At What Cost

by James L'Etoile

  “He said he knew about Donovan Layton too. That part doesn’t surprise me. He would have had to assign a team to investigate the old man’s death. Probably Wilson and Sikes.”

  Paula opened the laptop cover, found the end of the power cord, and plugged it into a wall outlet. John crossed behind her and stood over her shoulder while the laptop came to life.

  “Did he know we were there, where Layton got burned?” Paula asked.

  “He didn’t say anything.” John caught his reflection in the laptop screen, zombie-pale. “He didn’t mention the bloodstains on my shirt or the shaved skunk stripe on the back of my head, either.”

  “So he knows what we’re doing?” Paula said.

  “He always seems to know.”

  John sat, pulled the computer close, and opened up a web browser. He thumbed the trackpad and scrolled to the list of his browser history. He found the website where he had connected with Winnow. He’d saved the random number and letter key in the laptop’s password list.

  “That wasn’t very smart, leaving that trail,” Paula said.

  “I didn’t know what I was doing.” John tapped the trackpad and brought up the browser.

  The screen was black and green, like before. A single, blinking cursor flashed on the page.

  “Here we go,” John said.

  Winnow, are you there? He typed. The words scrolled out in green letters on the laptop screen.

  The cursor blinked. No response followed his question.

  A minute passed, then two more, and still nothing from Brice Winnow.

  John hit the return key and typed out another line. I want my son.

  The cursor blinked off and on and off, a heartbeat on the screen. The screen flashed, and the green cursor dimmed. It throbbed at a faster rate, and letters scrolled onto the screen, sent from an invisible hand.

  You’re not the only one interested in the young man.

  “What does that mean?” Paula said, pointing at the screen.

  John positioned his hands over the keyboard. He typed out a response: Leave the boy out of this. It’s between you and me.

  The cursor blinked for a few seconds, considering John’s answer. Letters began scrolling out. Nothing personal; this is only business. I’m willing to listen to your proposal.

  John began composing a message when the screen flickered. His keyboard strokes no longer registered on the screen. Instead, another message from Winnow appeared. I’m disappointed in you, Detective Penley. Someone with an IP address in the police tech unit is online with us. I thought we had an understanding.

  John jabbed at the keyboard, but nothing happened. He couldn’t respond.

  “What’s going on?” Paula said.

  A sergeant from the tech unit entered the detective bureau, scanned the room until he found John and Paula. He trotted over to them and spoke in a rapid, clipped burst. “We didn’t do it. We didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “What happened? Why am I locked out?” John said.

  “IA came with some FBI gal and took over my network,” the tech sergeant said.

  “Hey, it wasn’t me,” Paula blurted.

  “What is internal affairs doing with this?” John asked.

  “I dunno,” the sergeant said.

  Paula pointed at the screen. “Look.”

  A new message hit the computer screen: This is Special Agent K. Lincoln of the FBI. I trapped your IP address and know where you are.

  A quick reply shot back to the FBI from Winnow: I doubt that very much, Special Agent K. Lincoln of the FBI. Please pass my condolences on to Detective Penley. His son would have liked to fly his kite again.

  John watched the lines of green text blink and disappear, leaving a slate-black screen behind, and along with it, all connection to the man who held his son was lost.

  John felt the pressure of the room change and press down on his chest, but it wasn’t from the threatening message on the computer screen. A buzz of self-importance filled the detective bureau in the form of a woman in a tailored, tight black pantsuit, along with two men in dark suit jackets over white shirts and thin ties. The woman’s heels clacked off the thin linoleum in a cadence that announced she was someone who demanded attention.

  “John Penley, I’m Special Agent K. Lincoln. You have no right to interfere with my investigation.” She nodded to one of her associates. The man to her right moved with two quick strides and snatched the laptop computer from the desk, pulling the power cord out of the wall as he yanked it away.

