Redemption (21 page)

“There’s a place between the box and infinity, Kit.”

Kit considered Jane’s words. “Children should be allowed to make mistakes and not pay with their lives as punishment.”

“That reasoning works in a perfect world. Charlotte Walker made a conscious decision to look a certain way when she left her house on December 25—”

“That’s an unfair statement, Jane!”

“You watched that goddamned birthday video, what? A hundred times? Did you really
look
at it with an eye of perception? I bet Charlotte knows how to get exactly what she wants. She learned how to use a wink, a smile, a turn of her head to get attention from boys. I imagine there are a lot of teenage boys in Oakhurst, California, who could tell me how hard it is to keep their dicks soft around her.”

“You’re walking a fine line right now, Jane P. When you insult Charlotte like that, you insult my Ashlee and her memory!”

This was exactly the reaction Jane wanted to avoid. “I am not disrespecting Ashlee’s memory.” Jane reworked her approach.
“Look, what I’m saying is that Mrs. Walker doesn’t get it. I’ve seen a million Charlottes. No dad in her life—”

“You don’t know that for sure—”

“Trust me, she’s an only child with a single working mom. Close ties to
female
family members. Remember Aunt Donna who ran the video? Where were the men in that video?”

“It was a five minute clip. You can’t delineate Charlotte’s life based on that!

“I’d bet you a million bucks that when I probe into this kid’s world, there will be an
insignificant
number of men in her life compared to women. No men. No positive male role models. No balance.” Jane could feel herself melting into Charlotte’s private world. “Mrs. Walker lets her kid dress and act older than her years because, bless her ignorant soul, she would rather be Charlotte’s best friend than her parent. The irony is, deep down, Charlotte doesn’t want her mother to be her best friend.
She
wants her to be her
mother.
And what Charlotte doesn’t realize is that Mom is vicariously living through her daughter. She thinks it’s cool when Charlotte dresses up in her red jacket and tight jeans and the boys stare at her. Because before Charlotte’s mom packed on the extra hundred pounds, she was quite the looker and the boys loved her. But her looks faded. She got hard, and after the boys and men left her, Charlotte’s mom decided to hate men because, in her mind, men are just fucked up, useless trash. Sperm donors. Heavy lifters. But to little Charlotte, men are a mystery. They’re a color she’s never seen. So she goes out looking. But she goes out with only half the information in her hip pocket. She doesn’t know who she is because we are only as strong as where we come from and who rocked our cradle. She’s missing half the puzzle—
a father
. She unconsciously searches for that missing puzzle piece. But because she’s so needy and desperate for that male energy, she thinks that all guys want to help her and be her friend.
That’s
the vibe that attracts the predator. But she doesn’t recognize the monster when he pulls up and says, ‘Need a ride?’”

Kit took it all in before speaking. “Well, your theory doesn’t wash completely. My Ashlee had a father!”

“Was he present in her life?”

“Paul was a good provider—”

“You didn’t answer my question. Was there any emotional involvement?”

“Paul is complicated. He prefers to take the path of least resistance. I’d say he is emotionally challenged. Now more than ever.”

“So Paul wasn’t a strong presence in Ashlee’s life. Doesn’t that fit what I said? Physical or emotional absence, it makes no difference. Mom was the strong one.”

“I wouldn’t call Barbara strong. I’d call her reliable. Structured. Unbending. Unforgiving. Hateful....” Kit’s voice trailed off. “Nobody tells Barbara what to do. I think Paul decided it was easier to just go along rather than argue with her.” Kit looked at Jane. “What about you? Did you have a strong father figure?”

Jane moved into the fast lane and accelerated to eighty-five miles per hour as she neared the Colorado/Utah border. “Strong in what sense? Physical strength? Yeah, in spades. Strong in the emotional sense...no.”

“Yes, we touched on this briefly in your office. Your childhood wasn’t comforting.”

Jane shook her head at Kit’s careful adjective. “My brother and I shared a childhood that was as comforting as fingernails scraping across a chalkboard.”

“You mentioned there was physical abuse. What happened?”

“This is not about me.”

“You were a victim, Jane. And your father was a predator. So, based on what you’ve told me, what weakness did your father see in
you
that sparked his rage?”

