Authors: CJ Lyons
Not for long. He was going to make Dad notice. Make him proud.
"Welcome home, Adam," Mrs. Chesshir said. Then she got in her car and left.
Adam stood in the mostly empty parking lot of the Safeway, snow melting through the hole in his shoe, fear making his insides shiver.
Five minutes back in New Hope and he was already falling apart. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Adam was hopeless.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd been wrong about everything.
<><><>
The whistle blew. Megan ran over from the sidelines, lifting her muddy cleat against the Subaru's front bumper to retie it. "You made it. Any word from Dad?"
No one else would have noticed the undercurrent of longing in her voice, but to Lucy it was louder than the firing range during recertification week. "Sorry, sweetie. He's working late again."
Two months ago it would have been Nick making that excuse for Lucy's tardiness. But when the VA clinic cut back its staff, Nick's private practice contracted to take their overflow. With more and more soldiers needing Nick's expertise, he just couldn't refuse.
Megan bobbed her head, focused on her shoelaces. "Okay. Did you see me take that penalty kick? I nailed it."
"You sure did." Despite the rain and mud covering Megan, Lucy pulled her into a quick hug. "I'm so proud of you." She wasn't talking about soccer and Megan knew it.
Over the past two months Megan had become Lucy's anchor, keeping her connected to the outside world, despite Lucy's ever-growing litany of damn good reasons to stay inside, lock the doors, and keep the guns loaded and at the ready.
"What's wrong?" Megan asked suspiciously. Hard to fool the daughter of a FBI agent trained in both undercover work and interrogation techniques. Even harder to fool the daughter of a psychologist specializing in post-traumatic stress. And Megan was her father's daughter in so many ways: extroverted, trusting, smart, empathic.
Too bad Nick wasn't here to see it.
"I came to take you home. Something's come up."
"Mom," Megan said with a well-practiced adolescent whine that reminded Lucy of the defense attorney who tried to skewer her testimony an hour ago. "I'm one of the only girls invited. I can't leave early."
This really wasn't the time or place to explain, and last thing Lucy wanted was to have a public confrontation with Megan. She opened the passenger door to the Subaru, hoped Megan would take the hint. "I don't like this. You playing in the cold. You'll get sick."
Megan was merciful, sparing Lucy an eye roll. Instead she sighed, as if she were the long-suffering mother, patted Lucy's arm, and said, "I'm fine." She dribbled an invisible ball with her feet, impervious to the freezing rain and wind. "You can watch from the car if you want. Or go home. I'll catch a ride with Danny."
As if Lucy would ever trust her thirteen-year-old alone with a twenty-something soccer coach. Especially not one who encouraged his athletes to call him "Danny."
Her phone rang, distracting her just as the whistle blew again.
"Gotta go." Megan raced into the crowd of parents and players before Lucy could grab her.
Lucy kept Megan in sight as she answered the phone. It was Walden. Hopefully good news.
"Guardino," she answered. "What have you got?"
"No trace on the letter. The envelope, about what you'd expect." Of course. Send a threatening letter through the US Mail and you'd tie up fingerprint analysts for days with the number of random partials. "Taylor's at your house, just finished clearing it."
"Nick?"
"He's fine. Still at work. Galloway is with him, will see him home. He's not too happy about the whole thing. Especially us monitoring his mail."
"I'll take care of it." It wasn't the monitoring or the security detail that bothered Nick. It was the fact that Lucy's work placed her family at risk. Again. She didn't realize she'd sighed out loud until it echoed back to her through the cell phone.
"I think I calmed him down," Walden added. A big guy, intimidating as hell when he had to be, but whenever they needed to play good cop/bad cop, Walden was always the good cop, the sane one. The sight of a six-two, two-twenty black guy being unable to control a petite white woman fifteen years his junior got a subject's attention, fast. "We had a little heart to heart."
Lucy shook her head. Nick and Walden, talking about her. She so didn't want to know. "Thanks, Walden."
"Finally found your mom as well. She's with her gentleman friend. Said not to worry about her."
