Out of Reach: A Novel (6 page)

“Who is she?”

“A potential witness in the Chelsea Madden case, and she seems to be . . .”—
more
—“. . . not what she claims. I need to know if she’s reliable.”

“Any connection to the Cody Sanders case?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s possible.”

“What’s going on, Alec?”

He hesitated, knowing that this time not even Cathy would believe him. “I think we’ve found the Magician.”

VI

I
SAAC
G
AGE WATCHED
the chaos he’d created.

The cops had cordoned off all entrances to the park. A crowd had gathered on the fringes, neighborhood gawkers huddled together to swap stories and share theories about the missing girl. A half-dozen uniforms milled about, some pacing the perimeters keeping the natives at bay, while the others stood gulping coffee and resenting that they’d been stuck up here while the real fun was down in the park, with the hunt. As if in reminder of their low status, from deep in the woods along the river, dogs barked as they tried to pick up a scent.

Isaac rarely missed returning to a kidnapping site. It was a small treat, which he figured he’d earned. The risk of someone recognizing him was nearly nonexistent. Watching, he was never the same man as the one who’d executed the abduction. So he allowed himself a brief tour through the lives of the people he had shattered. And he enjoyed the hell out of it.

He knew the criminal psychologists and profilers would have a field day with that little piece of information. They would try to analyze him and predict his next move—as they’d done in a dozen previous incarnations—blaming his misdeeds on an abnormal childhood.

Well, his early years
had
been pretty fucked up, but so had the lives of most of the kids he’d met as his family moved from place to place, courtesy of Uncle Sam. His father had been career army, a hard-drinking, heavy-fisted colonel, who’d taken out his frustrations over his lackluster military career on his only son. Isaac had learned early to disappear whenever the old man was around. Sober or not.

Isaac had no complaints, though. He’d grown up strong, fast, and smart. It had been a matter of survival, and he’d been good at it. Something that couldn’t be said for most of the kids who crossed his path now.

Plus the life of an army brat had taught him another skill that had served him well. With each move to a new base, he’d become a different kind of kid: a jock, a brain, a troublemaker and rabble-rouser, or social and popular. Whatever role struck him the first time he walked into a new school, that’s what he’d become. It was a game he loved, and it had kept the boredom at bay.

Over the years, he’d perfected the art, developing an uncanny ability to take on different personas and blend in where he didn’t belong. People—even children—tended to trust him without question. Therefore, he could go anywhere, be anyone, he wanted. It was a rare gift, and he’d capitalized on it.

Though lately, monotony had begun to creep in, making him restless. No one had come close to identifying, much less catching him, in more years than he cared to count. Not that he wanted to get caught. That was another absurd notion of the pop psychologists. He just expected there to be more of a thrill, more of a challenge, and it had been a long time since he’d experienced either.

Maybe it was time to quit.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind. A couple of years ago, he’d bought some property in the western North Carolina mountains. He planned to have a cabin built, maybe build it himself. He’d always been good with his hands, and he expected he could learn the rest. It would keep him busy, keep the tedium at bay. For a while at least.

First, though, he had a job to finish.

As he worked his way through the crowd, toward the police barrier, he caught snatches of conversations.

“I heard the mother left the little girl alone, sleeping in a stroller,” said one middle-aged woman to another. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with young people these days.”

“It’s no wonder this type of thing happens,” said the second woman. “Not that I would ever want anything to happen to the child, but this should be a lesson to the mother.”

“The poor thing,” said the first woman. “Do you think their marriage will survive it? I heard he’s seeing someone on the side.”

The second shook her head in mock horror. “Oh, no.”

Isaac smiled to himself. He’d provided these people with their evening’s entertainment. A child was missing, and they’d come out to watch the show. And they would have the nerve to label
him
the monster?

He moved away from the women. As much as he enjoyed the scene unfolding around him, he had another objective in mind. The girl’s parents. Every now and then, he’d get close to the families of his victims, a sweet taste he didn’t often indulge. However, he needed to shatter the boredom, the tedium that was threatening to overwhelm him lately. The chances were slim that anyone would connect the man he was tonight with the one who’d taken Chelsea Madden, but it was a possibility that made his contact with the family worthwhile and very, very sweet.

Scanning the scene on the other side of the yellow tape, he made note of its occupants. Besides the parents, off to the side, huddling together on a park bench away from their overly compassionate neighbors, and the half-dozen or so uniforms, a suit leaned against one of the patrol cars, a cell phone to his ear. A fed? He looked familiar, and Isaac experienced a thread of interest as he recognized the man. It was the agent heading up the Cody Sanders investigation. Donovan.

