False Positive (23 page)

Tuesday. Late Morning
.

Ethan missing for eighty-eight and three-quarter hours

Once they were in the car, Loflin wasn't interested in any more talking.

Several times Devereaux tried to spark up a conversation—to apologize for the way he'd treated her back at the cabin, to ask about her experiences growing up, to explore the common ground that must have given them—but on each occasion she shut him down with a grunt or a wave of her hand. All her concentration was devoted to guiding the old Subaru away from the cabin, and then getting away from Birmingham itself as quickly as possible.

They'd been on the road for seventy minutes when Loflin made a sharp right into the mouth of a tiny track. She kept going for another mile. The car was pitching and bouncing like a boat in a storm but still she refused to lift her foot off the gas.

The expanse of cotton plants on the right hand side of the track abruptly gave way to a patch of scrubby woodland. Soon an old wall became visible through the trees. After another half mile the undergrowth parted, giving access to a gate. It was made of wrought iron, ten feet tall and twelve wide with fancy Doric motifs set into the rail at the top. A length of chain with a heavy-duty padlock was dangling near the center. The pillars on either side were stone—stained and
crumbling—with polished granite spheres perched on top. The one on the left was leaning inward, threatening to collapse at any moment.

Devereaux wrestled the gates open just wide enough for the Subaru to fit through. The ground on the far side was softer. It was lined with tire tracks. He counted four sets. Three were starting to fade, but one was definitely fresh. Loflin saw them, too, and shot Devereaux a worried frown as he climbed back into the car alongside her.

The track followed a gentle arc through what Devereaux guessed had been formal gardens before the forest started to reassert itself, and led to the front of a huge plantation-style mansion. Six Doric columns held up a portico with a peeling Greek-key frieze above two rows of classically proportioned windows. The roof was steeply pitched, and a cupola—the largest Devereaux had ever seen—extended the whole length of its peak. Steps ran up to the porch between the central pair of pillars, leading to an ornately paneled double-width front door that had definitely seen better days.

One side of the door was standing open. And parked near the bottom of the steps was a black M-Class Mercedes.

“Shit.” Loflin pointed to the SUV. “That's Mom's car. She made good time. And she could be anywhere. This place looks massive.”

Loflin was in favor of charging straight in and getting the confrontation over with, but Devereaux took a more measured approach. He insisted that they walk around the perimeter of the house first to get an idea of its layout and possible alternative entry points. They moved slowly, trying to lessen the sound their feet made as they crunched through the sun-dried grass, and by the time they'd completed the circuit Devereaux had counted thirty ground-floor windows. They were all the same size. All their shutters were closed. And all were covered with sturdy, inch-and-a-quarter-diameter steel bars. The bars definitely weren't part of the original design. But they were the only things in a decent state of repair.

The only other potential entry point—or escape route, if things went badly—was an angled trapdoor three-quarters of the way along the left side of the building. It was situated next to a cluster of standpipes like the kind used to fill heating tanks with oil. The hinges
showed signs of having recently been opened, but when Devereaux drew closer he saw the trapdoor was held shut by another industrial-strength padlock.

Their only option was to go straight through the front door, as Loflin had originally suggested. Devereaux went first, and found himself in a wide hallway with a broad, curving staircase in front of him. All around, the paint was peeling from the walls, revealing patches of plaster and brick. Niches on both sides of the staircase stood empty. Two gilded picture frames were still hanging away to the left, but their contents had long since been removed. A white alabaster statue of a Greek god lay smashed on the floor in the corner. The space was illuminated by a weird greenish light and Devereaux was immediately hit by the smell of chemicals mixed with damp, like at a swimming pool.

Loflin followed, and after the echo of her footsteps died away they stood still for thirty seconds, listening. The house was completely silent. There was no clue which way to go.

“Where did your mom tell you to meet her?” Devereaux kept his voice to a whisper.

“She wasn't specific.” Loflin shrugged. “She just gave me directions to the house.”

“Try calling her.”

Loflin yelled, “Mom, you here?”

There was no reply.

“Try calling her on the phone.”

Loflin pulled out her cell, feeling embarrassed, and hit a speed dial key. They could hear the muffled ringtone coming from her handset, but no answering melody from her mother's end. The house remained obstinately and unhelpfully silent.

“Shall we go up?” Loflin put the phone away. “Down? Or search the ground floor, since we're already here?”

It took them less than three minutes to establish that Loflin's mother wasn't in any of the eight large, empty, moldering rooms on the ground floor. Devereaux's instinct was to go down, so next they checked the basement. The front section was empty, save for leaves
and other detritus that had blown in through the holes that time had worn in the stacks of ventilation bricks beneath the porch. The rear section, which could have been reached from the trapdoor they'd seen on the outside, was separated by a rough brick wall with a rickety wooden door near one end. It opened easily. But they couldn't go through. Because behind it was another door.