That warranted another sigh, but Lucy swallowed it before Verizon could broadcast her feelings to the world. She pulled her copy of the anonymous letter from her pocket and scanned it again for clues. "What does he mean, we blamed the wrong man? I saw the killer die."
"No body was ever recovered. Plus, we never identified the Unsub. Makes it easy for crackpots to try to grab credit." Walden, logical as always.
"He mentions Megan by name. And he knows how old she is."
"Your name's been in the news a lot lately."
"My name." Lucy used her maiden name everywhere, but Megan was Megan Callahan, Nick's name. "Not Megan's. Or her age."
"Taylor says any kid with a smart phone and five minutes online could find Megan's name and age. Said he could get her shoe size if you gave him ten minutes." Taylor was their resident whiz kid when it came to computers—when it came to almost anything except people. He was thirty-four, a recent graduate from the High-Tech Computer Crimes Taskforce before attending Quantico, and would be called "kid" until the day he retired.
Walden dropped his voice. "The New Hope case was four and a half years ago. Maybe you mentioned Megan to someone back then? Trying to bond with local law enforcement or a witness?"
"No. I never talk about my family with anyone on a case. Not my real family, at any rate." Part of Lucy's job was to slip into roles. Pretend to understand and offer forgiveness for the pedophile's urges while interviewing them at their kitchen table, the computer screensaver flashing porn from the countertop as they sipped iced tea. Playing at being a lonely pre-pubescent girl or boy in Internet chat rooms. Going undercover as a mom offering her child's services as a "model."
Lucy understood the kind of persona needed for a given situation. Just like in court today. And she was very good at slipping them on and off again, like trying on outfits in a dressing room. Sometimes Nick said she was too good at it, that she liked to push the edge to get the result she wanted. She couldn't really argue with that. Nick was also good at his job and his job was to see the truth behind the veil of lies.
"I skimmed the case file on New Hope," Walden said. "Didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Other than the fact we had no DNA to compare."
"What did Greally say?" John Greally had been one of her field supervisors when she graduated from the FBI Academy and was now Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Pittsburgh field office. But he hadn't been involved with the New Hope case. She wished he had been. Hamilton, her supervisor on New Hope, was an asshole. More interested in headlines and commendations than the truth. "Is he going to move my family into protective custody?"
It was Walden's turn to sigh.
"They can't blow this off—"
"They're not. Galloway's opening a case file. She'll handle it personally since it comes under the Postal Service's jurisdiction."
Lucy was sure Jenna Galloway was perfectly competent with a letter opener, but with her family involved she'd rather have someone she knew and trusted—a
real
agent—on the case.
Walden continued, "Greally doesn't have the manpower or funding for a full security detail. He also suggested since you were up for your semi-annual eval next week that you do it tomorrow, then take some time off. Mentioned that Cancun is lovely this time of year and you have plenty of vacation coming."
Like Lucy was going to lie on a beach sipping margaritas while her team did the heavy lifting and her family was at risk. "He's at least re-opening the New Hope case, right? Are we taking the lead on it?"
Silence.
"Walden—"
"He tried, Lucy. But like you said, witnesses saw the killer die. Case closed. There's nothing in that letter someone couldn't find reading the news accounts of the case."
"We never found his body. Or maybe he had a partner." Still, it made no sense. Why come after her, announce his presence, after all this time? No. This was about something else. She was sure of it.
Walden echoed her thoughts. "Maybe it has nothing to do with the New Hope case. It could be someone out to sabotage your career by casting doubts on your work."
Lucy thought about that. She had risen through the ranks quickly and inadvertently made enemies along the way. Including her former supervisor. It would also explain why the letter was so vague on specifics. A true sociopath looking for glory would have built his case, boasted about the details the original investigation had gotten wrong. Whoever wrote the letter seemed like he wanted something, and it wasn't fame or credit.
He wanted something from Lucy. He'd succeeded in frightening her, but to what end? More importantly, how much danger was her family in?
Walden continued, "Greally couldn't sign off on a protective detail but there's no way in hell either Galloway or Taylor will leave their posts."
