Blindside (18 page)

S
am
stared up at her, then he shook his head. “Really?” Sam said. “Why did your brother take me?”

“I don't know, dear. We haven't been close for many years now.”

“I wouldn't want to be close to Fatso either.”

“I can see your point.”

Reverend McCamy said from the doorway, “So you're Sam Kettering, the little boy who was kidnapped.”

“I'm not little,” Sam said.

“He's six,” Elsbeth said.

“You look pretty little to me,” the reverend said, ignoring his wife as he walked forward to stand over Sam.

“You're old,” Sam said, staring up at him. “That's why you're bigger than me.”

“Do you think Agent Savich is old?” Reverend McCamy asked, not smiling, his dark eyes intent on Sam's face.

“Well, sure, he's even taller than you, but he's really strong. I've seen him and my dad throw each other all over the place at the gym. They punch each other, yell insults, and groan, and then they're laughing.”

“Sam's father and I work out together occasionally,”
Savich said to Reverend McCamy. “Sam, why don't you and Keely check out that fireplace. It looks pretty old and big to me.”

Sam said, never looking away from Reverend McCamy, “Did you push your aunt down the stairs, sir?”

There was dead silence in the living room. Bad idea to bring the kids, Savich thought, but on the other hand, you never knew what could shake loose. So much for the kids watching TV in the other room. Savich watched the reverend's face. He was pale, too pale, except for the dark beard stubble, and now, perhaps, he'd paled just a bit more. He looked like an old-time zealot in all that black with those burning eyes of his. He gave Savich the creeps.

Reverend McCamy shook his head. He reached out his hand to touch Sam, then drew it back. “Why no, I didn't. Why would you think I did, Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “I don't know, sir. Some grown-ups do really bad things. Like Beau and Fatso.”

“Fatso? Oh, you mean Clancy. Yes, what you said, that's true enough, and you have good reason to know that. But I'm a man of God, Sam. My mission in life is to bring others to Him, to accept how He suffered for all of us, how He atoned for our sins, even Beau's and Clancy's. And He allows some of us to experience His own sacrifice.”

“I wish you'd brought Fatso and Beau to God,” Sam said, “before they took me away from my dad.”

“Well, who knows? Maybe they were thinking about God when they took you. We'll never know, will we? Not all men are capable of achieving anything like goodness. Are you good, Sam?”

Sam didn't say a word, just stared up at Reverend McCamy.

Keely said, “He's a boy, but I think he's a little bit good.”

Reverend McCamy said, “You're the sheriff's daughter, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Keely said, hugging Savich's pant leg. “You look like a man in one of my mama's old movies, you know, black and white before there were colors. I don't like black and white.”

Savich smiled, just couldn't help it, but he saw that Reverend McCamy didn't appreciate the child's wit. There was no change in his expression, but Savich felt something dark and brooding coming over him, something he didn't understand. But all McCamy said was, “Elsbeth, why don't you take the children to the kitchen and give them some lemonade.”

Sherlock said, “That sounds splendid. Let me help.”

Elsbeth nodded and walked out of the living room, the kids behind her.

“He's scary, Aunt Sherlock,” Sam said in a low voice.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “Sam, what's wrong?”

He'd stopped and was staring at the big staircase. Keely was running ahead behind Elsbeth McCamy. Sherlock leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Sam, what's wrong?”

“I don't like this house, Aunt Sherlock. Can't you feel it?”

“Feel what, sweetie?”

Sam frowned a moment, kept staring at that staircase, then shrugged. “I don't know, but it's kinda scary. His aunt must have fallen down these stairs.”

“Yes, she did.”

Sam touched his fingers to the newel post, a richly carved mahogany pineapple. “Do you think Mrs. McCamy really has some lemonade, or do you think she'll just have Diet Coke?”

“We'll see, now won't we?” Sherlock said.

In the living room, Savich remained standing. It was less painful that way. Reverend McCamy wasn't a large man, but he had presence, and that made him appear bigger than he actually was. Savich remembered the bottomless
well of madness in Tammy Tuttle's eyes and wondered if there was a hint of the same madness in Reverend Sooner McCamy's dark eyes as well.

