The Innocent

by Amanda Stevens

  Agent Burke was watching her with unwavering regard. Amazing, Abby thought. She finally had his attention. “Two days after Emily goes missing, Sara Beth Brodie disappears from a small drugstore a few blocks from the school. Not from the playground. The pattern is broken.”

  “Let me play devil’s advocate for a minute,” Burke said. “After Emily Campbell was grabbed, security undoubtedly tightened at the school. The UNSUB—”

  “UNSUB?” Sheriff Mooney said.

  “Unidentified subject,” Burke clarified.

  Mooney gave a shrug. “We just call ’em suspects down here.”

  “All right, the suspect then. The point is, he could have hung around somewhere down the street until school was dismissed and then followed Sara Beth. He didn’t snatch her from the playground because he couldn’t. He was forced to change his M.O. His modus operandi.”

  “I know what M.O. means,” Mooney snapped, momentarily losing his cool.

  Abby decided she’d better jump back into the fray. “Sara Beth doesn’t share the same physical characteristics as the other two victims. She’s very petite, with curly blond hair and blue eyes.”

  “What about a custody grab?” Burke asked.

  Abby nodded. “It’s possible. The parents are legally separated, apparently headed for divorce court. There’s been some haggling between the lawyers about visitation.”

  “You’ve interviewed both the mother and the father?” A slight emphasis on father.

  “Of course,” Abby said with a frown. “Both seemed genuinely devastated by the news, but as we all know, emotions can be faked.”

  “Yes,” Burke said. “That’s all too true, I’m afraid.” Again his gaze met Abby’s. She suppressed a sudden desire to avert her eyes, as if he could somehow see inside her. All the way to her soul, maybe.

  “Two children missing within two days of each other,” he mused. “Another one disappeared ten years ago. All five years old. All went to the same school. Those are more than just vague similarities.”

  “I realize that,” Abby said. “I’m just saying we can’t afford to overlook the possibility that Sara Beth’s disappearance could be a copy-cat abduction, maybe a parental abduction, maybe…something else.”

  Again that flicker in Sam Burke’s eyes, a cold darkness that sent another shiver through Abby.

  “What time did Sara Beth go missing?”

  “Somewhere around 3:30,” Sheriff Mooney said. “Her father’s secretary picked her up from school at 3:15 or so, and they drove straight to the drugstore, which is less than five minutes away. The secretary, Luanne Plimpton, says that she and Sara Beth couldn’t have been in the store more than five minutes when she noticed the child was gone. She and the pharmacist, Gerald Ferguson, searched all over the store. It didn’t take long. It’s a small, privately owned pharmacy. No surveillance cameras or anything like that. The call to dispatch came in at 3:41. An officer was on the scene and had the area secured within ten, fifteen minutes, but what with the initial search, the place was pretty well contaminated.”

  Sam glanced at his watch. “It’s just after three now. I need someone to show me where this drugstore is located. I want to be there, watching, when 3:30 rolls around.”

  Meaning that whatever routine events had occurred in the area at the time of Sara Beth’s disappearance would likely occur again today at 3:30. Courier deliveries. People getting off work. Kids walking home from school. Potential witnesses that wouldn’t yet have been interviewed.

  “I’ve got a couple of deputies already in place,” the sheriff told him. “But another pair of eyes and ears is always welcome. The Brodie case is Abby’s. She can ride along with you and fill you in on whatever details you’re missing.”

  Abby had figured that was coming, but she wished she’d been a little quicker on her feet. Wished she’d suddenly had some critical errand that couldn’t wait.

  Sam Burke stood. “Let’s get moving then.”

  “I’m right behind you,” she said.

  But at the door, he paused for her to pass through ahead of him. Abby wasn’t certain whether he’d done it out of common courtesy or to call attention to her gender, so she didn’t know whether to be appreciative or irritated.

  She settled on annoyed, an emotion she suspected Special Agent Sam Burke generated fairly often.

