Silent Scream

Chapter Fourteen

Tuesday, September 21, 1:15 p.m.

David woke abruptly, but didn’t move a muscle. Tensed, he listened, then heard it again. The rustling of papers out in the living room of Glenn’s cabin.

Someone is here. The sun was high in the sky outside his bedroom window. He’d only been asleep a few hours. Rolling soundlessly to his feet, he crept to the door and looked out. From here he could see nothing, but he could hear the opening of drawers.

Call 911. But Glenn had only one land line, in the kitchen. And my cell’s sitting next to it, charging. Stupid. Glenn had a rifle, but it was out in the living room. Where it does me no good at all. He stood in nothing but his boxers, no weapon and no phone.

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.

“Legions,” Kane said morosely. “Or six. Seems like the same thing.”

From across the table Val, the interpreter, chuckled, but said nothing. Olivia liked her. Val had done her job reliably and without a single complaint.

Principal Oaks appeared with the next boy. “This is Kenny Lathem,” he signed, Val voicing. Oaks had been present for every interview and Olivia was sure that had hampered their results. But the kids were minors, so there wasn’t much choice.

Kenny was sixteen, his hair sandy blond. He was a dorm student and once again Oaks had protested that a dorm student would have been missed on Sunday night. But Kenny had gotten a scholarship for Camp Longfellow, so he was of special interest.

“Hi, Kenny,” Olivia said. “Do you know why we’re here?”

Kenny nodded, then signed while Val voiced, “I heard it from the other kids. You’re looking for whoever saw the girl who died.”

The kid’s eyes were as defiant as the twenty pairs that had come before. Except… except there was a flicker of something else there. Fear. This kid knew something.

Olivia slid Tracey’s photo across the table. “Do you know her?” she asked.

He watched Val interpret, glanced at the picture, then shook his head.

“Kenny?” Olivia still saw the flickers of fear as he fixed his eyes on Val. “She died, Kenny,” Olivia said. “She was murdered.” Kenny looked away from the interpreter.

Oaks stepped forward but Olivia warned him back with a glance. She tapped the table again, waiting until Kenny looked at Val. “Kenny. Somebody set the building on fire with her in it. She was sixteen, Kenny, same age as you. Somebody was with her, but they left her there. Left her there to die. She died from the smoke. Suffocated.”

“I don’t know her,” he signed, but his hands trembled, ever so slightly. “I swear.”

I don’t believe you. Olivia flipped through the yearbook to his picture. “You lettered in track. I lettered in gymnastics. Now I biathalon. You know what that is?”

He shook his head, seemingly bored.

“It’s cross-country skiing combined with marksmanship. I tried rowing, but I got seasick.” She tapped the yearbook page with her finger. “This says you’re a rower.”

He shrugged, uncomfortably. “I do okay,” he signed. “So?”

“So, do you ever boat on the lake? Canoes, rowboats, that kind of thing?”

“Sometimes.” It was tentatively signed.

“Like at Camp Longfellow?”

Kenny nodded warily.

“You were there, last summer. So was she.” Olivia pushed Tracey’s photo back to him. “Maybe you met her. Maybe you liked her. Maybe she liked you.”

He pushed the picture back. “I don’t know her.” Each sign was deliberately made, spaced apart. Val’s voice became clipped. Impatient. She was good.

“I wonder what the camp counselors will tell us, Kenny?” Olivia tilted her head, studying him carefully. “Did you have a summer romance?”

“No.” This word Kenny voiced harshly and signed at once.

Val’s voice trailed behind. “No.”

That Olivia actually believed. “But you wanted to. Did she not like you?” Kenny looked away. Patiently, Olivia tapped the table again until he looked back at Val. “I asked you a question. Did she not like you?”

“I said I don’t know her.” His signs were dramatic. “What do you want from me?”

“I want the truth. This girl deserves the truth. She deserves justice. The person who killed her needs to pay. So from you, I want the truth. We know she met someone Sunday night at the condo. They had sex. Was it you?”

He looked straight into her eyes then, his tormented. “No. Not me.” He voiced it thickly, signed it forcefully, then lurched to his feet and ran from the room.

Oaks started to follow him, but Olivia held up her hand. “Let him go.”

“Could he be protecting someone?” Kane asked and Oaks let out a long sigh.

