“That’s okay.” Tate smiled at him as she blotted. Leaning over as she was, JR could see down her shirt, and thought she’d filled out much nicer than expected.
She’d been such a gangly little thing.
Looking at him with those big green eyes, all but begging him to throw her a little action.
He should have just gone ahead and done the bitch back then, and then she wouldn’t have come to the boys’ camp that night. Probably looking for him. Wanting to crawl into her favorite lifeguard’s bunk for a little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
And Logan wouldn’t have landed in jail. Wouldn’t have bled to death in that shower.
His hand fisted beneath the folds of his dress.
But he couldn’t get greedy, or careless, or he’d end up dead as Logan and Billy Wayne. So as much as he’d like to do otherwise, he’d have to leave the little blabbermouth alone. If he so much as blinked wrong in her direction, she’d run over and tattle to her boyfriend.
JR looked over, and sure enough, FBI was watching.
Making sure his little bed-warmer was safe.
He probably kept his tie on while he screwed her.
He briefly entertained a new, exciting fantasy, about pulling Tate’s head into his lap. Blowing her head off while the FBI man watched.
But that was neither prudent, nor smart, so he reached up to pat her cheek instead.
She smiled, and then hurried off to fetch more tea.
From across the dining room, JR felt the agent’s stare.
JOSH Harding wasn’t a real big fan of autopsies.
He tried to approach the whole process from an entirely objective standpoint, looking at the corpse on the stainless steel table as no more than one of the anatomical dummies he’d used in his life drawing classes, but the smell made it rather difficult.
Was there anything more nauseating than the aroma of bone dust as the medical examiner used his electric saw – which seemed much more appropriate at one of those Home Depot You Can Build A Tree House type things – to cut through what was left of a man’s cranium?
That whirr, whirr, whirr was almost as stomach-turning as the smell.
Josh looked up, caught Copeland’s glance from across the room, and managed a weak nod for the other man’s benefit. No doubt the FBI agent had witnessed dozens of autopsies, and this was business as usual for him.
He probably had a bottle of Eau de Bone Dust that he spritzed around just for the hell of it.
Behind Josh, a door opened, and he gratefully turned toward the distraction. Agent O’Connell entered the room, looking as cool and put together as always, though he could tell from the set of her mouth that she hadn’t enjoyed her conversation with the local Bureau honcho. Apparently he was one of those people who didn’t believe in interdepartmental task forces, cooperation, democracy or anyone or anything that otherwise challenged his self-appointed position as God.
So far, he seemed content to let her handle the situation out in East Podunk, which was no doubt how he felt about their little town. But when the results of this autopsy came back as homicide – a given, as far as those present were concerned – there was every chance he would try to throw his weight into the investigation. Murder, as such, was not necessarily a federal crime, but the murder of one of the main suspects in an interstate human trafficking ring had media coverage written all over it.
And there wasn’t much that was more appealing to a glory-seeking bureaucrat than positive media coverage.
Finally, after what seemed like eons – mountain ranges eroded to plains before that damn autopsy was over – the ME pronounced that the man on the table had died from gunshot trauma to the head.
Inflicted from a distance of at least eight feet.
In short, he hadn’t pulled the trigger.
A secondary shot, fired at point blank range, was responsible for the powder residue on the man’s fingers.
And speaking of fingers – boy wasn’t this fun? – it turned out that the dead man’s fingerprints had been removed with a razor. All except for a partial thumbprint. The thumbprint might give them just enough to be able to run the man through AFIS, but it would make the search both longer and less conclusive.
“Do you think the partial print was an oversight or left intentionally?” Josh asked Clay as he and the agents left the morgue.
Clay sighed and pushed his sunglasses onto his nose, squinting against the bright noonday heat. “The perp is in a state of flux right now, which unfortunately makes either possibility viable. He’s been pushed to a point where he’s lost some control, which could definitely make him prone to sloppy mistakes. However, the way he set up his accomplice yesterday also leads me to believe he may have reached a stage where he’s become much more interested in game playing. His relationship with the albino, his business with the girls, fed a need in him to assert his own dominance. Now that the other man is dead and his business has been threatened, that need may have been transferred to this new battle with the authorities. He’s no longer content to escape and evade, but might challenge and attempt to outwit. It’ll make him more dangerous, because he’ll be less careful in his behavior, but it will also make him easier to draw out. We get proactive, possibly challenge his competence or intelligence, and he’ll be bound and determined to prove us wrong.”
“So you don’t think he’s already bought a one way ticket to South America?”
“Gut instinct – I’d have to say no. If he left that print on purpose, then logic would dictate that he knows his accomplice’s fingerprints are on record, and he’s going to want to be here to see us scramble around, trying to match it. He wants us to figure out his accomplice’s identity, but he doesn’t want it to happen too soon. So he’s probably planning on being in the area for at least the next little while.”
“So we get to work on this print.”
“And organize a canvass of the area near the Collier crime scene,” Kim reminded him.
“There are a lot of farms near those woods,” Josh said. “Several abandoned farm houses.”
