by Simon Wood
Scott didn’t know who else to try. There were people he could contact—Redfern’s parole officer, staff writers at the Independent, even a couple of cops in the SFPD—but they were all off-limits. If he were to talk to any of those people, it would get back to Sheils.
Scott ran a search for Redfern on the Independent’s archives. All the stories kicked up by the search dated back to Redfern’s capture, arrest, and trial—except for one. The most recent story was from a year ago and covered Redfern’s release. The story went with a “man who hoaxed the Independent” slant; his colleague, Dale Murphy, had covered it.
A photograph accompanied the story. It showed Redfern being met at the prison gates by a man identified as Kenneth Katz. According to the story, Katz was a friend. The article featured a quote from Katz saying, “Mike has done his time and now he wants to live his life in peace.”
Katz sounded like a stand-up guy, until Scott ran a search on him. Katz had sold his story to the Independent. He wasn’t Redfern’s childhood buddy. He’d been his cellmate for three years. Katz was a small-time crook, and Redfern’s only friend.
Scott looked across the newsroom at Murphy’s desk. He wasn’t there. Scott went over and took a seat. He asked casually if Murphy was around and got a no. He feigned disappointment. He didn’t want Murphy interrupting him.
Murphy was old-school. He kept all his contacts on two twin spindle Rolodexes—contact info for almost a thousand people. Scott looked up Katz. There was no address, just a San Francisco phone number. He scribbled the number down and dialed it when he returned to George’s office.
“Yeah.”
“Kenneth Katz?”
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“It’s the Independent. I wanted to talk to you about the latest Piper kidnapping.” Scott did his best to sound upbeat and professional and not like a parent coming apart at the seams.
“You mean you want to talk about Mike.” Sudden interest entered Katz’s tone.
“Yeah, I was hoping to get a quote from Mr. Redfern.”
“Five hundred bucks.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want Mike’s contact info, it’ll cost you five hundred bucks.”
Some pal you are, Scott thought. “Okay. Come to the office, and I’ll have your money.”
“No, no, no. You come to me.”
Going to Katz wasn’t an option. Sheils and Rooker would be through with their interviews in less than half an hour, closing his window of opportunity. Scott didn’t know when he’d get the chance to be alone again.
“If it’s a question of transportation, I’ll spring for a cab to bring you here.”
“It don’t work that way, friend. You want something from me, you come to me.”
“I don’t really have the time to make the trip. It would be so much more convenient if you could swing by here.”
“No doubt you’d consider it a personal favor.”
“I would.”
“I don’t do favors. It don’t pay.”
What a prick. Scott couldn’t believe this guy was flexing his muscles over five hundred bucks. His gut told him to blow the guy off, but he needed Redfern’s information.
He checked his watch. He guessed he had twenty-five minutes before Sheils came looking for him.
“Okay, where do you want to meet?”
Scott left George’s office and crossed the newsroom floor. He walked in the direction of the men’s room. No one engaged him beyond a head nod or smile. He returned the greetings while praying Sheils wouldn’t suddenly appear.
He took the stairs to avoid bumping into anyone and slipped from the building through the parking lot. He was thankful Jane had insisted on driving their own car to the bank. He got behind the wheel and drove to the location Katz had given him. He hit the ATM on the way and withdrew the five hundred.
Scott parked in a red zone on the corner of Bryant and Gilbert. He didn’t see Katz and couldn’t afford to wait. If he could get this over and done with, he stood a slim chance of getting back before Sheils finished his interview. He pulled out his cell and punched in Katz’s number.
“I can see you,” Katz said in his lazy tone.
Scott scanned for him and still didn’t see him. “Where are you?”
“Leave the wheels. I’m in the alley across the street.”
Scott spotted a service alley for a building. Dumpsters blocked a clear view of anyone lurking within. It bore all the hallmarks of a trap. Scott groaned.
