enough for two cars to pass. It was not a major traffic route.
Did the abductor leave his vehicle here while he went to Gracie’s game? Or did the other man on the tape drive the vehicle to this position while the abductor grabbed Gracie and carried her through the woods? Were they working together?
Ben started to climb down, but he stopped; the shoulder was standing room only, too narrow to park a vehicle without blocking the road. He knelt and examined the shoulder where a car might have pulled over and waited for the abductor to arrive with Gracie. He noticed a rock that glistened. He touched his finger to the shiny rock; it was wet. He put his finger to his nose and sniffed.
Oil.
Little Johnny Brice can taste his own blood that is flowing from his nose and mouth. He is curled up in a fetal position on the ground; his arms are wrapped around his head; he is crying. This is the worst beating yet, and it isn’t over. Luther Ray is sitting astride him, hitting and taunting, taunting and hitting; his fists feel like iron hammers each time they impact John’s body. Little Johnny Brice is praying to God to let him die so the pain will stop.
John opened his eyes. The carpet beneath his face was wet. He was curled up in a fetal position on the floor of his walk-in closet. He had given his shirt to the FBI then come upstairs to clean up. He had showered and come into his closet to dress. But the images of Gracie and the abductor had returned, and he had started crying again. He could not stop thinking of her pain.
Please, God, let her pain stop.
Kate found John sitting alone in his closet, just as she had found him sitting alone in his room so many times as a boy. Back then, he’d been hurt by the bullies; today, he’d been hurt by his wife. It had been bad back then; it was worse today.
She sat down on the floor next to him. She put her arm around him, and he laid his head in her lap, just as he had so many times. She stroked his hair as she had back then, and she said the same words.
“John, try to have faith. You’ve got to trust that there’s a reason for this, that there’s a reason for everything that happens to us in life, even the bad things. God has-”
John’s head lifted, and he sat up abruptly.
“No, Mom, you’re wrong! You were wrong back then and you’re wrong now! There was no reason for my getting beat up by those bullies, and there’s no reason for Gracie getting kidnapped by some sick pervert. There’s no reason, no plan, no purpose, no grand scheme to all this-it wasn’t meant to be! It’s just random acts of violence. Mean people doing bad things. You go to Mass and you believe all that shit Father Randy says-and that’s all it is, Mom. Shit!”
John stood and walked out. Kate Brice covered her face and cried because she could not help her son now, just as she could not help him back then.
FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux was back in the command post examining the blow-ups of the two men from the videotape and the big man’s tattoo. The large room was quiet-which was exactly wrong. Forty-three hours after an abduction, the phones should be ringing off the hook with hot tips. But the phones were silent.
Where the hell were the calls?
Devereaux removed his reading glasses, closed his eyes, and rubbed his face. When he opened his eyes, Agent Jorgenson was walking his way. She had a muscular build and short brown hair. She was wearing a blue nylon FBI jacket, jeans, and sneakers and carrying brown folders under her arm. He liked Jorgenson. She reminded him of his daughter; she had the same athletic bounce in her step and the same intellectual curiosity. She wanted to learn. She was still in her one-year probationary appointment, but she had already grasped an understanding of the job; it wasn’t about the glory of solving a high-profile case or the ego of apprehending a Most Wanted or Washington’s public relations obsession. It was about the victim. The job was always and only about the victim.
“Why’s it so dead?” Agent Jorgenson said when she arrived; she plopped down in a chair. “Is this normal?”
“No.”
“It’s like she just disappeared.”
“A ten-year-old girl doesn’t just disappear.”
“What are her chances-that she’s still alive?”
“Not good. Statistically, no chance at all.”
“Damn.”
“Just do your job, Agent Jorgenson. Focus on the evidence.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir. You’re good in front of cameras.”
“Too much experience. So, Jorgenson, what do they grow up there in
… where in Minnesota are you from?”
“Owatonna. Corn mostly. For the ethanol.”
“Farmer’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My grandfather was a farmer. Cotton. Used to help him pick it when I was a kid. It was an uncomplicated life.”
“I wanted excitement.”
“Well, Agent, you’ve found it.” He pointed at her brown folders. “What do you have for me?”
“We took blood samples from the family to compare to the blood on the father’s shirt. DNA tests are underway.”
“Good. What else?”
“Background reports on the family.”
“Proceed.”
Devereaux did not expect the family backgrounds to reveal anything of importance, but he had learned the hard way to never overlook the routine aspects of the investigation.
“Alrighty,” she said, opening the first brown folder. “The father, he’s some kind of genius-Ph. D. from MIT in algorithms, whatever that is, one-ninety IQ… I didn’t know they went that high.”
“They don’t,” Devereaux said. “At least not in the Bureau.”
She gave him a little smile then continued. “He founded BriceWare, going public this week, you know all that. He and the mother married ten years ago. He was at MIT, she was at Justice in D.C., Assistant U.S. Attorney. Five years.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. Maiden name was Austin. Grew up in New York. Her father was murdered when she was only ten.”
“Same age as Gracie.”
“First in her class at Harvard Law, a rising star at Justice. Then she up and quit, married Brice, moved to Dallas.”
“No accounting for love.”
“They’re an odd couple, aren’t they? And the way she slapped him yesterday, and cut him down this morning…” Jorgenson shook her head. “And how she talks to the local cops, and to us, so angry and ordering everyone around like we all work for her.”
“Her child’s been abducted, Agent. Cut her some slack.”
“You were very, uh, diplomatic with her.”
He nodded. “Two rules, Agent Jorgenson, to keep in mind in abductions. Rule number one: this isn’t actually our case. We’ve got no jurisdiction, not legally anyway. The locals generally defer to us, but technically we’re invited guests. So act like a guest. Rule number two: odds are the child’s already dead by the time we arrive on scene, so if the mother wants to cuss you out, tell you you’re the dumbest cop on the face of the earth, you say, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ You respect the fact that she’s lost her child… and that she’s probably halfway to nuts by the time you meet her. You give the parents free rein with their emotions. They need it more than you need to prove you’re a tough FBI agent in control of the case. Getting into a pissing contest with the parents won’t put you one step closer