“Which would make a perfect, out-of-the-way location to hold the girls until they deliver them.” Kim took her own sunglasses out of her pocket. Then she made a small noise of disgust. “Given the limited size of your force, Deputy Harding, we may want to consider calling in a couple of local agents. We can’t risk any of your untrained volunteers stumbling across an armed, dangerous and mentally unstable felon.”
“Okay.” Josh knew she was loath to have a truckload of feds coming in here, steamrolling his department’s investigation. But at this point, with other lives at risk, jurisdictional issues were of little importance. “Make whatever calls you think you need to. But most of the farmers out that way will be much more free and easy with information if it’s a local doing the asking.”
“Understood. Let’s head back to the station and pull up a map of the area, mark it off into quadrants. The areas that seem the most feasible for our man’s hideout, we’ll pair local and federal agents. Then we’ll work our way out from there.”
“Well, boys and girls.” Clay hit the remote to unlock his vehicle. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
THE Goliath bird-eating spider was a hit.
Rogan calculated that this was his and Max’s third or fourth trip to the aquarium, so the fish, alligators, and various indigenous Lowcountry wildlife were pretty much old hat. But the visiting Creatures of the Amazon exhibit held Max’s enrapt attention for over an hour.
They’d seen piranhas, an anaconda, a couple funky looking birds, and some kind of blind rodent.
And a really huge spider.
With hair on all of its eight dinner-plate width legs.
And way too many eyes. All of them looking at him.
Rogan wasn’t particularly a fan.
In fact, after seeing the arachnid that was big enough to take down a parrot, he decided to cross Amazon off his list of Fun Places to Visit.
“So,” he said to Ma
x, hoping to ease the kid toward the exit. “How ‘bout taking another look at those jellyfish? Or maybe see if we can work our way into a spot at the Touch Pool? Those nurse sharks looked pretty cool.”
“Okay.”
Rogan tried not to go limp with relief.
Opting for the touch pool, which was really no big surprise, Rogan took hold of Max’s hand and they began to make their way toward the escalator. They weaved around sunburned children and harried parents, chatting along the way.
“So,” he said again, very casually, because Max was a perceptive kid. “Your mom seems to like that FBI agent.”
“His name is Clay.”
“Right,” Rogan agreed. “Clay. Your mom seems to really like him.”
“I guess so.” Max shrugged, in the way of five-year-olds. “They kiss and stuff, when they think I’m not looking.”
“And how do you feel about that? Clay kissing your mom?”
Max stopped to check out a flounder. “He asked me, and I said it was okay. Why do you think he has two eyes on one side of his head?”
“Uh…”
It took Rogan a moment to realize they were now discussing the fish, rather than the man.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, leaning closer to the glass. “I guess that’s just the way nature designed him.” The flounder, tired of the speculation, swam off toward the other side of the tank. “Um, Clay said he’s going to be hanging around some. Are you feeling okay with that?”
Max stopped watching the fish, and looked up at his cousin. He had that worried, lip-biting expression that suggested he was about to impart Something Bad.
“Will you get mad if I tell you something?”
Uh-oh, Rogan thought dismally. Maybe the kid didn’t like Copeland. He’d seemed to well enough, sure. But who knew what went through a little kid’s mind? “I’d never be mad at you for telling the truth.”
“I’ll still be your friend,” Max said gravely. “But I think Mr. Clay might be a better daddy. I used to want Mommy to marry you, but she said cousins can’t marry each other. I hope you’re not too awful disappointed.”
Rogan laughed, a short burst of surprise. The kid had actually thought…?
He bent down to Max’s level. “I think I’ll be able to manage.” Then he tweaked the little rug-rat on the nose. And wondered if either Tate or Clay suspected the grand plans he’d hatched for the three of them. “Now how about you and I go touch ourselves a couple of sharks?”
They pushed their way through the throng near the escalator, and Rogan noticed the stairs weren’t as crowded. Grabbing Max’s hand, he started that way, and felt a prick on his ass from behind. What the hell? It felt like someone had stuck him with the business end of an upholstery needle.
He turned around to gauge the situation, thinking some kid was playing a none-too-funny joke.
But his vision tunneled, went blurry at the edges, and the hand holding Max’s went limp.
He found himself going boneless, as if he were just melting right into the floor. The stairs were there, right under his feet, and the next moment just slipped away.
Max’s little face, filled up by frightened green eyes, was the last thing he saw before he fell.
CLAY turned away from the computer, which was doing its thing to narrow down the possibilities regarding the owner of that partial thumbprint, when his cell phone began to dance in his pocket.
He slipped it out, checked the caller ID, and noted an incoming from Justin. The guy probably wanted him to clear the rest of his crap out of the guest room since it was beyond obvious he was no longer staying there.
“Justin,” he said with a hint of sheepishness, “you calling to kick me out?”
“Clay, I need you to get to the hospital.” There was absolutely no humor in the other man’s voice. “I don’t have long to talk, because I’m needed in surgery, but Tate’s here, and you need to be with her. She’s not hurt,” he assured him, before Clay could ask “but the situation is pretty critical. Someone hit her cousin, or pushed him down the stairs – I’m not entirely clear on that part – and… it appears they’ve kidnapped her son.”
