Victim

by Gayle Wilson

  He held her eyes for a long time, but they both knew she was right about this. If Tate had left her another message, she needed to know what it was. Maybe there was something about this one that would be as important as the one he'd given Dwight. Something that only she would understand.

  Finally, Mac released her. As soon as he did, she wondered if she'd lost her mind to want to go back there. Whatever Tate had done, she should let the cops handle it. As Mac kept reminding her, that was their job. Their responsibility.

  A word that seemed to be cropping up a lot lately. One that had always been the watchword of her life. And now...

  She took a step forward and then another, forcing herself to walk down the hallway. The first time she'd done it since they'd discovered Dan's body.

  Another body? Was that what Mac had found?

  She quickly dismissed the possibility from her mind. If this were anything like that—another child or a victim of any kind—Mac would never have let her come back here. Not alone.

  This was something else. Something Tate had intended just for her. And that was the reason, of course, he'd placed whatever this was in this particular setting. The most intimate room in the apartment.

  When she reached the doorway, she hesitated, aware that Mac had not left his position at the end of the hall. He had told her the night Dwight disappeared that she didn't have to prove anything to him. She still didn't. She could turn and leave now. Let someone else deal with this.

  Instead, she reached out and turned on the light, fully illuminating the bedroom that had been dimmed by the closed blinds. Her gaze swept the room, no longer disordered in any way, before it returned to the one thing that was out of place.

  Dwight's half-inflated pink ball sat between the two pillows on the bed. Just in case she'd had any doubt Tate had been the one who'd talked to Dwight? Had he realized during that brief conversation that the child might not be the most reliable witness?

  His previous message had been intended to inform her that Dan's death had been a gift. This one apparently conveyed the same intent, just in case she hadn't gotten the memo.

  And this time he was letting her know that his gift had been exactly what she'd suspected it to be at first. He'd had Dwight in his hands and let him go. If he had so desired, it might just as easily be Dwight's body on her bed as Toby's ball.

  Whatever reaction this was supposed to evoke, it seemed to have backfired. All she felt was a rage almost as great as when she'd learned Tate had killed her son.

  He had murdered another innocent child just to point out to her how magnanimous he was being in letting the boy she had befriended live. If the bastard expected her to feel gratitude for that—

  She took a breath, deeper than the one she'd taken prior to forcing herself down the hall. Then she marched over to the bed and snatched up the lopsided sphere, carrying it with her.

  When she reached the place where Mac stood in the hallway, she picked up the garbage bag she'd filled with Toby's food and tossed the ball inside. Mac would probably have wanted the technicians to look at it. But what could any of that forensic mumbo-jumbo matter now?

  They knew who their enemy was. And they both knew what they had to do to defeat him.

  "This would only be for a few days." Sarah held the sack of things she'd gathered up during their trip to her apartment. "I have everything Dwight would need to look after Toby right here."

  "Look. I know you mean well. And it's not that we don't appreciate what you all did for us." Dwight's mother made a vague gesture toward the living room behind the small foyer where the three of them stood. "But he's already too attached to the animal. He's doing good here. Adjusting real well." She turned to Mac, as if asking for his help in convincing Sarah.

  "Dwight will be under constant surveillance until this thing is over." Whether Mac thought this was a good idea or not, if it would make the next week or so easier for Sarah, he was willing to add his powers of persuasion to hers. "The officers will go with him whenever he needs to take the dog out. I know he'd enjoy having Toby as a companion. Despite adjusting well, Dwight is in a new place without his friends."

  He was aware that Sarah glanced at him when he said the last. Like him, she probably doubted that Dwight had had any friends to miss.

  "I can't take the dog. It's too much responsibility for him. You both know—" Beverly Ingersoll stopped, seeming reluctant to characterize her son further. "And with my mother to look after, getting her adjusted to the new place, I have all I can handle."

