A robber? Then his mind finally fully woke. That glass ball. Goddamn reporters. One of them must have found out where he was. He tilted his head to better hear. More drawers were opened, more papers rustled. Whoever it was, was looking for something. But what?
He slipped through the door, grateful that the carpet on the floor muffled his footsteps. His heart was racing as his mind pictured what could be waiting.
The living room came into view and he stopped, assessed, barely breathing.
A man stood at Glenn’s desk, rifling through papers. He was at least as tall as David, lean and wiry. It was hard to tell his age, but he wasn’t very young, nor old. Most importantly, there was a gun tucked into the man’s waistband. Shit.
David’s laptop sat on top of a stack of mail he’d forgotten to take back to Glenn last night. Shit. The realization was like a swift kick in the gut. The laptop had been on the table next to his bed. The man had been in his room while he slept.
Intent in his search, the man hadn’t heard him yet, which was a good sign. Watching the man going through Glenn’s things, David visualized what he would do, then moved, closing the distance between them in two swift leaps.
The man reached for his gun at David’s first footfall. But David got there first, taking him down, his hand capturing the man’s in a wristlock. The man flailed, but David tightened his hold. It was a painful hold, as he well knew, from all those times Paige’s self-defense students had practiced it on him.
“If you move, I will break your hand and then your fucking neck,” David hissed, his heart pounding to beat all hell. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
The man’s eyes were wild. Crazy wild. “Get off me. You bastard.”
“No fucking way.” He took the gun, appalled that his hand shook, while the man bucked wildly. David reversed the wrist hold, bending the guy’s arm behind him. A string of vile curses spewed and David held the lock.
He was breathing more evenly now, the initial terror over. “Who are you?”
“Go to hell,” the man gasped, quivering now. This close David could see he was in his thirties. “You bastard.”
David leaned in farther and a howl burst from the man’s throat. “Stop!” he cried.
“Who are you?”
“Lincoln.”
“Lincoln who? Dammit. I don’t want to break your shoulder. Who the hell are you?”
“Lincoln Jefferson.”
Lincoln Jefferson? David almost laughed. The name was almost definitely fake, but it was something. He held the pressure firm. “Why are you here?”
“You’re lying bastards,” Lincoln sobbed. “You lied. You lied. You lied.”
“I don’t lie.” Not in a very long time anyway. “Who sent you?” Lincoln said nothing, and David tightened the hold with a jerk that made the man moan. “Who sent you?”
“The earth is our mother. Valla Eam,” Lincoln whispered, then started to chant it, again and again. “Valla Eam.”
David had read those words, recently. Valla Eam. “Defend her,” as in defend Mother Earth. “Valla Eam” was the way Preston Moss ended every speech. It had been the rallying cry of his followers.
Relaxing his hold a hair, David studied the man, wondering if he was looking at the person who’d created the Web site on which he’d found Moss’s speeches. Could Lincoln have helped Moss set his fires? Twelve years ago, Lincoln would have been in college.
“You followed Preston Moss,” David said quietly. “Why are you in my house? Did Moss send you?”
Lincoln’s laugh was muted, strangely disturbing. “No.”
David bent closer, careful not to increase the pressure. “How did I lie? Tell me.”
“You said you caught the ball.”
“I did. I caught the ball.”
“You didn’t. You couldn’t.”
“But I did. I don’t lie.” He thought of the girl, Tracey Mullen, of the gel on her hands. Of the dead guard and the faceless Tomlinson. “I was there,” he murmured. “At both fires. I saw the bodies.” He saw Lincoln flinch. “I caught the ball, Lincoln.”
“No. You didn’t. Not his. You put it there. You planted it there. You bastards.”
David blinked, surprised. “Why would you think I planted it, Lincoln?”
Lincoln shook his head hard. “I’m not talking to you.”
Yes, you will. David put more pressure on Lincoln’s arm. “I think you should reconsider that. Look, I’m a good guy. I pay my taxes and I put out fires. I even save old ladies’ cats from trees. Why would I lie about your damn ball?”
“It wasn’t his ball! You want to bring him down, again. But I won’t let you.”
“You think that I, a tax-paying, cat-saving firefighter, planted a glass ball in a burning building to make your crazy leader look bad? You’re more insane than he was.”
Lincoln’s laugh was brittle. “Oh yes. Crazy I am. Crazy I am,” he said in a singsong. “Doctor says it, mother says it, brother says it. Lincoln’s crazy. What happened to Lincoln? Why don’t you smile, Lincoln? Lincoln, why are you so fucking crazy?” Lincoln yelled the last three words and lunged, but David subdued him.
“Why are you crazy, Lincoln?” he asked softly.
“She was black,” Lincoln murmured. “Black. All black.”
Oh God. David remembered what Glenn had told him about the victim of SPOT’s blaze, how the woman had been burned. “You were there, twelve years ago. You killed that woman in the insurance building. You came back. Saw her body.”
“Burned up. All burned up. Took her away, but she’s always there. Always there.” He shuddered and went still. “Always there,” he whispered.
A shiver raced down David’s spine. Seeing a dead body could push someone to insanity. He studied the man, an unwelcome thought intruding into his mind. There, but for the grace of God, go I.
“Why did you come here, Lincoln?” he asked, his voice rough with a compassion he didn’t want to feel. It was a betrayal of the real victims. “What were you trying to find?”
“The letter with the lies. From the bosses. All made up.”
“You think my bosses told me to lie? You think they wanted Moss’s name dragged into this? To accuse him?”
Lincoln just sighed. David wanted to do the same. He’d get no further.
David gripped Lincoln’s gun. “I have your gun pointed at you. If you try to run, I’ll just take you down again. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. Do you understand me?”
Lincoln made no response. David released him, stepping several feet back in the same movement, relieved when Lincoln stayed put. He needed to restrain Lincoln until the police could arrive. David looked around for something to tie him with, finally cutting the pull cord from the blinds at the window.
Quickly he tied Lincoln’s hands and feet, then called 911.
Then he called Olivia. It went to her voice mail. “Olivia, it’s David. I’ve caught an intruder you’re going to want to meet.” He hung up and crouched next to Lincoln, who lay with his eyes closed. The man looked a little green.
“You okay?” he asked Lincoln.
“Go to hell,” Lincoln said wearily.
“I hope not,” he said honestly. “You need to understand something, if you can. I really did find a ball Sunday night. I saw another last night. Nobody’s lying to you.”
“No.” He said it simply, like a child. “Preston Moss can’t kill.”
But he had. Even if he hadn’t meant to, Moss caused the death of an innocent woman. So did you. St. David, the killer. Megan was an innocent and now she’s dead.
No. It wasn’t the same. It was not the same. You go on believing that if it makes you feel better. David sat on the floor, Lincoln’s gun in hand, and prepared to wait.
Tuesday, September 21, 1:15 p.m.
In two and a half hours, they’d talked to twenty teenaged boys and so far not one knew anything. Or so they claimed. Olivia watched turbulent teen number twenty saunter out of Oaks’s office. “How many more?” she asked.