Stolen

by Carey Baldwin

  Now, with the confessional note, and her death staged to look like a suicide, he might get away with it all. If Cassidy and Spenser didn’t put the pieces together, if she died here in this cabin, he would go on killing as he pleased. There would be no one left to stop him. “Water . . . I need water for the pills.”

  He looked at the empty cup and picked it up off the mattress. “I’ll get some, but you have to come with me.”

  Taking hold of her arm, he yanked her off the bed. No way she could get to the knife, now. Not while he had hold of her. She went as numb inside as if she’d swallowed a vial of Lidocaine, but she knew exactly what she had to do.

  Her own father was the monster, and the monster had to die.

  He dragged her a step toward the door. Then, from somewhere outside, a mechanical sound whirred, like the noise of a motor sputtering. Growing louder, closer.

  Her father froze and turned his face away from her and toward the sound.

  Now!

  She bit his hand, jerked free of his grasp and lunged for the knife.

  The ATV screeched to a halt. Spense jumped off and raced up the steps to the cabin three at a time. He could hear Caity panting behind him. If Cayman was their UNSUB, he might have Laura with him, or hidden nearby.

  “Bitch!” A male voice carried to him on the wind.

  Spense’s brain and body kicked into auto-mode. He held out a back away hand to Caity, at the same instant he drew his Glock and stuck it out in front.

  No time to clear the cabin.

  He kicked open the door and breached the entry.

  Christ.

  Cayman lay motionless on the floor, blood pooling around him. Chaucer loomed center stage, pressing a knife to his daughter’s throat.

  Spense pointed his pistol at Chaucer. “Let her go.”

  “Lower your gun, and I’ll put down the knife. This isn’t what it looks like.” Chaucer’s words were calm, but his face was red. His eyes jerked back and forth between the door and Spense.

  Spense sighted his shot. He could take it, but if Chaucer anticipated him, he might cut Laura’s jugular before he went down. There wouldn’t be time to get her off this mountain before she bled out.

  “Laura shot Cayman, and then she tried to stab me with a knife. But I got it away from her,” Chaucer said. “Terrible thing. But she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s off her medications, so we can’t hold her responsible.”

  Man, he was good. If Spense didn’t know better, he might even believe him.

  “It’s over, Senator.” Caity’s voice sounded behind him.

  Dammit.

  She should’ve stayed back. Chaucer could have a gun on him somewhere. Spense’s gaze flicked to Chaucer’s pant leg—but he didn’t see the bulge of an ankle holster. His gaze darted back up to the senator’s face, then back down to Cayman.

  A pistol lay just to the side of the dead man.

  Caity saw it, too, and before Spense could order her not to, she scooped it up and pointed it at Chaucer’s head.

  Laura was eerily still, her face a deathly white.

  “You’re okay, Laura. Just hang in there with me. He’s going to let you go, and when he does run straight out the door. You don’t have to say anything. Blink twice if you understand,” Caity spoke directly to Laura, as if they were the only ones who could hear.

  Laura blinked twice.

  Caity took a step closer to the senator.

  “You crazy bitch.” The motherfucker actually laughed.

  “Me or Laura? Which crazy bitch are you speaking to?” Caity said, her tone even and calm.

  “Drop the knife, and let Laura go,” Spense commanded.

  “I told you, she shot Cayman.”

  Laura started to blink rapidly.

  “Just relax Laura, remember what I told you. When he lets you go, run straight out that door,” Caity said.

  “We’ll sort it all out at the district.” Spense addressed Chaucer. “You can call your lawyer, but right now, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”

  “My daughter’s not in her right mind. I can explain all of this.”

  Laura’s pupils were giant pools of black, but she didn’t move a muscle.

  “You want to keep talking, sir, or do you want to let Laura go so your lawyers can work their magic?” Caity took another step toward the senator and his hostage.

  Chaucer’s lips snarled. The deadly look he sent them was like bullets firing straight out of his eyeballs.