  Mac glanced over at the old woman, who was again watching the blaring television. She seemed oblivious to the rest of her surroundings, new or not.

  "Having the responsibility would do Dwight a world of good," Mac urged. "He has to grow up sometime, Mrs. Ingersoll. And he loves Toby. He'd want to take care of him."

  "It won't cost you anything," Sarah said. "If you use up the food I've brought, all you have to do is speak to the officers, and they'll resupply you."

  She looked at Mac again, as if seeking his agreemerit. Considering that Morel had already expended so much of the department's resources on this family, he couldn't imagine those arrangements couldn't be made.

  "And I'm sure the department would be willing to pay you whatever it would cost to have the dog boarded," Mac said. "We just feel Dwight would take better care of him than a kennel."

  "They'd pay me to let the dog stay here?"

  Mac could almost see the wheels turning behind those slightly widened eyes. Avarice might succeed where gratitude seemed to be failing.

  "I'll see to it,” he promised.

  "Dwight would probably like to have him," the boy's mother conceded.

  "If the officers see that Toby is being well taken care of. they'll give you the boarding fee. If Dwight proves incapable of looking after him, as you fear, then they'll take the dog to the kennel." That arrangement should ensure the woman wouldn't "accidentally" let Toby get lost, Mac thought.

  He wasn't sure why he was so cynical about Beverly Ingersoll. She wasn't wearing the ratty bathrobe today. She was dressed and her personal grooming seemed to have vastly improved, maybe in response to their improved living conditions. Even the old woman, at least what he could see of her, seemed better cared for.

  "Okay, you can leave him," the boy's mother agreed. "Dwight'll look after him. I'll see that he does. It's not good for an animal to be neglected."

  "Could we wait for him?" Sarah asked, her voice hopeful.

  "He's staying late today for Scouts. The troop meets there at the school. One of the officers thought it would be good if he joined. You just leave the dog and his food here, and I'll make sure Dwight understands what he needs to do."

  Mac glanced at Sarah, afraid she'd protest. She nodded instead, holding the bag out.

  As Mrs. Ingersoll took it, she added. "My daddy had hunting dogs when I was growing up. We lived out in the country. Better than the city. Better times, too. People weren't so wicked back then. I know what to do for dogs. I'll show Dwight."

  "Thank you."

  Sarah's gratitude had seemed genuine. As she turned toward the door. Mac reached out to open it for her.

  "What I said the other night..." Given the subject, Mrs. Ingersoll's hesitancy was understandable. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything about your boy. I was just scared. Terrified that Dwight—" Surprisingly, the hoarse smoker's-voice broke. "I'm sorry."

  For a moment neither of them moved. Then Sarah reached out to put her hand over that of the other woman. "I know. Keep him safe."

  Beverly Ingersoll's chin quivered. "I know you all don't think much of me. I don't think too much of myself," she said with a watery laugh. "But.. .Dwight's all I've got. Whether you believe it or not, I love him. And I do try. It's just so hard sometimes."

  Sarah nodded, squeezing the hand she held. Then she released it and opened the door, stepping outside before Mac could get there.

  "I'll explain everything to the officers," Mac said as he handed o
ver Toby's leash. "Don't worry. They'll take care of both of them."

  As he closed the door, he knew the vision of Beverly Ingersoll, Toby's leash in one hand, his supplies in the other, with her senile mother rocking in the background, would ensure that he didn't forget to make those arrangements.

  Twenty-Seven

  "Most serial killers were victims themselves at some time in their lives. According to the FBI, Tate was, too. They think that's why he continues to act out the pattern of abuse he was subjected to. He was brutalized as a child by someone older and stronger. That's what Tate does to his victims. He's totally incapable of sustaining any kind of adult relationship, so that's really all he can do." Sarah seemed to look directly into the camera as she said the last. "He's nothing but an impotent coward who targets defenseless little boys like my son."