He left his Honda with its hazard lights flashing. He jogged across the street, but slowed when he entered the alley. He called Katz’s name before venturing beyond the alley’s mouth.
Katz stepped out from behind a Dumpster. He was an untidy mass of flesh, barrel-chested and thick-necked. He ambled toward Scott with his hands down and away from his sides.
Scott brought out the wad of bills from his pocket. “I’ve got your money.”
Katz snatched the money and counted through the bills. “I’m going to need more.”
“We agreed on five hundred.”
Katz pocketed the five hundred. “That was until I realized who you are. Your face is all over the news. Now, why would you be interested in contacting Mike Redfern when your kid is in the Piper’s clutches?” He shook his head. “It stinks, Scott. It stinks worse than this alley.”
Scott bridled. This small-time creep had put it all together in a matter of minutes. God knew how quickly Sheils would connect the dots if he got wind of this.
“How much do you want?”
“It depends what you want Mike for.”
“How much do you want?” Scott repeated.
“Watch the tone. Just remember who is calling the shots.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand”—Katz smirked—“to begin with.”
The smirk and the “to begin with” tipped the balance. Scott was already living under one threat. He wouldn’t live under another, especially from the likes of Katz.
“No,” Scott said. “Five hundred is what we agreed to, and five hundred is all you’re getting.”
Katz’s smirk developed into something ugly, and he brushed past Scott on his way to the street.
It felt good when he drove his fist into Katz’s kidneys. Scott expected the big man to absorb the blow and turn on him, but instead, he crumpled, collapsing against the side of a Dumpster. Katz possessed more bravado than muscle. Scott pushed him down and kept him in place with a glare. “You’re going to give me Redfern’s address and phone number.”
Katz nodded and reached into his jacket pocket, but pulled out a switchblade instead. He slashed the air with the knife, and Scott leapt out of the blade’s arc.
Scott had made an error. He’d jumped deeper into the alley, putting Katz between him and his escape. He knew he was faster than Katz, but the narrow alley and the Dumpster constricted the route, putting him in reach of Katz’s knife.
“You just doubled the payment,” Katz snarled and held the knife out at Scott.
Katz struggled to his feet, his bulk working against him. He rolled onto all fours, putting his knife hand on the ground. Scott saw his opportunity. He sped forward, stamped his foot on Katz’s knife hand, and kneed him in the side of the head. The impact cut Katz’s strings and he went down hard.
Scott dropped his weight on Katz’s back, forcing the air from his lungs. He wrenched the knife from his hand and pressed it against his throat.
“Got any other surprises?”
“No. Just the knife.”
Scott patted him down anyway and found nothing.
He yanked Katz’s head back by the hair and jammed the knife against the underside of his throat. He pressed so hard the blade nicked the skin. “There’s a man out there who has my son. He’s likely to kill him even if I pay him the ransom. Do you think I have time for your petty bullshit?”
Katz didn’t answer.
“I asked you a question.”
“No,” he stammere
d, “you don’t have time.”
“Now we understand each other. Do you have Redfern’s address?”
“Yes.”
“Then give it to me.”
Scott climbed off Katz’s back.
Katz rolled over and fumbled in his pocket. He yanked out the cash he’d just extorted. His hands shook so badly he dropped the money. He gathered it up and offered it to Scott.
“I don’t want the money. All I want is Redfern.”
Katz reached into his pants pocket and brought out a folded scrap of paper. He held it out to Scott with a shaky hand.
Scott snatched the paper and unfolded it. It listed an address in Lebanon, Oregon, but the name on the paper confused him. “Who’s Ray Banks?”
“A new identity. That’s what I do. Social security numbers. Driver’s licenses. You come to me. Mike got threats after he got out. He needed a new start, and I gave him one.”
Scott stared him down. “This better be right.”
“It is. It’s golden.”
Katz looked too scared to be lying, but Scott had to make sure. He yanked him up into a sitting position and slammed him against the Dumpster.
