Sara sat on the couch, watching Jeffrey put the tape in the VCR. He took a seat beside her, working the remote control until the picture came up. Sara recognized the black-and-white format as a surveillance tape.
"The post office in Atlanta," she said.
Jeffrey leaned back on the couch, and Sara pressed herself against him as they watched the tape. The scene was pretty ordinary, a room full of post office boxes with a table in the center of it. Jeffrey fast-forwarded the tape, playing it when a slim-looking young man came into the frame.
"He could be Mark Patterson," Sara whispered, watching the kid walk to the back of the room. As he came closer to the camera, the similarity between the boy and Mark was amazing. They had the same lanky build and insolent look about them. The way his clothes hung on his body conveyed the same androgynous sexuality.
Jeffrey said, "He looks just like him."
On screen, the boy had a suspicious walk as he crossed the room. He stopped, furtively looking around before opening a box. His back was to the camera, blocking the view, as he took out the contents of the box, looked around again, then shoved the envelopes into the waist of his pants. He tucked his shirt in as he walked toward the exit and past the camera.
Jeffrey paused the tape, freezing the image of the boy on the screen.
"She sent someone else," Sara guessed.
"He walked out into the parking lot, got into a black Thunderbird, and drove to a local mall," Jeffrey said. "No one showed up to meet him. He waited a couple of hours, then used a pay phone."
"To call whom?"
"Nick traced the number to a cell phone. No one answered it."
"What about the kid?"
"David Ross, a.k.a. Ross Davis," he told her. "Nick ran his prints. He was abducted ten years ago from his home in broad daylight. Missing, presumed dead."
Sara felt her heart sink in her chest. "Ten years?"
"Yeah," Jeffrey said, anger in his tone. "He was playing outside with his older brother. Dottie came up in her car. They think it was Dottie. Wanda. Whoever the fuck she is. It was a woman. Ross Davis went with her and never came home."
Sara put her hand to her heart. "His poor parents."
"He's not their kid anymore, Sara. He's just like Mark. He won't talk. Nick grilled him for six hours, and the kid wouldn't say a word. Wouldn't even acknowledge that he knew Dottie. He just said he was there picking up some of his mail."
"Did he have a tattoo like Mark?"
Jeffrey shook his head.
"How old is he?"
"Seventeen."
"He was taken when he was seven?" she asked.
"He's legally an adult now," Jeffrey said, and there was such an air of defeat to him that Sara took his hand in hers.
She asked, "Did you notify his parents?"
"Nick did," Jeffrey said. "He couldn't hold the kid, though. It's not illegal to check a post office box, and the car is legally registered to him."
"Nick put a tail on him, right?" Sara asked. "At least he can tell the parents where he is."
Jeffrey nodded, his eyes on the frozen image of the boy. "Watch," he said, pointing the remote at the VCR again. He pressed play, and the boy left.
The tape showed the empty room for the next few seconds. Sara was about to ask what she was supposed to be looking for when another figure came on screen. A woman wearing a baseball cap and glasses walked purposefully into the camera's range. She went directly to the back of the room and opened the same box the boy had just checked minutes ago. She took out a couple of envelopes, then tucked them into her purse. When she turned, Sara gasped, even though she should not have been surprised.
"Is that Dottie Weaver?" Sara asked, but she knew that it was. There was no mistaking the woman on screen for anyone else. Then, as if she knew that they would one day be watching her, Dottie lifted up her sunglasses, stared right into the camera, and raised her middle finger at them.
Jeffrey paused the tape.
"Where was everybody?" Sara demanded, sitting up on the edge of the couch. "Where was the tail?"
"They followed the boy," Jeffrey told her. "Nick found a bunch of junk mail on him. The credit cards were left in the box."
"She can't possibly use them," Sara countered, still incredulous. "As soon as the numbers come up in the computer, they'll know where she is."
"She knows that," Jeffrey assured her. "She gave you and Lena all those clues when you interviewed her. It's all a game. She's just fucking with us."
"Why?"
"Because she can," he said caustically. "God damn her."
Sara put her hand on his shoulder. "Jeff." She tried to help, pointing out, "Dave Fine will never get out of jail. Lacey is home. Grace is dead."
"Don't comfort me, Sara," he said, his voice tight in his throat. "Please."
She dropped her hand, and he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
Jeffrey said, "She's out there, Sara. She's out there doing this again."
"Someone will catch her," Sara told him, but she wasn't sure of this herself. Jeffrey must have sensed the hesitancy in her tone, because he turned to look at her. There was so much pain in his eyes that Sara had to look away.
Sara stared instead at the television, at Dottie Weaver telling them in no uncertain terms that she was not only free from the law, she was free to do whatever she wanted to children like Mark and Lacey Patterson. She was probably doing it right now.
"How could this happen?" Sara asked, but there was no answer to the question. She thought of Lacey, and what the child had been through, and the things that Lacey had experienced but was still incapable of talking about. The thirteen-year-old girl had been through more pain and suffering than anyone should be expected to bear, yet she was still getting up for school in the mornings, going to church with her father on Sundays, as if she were still a child, and not aged by circumstance.
Jeffrey sat back on the couch, taking Sara's hand in his, holding it too tight. They sat like that, neither of them talking, both of them incapable of expressing how they felt, until Cathy stood at the top of the stairs and called them up for dinner.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First thanks as always goes to my agent, Victoria Sanders. It would take three people to fill her shoes. Meaghan Dowling, my editor at Morrow, gave me focus and spot-on advice. Kate Elton at Century was great help as well. The marketing and publicity people at Morrow and Century have been fabulous. Juliette Shapland is worth her weight in Tim Tarns.
Medical information again came from Michael A. Rolnick, M.D., and Carol Barbier Rolnick. Captain Jo Ann Cain fielded procedural questions. Ric Brandt offered firearms advice. Melissa Cary told me how to snake a drain. Jatha Slaughter answered my drug questions with honesty and aplomb. Fellow authors Jane Haddam, Keith Snyder, Ellen Conford, and Eileen Moushey were there for moral support. Writer Sal Towse walked with me across the Golden Gate Bridge, an experience I will never forget. Laura "Slim" Lippman was a good sounding board. Any mistakes I've made are entirely her own.
My daddy has been a constant support throughout my life and I feel lucky to have him. Judy Jordan is a cherished friend. As for D.A.-whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.
I will always owe a debt of gratitude to Billie Bennett Ward, my ninth-grade English teacher. I am just one of the few people I know who owe their careers if not their lives to a teacher. They should all be praised for the good they do.
Lastly, thanks to the little scamps who go over the posted thirty-minute time limit at my local Y; I have conjured many a violent murder waiting in line for a treadmill.