  He and Caity shared a glance. They’d faced down evil before. Spense’s heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a trot, and his shoulders relaxed. He trusted her. She trusted him.

  Advantage good guys.

  “You can’t possibly be stupid enough to shoot me, Caitlin. All I want to do is walk out of here with my daughter. Agent Spenser, tell her to put down her weapon.”

  “No can do.” Spense moved in, too.

  “I’m not stupid enough, but I just might be crazy enough.” Caity took one more step. “My aim’s a lot better at close range. Just ask my partner.”

  “Drop the knife. Let Laura go,” Spense repeated. They were within tackling distance of him now. “Two of us. One of you.”

  “Two guns. One knife.” Caity locked her gaze on Chaucer’s forehead. “Do the math.”

  Chaucer’s white-knuckle grip on the knife pinked up, his elbow dropped. Caity held out her hand. “Give me the knife.”

  Chaucer relaxed his hold on his daughter.

  Before Spense could move, Laura ripped the knife from her father’s hand, whirled and buried it in his chest.

  As blood bloomed across Chaucer’s shirt, he grunted and stumbled backward.

  Laura lowered her arm, and the blade clattered to the floor. While her father coughed and gasped, she stared hollow-eyed at Caity. “The monster had to die.”

  Chaucer crumpled to the ground, his eyes open and lifeless.

  Caity went to Laura and put an arm around her, then walked her over to the bed. “It was self-defense, Laura. Isn’t that right, Agent Spenser?”

  Spense knelt beside Cayman. His skin had grown cold, and there was no pulse. It was too late for him. “Clear a case as I’ve ever seen. Your father had a knife on you. You struggled. That’s all that happened here. Try to remember that.”

  Laura nodded, and then she smiled. “That’s right. I remember. I remember everything.”

  Chapter 49

  Wednesday, October 30

  3:30 P.M.

  Task force headquarters

  Highlands Hotel

  Denver, Colorado

  A lone, pea-colored linoleum table and three folding chairs were all that remained in what had once been a decked-out war room. Caitlin, Spense, and Hatcher had gathered here for one last confab, and Hatcher had stacked the contents of the fridge—five ham sandwiches, two beef jerkies, and three energy drinks in the center of the table.

  “Anyone want to help me finish these babies off? I hate to see good food go to waste.” Good food was a generous assessment.

  “It’s all yours, buddy.” Spense stretched his legs, and folded his hands behind his head.

  “What about you, Caitlin?”

  “I’m good. You enjoy, Jordan.” She smiled at the detective, grateful he hadn’t pressed anyone harder for details about the struggle that led to Chaucer’s demise. There would be more questions for Laura once she was released from the hospital, but Hatcher had made it clear the higher-ups had no interest in prosecuting the young woman.

  “How’s Laura doing?” Hatcher asked.

  Caitlin and Spense had come here directly from the hospital.

  “Well,” Caitlin said. After being treated upon arrival with activated charcoal and gastric lavage, Laura was looking good. She’d taken a hit from the overdose, but her liver enzymes were only mildly elevated and on a downward trend. “Doctors anticipate forty-eight hours of monitoring and then release. The other good news is her mother, Tracy, is flying Dr. Duncan in
from DC. He’ll be here to help Laura deal with her trauma, and he’ll be present when she meets her biological mother, Lisa Blake, for the first time.”

  Hatcher drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Lisa Blake. I wish we’d tracked her down thirteen years ago.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Spense said. “It may seem obvious now that Lisa was the primary object of Chaucer’s obsession, and the other women surrogates for his rage after she dumped him, but at the time, I don’t think anyone could’ve put it together. The adoption was closed. Only the parties involved and the lawyers knew about it. There simply weren’t enough pieces to complete the puzzle.”

  “You both agree that Angelina was probably Chaucer’s first.”

  Caitlin folded her hands. “Probably his first kill, but obviously not his first rape. I think you’ll find many more women are going to come forward with complaints about waking up confused after an evening with Whitmore Chaucer.”

