It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen that kind of thing before. But for some reason, watching William Wayne on tape – knowing that he’d seen the man with his own eyes, suspected that he was a predator, and hadn’t done a thing to stop Casey’s abduction from happening – made him feel like throwing up.
Oh sure, he understood, logically, that there was almost nothing he could have done. He had no reason to approach the man, no evidence to suggest he was anything more than your run-of-the-mill pervert. No possible way to foretell that he was going to all but snatch a girl from under his nose.
Almost literally under his nose.
Clay had been on the Ferris wheel with Max when that girl was taken.
It was like compounding what had happened in Topeka.
What the hell good was his degree, his extensive Bureau training, if kids continued to be victimized virtually in front of him and he couldn’t do a damn thing?
“You’re beating yourself up.”
Turning away from the darkened scenery flashing past his window, he slid a frown toward Kim.
“God, Clay, give yourself a break. You’re a damn good agent, but contrary to popular belief, you’re not exactly a psychic.”
He winced. She’d obviously been talking to Deputy Harding.
“There’s no way you could have known,” she continued, “that the man you saw at that carnival was involved in what we just watched. You did not fail. In fact, we’re damn lucky that you noticed his fishy behavior in the first place. If not, you wouldn’t have placed so much importance on Casey Rodriguez’s disappearance, and we wouldn’t be where we are now.”
“And where are we, exactly?” he asked mildly. “Our main suspect is dead, there’s no sign of the girl, and I still don’t have enough to go on to get a firm handle on his partner. I know he’s undergone a psychic break, and is more prone to taking chances, but I can’t say for sure whether he’s already fled the area. Obviously, the area near the Collier crime scene needs to be canvassed, since Wayne was probably taking her to some sort of holding spot when he accidentally killed her. But even if we find that place, it will probably be too little, too late. He’ll be gone, the girl will be gone – either sold or killed because she’s been so much trouble. That’s a very real possibility, you know. He’s going to want to punish everyone he holds responsible. He’s a big fan of passing the buck.”
“So we take what evidence we can gather, and follow the bastard’s trail.”
“A lot of good that does Casey Rodriguez.”
Kim’s deep blue eyes shone hot in the darkness. “This is one of the main reasons I wanted to come down here. I shouldn’t have to say this to you Clay, but you’ve been taking things way too personally. I know you feel bad about this girl, feel a certain amount of responsibility because you were there, but she’s only part of the big picture. William Wayne is dead, which means he won’t be hurting young girls any more. And I need you to stay in the game here, friend, because you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever worked with. I thought, at first, that you’d benefit from time away, but now I wonder if this case isn’t exactly what you needed. It’s hard, and it sucks, but you will get through it, and you’ll realize that life goes on. You’ll do the best you can, help rid society of another lowlife, and accept that it’s not up to you to singlehandedly save the world.” She pulled into the parking lot of her hotel. “Now please go home to your woman. Remind yourself of what you’ve done right. And tomorrow morning put your game face on, because we’re going to catch this bastard.”
Clay turned away from her to stare out at the parking lot. Kim was right. He knew she was right, and there was no doubt he deserved the verbal face-slap. There was no room in his line of work for this useless, pitiful moping.
And like she said, he should just go home to Tate, and remind himself of the goodness life had to offer.
“So I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow?” he asked, shifting back to face her.
“Sounds good.” She dropped a quick kiss on his cheek, and slipped out the driver’s side door. Tucking her jacket over her head to avoid the steadily increasing rain, she waggled her fingers and then disappeared into the hotel.
Clay played their conversation over in his mind as he drove through the rain-slicked streets. Kim had all but accused him of having a hero complex, which might have some basis in truth. He’d been a lifeguard through high school and on summer breaks during college, and had chosen both mental health and law enforcement as a profession.
And while helping one’s fellow man was a noteworthy aspiration, striving for superhero status was both unrealistic and self-defeating. No one was perfect, and no one could do it all. He’d just have to do his job to the utmost of his abilities, and rely on a force greater than himself to handle the rest.
And boy, the Man Upstairs must be having quite a laugh right now, he thought as he pulled in beside Tate’s car. He’d not only shown Clay a thing or two about humility and failure, but he’d also thrown love and hope into the mix. There was an old saying about doors closing and windows opening that pretty much summed up the situation. He felt like he was hitting an all-time professional low and an all-time personal high at exactly the same time.
Climbing out of his SUV, he started to run in out of the rain, but instead took a moment to look at the car seat strapped into the back of Tate’s Honda.
He’d been having some pretty mixed up feelings about the scope of the situation he was taking on, but as he stood there, rain flattening his hair against his head, he realized that at least part of his pleasure in coming back here tonight had as much to do with Max as with Max’s mama. He looked toward his own vehicle. Tried to picture that car seat there.
Thought it might look pretty nice.
Maybe even with another one beside it.
And when that thought didn’t make him turn and run, he knew that as Kim said, this was something he’d done right. He might not be a perfect father figure to this little boy, but he’d damn sure try to do his best. Just do his best with the hand he’d been given, and let the cards fall where they may.
Right now, his deck was firmly stacked right here at the Inn at Calhoun.