  SAM PARKED his rental car at the curb near Ferguson’s Drugstore where he and Sergeant Cross would have an unobstructed view of intersecting streets. A sheriff’s department cruiser was parked several feet in front of them and another a block and a half away. To their right lay the cordoned-off parking lot where dozens of tire tracks would have been marked, measured and photographed.

  Across the pavement, the closed pharmacy looked abandoned, with its darkened windows and crime-scene tape crossed over the glass entrance.

  For a moment, Sam closed his eyes, imagining the scenario as it might have unfolded. He could almost see Sara Beth’s abductor carrying her from the store. Putting her in a car and driving off with her, taking her away from her friends and family. Away from her mother.

  Or maybe she’d been taken by someone local, someone who lived in one of the houses across the street. Some lonely, pathetic soul who had once lost a child. Who had seen Sara Beth and simply wanted her. What if the child was still nearby, so close Sam could almost reach out and touch her?

  He gazed at the street, at the white, two-story houses with their darkened windows, and a dark dread bloomed inside him. It was possible that Sara Beth was close by, scared and miserable, but safe. Unharmed.

  It was possible, but not very likely. Through twenty years in the FBI, Sam had seen how too many of these cases ended.

  But not this one. Please, God, not this one.

  Beside him, Sergeant Cross stirred in her seat. He gave her a brief glance. She was just a kid. Probably no more than twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Too wet behind the ears to know how to deal with a case like this. How much crime could there be in a place called Eden?

  Enough, he guessed. Three little girls had gone missing.

  He turned off the engine and rolled down his window. A wave of humidity flooded the car. “You ever worked a case like this?” he asked abruptly.

  “An abduction, you mean?” She turned to face him, scowling slightly. “No. But I know what to do. We all do. Everyone in my department has followed protocol.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.” She was certainly prickly, Sam thought. It had been his experience that women in law enforcement could be just as territorial as their male counterparts. Sometimes more so. Sergeant Cross appeared to be no exception.

  “Sorry.” She offered him an apologetic shrug. “I guess we’re all a little on edge around here.”

  She hadn’t seen anything yet. “So tell me more about that gut feeling of yours.”

  She gave him a surprised look, but didn’t say anything for a moment, as if she wasn’t quite certain of the sincerity of his question.

  “What makes you think we’re looking for more than one UNSUB in these abductions?” he pressed.

  “Like I said, it’s partly a gut instinct. Sara Beth’s disappearance just doesn’t feel right to me. And then there are the similarities between the other two girls—Sadie and Emily—which are so striking.” Sergeant Cross sat up straighter in her seat, as if she could make herself sound more convincing by doing so. “A few days before Emily Campbell was taken from the playground, a local TV station did a feature on Sadie’s abduction. My sister was interviewed—”

  “Your sister?”

  “Sadie Cross was my niece.”

  Sam glanced at her, wondering if he should comment. Crimes against children were never easy to deal with, but when they hit close to home, it could be devastating because law-enforcement personnel knew better than anyone the brutal realities.

  Oh, yes, Sam thought grimly. He knew about loss. He knew about reality. “Go on,” he said, in a voice that sounded brusque even to him.

  “
The show spent several minutes on Sadie’s story and even did a reenactment of the abduction. Some of the children who were with Sadie on the playground that day were also interviewed. They’re all fifteen years old now.” She paused, taking a breath. “That program could have been a trigger for Emily’s abductor.”

  Sam glanced at her in surprise. He hadn’t expected her insight. His experiences with local law enforcement hadn’t always left him with a favorable impression.

  “Think about it,” she said. “Some sicko, a child predator, say, saw the show and decided to act it out for himself. He stakes out the playground where Sadie was taken, and when he sees Emily, who looks like Sadie, he grabs her.” She shrugged. “It may sound far-fetched, but it is possible.”

  “Anything is possible,” he agreed.

  She paused for a moment, “But considering the timing—the anniversary of the first abduction—it seems more plausible that the same person kidnapped both Emily and Sadie. The suspect—the UNSUB,” she amended, using his lingo for an unidentified subject, “could have been in prison these past ten years for another crime, maybe even another abduction. He gets out, sees the show, and that’s all it takes to make him go on the hunt again.”