“I am
not
a victim! I’m a survivor—”

“Who began as a victim! What did you represent to your father?” Kit wasn’t going to let it go. “You
had
to represent something to him for him to go off on you!”

“I won’t be psychologically analyzed with bumper sticker philosophies!”

“
I
think it’s a question worth investigating! You talk about patterns. You’re right. We all have patterns we repeat. You spend
so
much time analyzing and observing others, but you’ve never taken the time to observe yourself! Isn’t that part of the AA platform? ‘Make a searching and fearless moral inventory.’ Step Three, is it?”

“Step Four,” Jane said, pulling in her emotional wall.

“But that’s where you get stuck, right?” There was a sting in Kit’s voice.

Jane accelerated to ninety miles per hour. There was stony silence until, “I’m going to say it once and then we’re never gonna talk about it again. I got beatings all the time protecting my little brother because that’s what my mother asked me to do on her deathbed. I would have died for my brother and I nearly did one night when I was fourteen. My dad dragged me out to his workshop behind the house and beat me with his belt and punched me until I fell against his worktable and cracked my head open.” Jane pointed to a visible scar on her right temple. “So I figured one of us needed to die. I grabbed a gun that was on the table and pointed it at him. I should have shot the son of a bitch, but I froze. And that cost me.” Jane revved the Mustang past ninety-five miles per hour. “He beat me to the ground and then kicked me in my groin until I passed out. I woke up alone, still on that same floor and soaked in my own blood. I didn’t get help because my dad was a cop and I knew if I told anybody, he’d kill me the next time. And as much as I wanted to die, I couldn’t risk it because I’d promised my mother I’d take care of my brother. And you see, Kit, I keep my promises, no matter the cost. So there it is. My dad was a fucking, twisted nutcase. But he’s a fucking
dead
nutcase now thanks to a stroke and a boozed up liver.” Jane’s voice was taut with bile. She moved uncomfortably. “I want to get out of this outfit and get a smoke. There’s a gas station and convenience store up ahead. We’re stopping.”

Kit remained silent as Jane exited the off-ramp and cruised to a stop in front of the store. After filling the tank with gas, Jane grabbed her jeans and shirt and headed into the store. Ducking into the bathroom, she quickly changed clothes and then returned to the cashier’s station. For a brief moment, her eyes scanned the magazine rack. She was suddenly aware of one cover shot after another of young girls in alluring poses and pouty close-ups.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

Jane looked up in a slight daze. “Yeah, thirty bucks for the gas and a pack of Marlboros.”

The clerk took Jane’s money, handed her the cigarettes, and then clicked the MUTE button on the TV remote to turn on the volume.

“We’re here in Oakhurst, California with Clinton Fredericks....”

Jane immediately focused on the television when she heard the name.

“For those of you who are unaware, Fredericks is a self-proclaimed ‘Gonzo’ crime profiler,” the reporter continued. “A guy who likes to put himself firmly into the center of the action in many of the most disturbing cases. He’s the author of three bestselling books, including
Profile of a Killer
, which is based on the infamous—and some say tragic—capture of Rudy Weiss. Thanks for joining us, Mr. Fredericks!”

As Jane stared at the TV screen, a foreboding suspicion came over her. The camera cut to the forty-something Clinton Fredericks, seated outside of what looked like a fast-food restaurant on the main drag in Oakhurst. He was dressed in drab olive slacks, a well-worn crewneck sweater, and a battered navy rain slicker. Fredericks looked as if he were reporting from the front line of a war-torn, Third World country. His intense blue eyes sparked to life the minute the camera hit him. “Media whore.” That’s what went through Jane’s mind when Fredericks addressed the reporter.

“Good to be here!” Fredericks responded, dragging his thick fingers through his already tousled dirty blond hair. “I want everyone to know that I’m working exclusively with Charlotte’s mother
and all those who love this child and want her safely returned to her happy home and the bosom of her dear mother. I made a personal promise to Mrs. Walker today. And that promise was that I would do whatever it took to analyze this horrific kidnapping, profile the individual who took her child, and bring her beloved daughter back into her loving arms.”

