C. Lawrence - Silent victim

"Are you a good son?" Perkins asked.

"Yes, father."

"And what do good sons do?" "What their fathers tell them to do." Perkins's disembodied voice was calm, as if he had just asked the boy to pick up some groceries. "Do bad girls have to die?" "Yes, father."

"And who has been a very bad girl?" "Ana has."

"You mean your sister?"

"Yes, father."

Butts hit the pause button.

"Holy crap!" he said, droplets of sweat gathering on his pockmarked face. "If Perkins has this kid convinced Ana is his sister in some past life, and he's his father, that makes Charlotte-"

"His mother." Lee finished for him.

"So Perkins convinces him to kill Ana-why?"

"Maybe so she won't rat him out to the authorities about their affair," Lee reasoned. "Her diary did suggest she was going to confront someone, which fits in with what Charlotte told me."

"But then why would this Caleb guy kill Dr. Perkins?" Officer Anderson said.

"Jealousy," Butts answered. "Oldest motive in the book. He finds out somehow that Perkins was sleeping with Ana-"

"Maybe Charlotte told him!" Anderson suggested, making no attempt to hide his excitement.

"So if he's abducted Charlotte," Lee continued, "in his mind-"

This time Butts finished for him. "He's kidnapping his mother."

Caleb's real identity was indeed Eric McNamara, and according to his file, he lived in Sergeantsville, one of the tiny hamlets nestled amid the rolling farmland of Hunterdon County, to the northeast of Stockton.

"Well, what are we waitin' for?" Butts said. "Let's go!"

They went outside to get Diesel, who was still standing guard by the front door, leaving Officer Anderson to deal with the CSI team just arriving from Trenton. The young policeman gazed out wistfully from the porch as the three of them climbed into the old Ford. Butts cranked up the engine, and they sped off in a cloud of blue smoke.

The hills of Hunterdon County were not ideal for the enormous rattrap of a car, especially not at the speed Butts was driving. Lee avoided looking at the speedometer, but held his breath each time they bounded up the crest of a blind hill or careened around a sharp curve. Lee glanced at the backseat to see how their passenger was taking it. He was irritated to see Diesel looking calmly out the window, his powerful hands folded in his lap, taking in the scenery as though they were on a leisurely Sunday drive instead of pursuing a murder suspect.

They had tried calling Lee's cell phone periodically, with no luck. It went straight to voice mail, indicating that either the phone was turned off or the battery was dead.

Butts gunned the engine up a steep hill, zooming past stone houses with freshly painted wood fences and elaborately landscaped properties. This was where the moneyed classes moved when they retired-those who had too much class to move to Boca or Orlando, and enough money to winter in Florida and spend summers here. "What do you reckon the chances are he'll be there?"

"Probably not very good," Lee said. There was no question of calling ahead-the worst thing they could do was alert a suspect ahead of time. The only thing they could do was go there and hope to find him.

But Lee figured he was too smart to be anywhere near home, if he had in fact kidnapped Charlotte, and especially if he had murdered Perkins. The attack did show signs of frenzy and overkill, but the killer had been clever at hiding his tracks so far, and Lee thought it likely he had regained his wits soon after killing Perkins. He had enough presence of mind to take the murder weapon with him.

Of course, there was still a chance Charlotte had killed her brother and made a run for it, but he didn't think so. He couldn't see her sending a text message asking for help, then picking up a heavy object and wielding it with enough force to do the kind of damage they had seen. And he definitely didn't see her taking Krieger in a fair fight.

They found the house at the end of a narrow street a mile or so from the center of the little town, which consisted of an upscale restaurant and a few shops. There was no car in the driveway, and no sign of life in the house. Butts parked at the end of the drive, and the three of them got out of the car quietly.

"Why don't you stay here and be lookout?" Butts told Diesel as he and Lee started up the dirt driveway.

Lee was sorry leave him behind-if there was a struggle, the powerful Diesel would be more useful than either the pudgy little detective or himself. But they were in delicate legal territory; he and Butts were employees of the NYPD, and Diesel wasn't.

The house was an 1860s farmhouse, and like many others in the area, it had been modernized, with wings added on over the years. The property was well maintained, with a vegetable garden out back and a rose trellis over an old well that looked as if it was still in use. A fresh coat of white paint on the porch gave the place a cheery, inviting look-though their arrival would be anything but welcome.

On one of the porch columns, next to the front steps, was a sculpture of a Green Man. It was different from both the one at Perkins's house and the one Ana Watkins owned. Made of plaster, it was larger and even more fierce-looking, and a few actual leaves and twigs had been shoved behind it, so that it looked like they were growing out of its head. Lee tugged on the detective's sleeve and pointed to it. Butts turned to look, nodded, then drew his revolver and mounted the porch steps, which creaked from age and damp weather.

The front door was open from the inside; only the screen door stood between them and the front hallway. He strode to the front door and yanked the rope attached to the clanger on the old-fashioned dinner bell hanging next to the front door. Its hollow report sent a chill through Lee's body. Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

"Police-open up!" Butts called out, holding his gun close to his body, the barrel pointing upward. There was no answer. Peering through the screen door, Lee could see no movement inside the house. He strained to hear something-anything-but there was no furtive shuffling, no scurrying footsteps of a fugitive on the lam.

"Police! If you're in there, open up!" Butts called again, but he was met once again with silence. He looked at Lee and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "No warrant-we're on shaky ground here. I don't see a judge buyin' probable cause. I think we're stuck."

They stood contemplating their options as a swarm of gnats lazily circled the far end of the porch. A gentle breeze brought the scent of honeysuckle wafting in from the garden, mixed with the tart green smell of tomato vines and geraniums. In the woods, cicadas began their metallic descending scale, signaling the end of summer.

A faint sound from within the house broke the stillness. It was a gentle rustling, as though a mouse or some other small animal was trying to burrow into a nest and hide. It seemed to come from the other end of the front hall. Lee pressed his face against the screen door and peered down the dark corridor.

"Hey, be careful!" Butts whispered fiercely behind him, but Lee remained where he was, trying to make out the dim figure advancing down the hall toward them. His instincts told him the person, whoever it was, held no threat for them.

"Hello?" he called. The form stopped moving, then crumpled to the floor. He looked at Butts, but the detective's hand was already on the screen doorknob.

"Now we got probable cause," the detective said, pushing the door open.

Lee followed Butts into the house. They reached the end of the hall in three or four steps. In front of them was the emaciated figure of a man. He had collapsed onto the floor next to the stairs and was clutching at the banister, trying to heave his wasted body to his feet. With his other hand he clutched wildly at the air, as though trying to reach out for their assistance. He sawed the air frantically, like a broken antenna trying to find a signal.