The red-haired man stepped forward, extending his right hand. “I’m Special Agent Thatcher of the State Bureau of Investigation. This is Lieutenant Ross and Detective Lambert.” He met Max’s gaze and surprise registered in his eyes. “Lakers?”
Max nodded. “Another lifetime ago. Have you found Caroline?”
Thatcher shook his head. “No, but we did pick up Winters’s current girlfriend.” He glanced from the corner of his eye at Tom. “I’m sorry, son. You must be—”
Tom’s lips pursed. “Tom Stewart.”
Thatcher raised a surprised brow at the ferocity in Tom’s voice. “Okay. Tom it is. Winters’s girlfriend’s name is Sue Ann Broughton. She’s—” Thatcher glanced at Tom again. “She’s pregnant with Winters’s baby, but he doesn’t know it. She refuses to tell us where he is although he contacted her to meet him this morning.”
Tom stiffened. “Then he’s here?”
Thatcher sighed. “He was here. He must have known we’d be watching. He slipped through our net.”
David walked over to a window overlooking the street and the angry crowd that was in true danger of becoming a mob. “What’s with the riot?”
Lieutenant Ross stepped forward. “As we were investigating the disappearance of Mary Grace and Robbie—” She raised a brow in Tom’s direction, cutting off the boy’s protest. “That’s what it’s been for two weeks, son. Anyway, as we investigated your disappearance, we found evidence that your father had used undue force while questioning a young African-American suspect.” She regarded Tom steadily. “The suspect was found dead.”
Tom’s lip curled in disdain. “Only one?”
Ross seemed taken aback. “What does that mean?”
“First, he’s not my father, Lieutenant Ross. Second, he drank. When he drank, he talked. I was only a little kid, but I knew he’d killed.” Tom narrowed his eyes and looked from Ross to Thatcher to Lambert who still stood quietly to one side. “What are you doing to find him? What are you doing to make sure he doesn’t kill my mother?”
Thatcher half-sat on the corner of a desk. “We don’t know where he’s taken her. We want you to try to remember any place he might go.”
Tom shoved his hand through his short blond hair. “I was seven years old,” he said with barely controlled frustration. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Spinnelli—”
Thatcher held up his hand. “I already talked to Spinnelli. He was impressed with your maturity. I expect to see it now. I need your help, Tom. I want to find your mom alive as much as you do. I want you to come with me to your old house, help us look for anything that might be a clue to where your fa—where Winters has gone.”
Tom paled, then drew a breath and looked up at Max. “I can’t go back there, Max,” he whispered. “I can’t.”
Max’s heart tightened, knowing what Tom and Caroline had experienced in that house. He curled his hand around Tom’s upper arm and squeezed. “I won’t leave you, Tom. I promise.”
Tom dropped his chin to his chest, then straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Thatcher turned to Lieutenant Ross. “Can you spare Jonathan? I know you need to stay here to manage the …” He gestured to the window.
Ross looked over at the window and nodded. “Go. But call me if anything comes up.”
Asheville
Monday, March 19
10 A.M.
“Is he all right?” David whispered.
Max watched as Tom wandered about the small living room, half-dazed, touching knick-knacks, pictures, a vase here, a trophy there. What was he remembering? What horrors were filling his mind? “No,” Max murmured. “He’s not.” He glanced over to see Thatcher and Lambert standing just inside the front door. “I wish he didn’t have to do this, David.”
David shrugged uneasily. “That’s why he came. He wanted to help find his mother.”
Max’s heart constricted, then rose to stick in his throat. “I want to find his mother,” he whispered hoarsely as Tom sank into a chair, clutching a photo of a little boy holding up a stringer of fish. Max picked up another picture only to stare down at a somber teenaged Caroline holding a smiling toddler, her expressive eyes haunted and scared. A wave of reality hit and with it a fear so immense it cut him at the knees. She’d lived here. He’d hurt her here. He could be hurting her right now. He might be doing the same thing to her that he did to all those other women.
She might be dead.
He might never see her again.
Shaking, Max made it to the nearest chair and let his body drop into it, covering his face with his hands. The last words she’d heard him say were “Just go.” Desperately he wished them back.