“You aren’t going to warn him, and you aren’t going to tell anyone else. If you do, I’ll know and I’ll find you. Do you understand me?”
Scott left Katz slumped against the Dumpster, sitting in his cash. He tossed the switchblade in the Dumpster on the way back to his car. He got behind the wheel and started shaking. He’d done what the Piper had asked, but he didn’t like how he’d gotten it done. Intimidation was what the Piper did. Not him. He had to cling to that. No matter what happened from now on, he had to remain himself.
He reexamined the paper with Redfern’s new identity and address written on it. Never had a death warrant looked so cheap.
His cell phone chirped and he pulled it out. Time had run out. He had messages from George, Jane, and Sheils. There was no going back to the Independent building to pretend he’d been there all along. He had no excuse for his absence. He needed to be found elsewhere, and he thought he knew just the place to go.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Piper turned into the driveway of his ranch and stopped his F-150 in front of the house. He’d last been up here a couple of months ago to repaint the exterior of the house, but the place had changed. This was no longer his weekend retreat. It was a place where he kept children against their will. It had taken him a long time to dislodge that feeling after Nicholas Rooker. Now all that hard work was ruined. Nicholas seemed like only yesterday.
He let himself into the house, bringing his provisions with him. He stocked the pantry and refrigerator with enough food to last him close to a month. He didn’t expect to be here that long, but it paid to be prepared. He’d brought a camp stove and a supply of bottled water in case of a standoff scenario.
He removed the leather pouch from a box and unzipped it. The 9mm automatic slid into his hand. It felt cold and alien in his grip, but regained familiarity as he loaded the weapon and stuffed it into his waistband.
He propped the door open and opened up all the windows to flush out the stale air. He liked the ranch house but rarely used the place. It was the reason why he’d gotten rid of the horses. He had someone in to take care of them when he wasn’t around, but it wasn’t fair to the animals. He left the house to air out and crossed over to the paddock. He’d considered trying again, moving to the ranch and renting out his home in Half Moon Bay, but Sammy Fleetwood had changed everything.
Sammy’s kidnapping was a mistake. Sheils would stop at nothing this time. He’d turn the country upside down before he gave up on the boy. There was a chance he’d find this place—not now or even soon, but in the long term, there was a chance.
He didn’t like the morbid funk settling over him, and he turned away, only to be faced with another reminder of the past. The barn stood pressed up against the line of eucalyptuses as if trying to hide, but there was no making it disappear. It had all happened in the barn.
He recalled the faces of the children he’d kept here. They’d been good kids. None of them had caused him any trouble, although the chloral hydrate helped there. He settled on the face of Nicholas Rooker. On the night he’d smothered the boy, he had gotten the feeling Nicholas sensed something wasn’t right. Nicholas stared right into him as if he were made of glass. Had he known what was going to happen? Had he seen the hypodermic filled with a larger-than-normal dose? The Piper wasn’t sure, then or now. He just knew Nicholas was extra quiet when he had gone into the barn that final night and placed the pillow on the boy’s face.
He walked over to the barn and inspected the padlock before opening it. No one had tried to force it. The last thing he needed now was a vandal or someone looking for a place to crash. He swung the doors open. He flicked on the light switch and a single fluorescent tube ignited but failed to illuminate the vast expanse beyond a dull glow. He didn’t need light to find what he was looking for. He’d built it, carved it out by himself.
He grabbed the shovel leaning up against the wall and picked a spot on the ground. He dragged the shovel’s blade across the dirt. After eight years, it had settled, squeezing out the air to form a crust. He chipped away at the soil, easily finding the corners. He continued until he’d exposed the entire edge, then shoveled the few inches of dirt off the surface of the trapdoor.
He reached for the iron ring and took a breath before yanking the wood door open. He snapped on a flashlight and aimed it into the depths. The light fell upon the cramped confines. The cot had stood up well over time.