It was made of shiny steel.

And it was locked.

Tuesday. Early Afternoon
.

Ethan missing for ninety hours

The lock was a solid one.

Solid, but not impregnable. It took Devereaux just over a minute to get it open. He mimed a countdown from three. Pushed the door. Stepped forward, his gun and flashlight held steady in front of him. And immediately regretted not choosing to go upstairs.

The space was effectively a room inside a room, and it was kitted out like a private mortuary. There was a stainless steel dissection table, with a porcelain headrest that made the hairs on Devereaux's neck dance like they were blowing in the wind. There was a bench full of cutting tools. A small autoclave. A shelf, with a dozen or so empty glass jars lined up, large to small, left to right. A thing like a glass coffin, set on a gurney trolley. Three shiny cylinders, six feet tall by two feet in diameter, plumbed in against the wall. But no sign of Ethan. And nothing to persuade Devereaux to stay.

“What the hell was that?” Devereaux couldn't get up the stairs fast enough.

Loflin shrugged. “Are you OK? Do you need some air?”

“No.” Devereaux got hold of himself. “Let's keep going. We should try the second floor.”

The grand staircase opened onto a landing with ten doors leading off it. Devereaux waited for Loflin to catch up, then pointed to the first one on the left. He pushed the door open and crept inside. The room was set up as a kid's bedroom. A girl's. It smelled of lilac. The floor was covered with soft, pale pink carpet. The walls were papered with jungle scenes, showing dozens of exotic animals in their natural habitats. Hampers overflowing with cuddly animals covered the floor. And in the bed—in animal pajamas, under an animal comforter—was a creepy-looking, little-girl-size doll.

Loflin turned and sprinted for the door. Devereaux heard her feet clattering down the landing, and then the sound of vomiting. For a moment he was puzzled. Then the truth hit him, and he felt his own stomach start to rebel. The figure in the bed. He recognized the face. It was Miranda Gonzalez. The actual girl. Her own body, preserved. Not a doll. The one who'd disappeared in New Mexico, sixteen years ago. Loflin's mother's first victim.

Devereaux went to check on Loflin. She was sitting on the top step, her head between her knees, breathing heavily, pale as a ghost. Then he moved on to the next room. He paused outside, dreading what he might find, but spurred on by the fading hope that he could still save Ethan.

Devereaux pushed open the door. This room smelled of leather. It was set up like a baseball stadium. The Twins. There was a diamond marked out on the floor, complete with ochre sand. A pitcher's mound in the center. Seats painted on the walls, with false perspective carefully employed to extend right up to the bleachers. And at the plate—in the angle of the walls at the far corner—was a little boy. A little boy's body, anyway. It was propped up, somehow. Dressed in pinstripes. Bat raised, ready to receive a pitch. Its face was obscured by the peak of its cap, so Devereaux had to get uncomfortably close to be certain, but it wasn't Ethan.

Devereaux was about to leave when he spotted something that made his skin crawl even more. A webcam. It was mounted on the wall, tucked in amongst the painted cameras of the press corps. It
made him wonder how many others there'd been in the house. Downstairs. In the basement. The awful mortuary room. Miranda's bedroom. And then a worse thought hit him: Was Loflin's mother watching him, right now?

Pushing thoughts of Big Brother aside, Devereaux moved on to the next room. Here the theme was space. The ceiling and three of the walls were painted a bluey purple and speckled with stars. On the fourth wall there was a magnificent mural of the earth rising above the moon. Beneath it was a mock-up of the inside of a Saturn V command module, but with only one seat. And strapped into it, wearing a tiny astronaut costume complete with NASA mission patches, sat a perfectly preserved six-year-old girl.

The next door opened onto a replica of Andy's bedroom from
Toy Story
. All the main characters were there: Woody. Jessie. Bullseye. Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. Slinky Dog. Etch. Wheezy. Stinky Pete. And on the bed, Buzz Lightyear.

Buzz was much bigger than the other toys. He was the size of a seven-year-old child. For a moment Devereaux's heart refused to beat. Then he rushed across the room. Pulled back the visor. And saw the face he'd last seen staring imploringly down at him from the FBI's projection screen.

There was no doubt this time. The search was over.

He'd found Ethan Crane.

Tuesday. Early Afternoon
.

Loflin appeared at the door thirty seconds after Devereaux called her.

She was pale, and she clearly did not want to come inside. But when she saw Ethan's body lying frozen on the bed she pushed her fear aside and took her place next to Devereaux.

“Did you check for a pulse?”