“We have to find her, David.” Max’s voice broke. “I can’t …”
“There was a cabin,” Tom said suddenly.
Max looked up to find Tom still clutching the picture, a faraway expression on his pale face. “What did you say?”
Tom seemed to jerk himself from his reverie. He turned sharp eyes to Thatcher and Lambert. “There was a cabin, up in the mountains. He took me there a few times. Sometimes we’d go hunting.” He winced, remembering. “I hated hunting.” Suddenly his voice weakened and he sounded like a small boy. “I hated killing the deer. I’d beg him not to kill the baby deer’s mother.” Tom swallowed. “He’d laugh at me. Tell me not to be a flaming faggot.” He swallowed again, audibly. “That a little blood would toughen me up.” He was quiet for a moment and Max felt his world tilt as he willed Tom to remember something, anything that would lead them to Caroline. “Sometimes we’d go fishing.” Tom held the picture so they could see it. Young Robbie Winters stared from the photo, holding the stringer of fish far away from his smileless face. “This was my fifth birthday. I didn’t catch anything. These are his fish. He caught them and made me hold them.” He closed his eyes. “Told me I could at least pretend I was a man. Sometimes he’d go there …” He paused, his lips working, but no sound emerging. He cleared his throat. “Sometimes he’d go there after he—” He stood and turned from the group watching him avidly. “Sometimes, after he’d hit my mother, he’d go away for a few days, up to the cabin. He didn’t want to look at her, he’d say. She was … ugly. Useless. He would go and I would wish he’d never come back.” His shoulders sagged. “But he always came back,” he whispered brokenly. “Always.”
“Do you know where this cabin is, Tom?” Thatcher asked, tension making his voice hard.
Tom’s back went rigid and he seemed to pause. Max waited, his breath stuck in his throat. Hoping Tom would say “of course” and lead the way. Instead Tom shook his head.
“No,” he answered softly. Too softly. “It took a long time to get there, I remember. But, I don’t remember where.”
Max’s gut rolled. Winters was out there somewhere and they didn’t know where. He could be hurting her that very moment. He tightened his hands into fists. He was helpless to do anything. Dammit all to hell.
Then Tom turned and met Max’s gaze, his blue eyes filled with guilt and anguish and fear. “I’m sorry, Max,” he whispered, his voice so child-like that it broke Max’s heart yet again. “I’m so sorry. He has my mom and I can’t find her. Max, please do something. He’ll kill her.” The last was choked out, barely audible but it brought Max to his feet.
Max stood and stretched out his hand, nearly wincing when Tom gripped it hard enough to make his joints snap. He tugged and Caroline’s son threw himself into his embrace. “I’m sorry, Max,” he cried, and Max rocked him gently. “I promised her I’d take care of her and I didn’t.”
“Sshh.” Max patted his back and looked to David for support. His brother only nodded and Max understood the words would have to come from him. He dug deep and found them, made himself believe them. “This isn’t your fault, Tom. Your mom is strong. She’s survived him before. She’s strong; don’t forget that.” Max turned his own eyes to Thatcher who stood by the door, his expression grim. “Do something,” Max s
aid quietly. It was not a request.
Thatcher’s jaw went taut. “Get a listing of any real estate owned by Winters or any of his family members,” he instructed Lambert. His cell phone jingled and he pulled it from his pocket. “Then call Toni and tell her we have a lead.” He held the phone to his ear. “Toni? We were just—”
Max watched as every ounce of color drained from Thatcher’s face. His heart stopped and Tom pulled away, feeling him tense.
“What’s wrong?” Max demanded. Tom went a shade paler.
Thatcher said nothing. It was as if he’d completely disconnected.
