Out of Reach: A Novel

by Patricia Lewin

  Off to one side, a man and woman huddled. The parents. She was trying to be brave, gripping her husband’s arm in an iron fist, tears streaming unchecked down her checks. Every few minutes, she gave in to the sobs, and the man at her side held her close—to comfort or for comfort—Alec couldn’t guess. Beside them, a young police officer stood watch, helpless to offer any kind of support or assistance.

  Their little girl was missing.

  Alec ducked beneath the crime tape and headed for his car.

  He had no jurisdiction here. In that regard, each kidnapping was unique. The locals could call in the FBI or not, and so far they’d made no official request. Plus, there was nothing to indicate any connection between this girl’s disappearance and Cody Sanders. Alec had come as a courtesy. He knew the detective in charge and had offered to take a look, hoping he’d find some commonality between the two cases, something that would help them find both children.

  The two disappearances were a mixed bag that pointed at once to the same perpetrator and to two different ones. Depending on what aspects of the cases you focused on.

  On the one hand, the similarities between the two couldn’t be ignored. Even if you discounted the closeness in timing—approximately forty-eight hours apart—and the proximity—one disappearance in South Baltimore, the other in Arlington, a distance of roughly fifty miles—even then, two other points jumped out.

  First, both abductions were high risk, a rare and dangerous undertaking for most kidnappers, who usually found easier targets. Cody had vanished on his way home from school. A high-risk abduction, made even riskier by the boy himself, who knew the streets. While the girl had been snatched from a park, where she’d been sleeping in a stroller, a dozen or more kids and parents within sight, and her own mother no more than a couple of yards away.

  Second, the lack of evidence in both cases was telling. Contrary to what the media would have you believe, most kidnappers were caught quickly. Usually they knew their victims or were just plain sloppy in their attempt to secure a child. To have two predators, operating at the same time in such close proximity to each other, stretched the bounds of what Alec could dismiss as coincidence.

  However, there was one other major factor that said the cases were unrelated: the children themselves.

  Sexual predators had preferred victims. Age. Coloring. Sex. It all mattered. And except in unusual circumstances, they didn’t stray. Cody Sanders, age nine, blond and blue-eyed, from the South Baltimore streets, was the opposite of Chelsea Madden, age five, female and dark, from suburban Arlington. And on this point alone, the experts at Quantico would be quick to claim there was no relation between the cases.

  Still, something else, a gut feeling whispered to Alec that they were connected. If only they could find something, just one small clue to prove it.

  More times than he’d like to admit, it had been just such a hunch that had led him down an unexpected path to a missing child. For years, he’d been the butt of Bureau jokes. “Hey, Donovan,” someone would say, “got your crystal ball with you?” They’d call him Mulder and make snide, X-Files comments. Once, a pack of tarot cards, wrapped in black paper with bright silver moons, had shown up on his desk. Alec had laughed, realizing he was an oddity in an agency known for its protocol and by-the-book methods of solving crime. But as he closed more and more difficult cases, the teasing had turned to respect, and he’d learned to accept and rely on these instinctive nudges.

  Tonight, however, it seemed they’d led him astray.

  The police were combing the park with dogs, but so far, nothing. The darkness made it harder, but by morning it might be too late for Chelsea Madden.

  Of the more than 58,000 children abducted by non–family members every year, approximately 115 are victims of more serious, long-term abductions. Of those, 56 percent are recovered alive, while 44 percent are killed. And of those murdered, 74 percent are dead within three hours of their abduction.

  Alec wanted a cigarette. Badly. Instead, he took a roll of Tums from his pocket and popped one in his mouth. It had been nearly two years since he’d quit smoking. Usually he didn’t miss it. Except on nights like this, when his stomach burned and his head ached.

  He glanced again toward the parents. They were no longer alone. A priest was with them now, mumbling words of comfort Alec couldn’t hear, words he no longer had within him to offer.

  It was nights like this when he considering leaving the Bureau, or at least the CACU. Nights when he didn’t think he could face one more heartbroken mother or angry father. Nights when he thought it was time to let someone else search for the lost innocents.

  Then they would find a child. Alive. Frightened. Maybe even damaged in some visible or nonvisible ways. But alive. And on those nights, he knew he couldn’t walk away. If it killed him—which it probably would someday—he’d have to keep going.

  Just to save one more life if he could.

  He prayed with everything in him, to whatever powers controlled the fate of children, that this night would be one of the latter.

  As he’d watched, several of the cops gathered around a woman they’d let through the barricade. After a few minutes, one stepped away from the group, said a few words in his radio, looked around, then headed for Alec.

  Alec pushed off the car, hoping they’d found something.

  “Agent Donovan, you need to hear this,” said the young officer when he got closer.

  “What is it?”

  “That woman over there”—he nodded back toward the group he’d just left—“claims she saw the kidnapper.”

  Alec frowned. As soon as Chelsea’s mother had reported her disappearance, the park had been blocked off. Everyone in the vicinity had been questioned. That had been five hours ago. “Where’s she been?”