“You actually discussed my aunt's death in front of children? Discussed my murdering her?”

“We thought they were watching TV,” Savich said. “We should have known better. We're cops, Reverend McCamy, and we had to wonder about the excellent timing of her demise—six months after your marriage to your wife. No illness, just a sudden fall down the stairs and a broken neck.”

“My aunt was a very fine woman, Agent Savich. I loved her very much. She took me in when I was blind and couldn't find my way. She listened to me, comforted me, encouraged me to follow my heart. Her death brought me great sadness. But I knew she basked in God's sacred light. She's with Him now, out of pain, for all eternity.”

“Perhaps so. But you were still alive, Reverend McCamy, as was your wife. And you were also much richer. I like your house. It's a lovely property.”

“Yes, that's a fact.” McCamy waved Savich to a sofa. “It's interesting how the living always regard death selfishly, isn't it? A man will grieve, then almost immediately measure what he'll gain from it. Why don't you sit down.”

“Perhaps that's true. I'll stay standing. My back isn't very happy at the moment.”

“I've never had back problems.”

“I haven't either until Saturday night. Tell me, sir, what do you think of Sam?”

His dark intense eyes rested on Savich's face a moment before he said, “Oh, I'd forgotten that you got hurt at Katie's house. The nurses at the hospital were really excited about having an FBI agent laid out there.”

Savich arched an eyebrow.

Reverend McCamy shrugged. “It's a small town, and two of the nurses in the emergency room live here in Jessborough. Gossip is rife. Now, that's an odd question, Agent
Savich. What do I think of Sam? Well, he appears to be precocious, a very forthright child.”

“You mean just because he repeats what he heard adults say?”

“No, not just that.” Reverend McCamy paused a moment, stroking his thin fingers over the wool of his black jacket. “It's that he's somehow above the normal lies and deceptions of children.”

“I've heard Sam tell a few whoppers, Reverend. He's a little boy, and that's exactly what one would expect. But the fact that he saved himself, now that's very impressive. He wasn't cowed by fear—and that's amazing for a six-year-old. I suppose you heard the story of how he slithered out of a window in the old Bleaker cabin, and took off, Beau and Clancy after him.”

“Yes, I've heard several versions of the tale. All of them strike to the soul.” Reverend McCamy slowly shook his head, his eyes on his fingers, which were still stroking his jacket, against the nap. He said nothing more. How strange.

Savich said, “Don't you believe it's quite a coincidence that Clancy was your wife's brother and he brought Sam here?”

Reverend McCamy raised his dark eyes to rest on Savich's face. “Coincidences are random acts that are drawn together by foolish men.”

“I gather you are not a foolish man?”

“I am a realistic man, Agent Savich, but yes, like most men, I am occasionally foolish. I believe that our Lord would have us study each random act as it touches us and try to determine how it will enhance our grace. You think my wife and I were involved with the boy's kidnapping, Agent Savich? Just because Clancy was her brother?”

Savich said slowly, not really wanting to look in those black eyes, eyes that somehow seemed to absorb darkness from light, “What I think, Reverend, is that your wife's
brother brought Sam to Jessborough, Tennessee, for a reason. You'll have to admit that both Clancy and Beau demonstrated a great deal of motivation. They simply didn't stop trying to get him until they were dead. That, also, is very strange.”

Reverend McCamy merely nodded. He raised his right hand and stroked his fingers through his black hair. His hair was thick, long enough to tie at his nape, but he let it hang loose. Stroking his hair was a long-standing habit, Savich thought.

Savich wished he had another pain pill. “Why do you suppose they did that, Reverend?”

“I really have no idea, Agent Savich.”

“When Clancy was at the sheriff's house last night, he said something unusual to Mr. Kettering. He said that he didn't necessarily believe it. Believe what, Reverend McCamy?”

“I have no idea, Agent Savich.”

“Clancy also admitted to Mr. Kettering that someone had hired him.”

Reverend McCamy shrugged. “Then it seems that someone was paying them a great deal of money to get the child.”

“That much is obvious. But the question remains: Why is Sam so important to the one who paid them? What is it about Sam that makes him so valuable, if you will? No ransom demands, no obvious revenge motive, no pedophilia that we know of, so it must be something else. Do you know what the motive could be, Reverend McCamy?”

