by Tami Hoag
They hadn't spoken since Sunday evening, when she had called to let him know the lab had nothing for them yet. Neither of them had said a word about Saturday night. It was in his eyes as he looked at her now—remembered hunger and heat. She could feel it just beneath her skin. An unnecessary complication, but there was no going back, and she knew she wouldn't have changed it if she had the chance. Not smart, but there it was.
“How'd it go with DePalma?” he asked.
Megan held her arms out at her sides. “I still have all my limbs.”
“And your job?”
She gave him a wry smile. “For the moment. Let's just say if this stakeout pays off, Josh won't be the only one getting saved. So, I'd better get back at it. I thought I'd run by the hospital and talk to the receptionist who called the rink the night Josh disappeared. See if she might be able to do a voice ID of the man she spoke with. If she could ID Olie's voice, then we'd know he took the call and that he knew Hannah would be late. Makes a stronger case for opportunity.”
“Good. I'll reach out to the authorities in his old stomping grounds, see if they can give us anything to go on. And I'll call the county attorney and apprise him of the situation.”
“Great.”
“Megan.” He said her name just to say it, then kicked himself for being a sap. The job was the job, he'd said. What went on between them in bed couldn't enter into it—nor should he have wanted it to. “I'm glad DePalma didn't do any damage.”
“Nothing wounded but my pride,” she murmured. “I'm out of here, Chief. Catch you later.”
1:07 P.M. -21° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -48°
I'm sorry. I just couldn't—s-s-s-ah-ah-ah-chew!” Carol Hiatt buried her nose in a handful of tissues and closed her eyes for a moment of weary surrender to the virus that was sweeping through the hospital staff.
“Bless you,” Megan said.
The receptionist blew her nose loudly and tossed the tissues into a brimming wastebasket. “This bug is the worst,” she confided in a raspy voice. The virus had rendered her hair a wilted mop of dyed-black waves atop a long, oval face. Her ski-slope nose was an angry shade of red. She sniffed and groaned. “I wouldn't be here myself, but the rest of the staff is sicker than I am.”
Megan nodded, trying to impart sympathy. Behind her, in the waiting area, a baby and a toddler were crying a discordant duet while a third child pounded out an atonal piece on a Fisher-Price xylophone. Geraldo was on the television—adult children of cross-dressing clergymen.
“I'm sorry,” Carol said again. “I went through all this with that other officer on Friday. I know I made the call, but it was just nuts here that night. I can't tell you who answered the phone at the rink.”
“He didn't identify himself?”
“I don't know any men who identify themselves over the phone. They all just start talking like they think you ought to know who they are, like they think you were just sitting around waiting for them to call,” she said with weary disgust. She swiped a fresh tissue under her nose and crunched it into the shape of a carnation.
Megan drew a fat black line through the word receptionist in her notebook. “You don't think it might come back to you if you heard his voice?”
“I wish I could say yes,” Carol said. She pulled another fistful of tissues out of the box beside the phone as her eyes filled and emotional distress tightened her features. “I think the world of Hannah. She's the best person I know. And to think that anyone would just take a little boy and do God knows what to him—”
Carol Hiatt raised a face twisted with anguish. “I'm sorry. I have a little boy of my own—Brian. He's best friends with Josh. They play on the same hockey team. He was there that night at the rink. It could have been him— It's so hard—”
Megan reached across the counter and touched the woman's shoulder. “It's okay,” she said softly. “I know you'd help if you could. This was a long shot; don't worry about it.”
“Please find Josh,” the woman whispered. Her plea struck Megan as the voice of every person in Deer Lake. They were all hurting, all stunned. They left their porch lights burning at night with signs on their front doors that said LIGHTS ON FOR JOSH. Because it wasn't only Josh who had been stolen, it was a part of their small-town innocence and trust.
Leslie Olin Sewek had a hell of a lot to answer for.
“We're doing all we can,” Megan said.