His trepidation left him in that instant. He’d feared time had blunted his razor-sharp instincts, but just one look into the cellar, and eight years of dormancy was eradicated. He was the Piper. He was and always would be. The realization struck him hard, harder than he’d expected. When the moment had passed, he descended into the cellar where he, the Piper, kept other people’s children.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eight years earlier…
The rain hammered down on Golden Gate Park, beating the ground like galloping racehorses. Storm clouds had cloaked the city since dawn.
Scott followed the police officer through the park toward the gathering. He hunched his shoulders against the relentless rain, but it still got underneath his jacket collar. Its chilling touch failed to match the chill he felt from within.
The congregation turned toward him when he drew close. Several of the assembled cops and agents cursed him under their breath.
“Let him through,” Sheils barked, and a path opened.
The FBI agent glared at Scott. His hands were balled into fists and looked ready to throttle him. Instead, he pointed at Nicholas Rooker’s body lying on the ground.
He looked so peaceful. His head lay on a small rise in the park as if it were a pillow. But the boy was too still to be asleep. His chest failed to rise and fall, and he didn’t flinch as the raindrops pounded his eyelids. His legs were placed together with his hands interlaced across his stomach, and he held a note between his dead fingers. The rain’s onslaught had smudged the words, but it remained legible.
YOU’RE TO BLAME
Sheils grabbed a fistful of Scott’s jacket and jerked him closer to the corpse. None of the assembled law enforcement agents made any attempts to stop him.
“I wanted you to see this. The Piper and I don’t agree on much, but we do agree on one thing.” He pointed at the smudged note. “That boy is dead because of you.”
“I know,” Scott said. He was responsible. There was nothing he could ever do to repair the damage. Nothing.
“Good. Then write about that.”
Charles Rooker’s voice cut through the roar of the rain. “Where is he? I want to see him. I want to see my boy.”
Sheils released his hold on Scott with a shove.
Rooker burst through the perimeter of people surrounding his dead son. Alice Rooker and two agents restrained him. The moment he set eyes on his murdered child,
his legs went out from under him. Only the agents prevented him from falling to the ground.
“Oh, God, Nicholas.”
He shook free of the agents and crawled on all fours toward his son. Alice stood transfixed at the sight of her dead son, frozen in place by her own private hell, but the sight of her husband crawling on his hands and knees galvanized her. She dropped to her knees next to him and embraced him.
“Stop, Charles. Please, just stop.”
The sight of the Rookers turned Scott’s stomach and he had to look away.
Sheils swept in to stop Rooker from contaminating the crime scene. With Alice’s help, he lifted the man to his feet. The harsh tone he’d used with Scott only moments before had been replaced with sincere compassion.
“Mr. Rooker, I can’t let you touch him. We need to check for physical evidence. I don’t want the Piper getting away.”
“Why’d he do it? I was going to pay. He didn’t have to do this.”
Sheils struggled for a reply. How did anyone answer a question like that? How did anyone explain someone like the Piper?
“Let me hold him,” Rooker pleaded.
“I can’t. Not yet. You can be with him later.”
Suddenly, Rooker became aware of the people around him. He stood back from Sheils and palmed away the tears.
“You’re right,” Rooker said. He spotted the note, seemingly noticing its presence for the first time. He nodded. “We are to blame. We let Nicholas down.”
The present…
Scott stared at the spot where Nicholas Rooker had lain. He’d visited here several times over the years when guilt compelled him to return to the scene of the crime. If he focused on the spot, he swore that he could make out the indentation left in the ground by Nicholas’s body. It was crazy, he knew. There was nothing after eight years to mark the event other than his memories of that night.
His rubbed the Piper’s cell phone in his pocket, willing it to ring. He’d phoned the Piper repeatedly on the drive to the park, but the son of a bitch hadn’t answered. Scott had the information the Piper wanted. The scrap of paper was a slug of molten lead burning in his pocket, and he wanted to hand it over. The Piper was fucking with him for no good reason other than he could.