  “This guy has my son, so I’d say I have a right to get him back, and I didn’t ask for the feds’ help to do it,” John said.

  Lincoln moved a strand of jet-black hair away from her eyes. “I’m not here about the boy. I’m here to take down the Outcast Killer. Your mayor petitioned the FBI for assistance.”

  Paula stood tall behind John and squared her shoulders. The contrast between the two women was a study in opposites. Paula Newberry was a tough, gritty, get-your-hands-dirty kind of cop who wasn’t afraid to get in the trenches with the guys. Lincoln, with her tailored, couture wardrobe, expensive haircut, and enough makeup to go on camera, looked the part of someone who swooped in and took credit for the hard work of others.

  “Our first priority is to get Tommy back,” Paula said.

  “Your only priority, Detective, is to stay out of my way,” Lincoln said. The title “detective” fell from her lips as if it were derogatory.

  “Tommy is the only thing that matters,” Paula replied.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back,” John said.

  “That will be hard to do with both of you in custody for obstruction. Besides, what proof do you have that the boy is alive? The Outcast Killer doesn’t have any history of letting anyone live,” Lincoln said.

  “Don’t tell me about this guy. I’ve been riding this case for months,” John said.

  “And you have nothing to show for it. I’ve been briefed on your amateurish investigation. That’s why I’m here. I get results.”

  John stood. “I don’t have to listen to this crap.” Before he took a step, one of Lincoln’s FBI minions stopped him with a palm flat against his chest.

  “Actually, you do have to listen to me. You’re going to tell me everything you know. As far as I’m concerned, you may be assisting the killer.”

  “You can’t be serious,” John said, pushing the FBI agent’s hand away.

  “How else would you explain not closing this case? You’re in it with him, or you’re a crappy cop. Which is it?”

  “Fuck you, Lincoln. You think you could do better?” Paula asked.

  Agent Lincoln responded to Paula with an icy gaze in her direction, then focused back on John.

  “So tell me, what did the message mean, about flying a kite?” Lincoln asked.

  “I don’t know what Winnow meant,” John said.

  “I haven’t established that Brice Winnow is a person of interest in this case. We don’t know who put that message on the screen.”

  “What? Of course he is,” Paula said. “Winnow is the center of the whole thing. We have the photo that ties him to—”

  “An old class photo of Weber and Horn isn’t enough to tie him to this crime. The prints lifted by your own department and the nursing registry identify the man as Patrick Horn, not Winnow.”

  “What fantasy world do you live in, lady? Winnow and Horn are the same guy,” John said.

  “You find any of Winnow’s fingerprints? DNA, perhaps? Anything that could be admissible in court? In fact, anyone who could have given testimony against Brice Winnow is dead. One of them died in your interrogation room. Now that’s certainly enough to raise some concern, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Winnow is the Outcast Killer,” John said.

  “I have nothing to prove that. The mayor’s office certainly doesn’t support that line of reckless speculation,” Lincoln replied.

  John stepped close to Agent Lincoln and said, “That’s wh
at this is about, covering for the mayor’s office?”

  “No one is covering for anybody. Baseless allegations have been made against someone with ties to the mayor, allegations by you that appear to be unsubstantiated and without merit. Brice Winnow has asked the court for a restraining order to keep you away from him. He doesn’t want to end up dead, like every other person you two have put in the cross hairs.”

  “You have got to be kidding!” Paula rushed toward Lincoln, and John held her back. “Winnow is our guy. You can’t honestly stand there and tell me that he’s not!” Paula said.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m in charge of this case now.” Lincoln stepped past John and took a seat in his desk chair. “So, once more, what did the message mean? The kite reference—was it a flight you arranged for the killer to escape?”

  Lincoln leaned back in John’s chair and crossed her legs.

  “Why would I help him escape?” John said with fists balled tight.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time a parent arranged the kidnapping of their own child. I’ll find out, you know?” She rose from the chair, leaned forward so that her face was inches from John’s. “My big question is, did you arrange all this to take the boy away from his mother, or did you do it to get rid of him? He must have been a burden.”