Reverend McCamy shrugged. “As I remarked, he is a precocious child, but I can't personally imagine anyone going to all that trouble for a precocious child.”

“Then it must be something more.”

The reverend's dark eyes rested on Savich's face. “I have found that there is always something more, Agent Savich. It is a pity that men are given free will. There is endless abuse, don't you agree?”

“Why do you say it's a pity?”

“Free will allows men to make disastrous mistakes without end; what they should be focusing on is gaining God's grace.”

Savich said, “I think the reason for many of men's endless mistakes is a direct cause of their search for God's grace. Witness the history of Ireland, England, Spain, France—men's disastrous mistakes litter the landscape, Reverend, especially in their efforts to focus God's grace on themselves, and to deny all other men's claims to the contrary.”

“That is blindness, Agent Savich, and a man's blindness can lead either to his salvation or his damnation. If a man focuses on God's grace and His suffering for us, His creatures, his blindness will last but a moment of time. Ah, here is Mrs. McCamy with some refreshment for us, Agent Savich.”

“And how does a man do that, Reverend McCamy?”

“He places himself in the hands of the prophets placed on this earth to guide him.”

Elsbeth McCamy closed her eyes a moment at her husband's words, and slowly nodded.

Savich asked, “Are you one of these prophets, Reverend McCamy?”

He merely bowed his head and turned his attention to the tea.

The tea tasted as dark as Reverend McCamy's eyes, and it was so hot it nearly burned his mouth. Savich didn't like it. He leaned over to place his saucer carefully on an end table, and instantly regretted it. Pain sliced through his back.

“I do think it's time that you left, Agent Savich. Neither my wife nor I have anything more to say to you.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Savich said, the pain nearly bowing him over. He needed a pain pill, fast. He shook Reverend McCamy's hand, feeling the firmly controlled
strength of the man. He looked for a moment into those intense eyes, eyes that either saw too much or saw things that were not of this world. Savich just didn't know which. But he did know one thing.

Sherlock nodded to both of their hosts, but didn't say anything. She had each child by the hand.

When they were out the front door and it had closed behind them, Savich said, “Please tell me you have a pain med with you.”

“You'll have to swallow it dry.”

“No problem, trust me on that.”

Once Savich had managed to swallow the pill, and they were ready to go, Keely said from the backseat, “Mrs. McCamy gave us lemonade.”

“I didn't like it,” Sam said. “It tasted funny.”

Sherlock turned to look at him and slowly nodded. “I thought it tasted funny, too.” She waited for Savich to get as comfortable as he could with the seat belt, and started the car.

“Let's go see your mama, Keely.”

S
he's
with Mr. Kettering,” Linnie, Katie's primo dispatcher, told them. Savich smiled and nodded even as she gave a little finger wave to Keely and Sam.

“Tell you what, Sam,” Sherlock said, leaning down to Sam's eye level, “why don't you and Keely stay out here with Linnie, just for a little while.”

“That's a good idea,” Linnie said behind her hand to Sherlock, rolling her eyes. “I think they've got a problem in there.”

Keely, who like every kid in the world could hear everything, said to Sam, “If your papa is yelling at my mama, she just might crack him on the head. My mama is the boss here, Sam.”

I would agree, Sherlock thought, and said to Keely, “Okay, here's the deal. Your parents aren't yelling, they're just having a discussion,” and she hoped it was true. There was too much stress, too much frustration, on both sides.

Inside her office, Katie was saying, “Dammit, Miles, I can't very well arrest the McCamys just because Clancy was Elsbeth's brother. For heaven's sake, you were in law enforcement, you know I can't.”

Miles snarled, no other way to put it. “You know they're involved in this somehow, Katie, you know it. There's simply no one else. Maybe it's just Mrs. McCamy. So bring her in and rattle her. No, better yet, I want to talk to that woman myself. I want to face her down.”

“Not going to happen. Anything else?” Katie wished she'd French-braided her hair. The banana clip was listing over her left ear.

“What are Agent Hodges and his crew doing?”