  “Said she just heard about the missing girl on the news.”

  “But she saw something? And now she’s here?”

  Most people with information about a crime were uncertain about what to do and used the “800” tip line. Those who showed up rather than called were usually of the crackpot variety.

  “She insists on talking to someone, and Detective Smith is tied up with the search. He said to let you interview her.”

  “Lucky me.” Well, Alec had offered to assist and could hardly blame them for taking him up on it.

  “Her story’s a little out there,” said the cop, “but I figure we can’t afford to ignore any possible leads.”

  Alec sensed the slight rebuke, and knew the other man was right. Becoming jaded was one of the dangers of too much time in law enforcement. Sometimes it took a rookie to put things in perspective. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

  They headed toward the knot of officers, and Alec sized up the woman as they approached. Medium height, thin and young, with short dark hair. She wore faded jeans and a lightweight sweater, and for a moment he thought she was a kid. Then her stillness gave her away. She wasn’t as young as she seemed, but a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, calm, and with an uncommon air of confidence. Good information or not, this was no nutcase.

  She acknowledged him with a brief nod as he approached.

  “I’m Special Agent Alec Donovan,” he said, flashing his badge. “I’m with the CACU, that is the—”

  “I’m aware of the Crimes Against Children Unit, Agent Donovan.”

  That surprised him. Few people in the general population had ever heard of the CACU. “And you are?”

  “Erin Baker.”

  “This officer”—he gestured toward the young man at his side—“tells me you have information about the missing girl.”

  “I saw the man who took her.”

  He’d expected her answer, but the way she said it took him aback. Calmly. Looking him straight in the eye. “I hope you’re right, Ms. Baker—”

  “It’s Dr. Baker. Ph.D., not medical,” she added before he could ask. “I’m on the faculty at Georgetown.”

  Was she trying to impress him? H
e’d be more impressed with solid information leading to Chelsea Madden. “All right, Doctor Baker.” He gestured toward a couple of picnic tables being used as temporary command post behind a screen of trees, away from reporters, onlookers, and the knot of gathered uniforms. “Let’s talk.”

  To the cop beside him, he said, “Come on. I want you to hear this as well.”

  The young man nodded, and the three of them made their way to the tables. Alec gestured toward one of the benches. “Have a seat, Dr. Baker.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Okay.” Alec matched her no-nonsense attitude. “You say you saw the kidnapper.” He crossed his arms. “Convince me.”

  She tilted her head slightly, as if taking his measure before speaking. “I was here in the park, this morning, between nine and ten.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Running.”

  An interesting choice of words. Running. Not jogging. “Do you run often?”

  “Every morning. Usually earlier, around six.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I finished, shortly after ten, there was an ice-cream vendor here.”

  “Odd time to be selling ice cream.”

  “I thought so, too.” She took a deep breath, then folded her arms. “He did sleight-of-hand tricks for the children. And I—”

  “Wait. Go back. What was that?”

  She looked at him oddly. “Coin tricks. You know, pulling them from the air or from behind children’s ears. That sort of thing. He had quite an audience by the time he started handing out ice cream.”

  Alec suddenly felt uneasy, not liking the leaps his own thoughts were taking.

  “Are you okay, Agent Donovan?”

  He came back to himself with a start. “I’m fine. You said he was doing magic tricks . . .”

  “Do you know of this man?” she asked.

  Only by rumor, and the testimony of a traumatized young girl years ago. No one gave her account any credence. Except Alec. “What else, Dr. Baker?”

  She watched him a moment longer, then said, “I knew I’d seen him before, but couldn’t place him. Then, when I heard the news about the missing girl, I remembered.”

  “Where?” He had to force himself to breathe.

  “A park in Miami.” For the first time, a slight tremor shaded her voice. “The day my younger sister was kidnapped.”

  Alec’s mind raced. Was it possible?

  The man she was describing wasn’t supposed to exist. He was fiction, a myth in law enforcement circles. No one wanted to believe there was a predator out there, stealing children for profit, getting away with it for decades, too organized, too disciplined to be caught.

  “When was this?”

  She hesitated, as if wishing he hadn’t asked this particular question, but answered, knowing he would. “Nineteen eighty-five.”

  Alec did the math. “Nineteen years ago?”

  “I know how it sounds, but I also know what I’m talking about.” There was no hesitation in her voice now. “It was the same man.”

  “Describe him.” He nodded to the young officer, who wrote down everything she said.

  She did, describing a fairly average-looking, middle-aged man. Someone you’d see a dozen times in fifteen minutes walking down any city street. When she was finished, she hesitated again, then added, “But it wasn’t his looks that were the same.” Another brief pause on her part, as if she knew that what she was about to say, too, was weak. “It was his hands.”

  “You recognized his hands?” It seemed a stretch, but then everything about her story was a stretch.

  “The way he moved them. The magic tricks—” She stopped, as if realizing how crazy she sounded.

  A woman sees a man, who reminds her of someone she’d seen nineteen years earlier, on what might have been one of the most traumatic days of her life. And it had Alec thinking about a little girl’s words.

