Out of Reach: A Novel

by Patricia Lewin

  Claire yanked her hands free and stood abruptly. “I need to go in now.”

  Erin followed and grabbed her hand again. “Could it be the same man? There’s a missing boy, and he’s running out of time.”

  Claire pulled away. “I don’t want you here.”

  “Claire, please—”

  She covered her ears and backed away.

  “What’s going on here?” From behind them, Marta hurried forward and wrapped her arms around a distraught Claire. “What did you say to her?” Marta snapped as she glared at Erin.

  Erin turned and saw Janie, who hung back, eyes wide, staring at her mother. She held two ice-cream bars: a partially eaten Fudgsicle and a Creamsicle, still in its wrapper. On the ground beside her were two more in wrappers, which Marta had dropped in her rush to Claire.

  Guilt raced through Erin, but she squelched it. She hadn’t meant to hurt her sister, but she knew she’d ask her questions again if it meant a chance to help Cody Sanders. She could do nothing to change what had happened to Claire all those years ago, but Erin might be able to prevent the same horrors from happening to him. And whether Claire realized it or not, she’d given Erin the answer she needed.

  “I’m sorry, Claire.” She raised a hand to her sister, who huddled closer to Marta and buried her face against the older woman’s shoulder. For everything that happened to you. Erin backed away.

  “I think you better go out to the car,” Marta said.

  Erin nodded.

  “Janie, go with your aunt. I’ll take care of your mother and be out as soon as she’s settled.”

  Janie reached up and took Erin’s hand, and the two of them walked silently across the grass toward the parking lot. They waited beside the car, neither speaking. Erin thought she should say something to Janie, at least to apologize for ruining their visit, but she couldn’t. Not without explaining about Cody Sanders. And Janie didn’t ask, a sad testament to her mother’s illness.

  About a half hour later, Marta finally joined them.

  Stepping forward, Erin asked, “How is she?”

  Marta frowned, then seemed to deflate, as if only her anger at Erin had given her the strength to handle Claire, and now that was gone. “She’ll be okay. The doctors will keep a close watch on her for the next twenty-four hours, just to make sure she doesn’t . . .” Marta glanced at Janie. “To make sure she gets some rest.”

  “I’m sorry this always falls on you, Marta.”

  The older woman shrugged, evidently resigned. “There are sweet compensations.” Marta reached down and stroked Janie’s cheek. “I’m not going to ask what you said to her, but I know whatever it was, you meant well.”

  Erin smiled tightly and slipped an arm around Janie’s shoulder.

  “Maybe we should cancel our trip to Miami,” Marta said, glancing nervously back at the building. “I hate to leave you alone when Claire is not feeling well.”

  “No,” Erin said. “Go. You’ve been planning this for months, and you both need to get away for a couple of days. I’ll check in on Claire. Besides”—she squeezed Janie’s shoulder to let her know she was kidding as she said—“I’m going to be very busy next week and don’t need the two of you getting in my way.”

  Marta hesitated. For a year she’d dealt with Erin’s job and its unusual demands, but nothing Erin had ever done for the Company had touched Claire or Janie. To Marta’s credit, she didn’t ask many questions. This time, however, she had just one. “Is there something going on that you are not telling me?”

  It was uncanny how this woman could sense Erin’s thoughts. Of course, she’d known Erin since she was in diapers. “Nothing I can’t handle. Now, I need to make a couple of calls, then I’ll take you and Janie home.”

  Marta hesitated again, then held out a hand to the little girl. “Come on, sweetie, let’s sit in the car.”

  Erin moved away from them and pulled out her cell phone. Her first call was to an old friend at Langley, Sam Anderson, a brilliant analyst and computer whiz, who owed her from their days together at the Farm.

  She dialed the secure line, and he picked up on the second ring. Somehow it didn’t surprise her that he was in his office on a Sunday afternoon. “Sam, it’s Erin Baker.”

