“Being Matthew, he’s not going to beg you to come see him—but he can make you come to see him in order to secure these pieces of the puzzle he’s holding just out of reach. It’s all he has,” she concluded, painting the older man for the sad, sorry excuse of a human being he was.
“He just likes being in control and manipulating us,” Ridge said bitterly.
“Maybe, but he also wants to see you,” Zoe pointed out. “If he didn’t, he’d have different requirements before he gave up the information. Think about it,” Zoe implored, looking around at Sam’s siblings.
For a few moments, there was silence. Silence that seemed to drag on.
And then Annabel broke it by saying, “I think she’s right.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, glancing at Zoe. “I hate to admit it, but—yeah, I think so, too.”
Ethan sighed. It was obvious he wanted to hold out. But just as obvious that he knew he couldn’t.
“Okay,” he said, looking at Zoe instead of Sam, “count me in.”
After that, the rest just fell into place, with each of them taking a month, at the end of which time they would hopefully have all the pieces to the puzzle that would finally lead them to the spot where their mother was buried.
It was a goal they all held in common.
Chapter 11
By now, Sam had come to the realization that he couldn’t talk Zoe out of doing what she felt she needed to do, so he didn’t waste his time or his breath in even trying. Which was why Zoe returned to the prison with him the following day.
As before, Matthew Colton was already seated at the table in the communal visiting area, waiting for him when he entered the room with Zoe. It occurred to Sam that as of yet, he hadn’t seen his father walk in on his own power and he began to wonder why. Both times the senior Colton was already seated and Sam suspected there might actually be a reason behind the orchestrated scene. Most likely, his father, despite battling the ravages of cancer, didn’t want to exhibit any sort of physical weakness in front of his offspring. And that, he was certain, strictly had to do with image, not any sort of parental feelings on Matthew’s part.
The cold-blooded killer had never cared about any of them.
What Zoe maintained yesterday notwithstanding, he felt Matthew was incapable of any sort of feelings for anyone—other than himself.
So, Sam concluded, to Matthew it was important to maintain a facade, an image of strength no matter what. Which, ultimately, was the lethal disease systematically destroying his insides.
The squinting eyes grew even more so as Matthew watched them approach him.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Romeo and Juliet, back again.”
The smug, sneering look on the pale, sunken face looked particularly evil to Sam. For a split second, he came very close to turning on his heel and taking Zoe with him.
“This is getting to be a regular habit now, isn’t it?” Matthew asked, laughing.
The laugh was interrupted by a coughing fit that succeeded in temporarily angering the senior Colton. When he could finally catch his breath again, Matthew gestured to the other two seats at the table.
“Well, sit down. Talk. You are here to talk, right?” he pressed, pinning his youngest son down with a penetrating look that dared him to pretend otherwise.
“You’ve got what you want, old man,” Sam said grudgingly.
For once, Matthew didn’t endeavor to draw the scene out, didn’t attempt to be coy. Instead, he went directly to the heart of the subject, watching his son’s face closely. “They’ll come?”
“They’ll come,” Sam verified. “One each month, just the way you specified. Now all you have to do is live up to your part—and stay alive,” Sam added, almost daring him to keep his word.
Matthew dissolved into another coughing fit before he could answer. When he finally stopped, there was moisture in the inner corners of his eyes, not from any spent emotion, but from the toll that trying to refrain from coughing took on him. For several moments, there was only the sound of the older man’s heavy breathing.
“I’ll do what I can.” After a dramatic pause, Matthew tapped his palm on the top of the rectangular white box that was sitting in front of him on the table. It looked like the kind of box a heavy winter coat might be put in just before it was wrapped up and given as a gift. “I’m a man of my word,” he told Sam.
Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from saying what he wanted to regarding his father’s so-called “word” and the honor that implied. Instead, he reached for the box.
Matthew looked almost reluctant to raise his hands and release his claim to what was inside.
Sam assumed the box contained the letters he had asked for.
In part, Sam guessed, the letters stroked the old man’s ego, kept his spirit going. He knew Matthew basked in the gory reputation he had earned. At this point, Sam supposed it was all the old man had, which made the convicted serial killer just that much more pathetic in his eyes.
And what is it that you have? Sam asked himself. How full is your life? When you die, who’s going to remember you?
This was stupid. He didn’t have time for self-examination, Sam upbraided himself. And this was definitely not the time to let Matthew get to him.
Matthew slowly raised his hand away from the box, indicating by his action that he was giving his son permission to take possession of it, and perforce, the letters that were inside.
“Those are they,” Matthew said needlessly, his voice particularly raspy. “All the letters I got in the past six months.” He raised his chin, something, Sam noted, that seemed increasingly more difficult for the old man to do, and stated rather proudly, “I didn’t hold nothin’ back. That’s all of them. The good, the bad and the ugly.”