Lambert shook him. “Thatcher, what is it?” He pulled the phone from Thatcher’s limp hand. “Toni, what’s happened?” Lambert, too, grew pale. “No. When? And the older boys?” He closed his eyes. “I thought they had twenty-four-seven protection at his house.” He visibly got control of himself. “Toni, Tom Stewart remembers a cabin. Can you check on any property Winters owns in the mountains?” He disconnected and pulled Thatcher to the sofa and pushed him down, then looked over at Tom and Max. “Agent Thatcher’s six-year-old is missing. Someone stole him from his bed and gave Steven’s aunt a hypo full of sedative. His teenagers woke up and found the little boy gone and the officer on duty dead by the back door. Winters was at Steven’s house last week, talking to his little boy.” Lambert grasped Thatcher’s chin and tugged his face until Thatcher looked up. “We’ll find him, Steven, before he can hurt your son.”
Thatcher blinked, his expression wooden. “He hurt his own son, Jonathan. Why wouldn’t he hurt my baby?”
For a long moment nobody said anything. Then David cleared his throat. “We need to find that cabin,” David said quietly. “Would the girlfriend know where it is?”
“If she does, she sure as hell better tell me,” Steven gritted, his fist clenched.
Lambert shook his head. “No, Steven. You’re in no position to talk to her now. You go back to the station; I’ll talk to Sue Ann.” His face tightened. “We’ll find him, Steven. And we’ll get Nicky back.”
“I want to talk to this girlfriend,” Tom said, his voice even and strong once more. “I need to talk to her, Detective Lambert. Please.”
Lambert nodded. “All right then. Tom, you and yours are with me. Steven, I’ll drop you off at the station and take these folks to the justice center to visit Miss Broughton.”
Western North Carolina
Monday, March 19
10:30 A.M.
Caroline let her body sag against the hard dirty floor. Her head throbbed but she carefully controlled the tears that clogged her throat. If she cried, her nose would be too closed to breathe and her mouth was still covered by the thick silver duct tape. She drew in a breath through her nose, stifling the cough that threatened to rob her of vital air. Every breath she drew brought in a lungful of dust. Every breath she drew was torture.
She rolled over and squinted through the small cloud of dirt that rose and fell. He was still breathing, the little boy with no name. He had to be having the same trouble breathing, but he’d made not a single sound since they’d arrived in this hellhole Rob considered Shangri-La.
Rob was asleep, for the moment. After driving from Chicago to Raleigh to Asheville to the mountain cabin, he’d been tired. But he’d still found the energy to begin her “retraining” as he’d called it. She’d take back every bad thing she’d ever said about him. She’d tell his son she’d lied. She’d tell the police he’d never laid a hand on her. She’d tell the police she’d stolen their son and run away to whore herself for a mere twenty dollars a lay.
She’d tell the police he’d never laid a hand on her. Caroline would have smiled at that if her lips weren’t held immobile by the damned duct tape. She’d be happy to tell the police he’d never laid a hand on her. She’d sit there and look the district attorney square in the eye and tell him she’d never had a black eye or a split lip. She’d tell him that and watch the DA look with shocked revulsion at her face, her bruised and battered face. Rob was losing his touch. He’d neglected to consider that she needed to have a bruisefree face at a minimum before she defended him of the charge of spousal abuse. He’d neglected to consider that quite often over the last few hours, she thought, her ribs aching from the blows he’d delivered with the sharp tips of his boots.
He’d remember it sooner or later, but until he did, every bruise meant at least two more days before he could come out of hiding and demand she spout his lies. Two more days until he could come out of hiding and find Tom. Two more days for Tom to hide. Caroline looked at the little form huddled in the fetal position in the corner of the dirty room. Two more days that the little boy’s family worried about him, whoever they were.
She sighed, blowing the air through her nose, not wanting to think about the psychological damage already done to the child but unable to keep from it. He’d been stolen from his bed, tied like an animal and repeatedly watched her battered every time she shook her head defiantly at Rob’s demands. It was no wonder he was curled in a fetal position. It hurt a child to watch another human being hurt. Tom would never be the same, having watched her suffer for years at Rob’s hand. She would never be the same after having watched her own mother battered by her own father. As she lay on the floor gathering her strength she debated the wisdom of her strategy. Maybe she’d give in to Rob’s demands, only for the sake of the little boy whose name she didn’t know. She’d consider it.