Jane tuned out Fredericks’s brash voice. The Walker case was quickly turning into an uncontainable circus and Clinton Fredericks was the unofficial ringmaster. Based on what Jane knew about Fredericks’s method of operation, Mrs. Walker had made a dangerous choice in allowing this egocentric, self-serving ass into her private world. As with all headline-making crime cases, the vultures were descending. But based on Clinton’s dicey track record,
this
particular vulture could hasten Charlotte Walker’s death.

If Jane was going to successfully work the Walker case, she would need to know how to stay four steps ahead of Clinton Fredericks. There was only one person who intimately knew how Fredericks operated. And he was less than eight hours away.

CHAPTER 14

Jane quickly inhaled sufficient nicotine into her lungs before getting back into the Mustang. “We’ve got a problem,” she stated, peeling out of the gas station and heading back onto westbound I-70. “Clinton Fredericks is now part of the Walker team.”

“Why is that name familiar?” Kit asked with a troubled look.

“Rudy Weiss? Eighteen months ago?”

“Right. The psycho who kidnapped that bank teller in rural Arkansas.”

Jane nodded. “Fredericks profiled him, tracked Weiss to his backwoods trailer, and then negotiated one-on-one for three days on live TV with Weiss to let the woman go and give himself up.”

Kit’s eyes suddenly bugged out as she recalled the tragic ending. “That woman got killed!”

“Yeah. A lot of people blamed Fredericks’s devil-may-care attitude for her death. He supposedly convinced the sheriff to storm the trailer. Weiss killed the woman when they blew down the door and nearly took his own life before they grabbed him.”

“How did Fredericks get involved so quickly with Charlotte’s kidnapping?”

“He’s an opportunist asshole. He sees a headline story involving a missing girl, a bevy of cameras, and the chance to take center stage and redeem himself. Fredericks didn’t waste a second getting in good with the mother. The idiot woman agreed to give him carte blanche on the case. She’s so fucked and she doesn’t even know it!”

“You think Fredericks could get Charlotte killed, don’t you?”

“He’s had eighteen months to think about what happened. Of course, he spent most of that time promoting his book on Rudy Weiss, doing guest spots on TV, and playing the cable news pundit.
I strongly doubt that Fredericks has spent much time evaluating his ego-driven need to become the story instead of report it.”

“How does he work?”

“I have no idea.” Jane hesitated slightly. “But I know somebody who does.”

“Who?”

“My cousin, Carl. Carl Perry. His dad and my dad were brothers. We lost touch over fifteen years ago. The last time I saw him, he was a pothead, loved his tequila, and was hammering out stories for whatever underground rag he could get to print his shit.”

“He’s a writer?”

“Yeah. I guess he’s pretty successful now. He writes for
Rolling Stone
. He’s traveled around with tons of well-known people, usually rock stars. Probably has access to all the free dope he can smoke.”

“How does Carl know Clinton Fredericks?”

“
Rolling Stone
hired Carl to do a story on him after the Rudy Weiss debacle. It was called ‘Profile of a Profiler.’ It didn’t say much of anything new but I guess it gave Carl some credibility. I see his byline a lot. He left a message on my home phone to congratulate me after he saw me on
Larry King
. He’d also heard about my dad dying and wanting to send his condolences. I didn’t call him back.”

“How come?”

“I’m not a family-driven person. I don’t have the need to sit around and trade stories of growing up with Cousin Carl.”

“Is that because Cousin Carl’s father reminded you of your own dad?”

“Oh, we’re back to the psychological bullshit again, are we? Well,
no
. My uncle was the absolute opposite of my dad—passive as they come. Weak willed. Talked so quietly you could hardly hear him. He was also a hapless drunk, just like my father. Must run in the blood, eh? He crinked about ten years ago. Liver cancer.”

“Deep-seated unresolved anger and guilt....” Kit replied.

“Huh?”

“Liver cancer. Your uncle must have buried some very deep and disturbing traumatic memories in his body.”

“Well, he grew up with my father as his younger brother, so
anything
is possible!” Jane reported to Kit that she’d kept her cousin’s phone number after he called and checked the area code out of curiosity. It turned out he lived thirty miles south of Las Vegas in the remote desert town of Jeffers. “I figure maybe I call him and ask to crash on his couch for the night.”