  “And Sara Beth Brodie?”

  Sergeant Cross frowned. “She doesn’t fit the pattern. Her abduction occurred two days after Emily’s and in a different location. And she doesn’t look like the other two girls.”

  “Are you saying you think Emily’s disappearance was a stressor for Sara Beth’s abductor?” She had him intrigued, Sam had to admit. She had some things wrong, of course, but it was obvious she’d done her homework. He’d be willing to bet money that Sergeant Cross’s bookshelves were filled with non-fiction works written by some of the legendary profilers who’d come out of the famous Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, Sam’s old stomping ground.

  “I think stressor is the wrong terminology,” she said. “It implies someone with a compulsion. I think Emily’s disappearance gave Sara Beth’s abductor the idea.”

  “Which could bring us back to a parental abduction.”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, a ransom demand could still be made. Sara Beth’s father owns a car dealership here in town, as well as several small businesses around the county. By Eden standards, he’s pretty well off. And her mother is the manager of the Eden National Bank.”

  “You’ve tapped their phones, both home and work?”

  “Of course,” Abby said. “Tess Campbell’s phone is tapped as well, but she doesn’t have access to the kind of money the Brodies do. She has her own business, a cleaning service, but she’s hardly well-to-do. She’s a single mother, just like my sister was.”

  “But I get the impression Fairhaven is a pretty exclusive school.”

  “It is. And that’s another similarity between Emily and Sadie. They didn’t really fit in at Fairhaven. There’s usually a waiting list at the school, but in both Sadie and Emily’s cases, enrollment was down in the years in which they applied. Otherwise, I doubt either of them would have been accepted.”

  Sam paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to the staff, especially their teacher.”

  “Her name is Vickie Wilder. She’s been very cooperative, even volunteered to take a polygraph when we interviewed her after Emily’s disappearance.”

  “Was one administered?”

  “No. She’s never been considered a real suspect.”

  “Even though she has a connection to both Emily and Sara Beth?”

  “A lot of people do,” Abby said. “This is a small town, Agent Burke. Everyone knows everyone else.”

  For a split second, their gazes locked and an understanding, a terrible suspicion, passed between them. Everyone knows everyone else. Including the kidnapper?

  Sam turned to gaze at the street, but he was very aware of the woman sitting next to him. Of the way her shoulder-length dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. Of the way her lashes shaded her soft, brown eyes. She was a good-looking woman, no doubt about it. Not too thin. Not too tall. Not beautiful exactly, but she possessed a quality that was hard to define.

  She didn’t look a thing like Norah, and that, Sam decided, was definitely Sergeant Cross’s best feature.

  “Let’s hit the street,” he said abruptly.

  She glanced at him in surprise. “You saw something?”

  “No. But I’d like to do a door-to-door.”

  She started to say something, then stopped. Sam knew what was on her mind. The sheriff’s office would have already conducted a door-to-door immediately after the child was reported missing. They would have gone back for a deeper canvass once it became apparent Sara Beth hadn’t simply wandered off.

  But another round of questions with a fresh set of eyes and ears never hurt, and Sergeant Cross was smart enough to realize that. She got out of the car and walked over to the cruiser, saying something to the driver before she came back over to Sam.

  Heat shimmered off the pavement beneath their feet, and Sam could feel perspiration rivering down his back. His gaze moved irrevocably to the front of Sergeant Cross’s cotton T-shirt, where the damp fabric clung to her curves in a way he couldn’t help admiring. He was only human, although he had colleagues, past and present, who might take issue with that. Certainly Norah would.

  Sergeant Cross lifted her hand to shade her eyes, and the subtle movement accentuated her body’s contours. The pale yellow fabric of her shirt hugged her tightly, and something inside Sam tightened. He’d gone too long without a woman’s company, and now suddenly, at the worst possible time, lust was beating him over the head with a vengeance.

  He tore his attention from the front of Sergeant Cross’s T-shirt and scanned their surroundings.

  “You want to do this together, or should we split up?” she asked.