“Maybe. Kenny’s one of those boys who gets in trouble, but basically has a good heart.” He signed it, then looked hopefully at Olivia. “Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded with a smile. “I was one of those girls, I’m afraid. What about his friends? Does Kenny have any friends he might be protecting? Anyone with dark hair?”

“He’s friends with his roommate, Austin Dent,” Oaks signed, “but Austin has red hair, not dark brown. Kenny’s pretty social, but you’ve already met his good friends.”

“Five more on the list,” Kane said. “I need to take a break, stretch my legs.”

“Me too,” Olivia said. “I just let a call go to voice mail. I didn’t want to stop Kenny. Let’s break for lunch. Mr. Oaks, we’ll be back in forty minutes to talk to Kenny again.”

“Of course,” he signed, standing to open his office door.

In the hall, Val flexed her hands and Olivia looked at her in concern. “You okay?”

Val smiled. “When I work in the school systems, I sign all day long with only a lunch break. This is easy. I’ll meet you back here in forty minutes?”

“You didn’t drive here. How will you get to lunch?”

“There’s a sub place about three blocks down. I eat there whenever I come here.”

When Val was gone, Olivia closed her eyes. That little nap on David’s lap had helped, but she needed a night’s sleep. Maybe tonight. Then she thought of her fedora and handcuffs. Maybe she’d get that night’s sleep tomorrow night.

She checked her messages. Noah Webster said he hadn’t yet heard from Camp Longfellow’s staff, and Faye said Tracey Mullen’s mother had called and said her connecting flight was delayed in Atlanta. The last message was from David. She listened to it, then, heart beating harder, called him back, relieved when he answered normally.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“I was asleep and heard a sound. It was a man digging through my friend’s desk.”

“A reporter?” Olivia asked with distaste.

“Oh, better. This man followed Preston Moss. Says his name is Lincoln Jefferson. I subdued and restrained him, then called 911. Olivia, I think this guy was with Moss when he set that last fire.”

“Oh my God.” She heard some banging and voices and shrieking. “Who is that?”

“Local cops. Lincoln’s not real happy right now. What do you want done with him?”

“Hold him. We’re coming up right now.” She relayed instructions to the officer, then hung up just as Kane came around the corner. “You are not going to believe this.”

“Nothing good ever follows that statement.”

“Today, you are wrong.” She told him and his brows shot up.

“I guess we should tell Principal Oaks we won’t be back in forty minutes. Of course, we could just call Barlow and let him deal with the intruder.”

“Yeah, right,” Olivia scoffed and he grinned.

“I thought you’d made up with Barlow.”

“We are a long way from being made up. But he’s trying. Still doesn’t mean I’m going to bring him in until I know what this is about. Especially since he’s got that Crawford tagging along with him today. Guy gave me the creeps.”

“Same here,” Kane admitted. “I’ll tell Oaks we’ll be back in a few hours.”

“I’ll call Val and let her know.”

Tuesday, September 21, 1:50 p.m.

After careful consideration-and a drive-by inspection -he’d decided what to do with accountant Dorian Blunt. It was time to rally the troops. He sent a text to Eric.

new assignment.

He hit SEND, then sent the address, followed by the intel he’d picked up on his drive-by.

no dog. no alarm. no cameras. consider it a gift.

He lifted his eyes to the building he sat watching. No one had emerged in the hour he’d sat here, but they would. He could be patient. It was a beautiful day, after all. But the minutes ticked by and he began to frown. There was no response from Eric.

Could the kid have changed his travel plans? Escaped? That would be disturbing. And annoying. He’d actually have to release the video and he was far from ready to do that. He’d given Albert all the information necessary to stop Eric’s escape. He was disappointed in the big guy. He’d thought that Albert would have the situation well in hand by now and that Eric would be toeing the line.

He shook his head and began a new text to Albert’s phone, when one came through from Eric’s disposable. He read it and his eyes widened.

It appears Eric has left the building.

There was a photo attached and his eyes widened more. Eric lay on his bed, nude, an empty baggie on his nightstand. Out of all the possible scenarios, suicide was the one he’d least anticipated from good old Eric. He didn’t think the boy had had the nerve.

He thought about his earlier text to Albert and suspected Eric hadn’t gone willingly.

Damn. I would have liked to have heard that conversation. But he’d been out of range of the planted microphone’s transmitter, doing his drive-by intel for tonight.

who is this? he typed.

