Fatal Judgment (31 page)

Yet how could she betray her brother?

As she struggled with her dilemma, a sentence from one of the readings at church the previous Sunday echoed in her mind. The pastor had focused on an unfamiliar passage from Deuteronomy in his sermon, and it had stuck with her.

You shall not distort justice.

The meaning was clear. Saving a life had to take precedence over love and loyalty. She had to cooperate with these men who were dedicated to serving justice.

Even if Marty would pay the price.

Lacing her hands tightly together, Patricia took a deep breath. “You can start searching whenever you like. And I’ll help you in any way I can.”

______

“The
Post
got another letter.”

At Mark’s comment, Jake stopped sifting through the incendiary material in the drawer of Reynolds’s built-in desk. Todd and Spence had joined them, along with two more FBI agents, and all of them were working at warp speed. After half an hour of tearing apart the house, they’d uncovered a veritable arsenal in the man’s basement—but were no closer to figuring out where he’d gone than they had been when they’d started.

Mark’s grim expression did nothing to quell Jake’s burgeoning anxiety. He gripped the back of the desk chair, trying to brace himself. “What does it say?”

“It has yesterday’s date at the top, and for the most part it’s a continuation of the same diatribe. Except for the last line, which the judge again hand wrote and signed. It says, ‘Tomorrow I will die.’ ”

A sudden boom of thunder rattled the windows, echoing the panic that shook Jake to the core and sucked the breath from his lungs.

“We also have some intel on Reynolds. In the past couple of years, in addition to losing the malpractice lawsuit, the house he’d lived in for more than twenty years was declared blighted through eminent domain, he was hit with a sizable fine from the IRS for underreporting his income, and he lost his job.”

“Wow.” Jake’s grip tightened. “That’s a recipe for rage and a persecution complex. And a perfect fit for the profile Christy laid out.”

“I agree. I don’t think there’s much doubt he’s our man. Now we have to . . .” Mark stopped speaking, pulled his BlackBerry off his belt, and pressed it to his ear. “Sanders.” He listened for half a minute, then reached for a pad of paper and pencil on the desk and jotted down a few words. “Got it. We’ll stand by.”

Pressing the off button, he slipped the device back onto his belt. “That was Luke. The owner of the copy shop caved once our guys exerted a little pressure. Told them Reynolds bought a cabin a year or so ago somewhere near Potosi, close to Mark Twain National Forest. Our office is running property deeds. We should have an address momentarily. In the meantime, you might want to get with your boss. We’ll give you backup, but you guys are the arrest specialists.”

“Do you have any agents in the area?” Jake pulled his own BlackBerry out and speed-dialed Matt.

“One guy in Rolla. He’s up in northern Gasconade County working a case, according to Luke. We have a few agents in Cape Girardeau. But none of them are any closer than we are.”

“Potosi’s at least an hour by car, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Maybe a little longer.”

They both knew that might not be good enough.

“Okay. Let’s pull in the local police or highway patrol to meet us in Potosi with some vehicles. I’ll get us helicopters from County or the city. We need to move as—”

“What have you got?” Matt’s voice crackled over the line, cutting off his exchange with Mark.

Jake shifted away from the agent and gave his boss his full attention. “I have an ops plan to run by you.”

Forty-five minutes later, with the helicopter rotors beating out a pounding rhythm that vibrated through his already taut nerve endings, Jake checked out the group assembled in the aircraft. Mark now wore jeans, a Kevlar vest, and an FBI jacket. The five SOG members were attired in their standard uniform and assault equipment—Royal Robbins khaki pants, long-sleeved black T-shirts, Kevlar vests, tactical holsters, and boots. He’d exchanged his suit for the assault gear in the helicopter. They all had earpieces tucked away in case things got dicey and a tactical resolution was needed.

Todd sat next to him, a Remington 700 sniper rifle outfitted with a 40-power spotting scope beside him. All the other SOG members were armed with MP5 submachine guns and .45 caliber Springfields.

There was no lack of firepower for this takedown.

And there was another helicopter of SOG members on their tail. FBI agents were following by land.

Through the rain, the single-runway Washington County Airport near Potosi came into view. As the helicopter sped toward it, Jake saw several vehicles gathered near the main building, including a couple of SUVs. Good. They’d be set to head out the instant they landed. And Reynolds’s cabin was less than eight miles away.

If all went well, this would be over in less than an hour.

The rain had stopped.

It was time.

Rising from the wooden table where he’d spent the past hour cleaning his favorite hunting rifle, a .22 Winchester Rimfire, Martin carefully set it down and made a final, slow circuit of the cabin, picking up trash, straightening the bedclothes, looking for any evidence he’d had company on this trip. He didn’t plan to come back here today once his mission was finished, and he wanted nothing left behind that might incriminate him.