The last statement was followed by a deep laugh which then, in turn, was followed by his hacking cough. It was beginning to seem that one could not come without the other.
“There’s over a hundred of them,” Matthew told them. “And when you’re done readin’ them, I want them back, you hear? I’m only lendin’ them to you, nobody else. I don’t want nobody else snooping in my life,” Matthew dictated imperiously.
“A little late for that, isn’t it?” Sam asked sarcastically.
A response to which Matthew smiled a smile that, to Zoe’s way of thinking, brought a new definition to the word evil. She had to actually steel herself off to keep from shivering from the chill that shimmied up and down her spine.
“You don’t know everything, boy,” Matthew informed him with perverse pride. “Nobody does.”
Sam’s face darkened. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
At that moment, Matthew seemed to come alive right before their eyes, his own eyes widening just enough to display blue eyes that were almost sparkling.
“Just what I said.” And then his eyelids drooped again, as if the effort to keep them open was far too much for him. Matthew nodded at the box. “And don’t think about holding any of those back. I know exactly what’s in there.”
Sam had had just about as much as he could stomach for one morning. He rose again to his feet. Zoe was quick to follow suit.
“Right,” Sam responded. “I’ll get back to you, old man,” he said as he turned away, taking the box and tucking it under his arm as if it was a rectangular football.
It felt heavy, he thought, really heavy. He was tempted to open it to make sure there was nothing in the box except paper, but he had an uneasy feeling that was something Matthew was counting on. He could be wrong, of course, and it was just his imagination, but he was taking no chances. He’d done enough to sate the man’s ego for one day.
Matthew raised his voice. “Yes, you will.”
The words followed Sam out of the room as the guard unlocked the door, letting him and Zoe
leave the room and Matthew’s presence.
He had to police himself not to release a loud sigh of relief.
Only after he had regained control over himself did Sam look toward the woman who had insisted on silently being there for him. He wondered if her presence had a calming effect on him, or if it had all been just a coincidence.
“Had enough?” Sam asked her.
Rather than answer yes or no, Zoe replied, “I’m okay.” Looking at the box he had tucked under his arm, she couldn’t help asking him, “Are you taking that home with you?”
“This filth?” Despite the weight, he had to look to reassure himself that the box he’d tucked under his arm was still there, that it hadn’t just disappeared somehow, like a cheap magic show trick. He wasn’t putting anything past his father. “No, I don’t want it in my house. It’s bad enough I’ve had to live with so much of what was going on in my head. No, this is going down to the station.”
She looked surprised that he was taking it to work. “I thought you told your father you weren’t sharing this with anyone.”
Sam stopped in front of his vehicle and aimed his key fob at it. He lost no time in opening the driver’s side door, depositing the seemingly ordinary looking box in the back seat.
“No, that was what he said. If you recall, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t agree to his terms or tell him where he could go and stuff them.” Sam got in behind the wheel and closed the door. “It’s easier to let him think what he wants to think.”
Zoe quickly got in on her side. Sam had aroused her curiosity. “But if he would have pressed you, would you have lied?”
Sam stopped what he was doing and looked at her, surprised. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, is that what you’re thinking?”
Zoe secured her seat belt then shifted in her seat so she could face him as she told him, “No, that never crossed my mind. I just wanted to know if you’re too principled to lie.”
He laughed dryly. “Is that what you call it? ‘Too principled’?”
She shrugged, not sure if he was making fun of her, or if he was just trying to get an answer out of her. “It’s as good a term as any.”
His key still in his hand, for the moment Sam left it out of the ignition as he decided to turn the tables on her. “How would you feel about something like that? About lying to get to the truth faster?”
In all honesty, he expected Zoe to be indignant at the idea of being accused of even considering telling a lie. He fully expected her to support a road that was straight and narrow because that was what she made him think of: the straight and narrow.
“I’d do whatever it took to save someone from being senselessly killed,” she told him simply. Then, just like that, she changed topics. “Two people reading the letters would cover twice as much ground as one person.”
“Two,” he repeated, furrowing his brow as he slanted a glance in her direction. “Meaning you and me?”
She nodded primly, relieved she had managed to get that out. She was beginning to employ bravado, but inside, she was still uneasy and nervous no matter what sort of outer demeanor she was trying to maintain.
“At least to start with, yes,” she answered, her words finally managing to come out after making their way over a bone-dry tongue.
Sam put his key into the ignition. They had to be getting back. He had to be getting back. “You’re volunteering?”
She squared her shoulders even as the car began to move forward. “Yes.”
Did she have any idea what she was letting herself get into? “To read letters most likely written by psychopaths?”
She needed to focus on the positive aspects of what they were going to be doing, not what was most likely actually going to be in the letters. Exercising extreme mental control, she could separate herself from that aspect.
