When Shadows Fall

“BMWs are only for capitalists, I take it?”

“Yep. The road to his cabin isn’t much better than this, and washes out in heavy rains, so he’s got the Jeep jacked up a bit. I’m sure it was no problem. Come on, Grandma, put your foot in it. It evens out in a hundred feet.”

“Grandma my ass,” he muttered, but she was right, the road did get better once they got away from the highway. He supposed Savage kept it a mess to discourage visitors. It was effective.

Another mile into the woods, Savage’s cabin appeared. It wasn’t much to speak of. Fletcher had seen hunting shacks with more space, but he supposed only one person didn’t need too much room. If the kid was grown and gone, and it was only Savage, it would be enough.

“Where’s Xander’s Jeep?” Sam asked.

Fletcher didn’t see it, but he assumed Whitfield was smart enough to have it out of the way. He was right; as he pulled the Caprice to a stop, Whitfield appeared next to them, almost as if he’d walked right out of a tree.

“God, I hate it when he does that.”

“Me, too,” Sam said. “It’s like he’s part of the forest. He does it up on the mountain all the time. He and Thor can disappear in plain sight. It’s spooky.”

She got out of the car and went to him, and gave him a quick kiss. Nothing overt, nothing sloppy, only a peck, and even after everything Fletcher had said on the way to Lynchburg, he still felt a twist in his gut when he saw the way she looked at him.

Let it go, man. She ain’t ever gonna be yours.

Better friends than nothing, that was for sure. He’d probably lose her, anyway, get himself into his familiar routine, once the novelty wore off.

Keep telling yourself that, Fletch. You might even start to believe it.

He stepped from the car and his cell rang. He looked down to see Hart was calling. “Hold on a sec. Gotta take this.”

Hart’s voice was tight and anxious. “Where the hell are you, hoss? I went by your place to bring you a study lunch and it was buttoned up tight.”

“South. Lynchburg. I’m helping Sam out on a case. Why, what’s up?”

“We have a missing kid. Ten-year-old girl named Rachel Stevens. Disappeared from Connecticut Avenue, near the zoo. Parents reported her missing an hour ago, and the cops who came to take the report found a note. Probable kidnapping. AMBER Alert just went up. We need you back here, right now.”

“Who snatched her?”

“No idea. Parents are married. It doesn’t look custodial. Armstrong’s liaising with the FBI. It’s task force city, all hands on deck.”

“Shit.”

“As in it’s hitting the fan, yes. So get your sweet booty back to D.C., will ya?”

Fletch looked at his watch. It was 2:00 p.m. “I’ll be back by 7:00. Tell Armstrong.”

“This is going to be over by 5:00. Hurry up.”

He hung up and Fletcher stowed his phone.

Sam had been listening. “What’s wrong?”

“A little girl named Rachel Stevens has gone missing. I gotta get back to D.C.”

Sam frowned. “That’s awful. Well, I know all the players now, and the hard part’s over. You can go back up. Xander can keep an eye on me. You can take the samples to Amado, and he can begin the tests. It gives us half a day’s head start. And we’ll come back up tonight.”

Leaving Sam in the lion’s den with all the lies flying around went against his better judgment, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. She was right, the bulk of the work had been done. Now it was up to the evidence to lead them to an answer.

Whitfield was studying him with those dark, unreadable eyes. “You’re cool with this?”

He nodded. “No worries, man. I can take care of her. But you’re going to want to see this before you go.”

Chapter

17

SAM FOLLOWED XANDER and Fletcher to the entrance of Savage’s cabin. The hand-drawn biohazard signs were still stuck in the windows, but the warning sign had been removed from the front door. She crossed herself as she entered the dimness, in case Timothy Savage was still hanging around. She didn’t want to bring him home with her. It was a habit she had when visiting crime scenes. Both men looked at her queerly, but she smiled and nodded them inside.

Savage lived small. And off the grid, from the looks of it. Xander walked them through the house—living room, workable kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom with a shower, no tub. The walls were rough-hewn wood, and undecorated, the beds little more than cots. There was a stone fireplace in the living room with three rows of neatly stacked logs running up the wall to the ceiling. The refrigerator was sized for an apartment and held an assortment of glass juice jars, unbound fruits and vegetables, all going rotten. There was a small pantry, with oatmeal, almonds, seeds, dried fruit and three different kinds of beans, and what looked like homemade granola. Sam thought back to the autopsy—the healthy heart and lungs, the muscle tone—she’d bet her life Timothy Savage was a vegan.

“I wonder if he lived here full-time?” Sam asked.

Xander nodded. “I think so, though it is rather sparse, even for a mountain man. There’s a garden out back. He grew his own vegetables. Used newspapers as mulch, there’s a tidy little stack on the porch. There’s also a smoking shed, but no sign of any meat. This isn’t the interesting part, though. Follow me.”

He went back into the living room and walked straight to the wall where, in a normal house, there would be a television set. He waved his hands, said, “Abracadabra,” and pushed on the center of the wall.

The latch was on a well-oiled spring connected to a damper. It allowed a three-foot-square piece of wall to fall open slowly, giving way to a sturdy and serviceable desk. Inside the cubbyhole, there was a small laptop computer and a wireless router, neither plugged in, and a whole series of pictures, maps, articles and photographs tacked to a corkboard that took up the entire wall inside the small space. When Sam’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized she was looking at herself.

She gasped. “Oh, my God. What is this?”

Fletcher spoke through his teeth. “It’s a shrine.”

She shot him a look, saw he was holding back. Fletcher did not like being in the dark, and Savage’s mystery was getting darker and darker.

Xander used a pencil to poke through the detritus. “Looks like a log. Of all the cases Sam’s worked, and everything she’s published. Cases from Nashville—you worked a couple of serials down there, and they were big news. The photos are from the internet, none of them were actually taken and developed. Except this one.”