James Patterson - The 6th Target

"Mrs. Tyler, this is Lindsay Boxer. I'm with Inspector Conklin, and we have Madison." I put the phone up to Madison's face, and I whispered, "Say something to your mom."

EARLY THAT EVENING, Conklin and I were at FBI headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue, thirteenth floor. We sat in a room with fifteen other agents and cops, watching on video monitors as Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, interviewed Renfrew.

I sat beside Conklin, watching Stanford and Thomson dissecting the acts of terror committed by Paul Renfrew, aka John Langer, aka David Cornwall, aka Josef Waller, the name he was given at birth .

"He's lapping up the attention," I said to Conklin.

"It's a good thing I'm not in the box with him," Conklin said. "I couldn't handle this."

"This" was Waller's smugness and affability. Instead of smart-mouthing or showing defiance, Waller talked to Stanford and Thomson as if they were colleagues, as if he expected to have an ongoing relationship with them after he'd finished the clever telling of his story.

Macklin, Conklin, and I sat riveted to our chairs as Waller caressed their names: André Devereaux, Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and a little girl named Dorothea Alvarez from Mexico City.

A child we hadn't known about.

A child who might still be alive.

While he sipped his coffee, Waller told Stanford and Thomson where the three missing children were living as sex toys in rich men's homes around the globe.

Waller said, "It was my wife's idea to import pretty European girls, place them as nannies with good families. Then find buyers for the children. I worked with the nannies. That was my job. My girls were proudest of the kids who were the most beautiful, intelligent, and gifted. And I encouraged the girls to tell me all about them."

"So the nannies fingered the children, but they never knew what you planned to do with them," Thomson said.

Renfrew smiled.

"How did you find your buyers?" Stanford asked.

"Word of mouth," Renfrew said. "Our clients were all men of wealth and quality, and I always felt the children were in good hands."

I wanted to throw up, but I gripped the arms of my chair, kept my eyes on the screen in front of me.

"You kept Madison for almost two weeks," Thomson said. "Seems kind of risky."

"We were waiting for a money transfer," Waller said regretfully. "A million five had been pledged for Madison, but the deal stalled. We had another offer, not as good, and then the original buyer came back into play. Those few extra days cost us everything."

"About the abduction of Madison and Paola," Stanford said, "so many people were in the park that day. It was broad daylight. A very impressive snatch, I have to say. I'd really like to know how you pulled that off."

"Ah, yes, but I have to tell you, it almost went all to hell," Waller said, exhaling loudly at the memory, seeming to think through how he wanted to tell the story.

"We drove the van to the Alta Plaza playground," said the psychopath in the gray herringbone suit.

"I asked Paola and Madison to come with us. See, the children trusted the nannies, and the nannies trusted us ."

"Brilliant," said Stanford.

Renfrew nodded, and having received so much encouragement, he wanted to go on. "We told Paola and Madison that there had been an emergency at the Tyler house, that Elizabeth Tyler had taken a fall.

"I knocked out Madison with chloroform in the backseat, the precise plan we'd used with three other abductions. But Paola tried to grab the steering wheel. We could have all been killed. I had to take her down fast. What would you have done?" Renfrew asked Dave Stanford.

"I would have smothered you at birth," Stanford said. "I wish to God I could have done that."

THE GALLERY WAS JAM-PACKED with law clerks, crime reporters, families of the victims, and dozens of people who were on the Del Norte when Alfred Brinkley had fired his fatal shots. Hushed voices rose to a rumble as two guards escorted Brinkley into the courtroom.

There he was!

The ferry shooter.

Mickey Sherman stood as Brinkley's cuffs and waist chains were removed. He pulled out a chair for his client, who asked him, "Am I going to get my chance?"

"I'm thinking about it," Sherman said to his client. "You sure about this, Fred?"

Brinkley nodded. "Do I look okay?"

"Yep. You look fine."

Mickey sat back and took a good look at his pale, skin-and-bones client with the patchy haircut, razor rash, and shiny suit hanging from a scarecrow frame.

General rule is that you don't put your client on the stand unless you're sucking swamp water, and even then, only when your client is credible and sympathetic enough to actually sway the jury.

Fred Brinkley was nerdy and dull.

On the other hand, what did they have to lose? The prosecution had eyewitness testimony, videotape, and a confession . So Sherman was kicking the idea around. Avoiding big risk versus a chance that Fred-a-lito-lindo could convince the jurors that the noise in his head was so crushing , he was out of his mind when he fired on those poor people…

Fred had a right to testify in his own defense, but Sherman thought he could dissuade him. He was still undecided as the jurors settled into the jury box and the judge took the bench. The bailiff called the court into session, and a blanket of expectant silence fell over the wood-paneled courtroom.

Judge Moore looked over the black rims of his thick glasses and asked, "Are you ready, Mr. Sherman?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Sherman said, standing up, fastening the middle button of his suit jacket. He spoke to his client. "Fred…"

"AND SO AFTER YOUR SISTER'S ACCIDENT, you went to Napa State Hospital?" Sherman asked, noting that Fred was very much at ease on the witness stand. Better than he'd expected.

"Yes. I had myself committed. I was cracking up."

"I see. And were you medicated at Napa?"

"Sure, I was. Being sixteen is bad enough without having your little sister die in front of your eyes."

"So you were depressed because when your sister was hit by the boom and went overboard, you couldn't save her?"

"Your Honor," Yuki said, coming to her feet, "we have no objection to Mr. Sherman's testifying, but I think he should at least be sworn in."

"I'll ask another question," Sherman said, smiling, cool, just talking to his client. "Fred, did you hear voices in your head before your sister's accident?"

"No. I started hearing him after that."

"Fred, can you tell the jury who you're talking about?"

Brinkley clasped his hands across the top of his head, sighed deeply as if describing the voice would bring it into being.

"See, there's more than one voice," Brinkley explained. "There's a woman's voice, kind of singsongy and whiny, but forget about her . There's this other voice, and he's really angry . Out-of-control, screaming-reaming angry. And he runs me."

"This is the voice that told you to shoot that day on the ferry?"

Brinkley nodded miserably. "He was yelling, ' Kill, kill, kill ,' and nothing else mattered . All I could hear was him . All I could do was what he told me. It was just him , and everything else was a horrible dream."

"Fred, would it be fair to say that you would never, ever have shot anyone if it were not for the voices that 'ran you' for the fifteen years following your sister's accident?" Sherman asked.

Sherman noticed that he'd lost his client's attention, that Fred was staring out over the gallery.