So slipping his handy-dandy lock pick out of his pocket, he trotted up the steps to the back door, pulling up short when he saw Tate’s note.
Please don’t get any chicken blood on the door
For a moment, he thought the woman he loved had gone crazy, until he made the association to her earlier comment about voodoo. And then couldn’t stop the laugh that ripped out of his throat. You had to love a woman with a good sense of humor.
Especially when it came packaged with such a killer set of legs.
And speaking of legs, he hoped she wasn’t sleeping, because he sure wouldn’t take exception if she wanted to wrap them around his waist.
He slipped the lock, dealt with the alarm, and considered the myriad ways he could improve the Inn’s security. It was a difficult balance, wanting to secure your home and yet opening it up to paying guests. Overall, it wasn’t a choice he would have made, but he guessed he’d have to learn to live with it. Worry about it, but live with it. Which was going to make all the time spent away just that much more difficult to handle.
Shaking the water from his hair like a dog, Clay headed toward the back set of stairs, ascended two at a time, and coming out on the second floor landing, discovered he wasn’t alone in the hall.
Watery light from an antique sconce illuminated an elderly woman several doors down, hovering near the stairs leading to the third floor and the owner’s bedrooms. As Clay watched she put her hand on the doorknob, and began twisting it open.
“Ma’am?”
The woman stiffened, seemed to tense, then turned slightly toward the sound of his voice. Cautious smile in place, Clay moved forward, doing his best to appear nonthreatening. No need to give the old lady a heart attack, since she seemed to be pretty confused. Drawing closer he watched her eyes dart around, her hands stab into he
r pockets.
“Are you having trouble finding your room?” he asked, using his most honeyed Boy Scout inflection. “That door leads to the third floor, and there are no guest rooms on that level.”
She was tall, very tall, though bent as an old oak. Clay guessed that before osteoporosis struck she’d been only a couple inches shorter than him.
She wore soft-soled shoes, rather than slippers.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” She eased back into the shadows. “I’m afraid these eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“That’s no problem, ma’am. Can I offer you some assistance?”
“Oh, goodness no.” She laughed, but her blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll be fine. You run along to bed. You’ve done more than enough for one night.”
As Clay watched, she turned and shuffled off.
Two doors down, she slipped her hand into her pocket, pulled out a key and attempted to turn it in the lock. On the third try, her hand stopped shaking enough to make it work. Then she disappeared into her room and shut the door.
Clay stood there for a moment, waiting for what he wasn’t entirely sure. But there was something…
He shook it off, wanting to set everything to do with work or profiling or his all-around general professional paranoia aside. So he opened the door, turned the lock, and tiptoed up the stairs. He found himself drawn to Max’s room, where a weak stream of light filtered out from beneath his door.
And pushing it open with only the lightest squeak of hinges, peeked his head in to find the little guy sprawled with one arm and leg off the bed, blankets bunched at his feet, and that goofy purple bear tucked beside him.
Something inside Clay moved.
Whether his heart, his soul, his latent paternal instincts – he couldn’t decide and it really didn’t matter. In every way other than the strictest biological sense, he had the overwhelming feeling that this child was his.
It was one of the most powerful emotions he’d ever felt.
Negotiating the toy-strewn floor, he lifted Max away from the edge of the bed, tucking the sheet in, nice and tight, around his pajama-covered bottom. Then lingered long enough to drop a kiss on one sweet-smelling cheek before backing from the room.
And very nearly bumped into Tate.
“Hey,” he whispered, surprised. “I didn’t see you there.”
He had just enough time to catch the sheen of tears before she launched herself into his arms. “Hey now.” He squeezed her tight, then gently pushed her back so he could cup her face. And rubbing his thumb across her cheek, caught the first tear as it spilled over. “What’s this all about?”
“You,” she admitted, smiling as she swiped at her other cheek. “If I hadn’t already fallen for you that certainly would have done it.”
Whatever had moved inside Clay began to shimmy. Do a happy little tango inside his chest. “I love you, Tate.” And he said it without stuttering. “I never believed it when people said it happened like this, but I think I was gone the moment I saw you. In that yellow bikini, on the beach. Trying to burn all this beautiful skin to a crisp.”
She laughed. Cried some more. And then took his hand to draw him with her.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward her bedroom. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes so that I can cry all over your manly chest.” And stopping at the door, stretched up to kiss his cheek.
“And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I love you too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
CLAY considered that next morning at breakfast that he was happier than he’d ever been in his life.
Not content, merely. But actually happy.
Goofy happy. The kind of happy that made other people reach for the Pepto Bismol, because they got indigestion just looking at you.
He’d found himself singing in the shower. Of course, the fact that Tate had slipped into that steamy little enclosure with him and given him something to sing about could very well have had something to do with it.
Oh yeah. He’d definitely gone off the deep end. A big ole’ fat belly flop into love.
And yet here he sat, grinning like an idiot.
Max, who was firmly ensconced on his lap while they debated the merits of having syrup versus powdered sugar on their waffles, twisted around to peek over Clay’s shoulder when he heard the squeaky hinges on the door.