  “You arrogant—” John started.

  Paula stepped in between the FBI agent and John before turning on Lincoln. “You can’t actually believe that John had anything to do with Tommy’s kidnapping. We have video, for crap’s sake.”

  “Did you know your partner made a rather large withdrawal from his bank account, ten thousand dollars, in the days before the boy’s disappearance?” Lincoln let the words hang before she turned toward John once more. “Did that payment go to Patrick Horn?”

  “Where do you make this shit up?” Paula asked.

  “Nothing made up about it. Ask him,” Lincoln said.

  “Enough!” The booming voice came from Lieutenant Barnes, standing at the far end of the squad room, near the door. Barnes strode to the center of the cluster of FBI agents and his detectives. His face was blotchy red, with a vein that bulged near his temple. He didn’t look like he was here to keep the peace, but John couldn’t tell which side the lieutenant would come down on.

  “As I was instructing your detectives—” Lincoln started.

  “Shut up, Katy. You haven’t changed one bit, have you? You may have the mayor’s permission to butt in on this investigation, but know this—when it comes to my detectives and their families, you keep your mouth shut.”

  “If they are withholding information that I need—”

  “You’ll have everything relevant to this case in the chief’s conference room in ten minutes. Detectives Penley and Newberry will provide you copies of all investigative notes on the case. Go. Now!”

  Lincoln and her two agents started to the door out of the detective’s bureau. Midway, she stopped, turned, and cast a glance at John, then onto Barnes. “The bureau appreciates your cooperation.”

  “What a . . . a . . .” Paula sputtered.

  “A piece of work, I think is what you’re looking for,” Barnes said.

  “She’s a piece of something all right,” she replied.

  “You know her?” John asked Barnes.

  “I was on an FBI joint terrorism task force, and Katy Lincoln was a new agent, fresh out of the academy. She had some old-money family connections and ended up posted to the joint terrorism task force instead of a field office in Omaha.”

  “I take it you two didn’t exactly see eye to eye,” John said.

  “If it were only that simple. She leaked task force information to the media and blew a four-month surveillance operation on a suspected al-Qaeda recruiting cell in Riverside.”

  “And she didn’t get canned for that?” Paula asked.

  “You’ve seen a glimpse of how she works. Katy managed to spin the leak to the media as the reason the terror cell broke down and fled. She used some relationship with a local news reporter to play up her angle and got some face time in front of the camera. Again, the old money and family connection kept her out of the cesspool.”

  “Why did she come here?” Paula asked.

  “She doesn’t play well with others, so they send her from place to place, wherever the FBI needs to make an appearance. Believe me, it’s not for her investigative prowess,” Barnes said.

  “You knew she was coming, though?” John said, sitting in his chair, reclaiming it from Lincoln.

  Barnes rolled out a chair from an unoccupied desk and pulled it between John and Paula. “I knew the FBI was coming. I didn’t know they’d send Lincoln. That’s why I signed out the computer to you, Paula, before the FBI got here. If they point at you as a person of interest, we can’t do anything. You’ll belong to them. Were you able to get anything that will help us find Tommy?”

  Paula shook her head. “No, that piece of sh . . . Lincoln hacked the computer as we got in contact with Winnow. Some convoluted message about kites.”

  “John, you know what that means, don’t you?” Barnes asked.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “You do?” Paula asked. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I couldn’t risk Lincoln ruining my chance to find my son. I figured out the message from Winnow after Lincoln busted in.”

  “What did it mean?” Paula asked.

  “Winnow—his message to me was, ‘Tommy would have liked to fly his kite again.’ The only place Tommy and I went to fly kites was in Discovery Park.”

  “How would he know that?” Barnes said.

  “When was the last time you and Tommy went there?” Paula asked.

  “Over a year ago.”

