by Ted Dekker
“The evidence proved useless.”
“Yes, at the time it did because we honed in on Switzer and found no connections between him and the knives or the military. Could have been anyone who picked them up at any army surplus store, right?”
“Go on.”
“Assuming that Switzer’s not our man, I’m left wondering what kind of military man might have killed seven women in the space of six months and then disappeared.”
“And?”
“And I can’t help thinking its someone who isn’t killing in Texas because he’s not in Texas.”
“Because he’s been deployed for the last two years.”
“It’s a thought.” Ricki shrugged. “We don’t know. The point is, until we get off Switzer and start looking at other possibilities, we’ll never ask the right questions. I should be talking to the military instead of trying to get permission to do my job. My only priority should be to stop him before he kills again.”
“Assuming he hasn’t.” Kracker blew out some air. “Now you have me talking like you.”
“If I’m wrong? What’s the downside?”
They both knew there was none.
Kracker spread his huge hands on the desk and padded the surface with thick fingers. “Okay, Valentine. Go chase this ghost. But if the evidence even sniffs Switzer’s way, I want to know about it.”
She started toward the door. “You should know that one of the threads I have to track back to the source is the blood evidence.”
“No, Ricki, I don’t believe I do know that.”
“Someone planted the blood, sir. I need to know who.”
“You’re assuming that someone planted the evidence.”
“I’m assuming that Switzer’s not the guy, which means someone set him up. Knowing who did could lead us—”
“Leave it alone, Valentine. If someone from inside this office planted evidence, I’ll deal with it. But that’s my call, not yours. I don’t want you sniffing around my operation, you got that?”
Ricki lifted both hands in a sign of surrender. “Got it. No sniffing around our beloved FBI. I swear it.”
She pulled the door open.
“Or the DA’s office,” Kracker said.
But she was already walking down the hall and was in no mood to ask for any clarification.
12
RYAN HANDED THE cabdriver two twenties and stepped out onto Barton Creek Boulevard. The bold numbers on the mailbox read 1300, which was the address Celine and Bethany had moved to after his last deployment. This was it.
Six days had passed since he’d first realized how desperately he needed to rush home and embrace his wife, and this was it.
Austin was hot in August, but not uncomfortably so, not after two years in the desert, where temperatures regularly ran in the hundred-and-twenty-degree range during the hot season. A light breeze cooled the sweat on his neck. Crickets…
He had missed the crickets. The constant chirping of insects hidden in the dense foliage that bordered the large lot.
Ryan stepped up to the edge of a driveway that sloped down to a large white house all but hidden from the road. The Mediterranean architecture featured a large carport that fed into the glassed twin doors.
Home.
The thought faded as quickly as it had entered his mind. In reality the house below didn’t look anything like home. He’d tried to contact Celine a dozen times since arriving in the United States—on her cell phone, which he knew she carried with her at all times. She’d ignored the calls.
Not a problem, she was just frightened. Confused. By now, she probably knew at least some of the details of his breakdown and it had brought to her mind the first time he’d broken down, during basic training. But as soon as she realized how profoundly he’d been affected in the desert, her confusion would fall away. If there was one thing Ryan did particularly well, it was understanding the human psyche and response. The inner workings of the mind.
That’s why Ryan was here, to show Celine that his own mind had changed. That he finally could see it all so clearly.
A car’s horn blared behind him, and he glanced after the black Mercedes that had objected, hardly noticing.
He returned his eyes to the house. This was why he was here. To make all things right. To show his remorse. To beg their forgiveness. God help him, please help him.
Ryan walked down the drive. His heart hammered and the crickets sang, but his feet moved in silence, stealing their way back into a world he’d snuck out of many years ago. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that there wouldn’t be some challenges in reconciling with Celine and Bethany, but he would lie himself down at their feet if he had to.
He would never use another angry word with Celine.
He would buy her whatever she wanted no matter what it cost him.
He would make her breakfast in bed and wash the clothes and smile at her lovingly from across the room. And roses, he would fill her world with roses, enough red and pink roses to make the neighbors think he’d lost his mind, which he just might have.
As for Bethany… He’d silently cried his way through a numb existence these last six days, walking to the cafeteria, sitting through four separate debriefings, lying in bed late at night, boarding the airplane, staring out the window as the sea passed far below, disembarking the AC-130 with his seabag over his shoulder, talking to the psychiatrist at Bethesda Naval Hospital, and while flying home to Austin, where he’d had the courtesy to rent a hotel room.
Here now, thinking again of Bethany, tears stung his eyes and he blinked, telling himself that he wouldn’t allow emotion to muddy the waters once he stepped inside.
The thought stopped him two feet from the door. No, Ryan, avoiding emotion has been your downfall. Show them, show them how you feel.
But he’d decided he wouldn’t seek their sympathy. The details of his abduction in Iraq could not play a part in winning them back. He’d lost them before the incident, of his own doing or lack of doing. He would win them back on his own merit.
Ryan stepped up and rang the doorbell with an unsteady hand.
Celine’s voice called from deep in the house. “Door’s open, angel!”