  Split up, was Sam’s first instinct. They could cover more ground that way. But he heard himself answering almost gruffly, “Maybe we’d better stick together since you know the area better than I do.”

  “It’s your party.” She slipped on a pair of dark glasses and started toward the street.

  Sam’s gaze dropped to her backside in spite of himself. Unfortunately for him, Sergeant Cross looked as good going as she did coming.

  Chapter Three

  Fayetta Gibbons had lived all of her life on First Street, in the same house in which she had been born sixty-nine years ago and raised by her beloved parents, Milford and Garnett Gibbons, both dead now almost half a century. They lay buried in the family plot at Holyoke Cemetery four blocks away on Peachtree Street, and a pink marble headstone ornately inscribed with Fayetta’s name and birth date marked a space nearby.

  Fayetta’s daily habits always included a short visit to her parents’ graves. No matter the weather, the routine never varied. Depending on the season, she would take fresh flowers from her garden, sometimes for her parents’ graves and sometimes to place in the marble vase attached to her own tombstone in the event that after she was gone, no one else would think to.

  Except for her afternoon walks and church on Sundays, Fayetta rarely left her home. She’d never married, never had a suitor that anyone in town knew about, and had never, apparently, been sick a day in her life. As she approached her seventieth birthday, she could become a bit confused at times, but her blue gaze, keen as ball lightning on a hot summer night, still missed precious little of the goings-on around her.

  If anyone would have taken note of anything suspicious in the neighborhood on the day of little Sara Beth’s abduction, it would be Fayetta Gibbons, Abby assured Sam.

  They waited now on her front porch as she carried out a tray of lemonade and crystal glasses. Sam rose from the wicker rocker he’d been assigned and took the tray from her. Fayetta smiled and batted her lashes at him. “Why, thank you…Mr. Burke, wasn’t it? Such a gentleman,” she said to Abby. “A trait one finds all too rarely these days.” Her blue gaze skimmed Agent Burke’s dark suit approvingly. It wouldn’t matter to Fayetta that he
had to be melting in this heat. He looked dignified, and Fayetta came from an era where appearances meant everything. Abby suspected the woman would be wearing hoop skirts if she could find some.

  As it was, her starched floral shirtwaist looked fresh and crisp, as if she’d donned it only moments before her callers had arrived. In comparison, Abby felt like something her cats had dragged in. The jeans and T-shirt she’d put on that morning in anticipation of tramping through woods and vacant lots had definitely seen better days. She could feel Fayetta’s ladylike disdain rake over her as smoothly as a butter knife on cream frosting.

  Fayetta handed her a glass of lemonade, and Abby gratefully accepted it, resisting the urge to touch the icy glass to the back of her neck.

  “So tell me, Abigail. How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in church in ages. Is she still feeling under the weather, poor dear?”

  “Mama died three years ago, Miss Gibbons. Don’t you remember? You played the organ at her funeral.”

  The blue eyes clouded momentarily, then cleared. “Yes, of course. ‘Amazing Grace,’ wasn’t it? That was always Papa’s favorite. I wore my navy dress, and Trixie Baker did my hair that morning, but I didn’t like the shade. It was too brassy, but Trixie insisted it made me look twenty years younger.” Fayetta patted her impossibly blond hair, pulled back and done up in an elaborate bun—the same style she’d worn since the beginning of time. “An outrageous lie, of course, but one is never too old to enjoy a compliment.” She glanced at Agent Burke hopefully.

  She’d seated him in the wicker rocker next to hers. Abby had been relegated to the porch steps, perhaps because of her age, but more likely because Fayetta, even though a spinster, was well practiced in the age-old Southern-Belle tradition of jockeying for the most desirable position next to an attractive gentleman.

  But Fayetta needn’t have troubled herself. Her subtle coquetry was lost on Agent Burke because he was no Southerner and, Abby suspected, at times no gentleman. He didn’t quite grasp the expectations of an afternoon call, social or otherwise. He leaned forward, his expression almost stern as he dispensed with the niceties. “Miss Gibbons, we’d like to ask you some questions about the little girl who disappeared from Ferguson’s Drugstore yesterday afternoon.”