  “So what was different with Angelina? What made him snap and go from being a serial rapist to a serial murderer? Not that I buy all this psychobabble crap, but if you had to guess.”

  “Let’s call it more than a guess,” Spense said. “Let’s call it speculation supported by evidence. After all, we now have Laura’s eyewitness account of Angelina’s murder.”

  “Laura recalls hearing Angelina scream, and when she ran into the room, Chaucer had his hands around Angelina’s throat. That’s the evidence piece,” Caitlin said. “The speculative piece is this—Angelina didn’t ingest enough of the GHB and woke up during the rape. She screamed, and Chaucer had to silence her—thus the strangulation. Later, when he dumped her body in the wilderness, he stabbed her in a fury. The subsequent rush of endorphins and release of his rage gave him a high he’d never experienced before. His compulsion for self-gratification could no longer be satisfied from a sexual release alone. Thus the transformation from rapist to murderer.”

  “So he risked everything, his family, his career, and his life to get some kind of high? Stupid bastard. The guy had everything, and it wasn’t enough.” Hatcher let out a breath. “Speaking of stupid bastards, that brings me to Grady Webber. It seems that although he did follow Caitlin outside of Coffee and Conversation, and though he did grab her and punch her, it was Chaucer who most likely dosed her tea with GHB—unbeknownst to Webber. A waitress identified the senator as having been in the coffee shop at around the same time. He was wearing a red toupee, but she still recognized him. If Webber hadn’t stalked Caitlin outside, Chaucer may have . . . anyway, we wanna work with Webber. We’re hoping Caitlin won’t mind dropping the assault charges in exchange for his full cooperation in an ongoing investigation.”

  “No way.” Spense slammed his fist on the table.

  “He may not have known about Chaucer’s murderous habits, but he’s been with the man for most of his travels. He could be a tremendous help when it comes to the other murders.”

  “Of course.” Caitlin touched Spense’s arm. “Think about it. Grady’s going to get his license pulled, undoubtedly. His reputation will be ruined. And Tracy and Laura are planning to file a malpractice suit—so he’s going to pay with his pocketbook, too. With Cayman gone, Grady’s the best source of insider knowledge about the senator.”

  Spense relaxed his fist and took her hand. “It’s your call, Caity.”

  “I’m fine with that,” she told Hatcher. “Do we have any more information about Cayman?”

  He nodded. “The bodyguard kept a journal. We found it in a safety-deposit box. It seems he’d been on edge about Chaucer ever since Inga’s ‘accident.’ According to his journal, Lisa Blake told Inga to rest easy, that it hadn’t been Grady who’d raped her. Inga already had suspicions about Chaucer, put two and two together, and confided in Cayman. She’d seen Chaucer sneaking in and out of hotels in the wee hours, and once she’d seen him in the company of a young woman Cayman had dated. The woman later turned up missing—I believe that will prove to be the woman he was with in the fun-booth photos.”

  “So Chaucer pushed Inga off a hiking trail because he realized she was getting close to the truth,” Spense said.

  “Cayman sure seemed to think so. It’s one of the many threads we’re going to need to follow up. And we don’t think Cayman lied about Laura’s dinner with Ronald Saas. Cayman had information that Laura was meeting with the editor of the Mountain Times, so when a man showed up at the appointed time and introduced himself as Saas, Cayman simply assumed that’s who he was. It looks like Cayman really was trying to protect Laura—but he didn’t have any proof to back up his suspicions about Chaucer. That’s why he dropped out of sight and started snooping around on his own.” Hatcher ripped a bite of ham sandwich off with his teeth, chewed and swallowed. “I’ve got some more news, but first I wanna say it’s been swell working with you two, and I hope the Interpol folks don’t turn out to be a bunch of dicks. Pardon my French.”

  Caitlin had to shake her head at that apology. If she took offense at every off-color remark, she’d be toast, considering she spent her days working in the trenches with special agents and cops. “No worries. Let’s hear the news. You said, Interpol, so I assume you’re going to be putting together an international task force.”