For now they had two or three days of hiding out here in the middle of nowhere. For the moment they had a few hours of peace. Rob was sleeping; she could hear his snores clearly through the thin wall separating the front room from the bedroom with its rickety bed.
A few hours would have to be enough.
Asheville
Monday, March 19
11:00 A.M.
Toni met Steven at the elevator, her face determined. “We’re searching, Steven. I’ve got search parties in the air and a team working to find his cabin. We’ll find your son.”
Steven managed a curt nod as he followed Toni to her office. Every nerve ending was numb. Simply numb. His baby. That bastard had stolen his baby. He looked around the bullpen to find the eye of every officer trained on his face. Every eye sympathetic.
They believed Winters was the bad guy.
Finally.
It took that bastard stealing his son to make these assholes finally see the sun in broad daylight. It took the sight of their sympathy, too late, to make him snap. Rage rushed through him and he stopped walking. Deliberately he met the eyes of every man, every man that just two weeks before had regarded him with open hostility and distrust because he had the unmitigated gall to accuse one of their local darlings of spousal abuse. They’d known Winters. They’d known his wife. They must have seen something.
Somebody must have seen something.
“You’re hypocritical bastards, every last one of you,” Steven gritted through clenched teeth.
Toni pulled on his arm. “Steven, this is neither the time nor—”
Steven shook her hand off his arm and addressed the room at large. “You knew him. You saw him in action. You knew his wife. You must have seen her wear sunglasses in the winter, long-sleeved blouses in the summer.” He spun around and glared at a detective whose nameplate read G. West. “You, West. Did you know Mary Grace Winters?”
West dropped his eyes. “Yes.”
“Did you see her with bruises, ever?”
West lifted his eyes and Steven saw them fill with guilt.
“Yes. Rob said she was clumsy.”
“And you believed him,” Steven sliced with sarcasm.
“You believed him, didn’t you?”
West dropped his eyes. “Yes.”
“Then you’re just as guilty,” Steven hissed. He raked the room with his angry glare, but not one man could meet his eyes. “All of you are guilty. So what will you do about it?” He clenched his fist and fought to swallow the lump that was building in his throat. “Because yo
u didn’t do anything then, he’s killed—maybe three people, maybe more. Because you didn’t do anything then, he now has his wife in his hands once again.” He slapped his hand down on the nearest desk and its occupant jumped. “He has my son in his hands, goddammit.” His voice broke and he didn’t care. “So tell me what will you do about it now?”
Not a soul spoke and Steven hung his head in dejected defeat.
“Come on, Steven,” Toni urged, her voice gentle.
“Wait.”
Steven turned to find one of the detectives visibly trembling where he stood by his desk. It was Crowley, the detective who’d driven a drunken Ben Jolley home on his first day in Asheville. Two weeks ago. When his baby was still safe and Winters was just a name in a file. “What, Crowley?”
“You’re right.” Crowley drew a deep breath. “Mostly. I knew Mary Grace; I knew Robbie. I thought I knew Rob. I was wrong. I knew Rob was a bully and he could be rough during questioning, but I never thought he could kill in cold blood. I never saw Mary Grace with any bruises, but honestly I never really looked. I never suspected Rob could be …”
Steven waited.
“Evil,” Crowley finished with a small shrug. A few heads around him nodded. “I didn’t help then, because I didn’t know. I know now. I never went to the cabin with Rob. I didn’t know him that well. But Jolley did.”
The tiny hairs rose on the back of Steven’s neck. He looked over to Ben Jolley’s empty desk. “Where is he?”
“Home,” Toni offered. “He took leave after Spinnelli found the dead prostitute. He needed time to process. I let him have the time. He’ll come up before the disciplinary board soon enough.” She pointed to Crowley. “Jim, I want you to bring him in. If he’s got a map, bring it with you.”
Crowley stood and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll likely have to dry him out first. I saw him at Two Point Tavern last night and he was fallin’ down drunk. I had to drive him home.”
Toni pursed her lips. “Then pour some coffee down his throat and sober him up. But get him in here as fast as you can.” She turned to Steven. “Your aunt called me from the hospital in Raleigh. She said she’s fine and not to worry about her, to concentrate on finding Nicky.”