Bethany. She thought he was Bethany.
“It’s me,” he called in a croaking voice.
“We’re in the kitchen!”
Two thoughts crashed his mind. We meant Bethany was with her. They were in the kitchen, waiting for him. She’d called him angel, the term of endearment she’d once used for him, now reserved for Bethany.
Broadsided by his good fortune, Ryan slipped in and closed the door quietly behind him. Celine chuckled in the kitchen. “No, chocolate, you idiot. It gives the chili a bite. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
He stood on the mat just inside the front door, allowing her voice to wash away his fear. If he could just stand here for a while and listen to his wife speak to his daughter about something so ordinary as how to cook chili.
Celine continued to speak, explaining how the chocolate worked. Ryan hadn’t even been aware that she’d taken up cooking as a hobby.
He walked through the living room to the brightly lit kitchen, thinking with each step that he must stay with his speech, exactly as he’d rehearsed, no variance. And he had to get it all out before she could respond.
He stepped into the arched entry and stood in his plaid shirt, hands by his sides. Celine was leaning over the stove with the ladle in one hand, the other cupped below the spoon as she blew on the food as if preparing to sample a small taste.
Below her the chili bubbled.
“Hello, Celine.”
Her blue eyes snapped up and she froze.
Ryan wanted to rush up to her and sweep her off her feet, but he knew he couldn’t just barge into her life, not without her full acceptance. He’d been the one to abandon her. Now he would pay whatever price was due him as he won her back.
“I’m sorry, I tried to call.”
She slowly lowered her ladle
.
Now. He had to say it now, before she could fully react.
Where’s Bethany?
But he had to say this quickly, so he did. “I’m so sorry. I beg your forgiveness. It’s been my fault, all of it. I’m the one to blame. I’ve been a fool for leaving. Will you please, please, just please take me back?”
It wasn’t exactly the way he’d planned it. She was still frozen over the chili. Why was she so surprised? She’d just called to him. And where was Bethany?
“Who let you in?” Celine said.
“I…”
Her eyes darted to his left, and Ryan knew then that he might have misjudged things. He followed her line of sight to a man standing by the table. A large man with dark hair slicked back from a sloping forehead, watching him casually, one hand in his black dress slacks, the other on the wood table. A dish towel hung over his right shoulder.
“Ryan, meet Burt Welsh,” Celine snapped. “Burt, Ryan.”
Where was Bethany? He glanced around the room.
Burt crossed the room, placed one arm around Celine’s waist, and drilled Ryan with a firm glare.
“Where’s Bethany?”
Celine’s jaw muscles bunched. “Please, Ryan. This is the wrong time. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is for us.”
He lifted his hands, stunned. “No, that’s not it. You don’t understand, I was wrong. I was… I should… I’ve come back… .”
“Don’t tell me I don’t understand. We’ve been here before. This time it’s over. I want you to leave.”
“That was fifteen years ago. I haven’t had a single episode since.”
“Is that so? You may have only gone AWOL for a week, but as far as I was concerned, you never did come back. It’s over. Leave this house, and for goodness’ sake, don’t drag Bethany into this. I won’t allow you to hurt her any more than you have.”
The words rushed him like a battering ram that slammed into his gut and took his breath away. He tried to form words, to tell her that he would never hurt Bethany. That he’d come to make things right.
All he could manage was, “No.”
“I think she was pretty clear, Ryan,” Burt said. “Get out of here or I’ll throw you out. Is that clear enough?”
“I…” He couldn’t move. “This is my home.”
“Mother?”
Ryan spun at the sound of Bethany’s voice. She stood in the living room wearing jeans and a Nike T-shirt that read Warriors. He saw the similarities to the fourteen-year-old he’d last hugged good-bye two years earlier, but the person who gaped at him was hardly that little girl.
She had grown into a young woman. This was Bethany, the beautiful baby he and Celine had adopted sixteen years ago. His daughter.
He loved her more than even he could possibly have realized.
For a long moment Bethany only stared at him. Ryan couldn’t find words for them. Not for Celine or for the man she’d befriended, and certainly not for Bethany.
“Hello, angel,” he said.
“I’m not your angel, Ryan,” she said, glancing at Celine through the door.
“Bethany…”
What could he say? She hadn’t come to his defense. The poor girl had been poisoned against him.
“Please…”
“I’ve had to lie awake at night for years hearing Celine cry herself to sleep,” Bethany said. “That doesn’t change with a snap of your fingers.”
“Just go, Ryan,” Celine said. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
The room began to spin around him. He’d anticipated some challenges, but this. They were murdering him!
As if to make the point absolutely certain, the big man, Burt, walked up to him, smelling of aftershave. “Look, Ryan, I think they’ve made it clear. People can only put up with so much, you know what I mean?”
Ryan hesitated one moment, torn by indecision. But he’d been here before, in similar games, facing long odds, determined to crack the code. And he knew that the only way to win was to outsmart them.
So he spun from them, walked past Bethany, out the door and up the driveway, all the while telling himself that it was okay, it was going to be okay. Tomorrow.