“If it winds up saving one life,” she told him, “sure. What’s a queasy stomach in exchange for someone’s life?”
Sam found himself laughing, more in disbelief than from the dark humor of the situation. And maybe, just maybe, he was a little pleased as well, pleased that she could be so strong when she looked so fragile.
“You really are something else, aren’t you, Zoe?” he responded.
She really wasn’t sure just what Sam meant by that. But asking him to explain might destroy the magic of the moment. And, right now, he had made her feel special even if he hadn’t intended for that to happen.
“Just a responsible citizen who doesn’t want to see any more bloodshed,” she replied simply.
“You might regret that choice,” Sam predicted.
She raised her head just a little as she drew her shoulders back, a soldier about to walk into a battle with an unknown enemy. “I doubt it.”
The corners of Sam’s mouth curved just a little.
We’ll see, Zoe. We’ll see.
* * *
Although Sam really would have rather talked her out of it for her own sake, there was no denying that he could certainly use Zoe’s help wading through Matthew’s prized possessions.
They were currently even more shorthanded than usual at the station. They had never been what could even remotely be termed “overstaffed” and there were two of their people out with the flu. While neither the officer nor the detective who were out sick were particularly the sharpest knives in the proverbial drawer, they were still useful in their own way.
Right now, laid up and in bed, they weren’t being useful at all.
Walking ahead of Zoe into the bullpen where both the officers and the detectives of the Granite Gulch police force did their paperwork, Sam led the way to where his desk was located.
All the desks were arranged in twos and faced one another, except for his and Jim Murray’s, the police chief’s. The police chief’s desk was all the way on the other side of the room, in a place where he could oversee everyone else.
Sam put the box down on top of his desk, right next to the refurbished computer the department had assigned him.
“Okay, you can sit here, on the other side of my desk,” he said, indicating the long, narrow table that butted up against his desk. It doubled as a catchall table. “I’d put you at Riley’s desk,” he said, referring to the detective who was out sick, “but it hasn’t been cleaned since the station opened and I don’t want you catching anything.”
Sam, she realized by the expression on his face, was only half kidding.
He brought over one of the empty chairs and positioned it at the table. Her chair faced his.
“This okay?” he asked her.
All she had to do was look up to see him. She couldn’t think of a better view.
“Perfect,” she responded.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sam muttered.
Turning back to the box he’d opened, he dug into it and extracted all the letters. He deposited them on the desk, tossing the box down beside his wastepaper basket.
The letters were written on all kinds of paper, from scented stationary, to sheets that looked as if they had been torn out of yellowed journals, to pages that had emerged out of state-of-the-art printers. They were handwritten, they were typed and some were comprised of letters that were cut out of other sources and pasted on the page.
Those, Sam assumed, were threatening letters rather than letters penned in admiration. Once they were ruled as threatening letters, they automatically found their way to the bottom of the pile.
Zoe took in the resulting stacks. At first glance, the job of sifting through them seemed almost overwhelming. But, like every other job, this could be effectively tackled one piece at a time.
When she turned to face Sam, she had her gung ho expression on.
“I could separate them into different piles,” she volunteered.
He wasn’t sure what
she meant. “What kind of piles? You mean by size?”
Zoe shook her head, the loose blond wisps, he noticed, almost moving independently of her motion. He blocked the urge to reach out and touch the loose strands, to tuck them behind her ears.
“No, by type.” She broke it up into the broadest categories. “You know, love letters, letters expressing admiration and the desire to follow in his path, letters that promise hell and damnation are waiting for him for all his heinous deeds. Type,” she repeated.
“Probably not too many of those,” Sam predicted. “And in order for you to do that,” he went on to point out, “you’d have to give each letter at least a quick once-over. Might as well save yourself the time and trouble and just read them straight through.
“When we finish each letter,” he suggested, “that’s when we can separate them. That way, we can see how many we have in each category once we’re done. With luck, we’ll find the guy we’re looking for in the ‘wannabe’ pile,” he speculated.
“Okay,” Zoe readily agreed, eager to get started. The sooner they started, the sooner they would be done with it. “Sounds like a plan.”
But as Zoe picked up her first pile of letters, Sam put his hand on her wrist, stopping her for a moment. “You’re sure you’re up to this?” he asked again. He was trying to remain indifferent, but concern kept poking through the layers he’d wrapped around himself.
“I’m a librarian,” she reminded him and there was a touch of pride in her voice. “Reading is second nature to me.”
Sam frowned as his eyes met hers. “You know what I mean.”
He found her smile almost radiant—the next moment, it struck him as odd that he would even come up with that image.
“Yes, I know, and thank you for asking, but I’ll be fine,” she told him. “You’d be surprised what I’ve come across.”
“Maybe you can tell me sometime,” Sam said absently. His mind was already elsewhere as he began to read the top letter in his stack.
Colton Copycat Killer Page 12