Isaac hadn’t remained untouched for all these years without knowing his opponents. He’d checked Donovan out, and the man had a good closure rate on child abduction cases. Isaac figured it was just luck that they hadn’t crossed paths before. Perhaps this final job, if it was his final job, would turn out to be more interesting than most.

As he approached the barricade closest to the cops, he caught the eye of a rookie who stood slightly apart from the gaggle of coffee-drinking veterans.

The boy came right over. “Can I help you, Father?”

It was one of Gage’s favorite personas. Put on a collar, and people willingly dropped to their knees. “Actually, Officer, I’m here for the parents of that poor child.”

“Are you their priest?”

The kid was sharp. Most cops would have ushered Isaac over without a second question. “No. I don’t even know if they’re Catholic.” Though, of course, he did know. He figured he knew more about the family than they knew about themselves. “But I was close by when I heard the news. I thought they might welcome a man of God.”

The cop glanced at the couple. “Okay, Father, I’ll ask them.”

“Thank you.”

The kid approached the distressed parents, looking awkward and uncomfortable. He spoke with them briefly, then nodded in Isaac’s direction. The woman turned tear-streaked eyes his way and beckoned him over with one beseeching nod. Seconds later, Isaac was at her side, holding a rosary between his hand and hers, praying aloud with her for the safe return of her daughter.

By the second set of Hail Marys, however, Isaac realized it wasn’t working. There was nothing new here. The scene was one he’d witnessed a dozen times before, the parents no different from others he’d consoled. Even the fed, Donovan, had no interest in him, having barely glanced in Isaac’s direction. He wondered if he stood and yelled,
Here I am, I did it,
if they would even notice, or just go on with their pointless search.

Then a spark of interest wiggled down his spine as a woman showed up, approaching the cops. She looked familiar, and he knew he’d seen her recently. He searched his memory, placing her quickly. She’d been at the park this morning, early, among the small group of parents when he’d made his first pass through the park.

He almost smiled, curious, the spark of interest flaring.

Without missing a beat, he continued to add his voice to the mother’s while his attention was on the woman as she talked to the uniforms. Whatever she was saying, they didn’t seem impressed. Oddly enough, that disappointed him. She was here, so maybe she thought she could help find the lost girl. Yet it looked like they were ready to blow her off.

Incompetence.

No wonder he’d managed to do his work unimpeded for so many years.

Then the rookie, who’d led Isaac to the parents, broke away from the group and headed for Donovan. Not only sharp, the kid was willing to stand against majority opinion. Isaac suppressed a grin. Idealism. A rare gift indeed—though he figured it wouldn’t last long. They’d either beat it out of him or drum him off the force.

For tonight, however, he’d have his way. After a brief discussion, he and Donovan crossed to the woman, who held her ground amid the ring of disapproving blue.

The missing girl’s mother stopped praying, her attention caught by the scene as well. Her husband stood, his eyes locked on Donovan as he escorted the woman away from the cops, out of Isaac and the parents’ line of sight.

“I wonder what’s happening,” he said. “I’m going to find out.”

“Wait, Mr. Madden.” Isaac stopped him with his soft priest’s voice, though he’d also love nothing more than to listen in on the conversation between the unknown woman and Donovan. “Let the police do their jobs. They’ll tell us when they know something.”

The man hesitated.

“Please, Tom,” said his wife, agreeing with Isaac as he knew she would.

Reluctantly Madden returned to the bench, but neither he nor his wife seemed inclined to pray anymore—which suited Isaac just fine. All their attention was on the spot behind the trees where they caught occasional glimpses of Donovan and the woman, as if their daughter’s fate rested on the conversation between the two.

Ironically, they were more right than they knew. Gage might just have to change his plans concerning their daughter. If the woman really did know something.

They waited, five, ten minutes, and again the girl’s father lurched to his feet. “I have to do something.”

“Please, Tom, wait . . .”

Before he could respond, there was a new and sudden flurry of activity. Donovan and the woman left the sanctuary of the trees and headed toward the unmarked sedan. At the same time, the rookie returned briefly to the cluster of uniforms, calling out to another cop—his partner most likely—and the two of them started toward one of the black and whites.

“I need to find out what’s going on,” said the father as he started toward the two men.

Isaac caught his arm, barely concealing his own excitement at the prospect of finding out more about the woman and what she knew. “Mr. Madden, please, you’re too upset. Stay with your wife, and I’ll talk to the police for you.”