Walking away from the desk, she spotted the arrow on the wall pointing the way to the cafeteria. She followed it. Maybe caffeine would chase away her headache.
The cafeteria proved to be nothing more than a room with tables and chairs and a row of vending machines. A couple of maintenance guys sat at a far corner table throwing dice and drinking coffee. They didn't even look up when she came in.
Megan fed two quarters into the pop machine and punched the Mountain Dew button. Christopher Priest wandered in as the can rumbled down out of the belly of the machine. The black turtleneck clung to his narrow chest and crept up his forearms. His thin, bony hands looked a foot long sticking out of the too-short sleeves.
“Agent O'Malley.” His eyes brightened with surprise behind the big lenses of his glasses. The corners of his wide, lipless mouth flicked upward. “What brings you here? Not that virus going around, I hope.”
“No. I'm fine. What about yourself, Professor?”
“I have a student here.” He fed change into the coffee machine and ordered himself a cup of sludge with cream and sugar.
Megan popped the top of her Mountain Dew, fished a Cafergot out of her purse, and washed it down with a long swallow, all the while absently watching Priest's attention to neatness and detail as he retrieved his cup and took it to a table. He gingerly wiped the overflow off the side of the cup with a paper napkin, which he folded neatly and placed squarely on the table just to the left of the cup.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, sliding down sideways onto the chair to the professor's left. “The kid who was in that car accident the same night Josh was abducted.”
“Yes.” He sipped his coffee, his eyes straight ahead as the steam fogged over his glasses. “Precisely.”
“How's he doing?”
“Not very well, actually. He seems to have developed some complications. They may have to transfer him to a larger hospital in the Cities.”
“That's too bad.”
“Mmm . . .” He stared off across the room at a particularly colorful poster for the Heimlich maneuver. “Mike was running an errand for me,” he said so softly he might have been talking to himself. “For the project concerning perceptions and learning.”
“The one Dr. Wright mentioned the other day.”
“Yes. Mike keeps saying the road was completely bare and then he hit that curve.” He took another sip of coffee, blotted his lips with the napkin. “Life is funny, isn't it?”
“Yeah, it's a laugh riot from where I stand.”
He ignored her sarcasm. His curiosity seemed wholly analytical; the question he posed was posed to the world at large. “Is it fate or is it random? What brought Mike Chamberlain to that corner at that moment? What put Josh Kirkwood on that curb alone that night? What put you and me here at the same time?”
“Sounds like questions for the philosophy department.”
“Not necessarily. Computer science deals in logic, cause and effect, patterns of thinking.”
“Well, Professor,” Megan announced as she finished her soda and tossed the can into the recycling bin, “if you and your computer come up with a logical explanation for the shit that happens in this world, I'd like to be the first to know.”
CHAPTER 21
* * *
DAY 6
9:00 P.M. -28° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -61°
Arlan and Ramona Neiderhauser's home smelled strongly of mothballs. The smell wafted up Mitch's nostrils and burned his sinus linings. Sitting in a straight chair he had hauled up from the dining room, he stared through binoculars out the bedroom window at Olie's dark hovel across
the street. Lights were on in Oscar Rudd's house, the illumination spilling out onto the junker Saabs parked in his side yard.
Megan stood beside the window, leaning a shoulder against the wall, peeking out from behind the curtain. They both wore their coats—to be ready to run out and to ward off the stale, cold air of the house. The Neiderhausers left their thermostat turned up just enough to keep the pipes from freezing. Outside, the temperature was inching downward, threatening to shatter a record low that hadn't been broken in thirty years. The cold was so extreme that ice crystals had begun to form in the air, creating a phenomenon called snow fog, a weird, thin fog that hung above the ground like a special effect from a horror movie.
Despite the cold, Steiger had opted to remain on the street in an unmarked car. BCA, police, and sheriff's department personnel had been dispatched to strategic locations around town so that no matter which way Olie went, he would be followed. The mobile lab waited at the old fire hall, ready to roll out at a moment's notice to execute the search warrants.