“Since they left all the interviewing to us, they're following the money trail—you know, credit cards, church accounts, money transfers, stuff like that.”

“Is the TBI going to do anything at all except hassle you?”

Katie said patiently, “The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has an obligation to see that the sheriff of a town in Tennessee didn't just decide to up and murder two men. They're just doing their job. They won't be too much of a hassle.”

“Yeah, right. You've already spent hours with them.”

That was true enough, she thought, and she wasn't looking forward to her next meeting with them. So far, they were satisfied that the two killings were justified, but the investigation—being cops, they wanted to know every detail of what was happening. She sighed, saying nothing.

“I want just five minutes with Mrs. McCamy. She's got to be the weak link here.”

Katie sighed again. “Listen to me, Miles. The fact is we don't have any evidence yet against either of the McCamys. What's even more to the point is that none of us can come up with a single reason why either Elsbeth or Reverend McCamy would be involved in Sam's kidnapping. Until we have evidence, and a glimmering of a motive, both of them have their rights.”

“There's got to be a reason,” Miles said, smacking his fist against his open palm. “This is driving me nuts.”

Katie dashed her fingers through her hair, dislodging the rest of it from the big banana clip. With fast impatient movements, she twisted it up again and clamped down the clip. French braiding was the only way to keep her hair on her head where it belonged, but she hadn't had time this morning. One long hank of hair was left curling in front of her right ear and she shoved it back. She said, “It's driving all of us nuts, Miles. Savich and Sherlock should be here soon with the kids. Let's hope they've got something to tell us.”

Miles looked at Katie straight on. “I'm going to talk to Elsbeth McCamy myself.”

Katie grabbed his arm just before he could get to the door, only to have it open in their faces. Sherlock smiled at both of them, seeing all the fear and frustration. She watched as Katie gently laid her hand on Miles's forearm. “Don't ever shoot unless you're sure you've got bullets in your gun, Miles. The McCamys are suspects, sure, and we're going to try to find out everything we can about them, but until we've turned up something, they get to sit back and watch us. Them's the rules, you know that. Hi, Sherlock. You have Sam and Keely? Are they ready for lunch?”

“I hope you've got something,” Miles said and stomped out of Katie's office. “Where are Sam and Keely?”

“Linnie took them to the bathroom,” Sherlock said.

Katie said, “Let me go tell my deputies where I'll be.” She walked off in her long, no-nonsense stride, half her hair falling down her back, the other half tightly held in the clip.

Miles quickly realized that Savich was in pain. He was standing very stiffly, like he was afraid to move at all, and his eyes were a bit unfocused. Miles said, “Sherlock, you got some more pain meds for the Iron Man here?”

Sherlock saw that Miles was right, even though the one
he'd had not more than fifteen minutes ago should have kicked in. It scared her to her toes, she couldn't help it. She touched her fingers to his cheek. “We can't have this. You're white about the mouth, partner.” She pulled out a pill bottle, dumped out another pill into her palm, filled a paper cup at the drinking fountain and gave it to him. “Don't even speak to me until you've got it down your gullet.”

At that moment, Savich would have taken the whole bottle if she'd given it to him.

“This is a surprise,” Miles said, stroking his jaw as he looked at Savich. “He didn't even try to kiss you off.”

“No, he's not stupid,” Sherlock said as her fingers touched his forearm, willing her fear for him to subside.

Savich liked her touching him. It felt good. And because she knew him well, because she hated his pain, she continued to stroke him.

“He needs to rest, but of course he doesn't get enough.”

“Let's have lunch first,” Savich said, “and yes, Miles, we've got some stuff to tell you. Don't fret, sweetheart, I'll be okay. These pills work pretty fast.” He lifted her hand off his forearm, and lightly squeezed her fingers.

“Dillon, why don't you sit down over here for just a moment?”

“Let it go, Sherlock,” and she did, as hard as it was. She wished at that moment that they were lying on the beach in Maui and had nothing more to do than suck mai tais through a straw.

At Maude's Burgers, everyone ordered a thick hamburger except for Savich, who had grilled West Coast swordfish on sourdough bread, which was interesting but had never been close to San Francisco.

