Taken
He watched the movie, idly turned a strand of her hair around his finger, knew she was drifting to sleep. He’d send her to bed shortly and then go turn in himself. The movie went to commercial again.
“Matthew.”
He glanced down at her profile, surprised she was awake. “Hmm?”
“I need to tell you something when the movie’s over.”
“Want me to turn it off?”
“No. It’s about the graves. But it can wait a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll listen when the movie is over to whatever you want to tell me,” he reassured.
She shifted away, got up and went over to her canvas bag to pull out a legal pad, the edges of its pages curled. When she sat down on the couch again, he saw the pages were covered in notes. Her long list toward cleaning up the last eleven years, he thought.
She watched the end of the movie with him. The credits began scrolling by. He muted the volume rather than shut it off, not sure if she might need the next movie as a distraction after they were finished with a difficult conversation.
She flipped through the pages to midway in the pad and carefully removed four sheets. “I wrote out what I could remember about the graves.” She handed them over. “Would you give those to Paul?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to tell you about the graves so I don’t have to tell him. There are . . . too many of them.” She was silent for a long time. “I don’t think I can do this more than once. I thought I might be able to do it with Paul, but I can’t.”
He reached over and settled his hand on hers in a gesture that had become habit between them, the one piece of contact they both needed. “Just start somewhere.” He could see the sadness and weight of this pressing on her, and he felt it pressing on him too, even though he didn’t yet know the details.
“The family itself, that last set of photos I gave Adam York—the ones involved in smuggling kids, who were killed in a family dispute—I was a witness to three of the shootings. I was nearby but didn’t see the other two. I helped bury all five at the farm.”
“Were you shot during one of those confrontations?” he asked carefully, putting what he suspected on the table. When she wore that swimsuit, there were some scars not fully faded that suggested she had been.
“Shrapnel, I think. Gunfire in a kitchen hits a lot of things.” Shannon’s gaze turned distant for a while before she blinked and focused back on him.
“There were three other family murders. Year two for me—so it would have been nine years ago—George Jacoby shot his son Robert in the back of the head. They were in an argument about following the rules of the family, and Robert was at that age, probably eighteen, where he wasn’t going to do what his father wanted. He’d been pulled over for speeding with several valuable paintings in the car trunk—a close call with law enforcement, and it put the family at risk. Things escalated, and I saw George’s face change. The next thing I know, he’s pulled the gun and killed his son. He stood over the body and said, ‘Let this be an example that I mean what I say.’ I don’t know where Robert is buried, but I think maybe along Bluff Road near Cedar, Montana, where a bridge crosses a creek.”
The harsh violence so early in her eleven years with the family appalled him, but if he showed that emotion it would only make it harder for her to say what she needed to tell him. He forced himself to keep his voice level as he said, “That’s enough detail to give the police somewhere to look.”
She took a deep breath, let it out, seemed both resigned and relieved to be telling someone. “Year three, Kyle was assigned responsibility for Jason that day. Kyle decided he was going to ditch the route and go see his former girlfriend for a few hours, try to patch it up with her. His plans went awry, and he was gone forty-eight hours. They shot Jason because he was Kyle’s responsibility. When Kyle showed up, they shot him for not caring about what happened to Jason. Both are buried outside Plum, Texas. The details on where—as best I can remember them—are on that written list.”
“You liked both Kyle and Jason.” He could hear it in her voice.
“They were . . . decent-enough guys. Trapped in a family that was what it was. I’d like them to at least get decent burials, markers for their graves.”
“Agreed.”
“Outside the family deaths, most of what else I have about deaths are things I heard. There was a disagreement in Ohio with another party over the sale of two small statues. They shot the buyer in his home, buried him outside of town in an old cemetery. He’s buried between a Maggie Thomas and a Joseph Lindstrom.” She worried her thumb in the palm of her opposite hand.
“There was a girlfriend of Thomas Jacoby in Alabama who broke it off with him and was killed. She’s buried in a cemetery near the movie theater where they used to meet—laid to rest as an addition to the plot of a recently deceased Lewis Tobias.” She gestured to the pages he held.
“I’ll flag several locations at the farm. They might all simply be dirt, or some of the stories I heard may be true. I think there’s a child laid to rest under a willow tree. Another by an old windmill overlooking a pond. A first name Lacey for the girl, and a surname Prize for the boy. Those were before my time, so they’ll need to look longer than eleven years back.”
That news suggested this family had been active long before they had taken Shannon, and it left him concerned the investigation was going to span twenty years before it was concluded.
“There was a child—the third year in, so eight years ago—in an abduction that went wrong. She ran from the car at a gas station, drowned in a stream, was buried where it happened. All I have is Emily Lynn and Lazy Jill Creek, Colorado.”
He tightened his hand on hers in sympathy. The father in him, along with the cop, took those facts as a heavy blow. He knew what it was like for Emily’s parents, not knowing where their daughter was, if she was dead or alive somewhere, and it would be a crushing blow for them to hear the confirmation of her death.