When he was satisfied the rustic structure held no evidence of its second occupant, he hauled the trash bag out to the car, deposited it in the trunk, and opened the passenger side door. After closing and locking the one set of shutters he’d opened, he went back inside and tugged on a pair of latex gloves.

The judge hadn’t moved a whole lot in the past few hours. Nor spoken. In fact, she’d gotten real quiet. Even her moaning had stopped awhile back.

As he approached the support beam where she was tethered, her eyes flickered open. They were kind of dull, and the way she was blinking, he figured she was having trouble focusing.

Leaning down, he cut the restraint on her leg, tucked his hunting knife into a sheath on his belt, and pulled her to her feet.

She groaned and doubled over, pressing her bound hands against her rib cage.

“Please . . . that hurts.”

She gasped out the words, like she couldn’t catch her breath.

No matter. She wouldn’t be breathing much longer, anyway.

Blocking out her moans, he dragged her to his car and shoved her into the passenger seat. She huddled over, and he saw a sheen on her cheeks as he shut the door.

How about that? He’d made a judge cry. Just like so many of her ilk made average people cry when they used their power to undermine justice and chip away at freedom.

But they weren’t so high and mighty once you got them out of their courtroom.

He returned to the cabin, locked the dead bolt and the padlock on the front door, then joined her in the car. As he put the key in the ignition and turned on the engine, he spared her one brief glance.

She was shaking. Badly. And her eyes were kind of sunken in. As if she’d had all she could take.

Too bad.

Because the dramatic grand finale was still ahead.

One that would make front-page headlines all over the country—and serve as a call to arms for all the patriots out there to join the fight to restore the unalienable rights the founding fathers had fought so hard to protect.

Reynolds’s cabin was deserted.

After approaching it by stealth and seeing no sign of movement or any evidence of a vehicle, the marshals had pried off a shutter. One look through the dirty glass was all it had taken to confirm there was no one inside.

As the reality sank in, Jake’s spirits plummeted. He’d been convinced Reynolds had brought Liz here. They all had. It had been their only hope of finding her in time. They had no backup sites to investigate.

Now, Liz would die.

“I found some tracks on the side of the cabin.” Todd joined the small group gathered in front of the ramshackle structure. “There are fresh tire impressions in the mud. Since they haven’t been washed away by the torrential rain we had up until the last half hour, I’m thinking the driver left very recently.”

A flicker of hope ignited in Jake’s heart. Maybe they weren’t too late after all.

Unless . . .

He didn’t want to consider the possibility, but they had to check out every scenario. “We need some people to search the woods for disturbed ground.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the word
grave
.

“Clair and her people are on the way,” Mark offered.

Turning to their chauffeurs—two highway patrol officers hovering in the background—Jake motioned them over.

“We think our man is in the area. I need you guys to make sure area law enforcement is aware of the BOLO alert the FBI issued with his license number and car description.”

As they jogged back toward their vehicles, Jake headed for the door of the cabin. “Since Liz managed to leave a clue on the dining room table in the condo, my guess is she might have tried to do the same here. We need to get in. Now.”

No one argued. Todd retrieved a sturdy piece of wood from the nearby pile, and several hard downward blows on the latching side of the padlock were all it took to release the bale.

“You want me to try a few bump keys on the dead bolt before we knock in the door and maybe destroy evidence?” He produced a key ring from his pocket and jiggled it.

“You carry bump keys?” Jake raised an eyebrow. Keys with specially designed teeth that worked on a variety of locks weren’t part of a marshal’s standard equipment.

Todd shrugged. “You never know when you might need one.”

“Okay, give it a shot. You’ve got thirty seconds.”

It only took him twenty.

As the door swung open and Todd stepped back, Jake crossed the threshold. “I need some light in here.”

While another SOG member went to retrieve one of the powerful flashlights from the highway patrol officers, Jake peered around the dim interior. The furnishings were sparse and basic. A bed covered with blankets. An upholstered chair that was losing its stuffing. A small table with a lantern on top. A wood-burning stove. A couple of cabinets with a chipped Formica counter underneath. A battered table with one chair. A matching chair stood near the wall, catty-corner from the table, near a support beam.

Jake’s gaze lingered there. Why weren’t both chairs at the table? If Reynolds wanted to relax away from the table, wouldn’t he be more likely to use the overstuffed chair rather than a hard one?

“Here’s the flashlight.”

Jake grabbed it, clicked on the beam, and homed in on the chair. He wasn’t an evidence technician, but he had a good eye. Although he didn’t intend to contaminate the scene by touching anything, he wanted some proof Liz had been here.