  “The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later or leave a message at the tone.”

  Great. Either he was out of range, his battery was dead, or he’d forgotten to turn on his phone.

  She pressed the off button. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t answering. The furnace needed attention. Now.

  As she set the phone back in its cradle on top of the built-in desk, she eyed the drawers. She didn’t make a habit of snooping in other people’s business—even her brother’s—but if he used this desk to pay bills and keep house records, she might find a receipt or check stub that would give her a clue about what service company to call.

  Pulling open the pencil drawer, she found Marty’s checkbook and several stacks of check stubs held together with binder clips. She’d resort to sorting through those if necessary, but perhaps the two side drawers would yield faster results.

  The top one was full of what appeared to be brochures, printouts, and newspaper clippings. She sifted through them, noting the headings. They covered all kinds of subjects, from patriotism and punitive taxes to criticisms against elected officials and gun control information.

  How odd. She’d been kidding him the other day when she’d made that comment about him becoming an activist. But maybe she hadn’t been off base. For a guy who’d never shown much interest in political stuff, he’d collected an awful lot of government-related material.

  Closing that drawer, she checked the bottom one. It was empty.

  With a sigh, she went back to the pencil drawer and pulled out a recent stack of check stubs. She didn’t intend to waste a lot of time on this exercise. The furnace needed to be serviced today or she’d be facing a long, chilly night. If she didn’t find a likely candidate on a check within ten minutes, she’d resort to the yellow pages.

  Nine minutes later, after riffling through four packs of stubs, she gave up. There hadn’t been a name on any of the checks that bore a remote resemblance to a heating and cooling firm. They were just the usual utility, credit card, and insurance kinds of payments.

  The only thing that had caught her eye was an
odd notation at the bottom of each check in the most recent stack. Above his signature, her brother had written “without prejudice UCC 1-308.”

  What in the world was that all about?

  Not that it mattered. Her priority was to get the furnace fixed.

  All at once the ring of the doorbell echoed through the house, and she set the last stack of checks on top of the desk before heading back through the living room.

  Molly smiled as she opened the door, juggling Jack on her hip. “You left your gloves on the front seat.”

  “Goodness. I must be getting absentminded in my old age. Thank you, dear.” She took the knit gloves she’d purchased a few days ago when the weather had taken a cold turn. “I’m afraid I may need them indoors. Marty’s furnace seems to be on the blink.”

  Molly wrinkled her nose. “They always pick the worst times to go out, don’t they? We had that same problem last year. The morning of Christmas Eve, of all days. But a friend from church recommended a company to us, and they sent a guy right out. Would you like me to look up the name and call you when I get home?”

  “That would be wonderful. Josie’s already complaining about the cold, and I’m not far behind.”

  “Give me five minutes.” With a wave, Molly took off, tugging the blanket higher around Jack’s head to shield him from the wind.

  As Patricia closed the door, Josie gave another loud meow.

  “Hang in there, kiddo. Help is on the way.”

  By the time Liz heard Reynolds’s car pull up outside the cabin, hope had given way to frustration, which in turn had degenerated to despair. Though she’d tried for hours to free herself, all she had to show for her efforts were raw wrists and a swollen, bruised ankle where the plastic restraint had bitten into her flesh as she’d tugged and pulled.

  Failing to free herself meant she’d have to revert to her original plan—try to surprise him by lunging for one of the boards near the woodpile. If she could hit him behind the knees so he fell, she might be able to deliver a whack to his head that would buy her enough time to take his gun and get some plastic restraints on him.