Lisa Gardner - Say Goodbye

“What wasn’t her fault?”

“My brother’s disappearance.”

“He ran away?”

Sal shook his head. “Abducted. He was only nine. Too young…for life on the street.”

Kimberly regarded him. She had a vague memory of talking to Sal about his family once before. “Then again,” she countered softly, “you implied once that your father was pretty quick with his fists…”

Sal shook his head again, shifting restlessly as he struggled to ease the pain in his side. “Got worse…afterward. Old man couldn’t find his son…drank more.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, these things…happen. Been a long time now. You feel the scar…don’t think about the wound underneath. Then little things will tug it open. Line from a movie. Picture of a boy on an old Huffy bike. That damn photo of Aaron Johnson in Ginny’s purse.”

“Why the photo of Aaron Johnson?”

“You kiddin’? The dark hair, pointy face, sunken eyes? Could be a family photo, don’t you think?”

Kimberly shrugged. She had never truly contemplated the picture of Aaron Johnson alive. She was too busy seeing him dead on her hotel room floor.

“You wanna hear something funny?” Sal was saying, looking a little better now, some of the color returning to his face. “My brother’s abduction-that’s why I became a cop. The lead detective, Ron Mercer, seemed tough, you know? Cool, calm, and collected. Figured if I could be as tough as a cop, bad things wouldn’t happen anymore.” He smiled, winced through the pain, and added with an ironic smile, “Oops.”

Quincy had hunkered down beside them, an intent look on his face. “Sal, are you sure you don’t know what happened to your brother?”

“Thirty years later, yeah, my mom and me are pretty sure we know my brother’s fate.”

“No,” said Quincy softly. “I don’t think that you do.”

Then, finally, blessedly, they all heard the wash of rotors beating overhead as the first of the choppers crested Blood Mountain.

Tense moments followed. The SWAT chopper trying to drop down a litter, then several armed guards, from lines overhead. Duff and the rest of them looking sharp as they sought to fend off an attack that could come from any direction.

Then, when it seemed that the shooter had forsaken his hunt, everyone rushing to get Harold onto the litter and off the mountain. Then waiting thirty minutes more for the next chopper, bearing a litter for Sal, who agreed only reluctantly to be strapped in. Kimberly was loaded up with him, an unspoken courtesy to a pregnant agent that left her feeling relieved and guilt-stricken all at once.

Her father and Rainie made the third chopper, as person by person, each federal agent and county law enforcement officer was plucked from the clearing and flown down to the command post.

Kimberly’s first sight was Mac, standing on the perimeter, his face pale and concerned. Then, when he caught sight of her, a grin transformed his face, and even thirty yards away, she could feel the impact of that smile straight in her heart.

She looked down once at Sal, still strapped into the litter. He raised his hand in parting.

“Go to him,” he mouthed.

And she did. She ran without hesitation, leaping into her husband’s arms, feeling his arms close around her and their baby, and he whispered in her ear that he loved her, and for the moment, at least, it was enough.

Night finally closed around them, and from far away came the sound of sirens as the ambulance whisked Harold away.

Rita made it to the kitchen. She was breathing hard, panting really, like a dog she’d once seen trying to pick itself off the road after being struck by a speeding truck. That animal had made it five feet before dropping dead.

She had to make it four more.

She had a target in mind. The telephone. She could claim a break-in, fire, rape, it didn’t matter. If she could just knock the phone down and dial 911…She was an old woman. They would come for her.

And maybe they could save the boy.

No noise above her. Just the occasional creak of an old floorboard, groaning under stealthy footsteps. The girl stalking, Rita figured, the boy tucked away someplace safe. She hoped he’d picked a good spot, one that would buy time.

She made it six painful inches, squirming on her belly, her good leg kicking her awkwardly forward, her injured side useless. She could feel the weight of the Colt digging into her thigh. At the rate she was going, she’d probably shoot herself. But her fingers had long since turned blue, deprived of blood by the girl’s efficient bindings. Nothing she could do with the gun now.

So she wriggled, inch by inch, eye on the prize.

She’d just reached the edge of the kitchen counter, phone dangling tantalizing above her. If she could just find a chair, maybe prop herself up on her elbows, then whack at it with her bound hands…

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” the male voice boomed behind her.

Rita startled, turning awkwardly toward the noise. She wanted to believe it was a neighbor coming to help her. She already figured she wasn’t gonna get that lucky.

The man stood before her, holding a flashlight. And as he pushed up the brim of his red baseball cap, she spotted his forehead, covered with row after row of glowing yellow eyes.

“YOU WERE STANDING NEXT TO HAROLD WHEN THE first shot was fired,” Quincy was saying to Sal. “If Harold hadn’t jumped to his feet, the bullet would’ve hit you, not him.”

Sal was sitting in the back of an ambulance, holding up the hem of his shirt as he grudgingly received treatment from an EMT. He’d already refused a ride to the hospital. Quincy, Rainie, Kimberly, and Mac remained with him, awaiting the EMT’s official verdict as the young man inspected the damage.

Sal scowled at the man probing his side with a pair of tweezers. “Ow!”

“Told ya you should go to the hospital,” the EMT said mildly and went back to work, tweezing fibers from the wound.

“Ginny said Dinchara wanted the envelopes of driver’s licenses to be delivered specifically to you. Why you, Sal? Haven’t you wondered about that?”

“Missing persons…it’s my hobby. I already…said that.”

Kimberly’s turn to frown at the GBI special agent. “Dinchara targeted you because of your ‘hobby’? Now who’s being stubborn?”

“Makes about as much sense as leaving his trophies on the windshield of my car. Come on, guy really wants to bait me, there are easier ways to get things done.”

“Expediency isn’t what drives serial killers,” Quincy said firmly. “Their rituals are based on emotional need and are often quite elaborate. In this case, we have a man who in his everyday life feels powerless. His fantasy life, therefore, is all about being in control. He thrives on secrecy and manipulation. He is the spider, weaving a web to catch a prey. An approach like this-inciting your involvement by baiting a trap-would fill his emotional need, his image of himself as a superpredator, even if it is impractical at other levels. If you can understand the emotional drive, then you can catch the killer.”

“ You must kill the one you love ,” Kimberly murmured. She looked at Sal. “Maybe, all these years later, he still loves you. And maybe, all these years later, he wants to graduate.”

Sal had finally stilled in the back of the ambulance. “My brother is dead!” he said harshly, but they could tell from his voice that he was no longer sure.