“He's a vegetarian,” Sherlock said to Katie. “Sometimes, on special occasions like this, he has fish.”

“Why is this special, Uncle Dillon?” Keely asked, chewing each long French fry down to the grease.

“It's special because both you and Sam are heroes. And because we're all here together. Sam, it doesn't look to me like you're really enjoying your hamburger.”

Sam, who couldn't speak until he'd swallowed the huge bite he'd taken, gave Savich a big, ketchup-smeared smile.

Ten minutes later, when Keely and Sam were eating chocolate chip ice cream, focused on each other and the chocolate chips they were carefully picking from the cones, Savich said, his voice pitched low, “Jimmy Maitland called just a while ago. The math teacher killer hit again, and he wants us back on the investigation. They need fresh eyes and he says we're the freshest eyes he's got. He sounds more desperate than I've heard him in a long while. The media attention had died down after they'd thrashed over the second killing, but now, with the third, they'll have ‘serial killer' plastered all over the TV and the newspapers.”

Sherlock said, “He also wants us to come back for a press conference at headquarters tonight. We have no choice at all in this.”

“There are lots of good people,” Savich said, “but when you mix three different police departments and the FBI together and try to coordinate who's going to be top dog, it can get ugly real fast.”

Katie said, “I heard that after the second math teacher killing, the politicians started getting into the act.”

“They'll want to ban every gun in the universe, including the one the shooter's using,” Sherlock told her. “I can just imagine how difficult it is for the local jurisdictions to deal with this, particularly when the politicians are competing for sound bites.”

Sherlock sighed, her eyes for a moment on Savich's plate, where most of his swordfish sandwich was left untouched. “One thing is absolutely true: Everyone is scared. Everyone wants to catch this guy, and the pressure keeps growing.”

“Maitland said that the principals in the high schools in the killing areas haven't put up any road blocks if the math teachers want to leave town for a while,” Savich said. “It's rather like closing the barn door after the horses have run out.”

“Three people dead,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Maitland scheduled the press conference late enough so we'll have time to speak to the third victim's husband beforehand.”

“So what are you going to say at this press conference?” Katie asked as she sipped her coffee.

Savich started to say he didn't have a clue, but instead he suddenly just got up from the table and went outside. They watched him talking on his cell phone.

“My husband just got a brain flash,” Sherlock said, amused satisfaction in her voice. “The last time it happened, Sean was sprawled on Dillon's chest. Dillon grabbed him under one arm and took him to MAX. An hour later, the Detroit cops arrested a man who worked behind the counter at Trailways Bus in Detroit for the murder of three runaway teenagers, all of whom had left Detroit on Trailways. He'd followed all of them and killed them.”

“Why, for heaven's sake?” Katie asked.

“He never really said, just cried so hard his nose was running. Even after six months of nonstop shrinks, I don't think anyone ever understood what he was all about. He's locked away now in a state mental hospital.”

Savich came back into the restaurant, sat down, took a bite of his fish sandwich, and said absolutely nothing.

Miles said to Savich, “So all of a sudden, your brain just announced
—bang!—
the killer was a counter clerk at Trailways?”

Savich looked blank until Sherlock said, “I was telling them about the Detroit case, Dillon.”

He nodded. “The cops had questioned all the employees at Trailways, but they didn't spot this guy as a viable
suspect. Well, I'd just been giving it a lot of thought, that's all, and I took a guess. I asked them to follow this guy for three days.”

“What happened?” Katie asked, spellbound.

“He picked out our undercover agent, who was really twenty-six years old but looked fifteen, as his next victim. We got him.”

“Okay, Dillon, what's the brain flash this time?”

He smiled at Sherlock, then shook his head at the others. “Too soon for me to say. Now, the big question. It's Tuesday, what do you want to do, Miles?”

“I don't know yet, but I guess I need to stay here for a while longer,” and he looked over at Sam and Keely.

Savich saw that he was pissed, frustrated, and nearly at the end of his tether. “Both of you,” he said, “keep us informed.”

Katie became suddenly aware that both Sam and Keely were all ears, down to the last licks on their cones. “Finish your ice cream, kids,” she said, and wiped a bit of chocolate chip off Keely's mouth.