Madden looked at his wife, who’d followed them both the few steps from the bench.

“Trust me,” said Isaac. “I
will
find out who she is.”
One way or the other.

After a moment more of hesitation, Madden nodded. “Okay, Father. Maybe they’ll tell you more than they’d tell me anyway.”

“I’ll do my best.” Isaac started toward the patrol car, intercepting the rookie just before he closed his car door. “Officer, I need a minute.”

“We’re in a hurry, Father.”

“Please, you have to tell Chelsea’s parents what’s going on.”
And me. I need to know what I’m up against.

The cop glanced past Isaac to the couple. “We don’t know anything for sure yet. It’s a long shot.”

“Just tell me enough to give them some hope.”

Pressing his lips together, the young cop nodded. “Okay. We may have someone who can identify the kidnapper.”

A thrill of challenge raced through Isaac, and he almost laughed aloud. “The woman who was here earlier?”

“Father, I can’t . . .” The cop shook his head.

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me who she is.” Isaac would find that out on his own. “But what about the kidnapper? Do you have a name for him?”

“I’m sorry, until we know more, that’s all I can say.”

It would be enough. For now. Isaac backed up. “Thank you, Officer. That will help a lot.” Isaac knew he could get the woman’s name from one of the disgruntled older cops, one of the ones who were certain the fed was on a wild-goose chase.

As he watched the patrol car pull away, Isaac considered his next step. Somehow, the woman thought she’d recognized him. How? And from where? He needed answers, and a few discreet questions to the remaining cops would put him on the right course to finding them. But first, he needed to get rid of the girl.

VII

E
RIN FELT LIKE
she’d fallen down a rabbit hole.

Since seeing the news coverage on Chelsea Madden’s disappearance, she’d needed all her training and experience to keep herself together. On one level, the incident dragged her back to the days following Claire’s kidnapping, and she had to fight the urge to curl into a ball and hide. On the other hand, the possibility that the man she’d seen could have some connection to that nineteen-year-old nightmare kept her moving forward. To the police. To telling them what she saw. To convincing Special Agent Alec Donovan that she knew what she was talking about and wasn’t crazy. Something she wasn’t entirely certain of herself.

But then, he seemed a little off-kilter himself.

He should have taken her statement and sent her packing. It’s what she would have done if someone had come to her with a story as crazy as hers. Instead, she’d sensed his mounting excitement with each question. He knew something of the man she’d seen, and wanted him badly. Bringing her along was his way of ensuring he identified and caught the right man.

With a quick glance, she sized him up. He was a tall, good-looking man with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and strong, even features. Very conservative, very clean-cut, very FBI. Under different circumstances, she might have found him attractive. Though at the moment, he looked tired, strained, his eyes lined with fatigue, his hair slightly mussed from where a hand had been dragged through it. And she realized she’d seen him on the news the night before.

“You’re working the Cody Sanders case as well, aren’t you?” He’d held a press conference to update the media on the search.

He gave her a quick look. “Yes.”

“Is there a connection between the two cases?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “We don’t know.”

“But you’re here instead of in Baltimore, so there must be something.”

“I can’t talk about the details,” he said, his eyes still on the road. “Let’s just say there are a few similarities I couldn’t ignore?”

She heard the switch in pronouns, from we to I, and realized he considered himself alone in linking the two kidnappings. So, he was a man who worked hunches, which explained why he was willing to chase her crazy story. And made her like him, just a bit, and also made her wonder what kind of man made his FBI career in the Crimes Against Children Unit.

She knew something of the CAC mission, which was to use multidiscipline and multiagency resource teams to investigate and prosecute crimes against children. Since 1997, at least two Special Agents in every FBI field office were designated as CAC coordinators, with the idea of maximizing the FBI’s resources and expertise in CAC investigations. It was an important job but hardly high profile. So was Donovan dedicated to helping children? Or was this just a stop on the career ladder, a chit he needed to acquire before moving on to bigger and more prestigious assignments?

It didn’t make any difference, she realized, and turned away to stare out at the dark night outside the car’s windows. Either way, Donovan seemed intent on finding the man she’d seen today, and to Erin, that’s all that mattered.

“You must have been pretty young when your sister was taken,” he said.

She glanced back at him, knowing this was one of the weakest parts of her story—along with the amount of time that had elapsed since Claire’s disappearance. “I was twelve.”

“Did the police question him?”

“I couldn’t say.” She thought of the days and weeks following Claire’s disappearance. And the agony of waiting for news. That had been one of the hardest parts. The waiting. “They didn’t share their investigation with us.”