  “Oh, the master spy, or should I say mistress spy? Or is that spyess.”

  “Cute.” Erin shook her head at Sam’s antics. “Look, I need you to do something for me.”

  “I am your slave, my lady.”

  “I need three files pulled. ASAP. And I want you to bring them to me this afternoon.” As a covert officer, Erin rarely went to Langley. Its location was too well known and too well watched. “We’ll meet in the usual place.”

  “Man, you don’t ask much. It is Sunday, you know.”

  “So what are you doing answering your phone?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, well . . .”

  “It’s important, Sam.”

  “Okay, then.” Suddenly, he was all business. “Let me have it.”

  “I need everything you can find on a Roland Garth. He’s doing time at San Quentin. I’m particularly interested in his arrest information, what deals he cut with the DA, past criminal activity, that kind of thing.”

  “I don’t know, Baker, this doesn’t sound like something you should be messing with.”

  “Sam, I’m in a hurry.”

  He sighed audibly. “Okay. What else?”

  “I also need information about General William Neville. He’s attached to the German Embassy.”

  “That sounds more like it. You gonna recruit him?” Recruiting foreign “agents” to share information about their governments was a covert CIA officer’s primary function.

  “If I tell you that—”

  “You’ll have to kill me, right?” He laughed at the old joke.

  “Well, no, you do work for the Company.”

  “Right.” He sounded disappointed. “Okay, General William Neville.”

  “Also, get me an invite to the reception at the German Embassy tomorrow night.” This wasn’t exactly in Sam’s job description, but if she asked one of the assistants who usually made such arrangements, there would be too many questions. Hopefully, Sam wouldn’t get insulted.

  Obviously, he didn’t. “Gotcha. And the last file?”

  She glanced back at the car, where Marta and Janie waited, then moved farther out of earshot. “I need all the information you can find on a kidnapping that occurred in 1985.”

  “What country?”

  “Miami.”

  “I know it seems like a foreign country sometimes, but let’s get real, Erin.”

  “Sam, I’m serious.”

  A heartbeat of silence, then he said, “Baker, what are you doing?” All the amusement had left his voice.

  “Just do it, Sam, okay? Early June 1985, a seven-year-old girl was taken out of Glades Park. I want police reports, interviews, everything you can put your hands on in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “You got the kid’s name?” He still didn’t sound thrilled about this.

  She hesitated, knowing she was about to reveal a piece of herself she’d kept carefully hidden from most of her colleagues at the Agency. But she needed Sam’s help if she was going to get what she needed in time. “Claire Baker.”

  Silence.

  “Sam?”

  “What’s going on here, Erin?”

  “Please, I really need you to do this.”

  She could almost hear him thinking, weighing what he owed her against her request. As a CIA officer, she had no business investigating a criminal case within the United States, and she certainly shouldn’t be looking into something as close to home as her sister’s kidnapping. At the very least she was risking her career, and she was asking Sam Anderson to climb out on that limb with her.

  Finally he said, “I owe you that much. But if I do this . . .” He paused, but when he spoke again, the humor was back in his voice. “You’ve got to have dinner with me.”

  She laughed. �
�It’s a deal. My treat. I’ll bring my niece along, okay? She’s seven and loves pizza.”

  He groaned. “Never mind.” Obviously, Sam didn’t do the kid thing. “Okay, let me get working on this, and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I owe you.”

  “Forget it.” Then he was serious again. “I just hope this doesn’t come back to bite you.”

  “Me, too.” She pushed the disconnect button, took a deep breath to brace herself for the second call, then pulled out a business card and dialed.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Donovan.”

  “It’s Erin Baker.”

  Silence.

  She could almost picture him. His sandy blond hair in disarray from dragging his hands through it. His shirt rumpled, tie loose, and his eyes bloodshot from too many hours without sleep.

  “Can you arrange an interview with Roland Garth?” she asked.

  “You talked to your sister.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Can you arrange the interview?”