He would make it all right tomorrow.
RYAN SPENT THE night in the Super 8 Motel at the corner of Highway 290 and Lamar, sinking into the realization that none of the structure he’d surrounded himself with in the navy could aid him in this world. Logic, though useful, couldn’t compel any more authority.
This was a matter of the heart. He simply had to convince Bethany and Celine that he wasn’t the same man they’d once known. And even then, he hadn’t been a terrible man, not altogether terrible. He was guilty of ignoring them, but not because of evil in his heart—his heart had always been good.
Either way, he had to convince them, which was a matter of the heart. But convincing them ultimately came back around to logic and reason. He had to figure out how to convince them, a task that his mind, however stressed in the face of such rejection, was uniquely qualified to tackle.
In the early hours, while the rest of Austin slept, he came to the conclusion that in order to persuade Celine and Bethany of his worthiness, he had to first remove the primary obstacle to the flow of communication between him and them.
The man named Burt Welsh who smelled like aftershave. Ryan lay in the waning morning hours, ignored the ache in his heart, and dreamed of dealing with Burt.
He rose at seven o’clock, showered, dressed in blue slacks and a white shirt, and took advantage of the free continental breakfast on the lobby floor. At seven forty-five he caught a cab that delivered him to the John Henry Faulk Central Library on Guadalupe.
“Give me twenty minutes. If I’m not back, keep the change.” He left the driver with thirty dollars and entered the library.
Burt Welsh turned out to be someone Ryan thought he might be able to reason with. An attorney. In fact, the district attorney for Travis County.
Ryan stared at the file that Google had dug up, and the sliver of hope that he’d stubbornly clung to through the night hours grew. Not only would finding Burt be a relatively simple task, but talking sense into him would be easier than trying to reason with a less educated man. At the very least, an attorney who held such a public position would be forced to go through the motions of considering reason.
His mind returned to the image of Bethany, standing like a queen, regarding him with bright eyes. At the very least, Burt would understand the deep longing he had to reestablish a relationship with his daughter.
Ryan quickly scrolled down a newspaper article about the man’s election, and his eyes stopped on two words bolded as a link.
BoneMan.
He scanned the paragraph in which the link was embedded. Apparently Burt Welsh owed his election as district attorney in large part to his success in prosecuting Phil Switzer, aka BoneMan, who had allegedly killed seven young women by breaking their bones without breaking skin, although he had been convicted on only one count of homicide.
The last victim had been a girl who’d attended Saint Michael’s Academy. It didn’t take any genius to guess that Celine had met Burt there, at Bethany’s school, while Ryan was off saving the world.
Ryan shut his eyes and grasped for a thread of hope. He had to explain himself to this man. Surely Welsh would understand once he understood the way Ryan’s own heart had been broken in the desert.
He printed the page, folded it neatly, slipped it into his pocket, and walked out of the library.
The Travis County Administration Building, in which the district attorney worked, was on 11th Street, a couple dozen blocks farther up Guadalupe. He paid the cab, passed under a Texas flag on his right and an American flag on his left, and entered through the glass doors.
It took him only a few minutes to locate the lobby outside Burt’s office on the third floor. He intended to calmly wait the man out if necessary—the man would eventually come to his office—w
ith any luck, today.
Above all, remain calm. Like a ghost in the corner as he waited for the man to show. The last thing he could afford now was a physical breakdown in full view of the staff.
“May I help you?”
The receptionist sat behind a cherrywood desk, peering up at him over pencil-thin glasses. Brooke Silverstein, according to the gold plate next to the green lamp.
“Um… yes. Yes, I’m here to see the district attorney.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I do, yes. Not on the books, but he’s expecting me. We weren’t entirely clear on the time. Is he in?”
“Your name?”
“Tell him it’s Ryan Evans.” Then he added to impress her more than him, “Captain, Navy Intelligence. It’s critical I speak to him.”
Brook’s eyes flared just enough for him to know he’d risen from the ranks of How-do-I-ditch-this-guy to Hmm-interesting.
“Please have a seat, sir.”
She picked up the phone as he backed into one of four stuffed chairs set around reading lamps. Her lips were moving. She glanced at the third unmarked door to her right, then peered at him over her glasses.
In that look Ryan saw dismissal. She was getting an earful, no doubt. Keep that maniac out of my office. Call security. Whatever you do, do not let him near me in public.
Calm, yes. And he would remain perfectly calm. But he would not waste this opportunity to play his hand. Welsh was an obstacle who had to be confronted and convinced.
Rather than sitting, Ryan reversed his direction and walked briskly toward the third unmarked door.
“Sir? Please wait in—you’re not authorized to go in there!” Brook’s tone confirmed his guess.
He twisted the knob, shoved the door wide, saw Burt behind a desk inside, and quickly locked himself in with the man.
“Just a word, sir.”
Burt was on the phone, no doubt with his secretary. He set the receiver in its cradle and stood. Dressed in a black suit with shirt collar opened just enough to reveal his well-muscled chest, Burt Welsh looked even more imposing than Ryan remembered.