“But you’re sure he’s the same man?”

She fought down her impatience. If Donovan didn’t already believe her, they wouldn’t be here. “The man I saw this morning was in Miami the day Claire disappeared. Whether he took her or the girl today”—she shook her head—“I don’t know. But, in my opinion, the coincidence is too much to ignore.”

If she told him she was CIA, it might help him understand. She’d been trained to pay attention, to notice the details that might mean her survival in some back alley or desert town halfway across the globe. If nothing else, revealing her Agency connections would give her more credibility and justify Donovan’s investigation of her information.

Breaking her cover, however, wasn’t an option. And even if she could, her Company training didn’t account for a nineteen-year-old memory of something that happened when she was twelve.

She doubted if words existed that could make sense of that.

Though she could try. She could explain how that entire day had been seared in her memory; how sometimes at night she would close her eyes and relive every minute, remember every person she’d spoken to; how sometimes she believed if she willed it hard enough,
she
could change what had happened.

Yeah, right, that would work.

Tell Donovan any of that, and he’d turn around in a heartbeat while recommending she get a padded room next to her sister Claire. So Erin remained silent, counting on his interest in the man she’d described to spur him on.

They drove north, following the police car, through McLean and into Great Falls, a deceptively unassuming-looking town of expensive homes on estate-size parcels of land. They passed Great Falls Park and the elementary school, then turned into a residential neighborhood where the houses sat well back from the road amid manicured lawns and mature trees. After winding through the quiet streets, they ended up on a cul-de-sac and stopped in front of a stately, three-story brick home with great white pillars flanking the massive portico.

In actual miles, it wasn’t that far from the small house Erin had bought and could barely afford in Arlington, but it might as well have been a different universe.

Evidently Kauffman Farms was doing well.

Out front, a half-dozen cars lined the circular drive.

“It looks like our friend has guests,” said Donovan. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Erin ignored the order and followed him out of the car. “It was your idea to bring me along, so I’m coming.”

He looked ready to argue, then obviously thought better of it. Maybe he thought the man she’d seen this morning was inside the overblown house. Or else he just realized she wouldn’t be left behind.

“Okay,” he said. “But let me do the talking. Having you here isn’t exactly Bureau policy.”

“I understand.”

The police officers who’d followed them stayed with their car while Erin accompanied Donovan to the door. A maid answered and went for her employer only after Donovan flashed his badge. Roger Kauffman appeared a few minutes later, obviously displeased by the unexpected visitors.

Again, Donovan held up his identification. “Mr. Kauffman, I’m Special Agent Alec Donovan with the FBI, and this is Dr. Baker. We need to speak with you for a moment.”

“What about?”

“May we come in, sir?”

“This isn’t a good time, Officer . . . What did you say your name was again?”

“It’s Agent Donovan.”

“Well, Agent, I have a house full of company, if—”

“It’s important,” Donovan assured him.

Kauffman looked past them to the uniforms waiting at the curb. Frowning, he opened the door. “All right, but just for a minute.”

As they stepped inside, a rail-thin, middle-aged woman emerged from a formal living room alive with people. “Roger, what’s going on here? Our guests are asking for you.”

“I’ll be just a minute, dear.” He shot Erin and Donovan an annoyed look. “I need to speak with these people.”

The woman looked unhappy but didn’t challenge her husband, who led them into an expensively appointed study and closed the door.

“Now, what’s this about?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“We’re looking for a man who works for you. He was in Jamestown Park this morning, selling ice cream from one of your carts.”

Kauffman choked out an abrupt laugh. “My company runs two dozen ice-cream trucks, a dozen hand-rolled carts, and we employ almost twice that many drivers and operators. I have no idea who worked that route today.”

“We need a name, Mr. Kauffman.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t keep any records here. Everything’s at the office.”

“We’ll drive you.”

Donovan’s politeness impressed Erin, who wanted to shove Kauffman up against his mahogany bookcases and tell him they didn’t have time for his bullshit. A little girl’s life was at stake.

“Not tonight,” Kauffman said. “Come in to the office tomorrow—”

Donovan interrupted, his patience obviously stretched to the limit. “Mr. Kauffman. A child was kidnapped this afternoon, and your man is a potential suspect. I need his name and address. And I need it now. So, either you cooperate, or I’ll have the officers outside escort you down to the precinct.”

“Don’t try and intimidate me, Agent.” Kauffman drew himself up to his full height. “You have no right. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe not,” Donovan said, “But at the moment, the only rights I’m concerned with belong to a five-year-old girl.”