  "You're convinced Tate's still in this area?" Tall and dark, the female reporter made a good foil for Sarah's size and coloring, almost emphasizing her physical fragility. A fragility that would surely resonate with the station's viewers. Mac wondered cynically if Johnson had advised the department about that, too. "Both the FBI and the New Orleans police believe he is. There's no doubt that the boy found in this park was murdered by the same man who killed my son."

  The two of them were standing near the oak where that body had been found. The reporter had already gone into Sarah's role in its discovery.

  "How did the police determine that? I understand this isn't anything like the usual locations where Tate leaves his victims."

  "No, it isn't. However, the methodology used in this killing was exactly the same as in the others."

  Although this part of the interview sounded rehearsed. Mac thought Sarah had made all the points she'd been instructed to make. And in spite of the fact that he was admittedly prejudiced, he thought she'd come across as both sympathetic and strong. The only time her emotional vulnerability had been evident had been when the reporter questioned her specifically about the circumstances surrounding Danny's death.

  "So they expect him to strike again?"

  Mac wondered if that question had been in the script. The probability that Tate would kill again wasn't one the department would want to dwell on.

  Sarah nodded. "Some other child. Another little boy. Tate doesn't have the guts to do anything else."

  On the advice of Daryl Johnson, they had avoided any mention of the murder of Sarah's ex-husband. After the discovery of the last victim virtually across the street from Sarah's apartment, there was little doubt in anyone's mind that Tate had been the perpetrator. For the purposes of this interview, however, tying Tate to an adult's death did them no good.

  "Although there was a lot of media coverage when you confronted Tate at the courthouse the morning after his hearing, you've kept a relatively low profile since your son's death. So why speak up now, Mrs. Patterson?"

  "Since the FBI discovered Tate's real identity, there's been an attempt by some in the media to portray him as a victim. As just another abused child. They've said those things as if that excuses what he's done. I just want to remind everyone that nobody murdered Samuel Tate when he was a child. Maybe, as they say, he was sexually molested. If so. I'm sorry for that, as I would be sorry for any child in that situation. But you have to remember that Tate got to live out his life. My son didn't. He was only eleven years old when Tate kidnapped, tortured, and then killed him. Any sympathy anyone has should be directed toward Danny and Tate's other victims and certainly not toward a cruel, spineless monster like their murderer."

  The camera cut away from Sarah's impassioned face and back to the reporter as she finished up the segment. "Sarah Patterson has shared her personal nightmare with our viewers because she doesn't want the focus to be on anyone other than the true victims of these crimes—the more than a dozen little boys Samuel Tate has murdered in various locations around the country, including here in the greater New Orleans area. The N.O.P.D., who are working in conjunction with other agencies, both locally and nationally, are devoting a huge percentage of their manpower and resources to the ongoing search for this dangerous serial killer. If you have any information that might be helpful, please call the number that appears on the bottom of your screen. In the meantime, we'll continue to cover this developing story for you. Back to you, Andrea."

  After the cameraman signaled the jump back to the studio had been successful, the reporter leaned forward to give Sarah a hug. Whatever words the two exchanged were too low for Mac to hear, but he knew Sarah had felt a rapport with the woman during their first interview.

  Maybe that's why they'd been able to arrange this second one so quickly. That and the media's still-intense interest in rehashing the ineptness of the police in Tate's bungled arrest.

  As Sarah approached the spot where he was standing, Mac smiled at her. "Good job."

  "I embellished on the FBI's text a little. Your profiler friend might not approve."

  "You got the spirit of it right. I don't think anybody is going to object to you calling Tate a monster."

  "Except—hopefully—Tate. How soon do you think we can expect some reaction?"

  The first interview had been three days ago. Sarah had gone back to work and back to the apartment two days before that. Morel had kept to the plan, rotating a small group of undercover officers in and out of the old building in the guise of doing renovations on the now-empty downstairs apartment.