  “It’s already done. I’ve got a four-thirty flight out of Dulles.”

  She looked at her watch. Damn. It was already after two. That didn’t give her much time. She’d have to call Sam back and get him to bring the Garth file to Dulles. She could read it on the flight west. And she would need a ticket. They were inching farther out on that limb, and she was going to owe Sam Anderson more than a pizza.

  “Okay, I’m ninety minutes away,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “Wait a minute, you’re not going.”

  She ignored him. “Give me your flight information.”

  “You’re a civilian. My SAC would have my badge if I took you along.”

  “Then don’t tell him. You seem to be willing to break the rules when it suits you.”

  “Give me a reason I should break them this time?”

  “I’m going to a reception at the German Embassy tomorrow night. The ambassador is returning to Berlin, and this is a farewell party. I expect William Neville will be there, and I plan to talk to him. But I want to have a conversation with Garth first.”

  From the other end, more silence.

  “Donovan?”

  “Your sister confirmed my theory?”

  “Not exactly. I tried talking to her, but she shut down and kicked us out.” Erin glanced at the car, where Marta was soothing a distressed Janie. “Like most cutters, Claire hurts herself to release stress or hide from some horrific pain. Well, now she’s under watch because her doctors think I may have triggered an incident.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” Erin sighed and looked away. “And neither am I. That boy . . .”

  For a moment, neither spoke. Then Erin said, “She does remember, though. At least the man in the park. The one selling ice cream and doing magic tricks. I could see it in her eyes just before she shut down.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s why I’m coming with you to interview Roland Garth. If you refuse me, I’ll make a few calls of my own. And trust me, Donovan, I will get in to see him.” She paused, giving him a moment to digest her words. “I want the man who took my sister from me. And Garth’s going to tell me how to find him.”

  XV

  ISAAC WATCHED THEM drive away.

  They’d walked right past him without ever looking his way. Erin, Claire’s daughter, and the older woman who hovered over them all. He’d been standing by the reception desk then, giving the woman behind it his current name and the time of his appointment, when Erin and the girl went out. He’d been early, so he’d moved to the window and studied the two of them as they waited for the older woman.

  He had to admit, he was disappointed at Erin’s lack of interest. Granted, he was a different man from the one she’d seen in the park yesterday. He stood straight and lean, his hair with a touch of genteel gray, suited and groomed to perfection. Nothing at all like the paunchy vendor he’d been the day before, or the pious priest of the previous night. Yet he’d expected some flicker of recognition. She had, after all, remembered him after a span of nineteen years.

  “Dr. Holmes.”

  Isaac turned toward the receptionist. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Schaeffer will see you now.”

  “Thank you.” Though he would have preferred staying by the windows until Erin and the others left, he followed the frumpy woman down the hall to the administration wing. He would see them all again soon. But first, he’d deal with Claire.

  They entered a large corner office, and another suit, with the smile of a consummate politician, greeted him. “Dr. Holmes, it’s so good to meet you.” He took Isaac’s hand firmly. “I’m Robert Schaeffer, director of Gentle Oaks. I’ve been following your work on post-traumatic stress for years, and I can’t tell you how honored I am that you’ve chosen to visit our facility.”

  Isaac smiled tightly, in the manner befitting a world-renowned jackass and the real Jacob Holmes. “I’ve heard you’ve done interesting things here as well.”

  “Yes, yes, well, we do our best. Would you like some coffee or something?”

  “No, nothing. Thank you. I only have a few hours before my flight.”

  “Well then, let’s get on with the tour.”

  The pompous man escorted Isaac around the building, blabbing on about his supposedly innovative programs. Group therapy. Art therapy. Pet therapy. It was all a bunch of nonsense in Isaac’s mind, but he nodded and agreed, asking a pointed question or two. He was, after all, a bit of an expert on the subject of mental illness himself.