“God, I hate this weather,” Megan said, her voice lowered to the hushed tone darkened bedrooms seemed to require. “Do you know it's going to be warmer at the North Pole tonight than it will be here?”
“You want to move to the North Pole?”
“I want to move to Grand Cayman.”
“The steel-drum music would drive you to suicide inside a month.”
“At least I'd die warm.”
Mitch switched hands on the binoculars and stuck his right one in his jacket pocket to snuggle up to a chemical hand-warmer packet. “You know Olie's got something like five computers in there?”
“Where'd he get the money for five computers?”
“He told me they were castoffs from businesses upgrading their systems. The warden at Walla Walla told me Olie tested high for intelligence. He's always studying something.”
“Little boys, for instance.”
“Yeah, but Olie's parole officer seemed surprised when I told him what was going down here. He didn't think Olie would get violent.”
Megan dropped the curtain and gave Mitch a look. “He was behind bars for forced sex with a child. That's not violent?”
“Force can be coercion. Violence has varying degrees.”
“Yeah, well, I read the sheet on this guy. It looked to me like he showed classic signs of escalation—window-peeping, then exposing himself, then fondling, then rape. What'd the boys in Washington have to say for their parole follow-up?”
Mitch shrugged. “Olie's not the first con who skipped.”
Megan checked her watch. Nine o'clock. Olie wasn't supposed to get off at the rink until eleven, but they needed to be in place just in case. Her gaze swept the small, cluttered bedroom, lingering on the bed, where they had tossed their two-way radios on the white chenille spread. Walkie-talkies, cops loitering with guns strapped under their armpits and binoculars trained on the house across the street. If this wasn't the most excitement this room had ever seen, Arlan and Ramona were one fun couple.
Mitch's cellular phone bleeped. He set the binoculars down and snapped the phone open. “Chief Holt.”
“Daddy?”
The tremulous little voice swept Mitch from one tension to another. “Jessie? Honey, what are you doing up this late?”
There was a sniffle and a hitched breath. “Are y-you gonna c-come and g-get me tonight?”
Mitch's heart crashed. Jessie. He'd forgotten her. There had been calls to make and a meeting with the county attorney. He'd had to pick his team and organize equipment and set up the surveillance points. And in the midst of all that he had forgotten his daughter.
“I'm sorry, honey,” he murmured. “No, I can't make it tonight. You'll have to stay with Grandpa and Grandma. It's really important that I work tonight.”
“Y-you always s-say that!” Jessie wailed. “I don't like you when you're a cop!”
“Please don't say that, sweetheart.” Did the plea sound as plaintive to Megan's ears as it did to his? He hated letting Jessie down. He hated it even more when she blamed his job, because that brought back memories of Allison and the arguments they'd had, the appeals she'd made that had fallen on deaf ears. Guilt wadded into a sour lump in his throat. “I promise we'll have a night together soon, honey. This is just so important. I'm trying to find Josh so he can be with his mom and dad. You know, he hasn't seen them in almost a week.”
The line was silent while Jessie mulled this over. “He must miss them,” she said softly. “He must be sad. I miss you, too, Daddy.” She sounded too old to be five, too disillusioned to be a little girl.
“I miss you, too, baby,” he whispered.
Joy came on the line, her voice like a razor in his ear. “I'm sorry we bothered you, Mitch,” she said with more rancor than contrition. “Jessie was just so upset, we couldn't get her to settle down. I've told her she shouldn't count on you—”
“Look, Joy.” Mitch struggled hard to hold on to his temper. This wasn't the time or place. “I'm in the middle of something here and I have to keep this line open. I'm sorry I forgot to call you. I hope it isn't an inconvenience for Jessie to stay tonight. We'll discuss whether or not Jessie can count on me at a later time.”
