Forgotten (13 page)

FOURTEEN

T
he first thing she did when she got into the car was to call John and tell him what she’d found. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message on his voice mail. She knew his wife had been due back home late that afternoon, so she gave him the basics and promised to fill him in on the details in the morning. She knew that he and Genna hadn’t had much time together lately, and there wasn’t much he could do tonight about the boy buried in the field.

She cursed as she drove, long convoluted curses that called the demons from hell upon Sheldon Woods. She tried to recall if she’d ever felt as murderous as she did then but couldn’t remember a time when she’d been as angry.

What point had Woods been trying to make? To prove to her that while he may be behind bars, he was not without power? Isn’t that what Rollins said? That Woods liked to appear to be in charge? That he liked others to think of him as having a powerful personality? How much more powerful could he be than to have others kill for him?

But who? And how?

She eased her foot off the gas a bit. The roads were winding and poorly lit. Some were not lit at all. Several times she had to slam on her brakes after cresting a hill only to find the ubiquitous glowing orange triangle that the Amish affixed to the back of their buggies smack in front of her. It was too dark to safely pass, and the horse could only go so fast. She slowed by necessity and used the time to call Jim Cannon. It was late, so she dialed the cell number she’d previously captured in her phone.

“Who were the fans? The fans of Woods that you told me about?” Portia wasted no time with pleasantries but cut right to the chase.

“What?” Cannon asked, sounding more than a bit confused.

“You said there were fans who came to see Woods. Reporters, other people. Who were they?”

“I can probably get you a list of names that…”

“When? When can I have it?”

“Whoa, Portia, back up a little. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m on what is supposed to be a major road out here in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, but there’s not a damned streetlight for miles and I’m stuck behind a horse and buggy and going about five miles an hour and I can’t even pass because I can’t see a fucking thing out here.”

“Calm down.” She could hear him walking, and a door opened and closed quietly in the background. “Start from the beginning.”

The horse and buggy in front of her slowed as the driver prepared to make a left turn. There were headlights coming in the opposite direction and Portia momentarily held her breath, hoping the buggy driver wouldn’t try to beat the car. But he waited until the car passed to make his turn, and she blew out a breath heavy with relief. With what she’d already seen that night, a buggy getting wiped out by a speeding car would have been more drama than she’d be able to handle.

“Portia? Are you there?” he asked when she hadn’t replied.

“I was just waiting for the buggy to make a turn.” She accelerated, happy to have the road to herself again.

“I’m assuming you found the boy that Woods told you about? That’s why you’re still in Lancaster?”

“They’re still looking for him, but you won’t believe what we did find.” She told him everything.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore. “How the hell…?”

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too. I was so stunned I could barely think at first. I knew there’d be remains, I was expecting that. But a fresh kill? Uh-uh. Unbelievable.” She gritted her teeth. “When I get my hands on that creepy little bastard…”

“He sent someone…?”

“Oh, ya think?” She cut him off. “You think it was a coincidence that some child killer picked the back of Amos King’s pasture to bury his victim?”

Cannon fell silent, and so did she.

“I’m very sorry,” she apologized. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“I imagine you’re a little keyed up right now.”

“Dr. Rollins—the profiler who examined Woods twelve years ago—said that Woods wanted people to think he had a powerful personality, even though inside he’s a wimp. I’m thinking he talked some poor sucker into killing a boy and burying him right where he’d left Joseph Miller so that I’d find him. He’s showing off. Showing me how much power he has.”

“Where’s the advantage to Woods there?” Cannon asked thoughtfully.

“What do you mean, where’s the advantage?” She hit the brake to avoid a deer that was stepping onto the roadway about fifty feet ahead of the car. “He gets to play kingpin, gets to show us he’s got minions who will do anything for him, kill for him, even.”

“But what does that
get
him?” Cannon persisted. “And why now? Right now, he has you setting up horseback riding outings for him, for Christ’s sake. He’s enjoying that perk enormously, I can testify to that. Surely he’s smart enough to know that if you suspect he has a protégé, his little field trips are going to come to a screeching halt. Why would he want that to happen now, when he’s enjoying the first bit of freedom—however limited it might be—that he’s had in years? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“He’s a psychopath. He isn’t always going to make sense,” she countered. “How would anyone know where to dump a body if he hadn’t told them?”

“I don’t know, Portia. I honestly don’t. But that’s why you wanted to know who the ‘fans’ were. You think that possibly one of them could be the killer.”

“Right.” She thought as she drove along, mindful of the sides of the road where deer or raccoons might be lurking and cursing the fact that the head lights on her car were woefully inadequate. She was going to have to get herself a permanent ride, and soon. “It’s obviously someone who admires Woods, someone who wants to be like him.”

“I found a file in the attic where I’d listed the reporters who’d sought private interviews with Woods after he was arrested. We can start with those. I can meet you tomorrow and go over them with you.”

“All right, thanks. And I’ll ask the warden for a list of all the visitors that Woods has had since he’s been in Arrowhead.”

“I’ll take a look at it if you like, see if any of the names stand out. There were a number of people who from time to time have written to him care of my office, since I’d been his attorney. What’s your schedule tomorrow?” he asked. “I guess you’ll be at the prison first thing in the morning to confront him.”

“I’m on my way there right now. As soon as I hang up with you, I’m calling Warden Sullivan. I want to see that creepy little fucker tonight.”

“You think they’ll let you in? It’s already eleven-thirty. What time do you figure you’ll be getting back?”

“It’ll be a few more hours,” she conceded. “And Sullivan will have to let me in. There’s no way they’re going to keep me out…”

T
he guard at the gate was waiting for her, and waved her through after checking her ID. She’d called John, who’d agreed that a middle-of-the-night visit to Woods was in order. He’d arranged for her to be let in whenever she arrived. It was almost two
A.M.
when she signed in and turned over her Glock.