“Yes. There is one. It's faint as hell, but he's hanging in there. And look…”

Devereaux pointed to a clear tube that emerged from Ethan's left sleeve and snaked up to a bag of fluid tucked away behind Bo Peep and her sheep on a narrow shelf above the head of the bed.

“Angel of mercy killers usually sedate their victims before they finish them. They believe they're saving them, so they want to avoid causing pain. If your mother hasn't gone beyond that stage yet, Ethan's still got a chance. You stay here. Watch over him. And call 911. I'll keep looking for her.”

“Wait.” Loflin looked like she was on the verge of panic. “I don't have a gun. I had to surrender it, until the verdict comes back on the Carver shooting.”

“No problem.” Devereaux took out his gun and offered it to her. “Here. Take mine. I have a spare.”

The room next to Ethan's—the last one on the same side of the corridor—was a bathroom. So was the room opposite it. The next one, working back toward the stairs, was another bedroom. The walls were plastered, but not decorated in any way. A pink carpet lay rolled up on the floor. The mattress and the frame of the bed were bare. In the center of the room several boxes of Barbie dolls were stacked up next to some cans of paint and a pile of books with pictures of the world's most famous dollhouses. But there was no kid. And no sign of Loflin's mother.

Devereaux opened the next door and was faced with an expanse of crisp white paintwork. The drapes at the window were steel gray. A chrome-finish twin-bell mechanical alarm clock sat on the nightstand. There was a single picture on the wall. Of a cabin.
His
cabin. Below it there was a clothes rail on a wheeled stand. Devereaux moved closer to examine the garments hanging on it. There were blue button-down shirts. Khaki pants. Black T-shirts. And at the end, a Clash “I Fought the Law” shirt. Devereaux took it off its hanger and checked the back. There was a hole. It was in the right place, but it was freshly made. And cut with nail scissors, rather than ripped during a brawl.

“Cooper! It's so good to see you.”

Devereaux spun around, still holding the shirt. A woman had appeared in the doorway. She was five-feet-four tall with fine, shoulder-length blond hair. In every way a gaunt, older version of Loflin, right down to the absence of her right earlobe. She was holding a stainless steel tray in her hand with a can of beer and a glass balanced on it.

“Would you like a drink?” She held the tray out. “I got you Avondale Battlefield. Your favorite.”

“Thank you.” Devereaux threw the T-shirt on the bed, then took the tray and set it down more gently. “What should I call you? Madison? Rebecca? Mrs. Loflin?”

“Call me whatever you like. Now drink your beer. I got it for you specially.”

Every muscle in Devereaux's body was straining to grab the woman and shake the truth out of her about what kind of drugs she'd given Ethan. But over the years he'd learned the hard way. With some people, you have to vary your approach.

“Thank you.” Devereaux sat on the bed, bringing his head down to the woman's level, and poured himself some beer. The can was already opened. The “glass” was made of puny plastic, and Devereaux nearly crushed it when he picked it up. He readjusted his grip and lifted it to his lips. But he didn't take a sip. He just wanted to sniff the liquid, to try to get a sense of what kind of sedative the woman was using.

Whatever it was, it had no discernible odor.

“Do you like your room?” The woman was staying well out of his reach. “I want you to feel at home.”

“I do like it.” Devereaux sniffed the beer again. “The other rooms are good, too. Very imaginative. Great attention to detail. Do you have a favorite?”

“No. The rooms aren't for me. It's what the children think that counts.”

“I'm hardly a child, Madison.”

“We're all our parents' children. We're defined by the genes they pass on to us. It's about biology, Cooper. Not chronology. The fact you're a little older is neither here nor there. It's just a result of it taking me longer to find out about you.”

“To find out what about me?”

“About your father. Who he was. What he was.”

“John Devereaux? A Birmingham PD detective?”

“Are you in denial, Cooper? Or are you trying to play me? We both know the truth about the stock you come from. And why you're here.”

“OK. You're right about me. But what about Ethan Crane? You know there was a screwup with the records?”

“There was no screwup.”

“There was. You wouldn't know, because it didn't come to light until we started investigating his disappearance. It's not your fault. It's Child Services'. They got the paperwork switched around when Ethan was put into the system. His real father was a welder. He was
burned alive in an accident at a construction site. He wasn't shot by the police. The kid in the Buzz Lightyear suit? He doesn't belong here. His genes are normal. So let's do this. Let's get him out of here, so you can save the right little boy. The one who needs your help. Just confirm one thing for me—you've only given Ethan the sedative, right? Whatever comes after that—the thing that finally puts him to sleep—he hasn't had it?”

“He hadn't, when you were poking and prodding him a few minutes ago.” The woman checked her watch. “But it's OK. He's getting it right now. My daughter's taking care of everything. It's her first time, and I'm truly proud.”