Clay’s heart stopped beating. Just bam! – gave up thumping inside of his chest.
“I guess it happened when they were at the aquarium,” Justin continued, unaware that Clay couldn’t hear him over the roar of denial in his head. “Anyway, she would have called herself, but I had no choice but to give her a sedative. Her cousin Kathleen – have you met her? She’s a Charleston PD detective – well, she’s here, and she’s asked me to call you.” He paused, just a moment, to listen. “Dude, you need to say something so that I know whether or not you’re still there.”
“I’m on my way.”
Clay was amazed he could speak, with his heart lodged so firmly in his throat. Now that it had started pumping again, it was trying to push its way out of his body. He stood, legs like rubber, and had to catch himself on the back of the chair. From across the room, Kim saw his face, and immediately hustled over.
“Did Rogan,” Oh God, “say anything? Do you have any idea how this happened?”
Kim reached him, and helped him get moving. He was as wobbly as a three day drunk.
“The guy was unconscious when they brought him in. He’s banged up pretty badly from his fall. But Kathleen’s partner’s down at the scene, interviewing witnesses. She might have something more to tell you when you get here. I’m sorry, man, but I have to go. I’ll try to catch up with you later.”
When the line went dead, something inside Clay clicked. He saw the life he wanted – a life with Tate and Max – hanging in the balance before him.
“We’re going to MUSC Hospital,” he told Kim, as he handed her the keys to his truck. “Drive like a bat out of hell, sweetheart, because we need to go find my son.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JR laughed as he pulled off the wig.
It had been so easy. Ridiculously, pitifully easy. He’d lingered around the dining room that morning just long enough to hear all their plans. He’d even finagled an introduction to the boy, courtesy of his over-proud grandma. All the better to get the kid to trust him. Make getting him out of the aquarium that much easier. What’s not to trust about a sweet little grandma, and especially one that you met just that morning?
God, kids really were gullible. Even easier than teenage girls. Offer ‘em some candy and a few soothing words, and they’ll go wherever you want.
By the time their parents’ warnings about accepting candy from strangers kick into gear, you’ve already got them tucked right next to you in the front of your truck.
And telling them that the cops would see them if they tried to get out of their seatbelt, probably send their mama to jail – no threat could perform more effectively.
Little kids, they sure loved their mamas.
Even when they were hateful, falling-down drunks.
And hey, thinking about falling down, that hippy sure took a digger! He had to have cracked a few bones. Maybe even broken his neck.
Then all those Good Samaritans, rushing to his aid, creating a diversion that JR couldn’t have paid for.
And he – helpful old lady that he was – had led the little boy away from the commotion. Right out the door and into his truck.
Of course, the kid hadn’t taken the candy – apparently he’d been paying attention to those warnings – so he’d resorted to the syringe. And now the boy lay, peaceful as a little lamb, with his head resting on JR’s lap.
He reached down, stroked the dark hair.
Then looked out the windshield, wondering what Max’s mother was doing. Crying all over her FBI lover? Clutching her poor, distraught cousin’s broken hand?
He laughed again, pulling the truck into his grandmother’s barn, next to the minivan registered to Sean Roberts. The car that would drive him into the next phase of his life.
His life as a responsible, upstanding father. Just him and the kid, day in, day out. They co
uld fish, or toss a ball. Watch movies.
Maybe he could show him a thing or two he’d learned at camp.
Overjoyed, JR couldn’t contain his laughter. He had no idea this would be so much fun.
CLAY strode through the waiting room, which seemed to be filled to capacity, and gripped the edge of the registration desk.
“Excuse me, I’m here to see Tate Hennessey. I need to know what room she’s been taken to.”
The woman at the desk used wildly manicured fingers to tap some information into the computer before frowning up at Clay. “Are you family?”
Clay pulled his badge out and flipped it open. He didn’t have time to play games. “What room is she in?”
The woman harrumphed and went back to her computer. “Emergency suite 121. Go left and around the corner. Then through the swinging doors on the right. Push the button on the wall and I’ll buzz you in.”
“Thanks.”
He and Kim took off at a trot. Clay found the button, shoved it in, and waited for the doors to swing open. When they did, he ran into Justin.
“Oh, hey,” his friend said, pulling a mask off his face. “Wow, that was quick. You must have set a new land-speed record.” He stepped aside and extended his hand. “Justin Wellington,” he said to Kim, even as he moved to walk with them.
“Kim O’Connell. Under any other circumstances, I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Justin smiled briefly and then turned his attention to Clay. “I’ll take you to her room. She’s pretty out of it, but conscious. Unfortunately I can’t stick around, because I need to get back to the OR. It’s a zoo around here today. My last patient got up off the gurney and walked out – with a bullet wound to the leg – before I could get to him.”
Justin paused outside the door to Room 121, laying his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry about all of this. My prayers will be with you and that little boy.”
“Thanks.” Clay’s voice was scratchy with unshed tears. He took a deep breath, glanced at Kim, and rapped his knuckles on the door before entering. A pretty redhead in a linen suit sat in a chair beside the bed. No doubt Kathleen, Tate’s cousin.
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