Just as well,
she told herself.
Tonight I’d be tempted to use it.

She was led to the room where she’d met with Woods in the past, and waited for several minutes before the door opened and Woods was led in, barely awake. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw her, and he paused in front of his chair before he sat. The guard—not the usual CO DeLuca, but a beefy man whose name tag read Connelly or Donnelly, Portia wasn’t sure which—stood behind Woods and pushed him into the seat with a finger on each of the inmate’s shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” a groggy Woods asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh, did I disturb your sleep?”

He stared at her.

She leaned across the table, her hands tightly grasping the sides of the table. “How did you arrange it?”

“What are you talking about?” He blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. “How did I arrange what?”

“Do not insult me by pretending you didn’t know! Just tell me how you made it happen.”

“Made what happen?” He frowned.

“The boy in the grave, Woods.”

“I don’t understand.” He shook his head uncertainly. “I told you who the boy in the grave was.”

“Not him, asshole. The other one.”

“What other one?” Woods was either a really good actor, or he was genuinely confused. There was no gleam of triumph in his eyes, as she’d expected. No smugness in his smile.

“Stop it, damn it. You know what other one. The new one.” She smacked her hand on the table and he jumped.

For a moment, he appeared dumbfounded. Then a slow smile began to creep across his face.

“A new one?” he asked, his eyes beginning to take on a glow. “There was a new one?”

“You really didn’t know?” she whispered, suddenly understanding that he had not been acting.

“No.” His smile widened. “How…delicious.”

“God, you make me sick,” she said in disgust.

“Then our work here is done for today. Guard…please take me back to my cell, and find someone to escort Agent Cahill out. I believe she said she was going to be ill.”

He stood and she glared at him as he left the room.

“I’m going to find out who he is, Woods,” she called to him. “I’m going to find out who put that boy there.”

“Oh, good luck, Agent Cahill.” He glanced over his shoulder, his teeth gleaming white in the harsh light. “Good luck with that…”

“A
gent Cahill,” the guard called to her. “You’re forgetting something.” She turned around to find him holding her gun out to her. She was still so angry, rushing to get out of there, that she’d forgot ten she’d turned over her Glock when she arrived.

“Thank you.” She nodded to him and tucked it back into its holster.

He held out an envelope. “The warden called and asked me to give you this.”

She took the envelope and looked inside. There were several pages copied from the visitors’ log. John must have asked Warden Sullivan to have the records pulled for her. “Thanks so much. And tell the warden that we greatly appreciate it.”

“Will do. He told me to copy as much as I could tonight. I only got back as far as three years, but we can have the rest of it by tomorrow, if you can stop back sometime in the afternoon.”

She clutched the envelope to her chest.

“You went above and beyond. Thank you very much. I will come back later today.”

“Oh, right.” He smiled shyly. “It’s already tomorrow.”

She forced herself to return the smile, and walked out through the door into the parking lot.

Her stomach still churning with revulsion and outrage, she forced her emotions under control until she got into her car where she figured she could scream it all out, all the way back to Miranda’s, and no one would hear.

Her car sat alone in the empty lot. She drove to the gatehouse and came to a stop when the guard flagged her down. She handed over her visitor’s pass and started to roll up the window.

“Someone’s waiting for you,” the guard told her.

“What?” She frowned. “Where?”

He pointed to the Jaguar that was parked just beyond the gate.

“Thanks,” she said as she drove slowly through the gate, then came to a stop behind the Jag. The door opened and James Cannon got out. He leaned into the open window of her car.

“Hi,” he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for him to be waiting for her outside a prison gate at three in the morning.

“When did you last eat?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged wearily. “Maybe this morning.”

“That would be yesterday morning. There’s an all-night diner not too far from here. Why not park this and let me take you there, get you a little fuel for the next round?”

She nodded, too tired, too vexed with Woods and with the situation as it had unfolded that night to argue. She parked the car next to his and got out.

“I should probably tell the guard I’m leaving the car here for a while,” she said.

“He’ll figure it out.”

Cannon opened the door for her and she slid onto the soft leather seat with a sigh. After the rental’s stiff faux leather, sitting in the Jag felt like a caress.

“You can tilt the seat back more if you like, make yourself comfortable,” he told her.

“I’d fall asleep.” She dropped her bag to the floor but the envelope remained in her hands.

“That probably wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“I didn’t realize how tired I was until I sat back and rested my head. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“Why not just close your eyes for a few minutes, just till we get to the diner. You can tell me about your conversation with Woods while we eat.”

“There are some things that probably shouldn’t be discussed over food.” She turned her head in his direction. “This is one of them.”

“Okay. Talk now and eat with your eyes closed if it works better for you that way.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “He swears he didn’t know anything about this boy, the dead boy in Joseph Miller’s grave.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Oddly, I do. I really think he had no idea.”

“Maybe he’s just a really good actor.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but then I watched his face. I could tell at the exact moment when he understood what I was telling him. That someone had left a body in a grave he’d dug for someone else eleven years ago. There was no mistaking that look of joyful—gleeful—surprise.”

“So you’re thinking he must have put someone up to it. I still don’t buy that. I think he has something to lose now that he doesn’t want to risk.”

“His riding.”

“Yes.” Cannon hit his high beams and took off down the deserted road. “Maybe there’s a copycat.”

“How would a copycat know he’d buried a body in that exact spot?” she wondered.

“Good question. And then there’s always door number three.” In the dark, his facial expression became tense.

“Which would be…?”

“That he had an accomplice before. That he hadn’t acted alone back in the nineties.”

“I didn’t see anything in the files that would have suggested an accomplice.” Portia shook her head. “Did you ever suspect that he hadn’t acted alone?”