Her people. Loyal—to a fault. She had to protect them, so if things went bad they didn't get caught in the crossfire. "Thanks, Walden."
"You can thank me tonight. Nick invited me to dinner. Said you were getting pizza from Travanti's. I like mine with mushrooms and black olives."
Lucy hung up the phone. Her family was safe for tonight. But what about tomorrow?
Chapter 3
Five dollars wasn't enough to buy everything on Adam's list, so he did what he planned to do in the first place: steal what he needed.
He hated doing it. It was clear from the half-stocked shelves and empty aisles Mr. Cooperman wasn't doing well. Adam promised himself he'd pay back everything after he found his dad. Dad always had money; that was never a problem. The problem was getting him to spend it.
Adam splurged and spent part of the five dollars on a luxury item not on his list: a container of chocolate milk. By the time he left the Safeway, it was almost six and already full dark. The wind cut through the narrow street, teasing him with the threat of snow, but he was warm enough in his layers. Except for his hands and feet. He wasn't sure if those would ever be warm again.
He could have stolen a car, but didn’t want to risk it. It was only a mile or so. He walked through downtown on Main Street, actually the only street that ran through the three blocks New Hope called downtown.
Downtown—heck, the entire town—was never what you'd call busy, but it was different now.
The real estate office had closed. The colors on its flyers in the window had faded from time and the glare of the sun, as if it'd been a joke to start with. Henderson's florist's shop was now a coffee shop, and from the lights on the second floor of the century old brick building, they'd either rented out the apartment there or they'd left their nursery and moved into town. He hoped it wasn't the second. He remembered running through their fields of lavender, swishing the fragrant stems, his palms smelling like fresh beginnings.
He drank his milk and ate a shoplifted Slim Jim. Wondered how many times his dad had been out on these streets alone at night, heading into the darkness. Adam was glad he hadn't taken a car. Dad always said cars were nice when you needed them, but no one ever got arrested for walking.
Following in Dad's footsteps. That was his plan. Tonight he would set up camp in his hidey-hole. The letter should have reached Lucy by now. Hopefully she and the other cops would be here by tomorrow—the next day at the latest. Then the TV and reporters.
And finally, Dad. Dad would hear the news, know it was Adam. He'd come and get him, take him back.
Maybe even smile that secret smile that said he was proud of his boy. Adam would about kill for a glimpse of that smile.
As he walked, imagining the look of pride on Dad's face, Adam didn't feel the cold anymore.
He reached the end of the sidewalk and began walking along the curb, one foot in front of the other, balancing, arms stretched wide, like he had when he was a kid.
Then he came across something surprising: A traffic light instead of the old four-way stop sign at the intersection of Main and Route 4004. The new light blinked amber in one direction and red in the other.
It seemed out of place given the only traffic as far as the eye could see was Adam walking west and the taillights of a truck headed south. But somehow it fit. That was New Hope, never giving up on tomorrow.
He crossed the street, no longer Main Street, now just a nameless county road, and found another change. The old Dairy Treat had been remodeled. It boasted a large sign out front: Huntingdon County Sheriff's Department. The lights were off, the parking lot empty. Only one lone streetlamp between the front door and the curb lit the squat cinderblock building.
Adam stepped over a mound of snow at the edge of the lot and crossed over neatly plowed macadam to the front door. It had the sheriff's star in gold, shining against the blackness beyond the glass door.
Office hours
8am to 4pm, closed weekends and holidays. In case of emergency call 911. Please ring bell for assistance.
They never had a police department in New Hope. Never thought they needed one. Not until four years ago. Then he spotted the small brass plaque mounted on the wall beside the door. It read:
In memory of Marion Caine.
It didn't list any of the other dead women. They never found the bodies, so he guessed they couldn't confirm their names. But Lucy had had a list of possibilities.
He traced his fingers over his mother's name. The people of New Hope thought she was a hero. The cold stung his eyes as anger mixed with grief. He pounded his fist sideways against the plaque, punching his mother's name so hard the embossed letters embedded themselves in his flesh.