  Lieutenant Barnes leaned back in his chair, comfortable in the investigator role. “He’s been watching Tommy long before his surgery got cancelled.”

  “Why watch Tommy?” John asked.

  “Or was he following you, the investigator?” Paula added.

  “Whatever he’s doing, he’s been planning this a long time,” John said.

  “What do we do?” Paula said.

  “We don’t do anything. I’m going to Discovery Park alone. He wants me there, and I know, sure as hell, he’ll be watching.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Discovery Park sits on a low section of bottomland, north of the Sacramento downtown corridor. The flood-control system of weirs and levees releases river overflow into the park during the wet season and turns the park into a vast, swampy wasteland. John slipped a car from the police motor pool and tracked through the thick muck left behind by the receding floodwater. As long as he stayed on the paved sections, the sedan’s wheels wouldn’t suck down into the waterlogged soil.

  Yellow metal barriers blocked the road, restricting vehicle access deeper into the park. Well after sunset, the waterside recreation area transformed into a black hole enclosed by trees, riverbanks, and levee walls. The vast darkness gobbled the light a few yards from John’s headlights. John peered ahead into shadows within shadows. Barren tree limbs quivered in the light breeze, like thousands of tiny skeleton hands reaching out from beyond.

  John stopped at the barrier, turned off his lights, and scanned the nightscape for another car or anything that announced the exchange location. Tommy wouldn’t be able to walk very far in his condition. Winnow would ensure an escape route for himself.

  He cut the ignition, stepped onto the mud-slicked roadway, and listened. The breeze muffled the traffic noise from Interstate 5. Branches rubbed against one another and cracked in the distance, but nothing gave away the position of a waiting car with an idling motor.

  As John’s eyes adjusted to the pitch black around him, the faint outline of distant trees came into focus to his left. A large, grassy field spanned several acres between the muddy roadway and the trees on the far side of the open space.

  John squatted and saw no other tire tracks in the mud, nor footprints other than his own. On the su
rface, at least, Winnow had yet to arrive. An uncertainty plucked at the flesh at the back of his neck. The gooseflesh came from the cold river wind. If Winnow were watching, John figured the chill would cut to the bone.

  He took a position on a small rise near the roadway, where he could survey the entrance to the park and the grass field. He leaned against a tree, blending his moon-shadow with the one cast by an ancient, gnarled oak.

  His mind drifted to the last time he and Tommy were in this park. The diagnosis of renal disease was fresh, and yet Tommy seemed so vibrant and alive. The boy ran in the grass field, trying to get his Spider-Man kite to take flight. John laughed so hard that day watching his son that his sides ached for hours afterward. There was a different ache now, and he hadn’t laughed in months. John wiped at his cheek and rubbed a moist spot. He hadn’t realized he was crying.

  According to his watch, which he had checked five minutes ago and five minutes before that, he had waited two hours with nothing from Winnow. John’s skin and clothing were damp from the dew in the moisture-laden air.

  A rustle in the tree line to his left got his attention. He craned his neck and peered into the blackness. He listened through his throbbing skull. Nothing, not another snapped branch or imaginary footfall echoed back at him. The park fell silent; the only sounds John heard were his heartbeat and ragged breath.

  A low rumble vibrated in the valley. He chalked it up to a semitruck passing on the interstate. Then he realized the sound came from somewhere forward from his location, not from the overpass. He took a tentative step from the rise, down into the grass field. The rumble was beyond the tree line on the other side of the park. After two more steps, thick, heavy mud and blades of grass clung to his shoes.

  The source of the sound lay ahead, and he picked up his pace, slogging through the wet park bottomland. His weighted shoes made each step more difficult than the last, and his legs pumped hard to keep on course.

  The rumble deepened and ramped up in volume. A throaty exhaust sound ripped the silence in the park. John recognized the sound as a boat engine. His mind fired visions of Tommy in the water as he ran toward the riverbank.