Moi. You will deal with me now. I want to meet.

He laughed softly. no, he typed, hit SEND, then tossed the cell back in the console. And none too soon. The front door to the building opened and a woman came out, dressed all in black.

She was alone. He couldn’t ask for much more than that. Until he had her in his hands, of course. Then he’d ask a great deal more. And she’d answer every question.

He hoped she’d give up the information he sought easily. He didn’t mind putting a bullet into someone who deserved it, like Tomlinson, or who was a direct threat, like the condo guard. Torture, though… always left him queasy.

But, it was unavoidable. She had info and he wanted it. Sucks to be her. Oh well.

She was walking west, probably to grab a bite of lunch. He put his van in gear and slowly followed. A little ether on a handkerchief and the element of surprise would do the job nicely. He did like his gadgets, but sometimes it paid to keep it simple.

Tuesday, September 21, 3:50 p.m.

“You should have called me,” Barlow said between his teeth. He and Olivia stood looking into Interview Two, where Lincoln Jefferson sat in a chair at the table, his hands cuffed and his legs shackled. He hadn’t asked for an attorney yet. Olivia wasn’t certain that enough of his mind was present to do so.

“I did call you,” she said calmly. “That’s why you’re here.”

Barlow’s jaw clenched. “You should have called me right away.”

Olivia glanced to her left. Special Agent Crawford stood beside her, his intense gaze fixed on Lincoln Jefferson, as if willing him to speak. She didn’t like the FBI man but knew better than to fight his presence. “You were processing a crime scene. I called you when we’d confirmed this man’s identity.”

“I can’t believe his name really is Lincoln Jefferson,” Kane said.

“His brother is Truman Jefferson,” Olivia added. “The mother confirmed it.”

“I want Moss,” Crawford said in a low, angry voice. “Let me talk to this shit. He’ll know where Moss is hiding.”

“That’ll be up to our captain,” Kane said carefully. “But nobody sees him until our shrink gets here. Lincoln may have no bearing on our case, but we can’t assume that. Dr. Donahue will assess him and advise the best way to question him.”

“He’s not crazy,” Crawford said with contempt. “He’s an arsonist, plain and simple.”

“The behavior David Hunter described makes him sound pretty crazy,” Olivia said. “Either way, we do nothing until Donahue gets here and does the psych eval.”

“We’re wasting time,” Crawford hissed. “You may not feel the urgency of this situation, Detective, but I do. Every minute he sits there is another minute Moss is free to plan his next attack. I’m going to talk to him, before it’s too late.” He started to move into the interview room and Olivia grabbed the lapel of his black suit.

“Cool your jets, Agent Crawford,” she warned sharply, releasing his lapel. “This is not your investigation.”

“It will be,” he said. He left the viewing area and Barlow sighed.

“Thank you. He’s been breathing down my neck all day.”

“Which is a major reason we didn’t call you,” Kane said reasonably. “We didn’t want Crawford going off on Lincoln in David Hunter’s living room.”

“Where is Hunter?” Barlow asked wearily.

“Filling out a complaint,” Olivia said. “He followed us. His promising to come to the station with Lincoln was the only way we could keep him calm enough to transport.”

“We thought we were going to have to request a tranquilizer gun,” Kane said, only half joking. “Lincoln went wild when the uniformed cops showed up to cuff him. It was only when Hunter talked to him that he calmed down. Bizarre, considering.”

“Yes, it is.” Jessie Donahue joined them at the window, watching in silence for a minute. “What’s that he’s chanting?” she asked. “I can’t make it out.”

“Valla Eam,” Olivia told her and Donahue nodded.

“‘Defend her,’” she murmured. “SPOT’s rallying cry. What can you tell me?”

“Just what his mother told us,” Olivia said. “She said he was diagnosed as a schizophrenic at twenty-one, when he was at the university. With meds, life is better.”

“But he doesn’t take his meds,” Dr. Donahue said.

Olivia nodded. “According to his mom, that’s true. She said Lincoln has been in and out of psychiatric care for the last ten years.”

“You think he really was at the last SPOT fire?” Donahue asked.

“He was a student in Moss’s university class twelve years ago,” Kane said. “It fits.”

“He was in the home of the firefighter who caught the ball. Did he say why?”