Twenty minutes later, Kauffman unlocked the main doors to Kauffman Farms and ushered Erin, Donovan, and the officer named Lamont inside. He flipped a switch, and the ceiling stuttered to life with harsh fluorescent light.

The room was cramped. A reception counter crossed the space a half-dozen steps into the room. Behind it, two desks sat sideways, face-to-face. A row of gray filing cabinets lined the wall in back of one, while behind the other was a long table with a fax and copy machine. On the far side of both desks was a large picture window that opened onto the warehouse beyond.

Erin saw ice-cream trucks and carts parked across from a large, industrial freezer. The office might be shut down for the day, but the warehouse buzzed with activity. Laughter and rowdy male voices reached through the glass as men in silly white coats and hats unloaded trucks. One man circulated among them, counting boxes and recording his findings on a large clipboard before the drivers wheeled the merchandise through freezers’ open doors.

Erin suspected it was like this all summer, especially on nights like tonight. It was a pleasant weekend evening, maybe the last of the year, and the drivers would keep their trucks out as late as possible to entice people as they enjoyed summer’s last fling.

She searched the faces. No one looked familiar, at least from this distance, and she fought the urge to leave Donovan and Kauffman to their files and head out to get a closer look. Unfortunately, Donovan wouldn’t appreciate her initiative, and she needed him on her side.

“My secretary takes care of these things,” Kauffman was saying as he unlocked one of the metal filing cabinets. “So I might have trouble finding the shift reports.” He rifled through one drawer, slammed it shut, then started on a second. Finally, from the third drawer, he pulled out a sheet, glanced at it, then handed it over.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the schedule for the day. It looks like Al Beckwith worked Jamestown Park.”

Donovan scanned the sheet. “Any chance he’s still here?”

“Could be. Want me to page him?”

“No. We’ll go look. But first, I want his personnel file.”

Kauffman returned to the cabinet, went through the first drawer again, and returned with a slim folder. “Here’s everything we have on him.”

Donovan opened the file on the nearby desk, and Erin stepped up beside him to look over his shoulder. It contained a simple application form, a couple of evaluation sheets, salary information, and a photograph.

“You keep pictures of all your employees?” Donovan asked.

“It’s for insurance purposes,” Kauffman said, glancing at his watch. “Because our drivers deal mostly with kids.”

Erin studied the picture. Beckwith was youngish, a couple of years on either side of thirty. Thin blond hair. Watery blue eyes. And looked nothing like the man she’d seen in the park today.

Disguise, however, was an art. Once you’d mastered it, changing your appearance was as simple as slipping on a new set of clothes.

“Does he do magic tricks for the kids?” she asked, speaking up for the first time.

Kauffman shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

Donovan frowned. “So you don’t know if he entertains the kids with disappearing coins?”

“They get paid a salary plus a percentage of what they sell. So, whatever they have to do, they do.”

Alec glanced at Erin, a question in his eyes.
Is this the guy?

“We need to talk to him,” she answered.

“Okay.” Alec turned back to Kauffman. “I’m going to keep this file, but meanwhile let’s take a look and see if Al Beckwith is here.”

Kauffman seemed distinctly uncomfortable with the prospect of handing over one of his employees, but agreed. He led them into the warehouse, toward the bevy of men who slowed when they saw him approach, obviously surprised to see their boss here on a Saturday night.

“Is Beckwith back?” Kauffman asked the man with the clipboard.

He nodded across the floor, toward a man unloading one of the handcarts. “Over there.”

“Hey, Al,” Kauffman called, “there are some cops here to see you.”

Beckwith turned, arms loaded, his eyes flicking from Erin and Donovan to the uniformed officer behind them.

Donovan tensed. “He’s gonna bolt.”

Beckwith dropped his load. The boxes crashed to the ground, splitting and spilling ice-cream bars, as he sprinted toward the back of the warehouse and the gaping loading dock.

“Shit.” Donovan and the young cop shot after him, dodging men and vehicles.

Kauffman stood, mouth wide, feigning surprise that Beckwith had run after his loud announcement.

“Is there a side door?” Erin demanded, furious at the man.

“What?” Kauffman looked at her, brow furrowed.

“A side door.”

“Yeah, sure.” He made a vague gesture to the right of the freezer. “There’s a fire exit.”

Erin sprang toward it, her path relatively clear compared with that of the men following Beckwith. Slamming through the emergency door, she set off a wailing alarm. She ignored it and raced toward the rear of the building.