  “Correct. Search of the Chaucer home in DC turned up these.” Hatcher laid several photographs on the table, adjacent to the beef jerky.

  Caitlin stopped breathing for a few seconds.

  “Son of a bitch,” Spense said low and hard.

  The photographs showed a collection of newspaper clippings—stories of young women gone missing or found dead all across the globe, as well as rows of locks of dark hair tied with pink ribbons.

  “How many locks of hair?” Spense asked and looked away, but not before Caitlin saw the moisture in his eyes.

  “Including the two Chaucer planted on Laura, which we believe belonged to Angelina and Harriet . . . thirteen,” Hatcher replied.

  One for every year.

  Chapter 50

  Friday, November 1

  Morning

  On the road

  Denver to Taos

  The sun coming up over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains was one of the most spectacular events Spense had ever witnessed. Even after the sun had risen, the soft hues of the morning light enhanced the brown earth, green trees, and blue sky on the road to Taos. At first, he hadn’t been able to figure why Caity had wanted to roust the moms out of bed while it was still dark out, just so they could leave Boulder by 4 a.m.

  But the magic show the light created made him glad she’d insisted.

  Surprisingly, the moms hadn’t uttered a single grumble over the early departure.

  Spense thought it might be nice to stop at the hot springs, but then Caity and the others announced they were on a tight schedule. Apparently that meant a side trip to the Great Sand Dunes was out of the question, so he didn’t bother asking.

  The only reason he could think of that the ladies might be so anxious about the time was if they wanted to tool around Taos, then score a nice long nap before the gallery opening tonight—the only planned event for the day.

  Get up early.

  Drive like hell.

  Take a nap.

  Women.

  He whistled at the wheel, while the ladies sang “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer.”

  He wanted to participate, but was enjoying the sound of their feminine voices too much to drown them out with his loud, out-of-tune bass.

  Luke Jericho, a well-to-do rancher that he and Caity met as a result of the Santa Fe Saint case, had just added a new venue in Taos to his string of New Mexico art galleries. Tonight’s opening gala promised paintings on loan from the Georgia O’Keeffe museum, as well as the best of the local artist community. Both Caity and her mother were big fans of O’Keeffe and of her colorful flowers in particular. Caity’s love of flora had come directly from her mom.

  He’d never known two people more enthralled by botany.

  Would his kids
inherit their mother’s affinity to flowers?

  His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he reminded himself they weren’t a family—even if it felt that way sometimes. He was supposed to be giving Caity space, so he damn well better keep his mouth shut about their hypothetical offspring. Caity had given him no indication she was ready to revisit the subject of marital bliss. And the ball was still in her court.

  “There!” The moms leaned into the front seat, pointing. “You’re going to miss the turnoff.”

  Steering with one hand, he slowed up and checked the map. “No, this is the right way.”

  “But we want to see the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge,” three voices clamored at once.

  Women.

  Still, it was early. There was plenty of time, and he was more than familiar with a woman’s prerogative. “I’ll turn around.”

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Rio Grande Gorge.

  Everyone piled out of the rental car.

  “Let’s walk the bridge,” Caity suggested.

  “Mom’s afraid of heights,” he said, gazing up at one of the tallest bridges in North America. The last time he was at the Grand Canyon with Agatha, she’d puked over the South Rim, and when he’d taken Caity to Griffith Park Observatory, she’d had a panic attack climbing the stairs. The Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, with its narrow walkway and heavy traffic, was far more intimidating than either of those.

  “I most certainly am not afraid,” his mother retorted.

  But her face was flushed and apprehensive.

  He glanced at the side of the road, lined with denizens selling jewelry and purses out of their cars. “Let’s think about this a minute. We can check out all this loot, and then, if everyone feels up to braving the bridge we’ll all go together. If not, I’ll stay behind and make like an ant along with anyone who might be having second thoughts.”

  All three women shook their heads.

  “Not one of you wants to shop for trinkets?”