“Conspiracy theory. The fire department was dragging Moss’s name through the mud.” Olivia eyed Donahue. Since joining the team, the shrink had made no reference to Olivia’s three mandated visits. Or the fourth that she’d rescheduled six times. “Is Lincoln crazy?”

Donahue met her eyes and Olivia had the sense the woman was reading her mind. Discomfiting. “If he’s diagnosed schizophrenic, then yes, he’s certifiably crazy. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be held accountable for what he did today or twelve years ago.”

“Special Agent Crawford wants to talk to him,” Kane said. “Dig Moss’s whereabouts out of his brain.”

Donahue frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The door closed sharply behind them. “It doesn’t matter,” Crawford said smugly. He was standing next to Abbott, who looked worn out.

“We are to cooperate with the FBI,” Abbott said stiffly. “So let the man through.”

What followed made them all cringe. Crawford was twice as belligerent with Lincoln as he’d been with them, repeating his demand, “Tell me where Moss is,” again and again. Within minutes Lincoln was cowering and rocking in his chair.

Donahue crossed her arms over her chest. “What is he doing?” she asked angrily.

“Crawford’s an old-fashioned sink with two spigots,” Barlow said. “One hot, one cold. This morning we got cold. A few times during the day, he went hot. It was not fun.”

“But you’re not a schizophrenic off his meds,” Olivia said. She looked at Abbott, frustrated. “Don’t let him break Lincoln’s brain before we can talk to him.”

A few seconds later, Crawford himself gave Abbott an official out when he grabbed Lincoln’s collar and yanked him so that he sat up in the chair. “You will answer me.”

Abbott stepped into the room. “Special Agent Crawford, you have a phone call.”

“I’m busy. Take a message.”

Abbott shook his head. “I’m sorry. You need to take this call. Please.”

Crawford thrust Lincoln away in disgust. “I’ll be back for you,” he said angrily, then followed Abbott into the observation room. “What the fuck?” he exploded as soon as the door was closed. “How dare you? I was going to break him.”

“We don’t want him broken,” Abbott said. “He is our witness.”

“He’s wanted for a goddamn federal crime,” Crawford said, getting in Abbott’s face. “Are you going to give him milk and cookies? What kind of department do you run?”

“A successful one,” Abbott said quietly, not moving a muscle, not backing down. “Now, we will question him, but we’ll follow the advice of our psychiatrist.”

Crawford’s expression became one of blatant disrespect. “And she’ll say he’s crazy, that he can’t be held responsible,” he said sarcastically. “Then be my guest. Try the milk-and-cookies approach. See if you can cajole a confession out of him.”

“Under this kind of duress,” Donahue said, “no confession you pull from him will hold weight in court anyway. His defense attorney will leap all over this. I don’t think you want that, Special Agent Crawford.”

“I don’t want him. I want Moss,” Crawford uttered slowly as if they were all stupid.

“Then we need to calm Lincoln down,” Kane said. “Liv, you up to try?”

“We both tried to calm him down back at David’s,” she said. “The only person he listened to was David Hunter.”

“The firefighter?” Crawford asked, narrowing his eyes. “What did Hunter tell him?”

Olivia looked at Abbott, purposely ignoring Crawford. “David’s been reading Moss’s speeches since he caught the ball. The uniforms had cuffed Lincoln and had him facedown on the carpet. David started quoting Moss’s speeches, word for word.”

Abbott’s brows lifted. “Some memory.”

You have no idea, Olivia wanted to say, but swallowed it back. “Apparently so. He thinks Lincoln might be the guy who built the Web site shrine to Moss.”

“Where is Hunter now?” Abbott asked.

“Filling out a complaint,” Kane said. “You want him in there?”

There was a crash in the interview room. Lincoln had rocked his chair until he tipped and hit the floor. Now he lay on his side, rocking and chanting, “Valla Eam.”

Abbott sighed. “Go get Hunter. What can it hurt?”

“We’re not going to get back to the deaf school before school’s out,” Kane said, “but I want one more go at Kenny. I’ll bring Hunter, then tell Oaks we’ll be back after dinner.”

“Val sent me a text saying she had a three o’clock interpreting commitment when I told her we were running behind,” Olivia said. “She’ll be busy for a while longer. I’ll tell her to be back at the school around seven.”

“I’ll get the fireman,” Kane said. “Don’t do anything exciting without me.”