Shannon used her free hand to wipe at tears. “The fourth year, there was a car wreck on the West Coast. They had an abducted child with them, Lindsey Bell. I know she died; I don’t know how. They buried her in a pet cemetery outside of Dark, California.”
Shannon stopped talking. She looked over at him, the misery on her face clear. These were her facts, her history, and she dealt with them because she had no choice.
“That’s a lot of deaths to carry with you,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
And he worried more deeply than ever before what the years had done to her. “Reliving many of them?”
“I trigger easily when I hear a gunshot,” she whispered. “A full-on fight I tend to expect to end in a shooting. But no, the reruns in my mind have calmed down.”
He thought she told him the truth about that, and he knew in an odd way she might already be through the worst of it. Her mind would have accepted the facts about the deaths, done its best to shield her from the emotions of those facts. To survive it, she would have fought to keep that distance. The recent deaths would be fresh, but also a relief—the people she feared were no longer able to hurt her, unable to abduct other children. There would be guilt over being glad they were dead rather than sadness. “What do you need from me, Shannon?” he asked.
“To never have to repeat that summary. To not have to be the one to tell the cops. To not have to testify in court.”
“I will do everything I can to make sure that is the case. Can you show us the farm? Or give us directions to find it?”
“It’s difficult for me to pinpoint on the map. It would be best if Paul and Theo go with us to locate it. I can point out places, then hopefully never have to discuss or see it again.”
“We’ll arrange that.” That trip was one more heavy matter coming in her near future. He was aware of the calendar. This needed to be told, and then she needed space. He desperately wanted to get her away from all this. “Let me talk with them about what might work best, make the arrange
ments.”
She nodded. He waited but she offered nothing else. It was late, pushing past midnight, but he didn’t want to end the evening like this. “Want me to make some popcorn so you can watch part of another movie?”
“I’m okay calling it a night. I just didn’t want to have to take this list of graves into tomorrow’s meeting. It’s going to be a long enough conversation without it.”
He nodded to her notepad. “That’s the list of what you need to do, and of items to tell people?”
She fluttered the pages. “I do like lists. This one puts closure to the last eleven years.”
“I’ll help you get it finished if you will let me.”
“I will. There’s also a personal list. I’ll probably let you help me with that too.”
He smiled, pleased at the trust she was offering him. “Okay.”
She got up from the couch, returned the pad to her bag. She turned back to face him, her expression hesitant. “I’m guessing you’re going to read that fourth-year diary tonight, or call Paul and talk about what I just said. Please don’t feel like you have to fix me. It’s enough that you’ve been here to listen. That’s what I need, Matthew. That’s all I really need.”
“Becky called me her shadow—her white shadow rather than her dark one, since she rather liked me—but she couldn’t get rid of me.”
Shannon’s expression brightened, and she laughed. “I like that.” She nodded. “Good night, Matthew.” She turned toward her room, and his own smile faded as he shut off the television. He thoughtfully picked up the pages she had given him. She was wisely handing off to him the worst of it, he thought—her conversations on the drive to Chicago, the conversation tonight about the graves. She’d worked out a plan to tell her story one-on-one, and he’d been the lucky one—if that was the right word—selected to hear it.
He took the diary with him, walked across the hall, and called Paul. The retired cop in him was becoming fully engaged with the work that was unfolding. The man dealing with matters and trying to help her through this process was feeling every bit of the weight and the sadness.
17
Shannon was on the phone with her brother. Matthew covered the scrambled eggs in the skillet to keep them warm till she was finished. He poured juice, found more strawberries.
Her hand brushed his shoulder as she moved past to get a plate. “Thanks for fixing breakfast again.”
He glanced over at her, surprised at the calmness he could both hear and see. “Scrambled eggs and fried potatoes two meals running—I’m not sure I deserve the compliment.”
She smiled. “It helps that I like them. You said Paul is expecting us at nine thirty?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to stop for a box of donuts on the way. If I’m going to talk about everything on my list, I’d like to do it with a steady stream of sugar and caffeine. It might dull the edges of a headache I’m certain is going to be part of my memories of this day.”
“The sugar and caffeine will likely contribute to a headache, but I can relate to the sentiment. We’ll stop for donuts.”
Paul was waiting for them in the secure parking lot of the FBI building. Dressed casually in jeans and a pale blue shirt, he walked over with a relaxed smile as they stepped out of the car. “Hello, Shannon. Welcome to the FBI.”
“Hello, Paul.”
Her words were calm, but Shannon’s hand tightened to white knuckles on the canvas bag she carried. Matthew saw it, as did Paul, he noted. Matthew let his hand slide down her arm in a comforting gesture even as he gave Paul a slight shake of the head so he wouldn’t pursue it.
“We stopped for donuts on the way in,” Matthew mentioned, “had a nice debate over the merits of cream-filled versus Long Johns and glazed, ended up with some of each.” He opened the back door to retrieve the donuts and the maps Shannon had marked. He handed Paul the maps, kept the two boxes of donuts. “We brought enough to share.”