  Mac had moved in there the same day Sarah had once again begun living upstairs. The cameras were in place in her apartment, and he'd spent the last five nights watching Sarah sleep, all the while thinking about the times they'd done that together in his bed.

  So far, there had been no reaction from Tate. In all honesty, Mac wouldn't be surprised if there never was one. He couldn't believe Tate wouldn't recognize Sarah's taunting for exactly what it was.

  "Johnson may have given Morel some kind of guess on a timetable," he said aloud. "If so, nobody's mentioned it to me."

  Sarah took a breath, turning to look at the television crew who were in the process of packing up their equipment. "I wish this was over."

  "We've done what we can. Nobody can force Tate to react. There's no guarantee he's even seeing these interviews. He could be a thousand miles away from here by now."

  Sarah turned back, her eyes meeting his. Their color seemed intensified by the paleness of her face, as did that faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  "He's still here, Mac. I can feel him."

  That was a little too new age for him. He would have thought it would be for someone as pragmatic as Sarah, but he didn't argue with her. He was aware, as he had been since all this had gone into play, of the effort she was making to maintain control.

  "Then I hope he heard every word you said."

  "No matter what, promise me you'll get him, Mac. Promise me."

  "I'm going to do my best. I can promise you that. Sarah. All he has to do is give me the chance."

  Tate didn't, however. Not in the remainder of that week. Nor through the next.

  During the third week of the operation. Mac realized he'd become a prisoner of the role he'd chosen. He spent his days tossing and turning on a cot in the back bedroom of the downstairs apartment while the fake workmen hammered and painted and traipsed in and out of its front door.

  While someone else looked out for Sarah.

  He awakened a dozen times a day, drawn out of what passed now for sleep by nightmare images of Tate doing to Sarah what he had done to the children he'd murdered. After those dreams, he would lie awake, listening for the other cops to leave and for the front door to open so he could track her footsteps as she went upstairs.

  When she reached the apartment on the third floor, she always called his cell. Since the department listened in on everything coming in or going out on her land line, the message, too, was always the same. I'm home. Short, to the point, and impersonal.

  As hard as it was to know that during the day she was out in
the world where Tate could get to her, it was almost harder to endure the nights, knowing she was only a couple of flights of stairs away. He could watch her prepare her solitary dinner from the department-stocked items in the freezer of her refrigerator. He could watch her undress for bed. He could even watch her sleep.

  Watch her...

  He walked over to the kitchen counter and poured one of the dozen cups of coffee he would consume tonight. The heavy caffeine intake might explain why

  his sleep was so broken during the daylight hours, but he couldn't risk changing the cycle he'd now established. He didn't sleep well during the day, so he needed the jolt the coffee gave in order to stay awake at night. After all, Sarah's life depended on him doing that.

  He carried the mug back to the fold-up table where they'd set up the monitors. He was in the act of putting the coffee down on the morning paper someone had left in the apartment today, when, out of habit, he glanced at the screen.

  Sarah was not in bed. The covers had been thrown back, and the pillow still carried the imprint of her head, clearly revealed by the camera.

  Bathroom, he thought. She's gone to the bathroom.

  Despite that logical explanation, a knot of cold fear formed in Mac's stomach. He didn't take his eyes off the monitor, willing her to appear in the doorway to the bath.

  What seemed like an eternity of seconds ticked off in his head before he realized he hadn't thought to look at his watch as soon as he'd discovered she wasn't in bed. He had no idea how long he'd been waiting. However long it was, it was more than time enough for Sarah to go to the bathroom and return.

  Maybe she was sick. Or maybe—

  Unwilling to play that guessing game, Mac bolted for the front door, unholstering his weapon as he ran. Morel had assigned an unmarked patrol car to this block. Should he call for backup or simply follow his instinct and get upstairs as fast as he could?

  He went with his training, jerking his cell out of the case on his belt. He flipped it open, and then, with the same hand in which he held the phone, worked the locks to throw open the door.