  He was magic. And I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.

  But he’d taken her from her family and sold her to others, who would have done more than hurt her.

  Alec had to be crazy even to consider taking this woman’s claim seriously. Even for him, a man who’d built his reputation on following odd hunches and offbeat leads, this one was a leap. But he knew he had to make it, had to trust the voice that was no longer whispering, but screaming now, that this woman could lead him to more than just Chelsea Madden and Cody Sanders, but to an evil predator who’d stalked the innocent for years.

  “Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?” he asked.

  “Yes.” No doubt in her voice.

  He was going to catch hell for this. Especially if his instincts about this woman were wrong.

  “Officer”—he glanced at the man’s badge—“Lamont, get the name of the ice-cream franchise—”

  “Kauffman Farms,” Dr. Baker offered.

  Alec snorted in disbelief. This woman was full of surprises. “Get me a name and address of this Kauffman Farms,” he said to Lamont. “I need the person in charge.” He glanced at his watch. After seven. “And I expect I’ll need a home address. Then give Detective Smith a call and tell him I’m going to check out Dr. Baker’s story, and that I need you and your partner to come along as backup.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and tell him . . .” Sometimes you have to break the rules. “Tell him I’m taking Dr. Baker with me.” He shot a questioning look at the woman in front of him. His best shot at catching this guy was if she pointed him out. “That is, if she’s willing.”

  She nodded.

  Officer Lamont arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment before hurrying off to make the calls.

  Alec turned back to the woman. “Give me a minute, Dr. Baker.” Moving out of earshot, he pulled out his cell phone.

  When he had Cathy on the line, he said, “I need everything we have on a woman named Erin Baker. She’s a Ph.D. on the faculty at Georgetown. Start there, and then see what else you can find on her, including a 1985 missing child case in Miami.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A potential witness in the Chelsea Madden case, and she seems to be . . .”—more—“. . . not what she claims. I need to know if she’s reliable.”

  “Any connection to the Cody Sanders case?”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s possible.”

  “What’s going on, Alec?”

  He hesitated, knowing that this time not even Cathy would believe him. “I think we’ve found the Magician.”

  VI

  ISAAC GAGE WATCHED the chaos he’d created.

  The cops had cordoned off all entrances to the park. A crowd had gathered on the fringes, neighborhood gawkers huddled together to swap stories and share theories about the missing girl. A half-dozen uniforms milled about, some pacing the perimeters keeping the natives at bay, while the others stood gulping coffee and resenting that they’d been stuck up here while the real fun was down in the park, with the hunt. As if in reminder of their low status, from deep in the woods along the river, dogs barked as they tried to pick up a scent.

  Isaac rarely missed returning to a kidnapping site. It was a small treat, which he figured he’d earned. The risk of someone recognizing him was nearly nonexistent. Watching, he was never the same man as the one who’d executed the abduction. So he allowed himself a brief tour through the lives of the people he had shattered. And he enjoyed the hell out of it.

  He knew the criminal psychologists and profilers would have a field day with that little piece of information. They would try to analyze him and predict his next move—as they’d done in a dozen previous incarnations—blaming his misdeeds on an abnormal childhood.

  Well, his early years had been pretty fucked up, but so had the lives of most of the kids he’d met as his family moved from place to place, courtesy of Uncle Sam. His father had been career army, a hard-drinking, heavy-fisted colonel, who’d taken out his frustrations over his lackluster military career on his only son. Isaac had learned early to di
sappear whenever the old man was around. Sober or not.

  Isaac had no complaints, though. He’d grown up strong, fast, and smart. It had been a matter of survival, and he’d been good at it. Something that couldn’t be said for most of the kids who crossed his path now.

  Plus the life of an army brat had taught him another skill that had served him well. With each move to a new base, he’d become a different kind of kid: a jock, a brain, a troublemaker and rabble-rouser, or social and popular. Whatever role struck him the first time he walked into a new school, that’s what he’d become. It was a game he loved, and it had kept the boredom at bay.

  Over the years, he’d perfected the art, developing an uncanny ability to take on different personas and blend in where he didn’t belong. People—even children—tended to trust him without question. Therefore, he could go anywhere, be anyone, he wanted. It was a rare gift, and he’d capitalized on it.

  Though lately, monotony had begun to creep in, making him restless. No one had come close to identifying, much less catching him, in more years than he cared to count. Not that he wanted to get caught. That was another absurd notion of the pop psychologists. He just expected there to be more of a thrill, more of a challenge, and it had been a long time since he’d experienced either.

  Maybe it was time to quit.

  It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind. A couple of years ago, he’d bought some property in the western North Carolina mountains. He planned to have a cabin built, maybe build it himself. He’d always been good with his hands, and he expected he could learn the rest. It would keep him busy, keep the tedium at bay. For a while at least.

  First, though, he had a job to finish.

  As he worked his way through the crowd, toward the police barrier, he caught snatches of conversations.

  “I heard the mother left the little girl alone, sleeping in a stroller,” said one middle-aged woman to another. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with young people these days.”