“A nice way to begin the morning. I’ve got fresh coffee to go with the donuts.” Paul turned to Shannon. “I appreciate your coming in for a conversation, Shannon. I thought we’d talk in my office if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure.”
Paul coded in their entrance into a back hallway and led the way to a waiting elevator that bypassed the lobby. “Ann’s upstairs with Theo. Would you like Ann to join us?”
“Whatever you think is best. Is there a table to spread out the maps, maybe a whiteboard?” Shannon asked.
“Would you prefer we stop by the case room first?”
“That might be easier.”
“We’ll go there then.” He changed their floor destination and, when they stepped off the elevator, led the way to a conference room.
Theodore Lincoln was there, studying a financial printout with Ann. He looked up, gave a welcoming smile, and rose to his feet. “Hello, Shannon. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”
“Hello, Theo. Hi, Ann.”
“Nice to see you again, Shannon,” Ann said.
Shannon looked around the room at the information displayed: the photos she had provided of the five people who had died, the children rescued, ignored the boards with her picture and those of her family, the timeline on her own disappearance. She nodded to herself and walked over to the last whiteboard where there was still empty space. “May I?”
“Sure,” Paul said.
She placed her canvas bag on the table and pulled out a folder. “Do you have any more of those magnetic clips to hold photos?”
Theo offered her a container of them. She started putting photos up. “I can build you kind of a loose family tree.”
Theo and Ann moved around to better see what she was doing. Matthew unrolled the maps on the table, then pulled out a chair and settled back with a donut to watch Shannon work. No preliminaries, just what she had come to say, nerves nearly screaming now they were so visible. Ann leaned over. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a whisper barely above a breath.
Matthew shook his head. He had no idea, but something had Shannon fighting nerves to an extent he hadn’t seen before. He didn’t think she was bothered by public speaking, so it had to be the information she was unpacking. She’d arrived at the FBI prepared to have this conversation, and yet her nerves had abruptly coiled tight. Ann found a bottle of water in the refrigerator, set it by the whiteboard ledge for Shannon. She tucked the folder of photos under her arm, picked it up, nodded her thanks. Matthew didn’t like what he was seeing. Shannon was brutally pale.
Any ideas for me, God, on what is happening? He hadn’t prayed much in the last couple of days since reading that first diary, the simmering anger that God hadn’t stopped what had happened still being worked through his system. He’d been in that same place with God after he heard Becky’s story, so he knew the emotions would subside over the coming days and he’d have a more level conversation with God again. But this prayer was on point, and one he needed answered.
Paul filled a mug from the coffeepot, walked over to stand beside Shannon. “How were you able to get the photos out?”
She placed another photo on the board, which looked like it had been enlarged from a wedding announcement. “I took advantage of anything that meant the family photos or wedding albums should be boxed or moved to get myself access to the images. Bad storms, roof leaks, broken windows—whenever water threatened to damage items—to more mundane reasons like birthday nostalgia and Christmas gatherings.” She took a sip from the water bottle. “I created an extra envelope of miscellaneous negatives and photos that had fallen out of other collections. I managed to get that envelope slipped into a stolen-item package on its way to storage. Once I had gotten away, getting to the envelope meant getting to the right state and remembering where it had been placed. Some of these photos are pretty dated, and others are enlarged from a group picture, but I can recognize the person in the photo.”
Paul scanned the images. “No worries. They’re good enough for us to work from.”
She picked up a marker and began writing names and some birthdays beside the photographs. “I don’t know if I have official names or longtime aliases for some of these people. This is the birth date they celebrated. I don’t often have the year. If you can find any details in a database that match up, like a more current photo, I can confirm it’s the right person. They rarely travel using these names, so I don’t think you’ll find a driver’s license even if I knew the state to check. There’s still a New England accent within the family, so I think northeastern states are the places to start.”
“Theo?”
“I’m on it.”
Shannon drew a square with a question mark for five names, indicating she didn’t have a photo, but wrote down gender, age, a description of their build, and identifying features. She sketched in eighteen people, adding the family connections and affiliations, before she finally stepped back. “This is the Jacoby family, or more accurately, the U.S. offshoot of the larger family, as best I could figure it out. The branch of the family in Poland and the Jacobys in Canada appear to be law-abiding and didn’t have any involvement in what was going on here in the States.”
She added stars beside some of the names. “The photos and names with the star are those who dealt with smuggling people, mostly children. The rest were smuggling objects.”
Matthew was relieved when she stepped back from the board, got herself a donut, leaned against the table to study the graph. She was going to drop that water bottle if her hand tremor got any stronger. He leaned forward and reached out to get her attention, could feel the fine tremor in her arm too, and she turned to hold his gaze briefly. Not nerves as much as reaction—she was losing that grip of control she’d had in place since Atlanta. “You want to go, just say the word,” he murmured. Tears shimmered briefly before she blinked them away. She shook her head.