  Even more boring than the treatments Schaeffer espoused were the physical facilities themselves and all the special touches he claimed gave his patients a sense of home. Isaac almost laughed aloud at that one. If what these people needed was a home environment, they’d have been better off staying in their own. It would be a hell of a lot cheaper.

  “This is all very interesting,” Isaac said, not trying to hide the impatience in his voice. Holmes was one of the world’s leading authorities on Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and didn’t need to be polite. “But I’m really more interested in some of your patients.”

  “Oh, of course.” Schaeffer’s smile broadened: obviously so taken with his esteemed visitor that he didn’t even notice the rebuke. “I have several interesting residents at the moment. A young man, a veteran, who seemed fine for the first few years after the Gulf War, then—”

  “No, no veterans, Doctor. I’ve treated more than my share and there’s nothing new there.”

  “Well”—Schaeffer seemed a bit taken aback—“there is Tara, a rape victim.”

  Isaac brushed that suggestion aside as well. “What about the woman you wrote about last year?” It was a miserable little piece Isaac had almost missed in his research, but he had found it. “The victim of child abuse. I think you called her Lady X.”

  “Oh, yes.” Schaeffer brightened. “Very interesting case. She was kidnapped when she was seven and held for four years. You read my article?”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  Schaeffer hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. She’s had a rather difficult day.” He moved closer, confiding in a colleague. “Family visit and all. We have her under a suicide watch.”

  Isaac almost smiled. So Claire Baker was suicidal.

  He’d risked a lot to come here and find a way to eliminate her without arousing undue suspicion, and the means had fallen into his lap. He wouldn’t kill Claire, he’d let her do the task for him. All he had to do was get in to see her.

  “If this is a bad time”—he glanced at his watch—“I need to be heading back to the airport. This has been”—Isaac paused, searching for the right word to convey his disappointment—“Interesting.”

  A flash of dismay crossed Schaeffer’s features. “Well, I guess it can’t hurt for us to take a quick look.”

  Isaac lifted an eyebrow. “Only if you’re certain. I wouldn’t want to
interfere with any of your treatments.” He put a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  “No, no, I’m sure it will be fine,” Schaeffer claimed. “This way.”

  As Isaac followed Schaeffer, he experienced a twinge of unexpected excitement. He’d never met one of his children all grown up, and he wondered if she’d recognize him. If not, he planned to remind her.

  He knew her immediately, of course, as Schaeffer escorted him into a brightly lit room. Same bright golden curls. Same blue eyes. Wide now. Filled with horror. And recognition.

  This time he couldn’t suppress the smile. “Hello, Claire.”

  XVI

  ALEC WASN’T HAPPY about Erin coming with him.

  Whether Roland Garth had actually abducted Claire Baker or not, she’d been with him when the police found her. During his fifteen years with the Bureau, Alec had seen too many people come apart when faced with the victimizer of a loved one, and although Erin seemed remarkably composed, her sister was her Achilles’ heel.

  She shouldn’t go anywhere near Garth.

  Unfortunately, Alec didn’t think he could stop her. He had a feeling she didn’t make idle threats. She would somehow get in to see Garth with or without his help. At least if he was along, he could control the situation. Or attempt to.

  Plus, traveling with her to California and back gave him time to talk her out of an even crazier notion: approaching William Neville.

  They had nothing on Neville except suspicions. And with his money and connections, Erin could only get herself into trouble. If Neville’s hands were clean, she could trigger an embarrassing political situation. And if he was dirty? Well, that would make things even more sticky. Alec doubted she’d get any information from him. Instead, she would become a target and damage whatever chance they had of finding Cody Sanders.

  So Alec was relieved when she showed up outside the departure gate just five minutes before the steward planned to close the door. She carried an overnight bag and looked harried and disheveled in jeans and a white oxford shirt, her short dark hair windblown, her cheeks flushed from running. With a nod, she acknowledged him, but stopped to talk to a tall, gangly man who’d been hanging around the gate area.