Rogan Murphy – looking more disreputable than ever with his shoulder length brown hair all loose and wet around his face; a face heavily shadowed by at least three days worth of stubble – made an appearance at the doorway to the dining room. The man’s jeans looked like they’d been through a shredder, and his T-shirt today recommended Peace, Love and Beer.
Clay, resplendent in his newly dry-cleaned suit, frowned.
Max, sporting bed-head and Sponge Bob Squarepants pajamas, was a little more gracious with his greeting. “Cousin Rogan!”
“Hey squirt.” Rogan snagged a muffin and an apple from the sideboard, pulling a chair right up to their table. And crunching noisily into the fruit, flashed a grin at Clay. “Copeland. Fancy meeting you here.”
Clay’s frown twisted into a rueful grimace. He had no doubt that Rogan had known exactly what he was doing the other night. Clay’d made a crack about bar psychology, but the joke seemed to be on him. “You know, if you ever get sick of pulling pints, I might be able to get you a pretty good gig.”
Rogan snorted, and then laughed outright. “Why, so I can dress like Ward Cleaver? No thanks. But, you know,” he crunched another bite of apple, “it was nice of you to offer.”
“Cousin Rogan’s taking me to the aquarium today,” Max piped up, and reached for the powdered sugar. He hit the bottom of the canister hard enough to send a cloud of white all over his waffles, Rogan’s wet hair, and Clay’s black suit.
“So you said,” Clay coughed, waved the powder away, and looked at Murphy through the haze. “Max says these Thursday outings are something of a tradition.”
“Yep.” Having finished with the apple, Rogan pulled the wrapper away from his chocolate muffin, sinking a row of white teeth into the side. “It goes back to when the little guy was a baby. We were all pitching in so that Tate could finish up her degree, and Thursday sort of fell to me. I figure since he’s off to the School of Hard Knocks this year when he gets locked down in kindergarten, I better snatch my Thursdays while I can.” He chewed, pointed the muffin at Clay. “That’s not going to interfere with any plans you might have made now, is it?”
“No.” It was absolutely stupid to feel jealous. As a reasonable adult he should be happy for this man who was a pretty solid fixture in Max’s life.
Even if he was teaching the kid to cuss.
But damn it, this whole male role model thing was new and he was kind of enjoying it.
“I’ll be working, pretty long hours, probably for the next several days.”
“You gonna stick around after that?” Rogan came right out and asked.
“Since I’ve ended up working this case while I was supposed to be on vacation, I’ll have a week or so coming to me when my part’s through. And after that,” he reached around Max’s shoulders and began cutting the waffle into neat little pieces. “I’ll be here as often as I can.”
Seemingly satisfied, Rogan nodded and worked on his muffin. “That’s good to hear. I got the impression you were a standup kind of guy.”
Clay dug into his own waffles. “In all honesty, Murphy, I used to be the guy that trips and falls down while trying to run away.”
“That happens to me,” Max agreed “when I forget to tie my shoelaces.”
Clay and Rogan both stopped, mid bite, and looked at the child between them. Then burst out in shared laughter.
THE son of a bitch was laughing.
Just sitting over there at that table, like he owned the damn place, stuffing his face with waffles.
Holding the kid on his lap.
He’d been so close – so damn close – to snatching the boy last night.
He’d waited, well past a reasonable hour, for the friggin’ FBI agent to show up.
When midnight had rolled around, JR thought he was in the clear. He’d tucked the chloroform, the syringe, and a lock-pick into his pockets. And his pistol. Just in case somebody tried to get in his way.
Except the friggin’ FBI agent had gotten in his way.
Killing a federal cop was just asking for some serious shit. A bullet with his name on it, discharged with “necessary force.” Or worse yet, a massive manhunt that would result in his arrest, and then he’d spend the next fifty or so years as some lifer’s girlfriend.
No.
He was not going to go to prison. There was no way he’d end up dead on some shower floor, bleeding to death from the shank that had been shoved up his rectum.
Like Logan.
His tea cup slipped in his hand. The china dropped to the table with a clatter, spilling the stupid-ass tea that crazy old ladies were required to like all over his ugly dress and friggin’ support hose.
The hot liquid scalded his hand, threatening to dissolve the latex skin which covered it, and seeped into the layers of padding filling the dress.
He stifled the string of curses trembling on the edge of his lips, because yes, the FBI agent, his long-haired hippy-looking friend, the kid, the old lady and everyone else in the dining room were now looking at him with concern.
The FBI agent actually started to move the kid off of his lap and rise from his chair, but – surprise, surprise – Tate friggin’ Do-Gooder Hennessey put her hand on his shoulder to keep him down, and then hurried over with a bunch of napkins.
Concern marred her pretty face.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Walker?” She took a napkin and patted it on his lap.
Thank God for layers of padding, or else there might be some pretty interesting questions coming up. He wanted to snatch the napkin away, and take care of the problem himself. But hey, since the little whore was here, he might as well sit back and enjoy it.
“Thank you dear.” He entertained visions of doing the mother in front of the kid. Of doing the kid in front of the mother. “I apologize for making a mess. It seems the cup slipped right out of my hand.”
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