He broke the connection before she had a chance to cluck her tongue at him. He could see her pacing back and forth in front of their picture window—I wonder where your daddy is . . . Funny he hasn't called . . . —working Jessie into a state. Why the hell had he come here of all places after Allison and Kyle had been killed?
To punish himself for life.
Megan stood in silence along the wall, watching him through her lashes. The moment should have been private, but she couldn't just ignore his pain.
“My old man worked second shift so he wouldn't have to spend time with me,” she said. “He never once said he missed me.”
Mitch looked up at her. Moonlight filtered in through the lace curtain and illuminated her face. The vulnerability she usually guarded so zealously with her pride was the most intimate thing she'd given him yet.
“Jessie's very lucky to have you,” she murmured.
Noga's voice came over the two-way and the moment shattered like glass. “Chief! I got him going out a side door. He's headed your way on foot. Out.”
Mitch grabbed the radio. “Roger, Noogie. All units—he's moving on foot toward home. Be ready.”
Megan crouched at the window. It was impossible to see the path Olie had tramped down between the ice arena and his converted garage home, but he had to round the side of the building to get in. She stared at the corner of the little asphalt-shingled building until her eyes burned and her lungs ached from holding her breath. Finally, Olie Swain appeared with a backpack dangling by one strap from his left hand. He fumbled with his keys, dropped them on the sidewalk, and bent to pick them up. As he straightened, the TV 7 News van pulled up in the street.
“No!” Megan shouted, springing to her feet.
“Shit!” Mitch overturned his chair as he grabbed his two-way and bolted for the stairs.
They burst out the front door and into the bitter cold night, one behind the other. Mitch ran ahead, the two-way jammed against his face.
“We're screwed!” he barked into the unit. “And the son of a bitch who tipped the press had better eat his gun before I get my hands on him!”
Olie stood, frozen, horrified. The book bag dropped from his fingers and fell with a muffled thud at his feet. The side door of the TV 7 van rolled open like the belly of the Trojan horse, and a mob spilled out. A man with a big video camera on his shoulder. Another with a brilliant white light on a long pole. Leading the charge was a woman he had seen on the news and around the ice arena in the past week. She was probably beautiful, he thought, but bearing down on him, she looked like one of his worst nightmares.
They found you, Leslie. You thought you could hide, but they found you. You're so stupid, Leslie.
Cold sweat ran down his body like rain.
The wo
man thrust a microphone in his face. The light on the pole blinded him. Questions came at him like a hail of bullets.
“Mr. Swain, do you have any comment on the abduction of Josh Kirkwood? Is it true you were convicted of child molestation in Washington? Are you cooperating with the police in this investigation? Was the chief of police here aware of your history of crimes against children?”
They know. They know. They know. The voice chanted inside his head, louder and louder and louder. Until it was screaming. Until he thought his skull would split wide open and his brain would boil out of it.
Mitch Holt came running and put a shoulder into the back of the cameraman, sending him sprawling. The video camera crashed against the side of the house and fell into a snowbank.
Olie's bladder let go and warm urine gushed into his pants, freezing almost immediately on the fabric. He turned and bolted, running nowhere, running because instinct dictated it. His feet churned in the snow of the vacant lot. Beneath the drifts, dead weeds pulled at his boots like fingers reaching up from hell. The cold air sliced at his lungs, each ragged breath like a thousand knives. He flailed his arms like a struggling swimmer, trying to plunge onward. The world seemed to jerk up and down around him, a blur of stars and sky and snow and naked trees. He could hear nothing but the voice in his mind and the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
They know. They know. They know.
Then something hit him hard in the back and he went down with a strangled cry.
Mitch came down on Olie with a knee in the small of his back. He yanked the handcuffs off his belt and snapped one around Olie's right hand.
“Leslie Olin Sewek,” he said between gulps of frigid air. “You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford an attorney, the state will provide one free of charge.”
He twisted Olie's left arm up behind his back with enough force to make him cry out and slapped on the other cuff. “Do you understand what I just told you?”
