Part 28 (1/2)

J.J. was furiously trying to s.n.a.t.c.h the pages from the tile.

”I miss you, son.”

J.J. didn't look up. He was gone again.

”d.a.m.n IT!” he screamed.

Jess turned and walked away, the rain slas.h.i.+ng him. He paused at his pickup and gazed back. J.J. kept his head down, picking up papers and dropping them like a demon.

Sunday, 7:16 P.M.

MONICA LOOKED up when the doorbell rang, and Swann scrambled to his feet from the couch. He had been on his cell phone with someone, another of his secret calls. Something about going back to his house again that night; Swann didn't seem to want to do it.

They had not spoken since Swann showed her that he had her keys. She was simply waiting now, biding her time. When he left the room, she'd be out the door. She could borrow a car from a neighbor. Or get a ride with someone. But she wanted him to think he'd talked her out of that idea, so she sat silently. Let him think she'd reconsidered.

”You expecting someone?” he asked as he neared the door.

”Of course not,” she said, hoping it was news of Annie and William.

Swann bent and looked out the peephole. ”Some man,” he said, then opened the door.

Monica didn't recognize the wet cowboy on the front porch. He looked angry, though, the way he squinted inside like a gunfighter, like the sun was in his eyes.

”What can we do for you?” Swann asked.

”Are you Monica Taylor?” the man asked, shouting louder than he needed to, not acknowledging Swann. The rainfall was steady and loud behind him.

Intuitively, she knew it was about her children. She nodded.

”Then you must be Swann,” the man said, reaching back for something that was out of sight. Then he strode into the house holding a rifle in both of his hands. Before Swann could reach for the pistol in his belt, the man clubbed Swann hard in the face with the b.u.t.t of the rifle. Swann staggered back, blood already gus.h.i.+ng from his nose, his hands grasping at air, his feet tangling with her magazine rack. He fell into the wall, sliding down partway, taking a framed photograph of Annie with him. His elbow rested on the top of the couch and stopped him from falling all of the way to the floor. The man was in the living room now, straddling Swann, and to Monica's horror, he reared back and clubbed Swann again in the head with a short, powerful stroke. Swann went limp, and rolled with his face to the wall, his weight pus.h.i.+ng the couch out, and he crashed behind it on the floor. All she could see of Swann were the soles of his shoes. The rest of him was wedged behind the couch.

The cowboy bent over and came up with Swann's pistol, which he shoved into the front pocket of his Wranglers. Then he looked up, caught his breath.

Monica had not screamed, but had withdrawn into her chair, her feet under her, her fists at her mouth.

”He'll live,” the man said, nodding his hat brim toward Swann. Then he looked right at her. ”I'm Jess Rawlins. I'm here to take you to your kids.”

At the sound of his name, Monica felt her throat constrict. Jess Rawlins. She'd always known of this man. And here he was, in her own living room, there to rescue her.

Sunday, 8:21 P.M.

JIM HEARNE felt panic growing as the rain receded into cold mist and hung suspended in the air above the pavement of streets, and his tires sluiced through standing puddles. Something was going on in his town late on a Sunday night, but he hadn't yet been able to figure out exactly what it was, how big it was, or how many people were involved. As with the feeling he had had in his living room, when he suddenly felt like an imposter in his own home, he drove through Kootenai Bay under the strong impression that despite the recognizable buildings and layout, he was a stranger in this town.

He swung his Suburban into the county building lot and parked it next to Sheriff Carey's Blazer. He was grateful for locating the sheriff, since the two other men he had tried to find earlier had been gone. Lieutenant Singer was not at the task force room in the county building, or at his home. And Eduardo Villatoro had not been back to his hotel room since late afternoon.

Hearne got out of his vehicle and tried to calm himself by inhaling the moist air deeply into his lungs. He looked at his watch. He had accomplished exactly nothing for all of his running around, except to confirm that whatever was happening was happening someplace else, and he had no idea where that might be. Now he thought he might be in the right place, judging by the three network satellite trucks that took up most of the parking lot at the front of the building. There was a hive of activity. It was obvious they had all arrived within minutes of each other, and technicians were out on the pavement, jockeying for position. Some unfurled thick cables that snaked across the asphalt. Hearne recognized a celebrity reporter brightly lit by a portable bank of lights, and thought he looked shorter, thinner, and more frail than he did on TV. The man seemed to be waiting for somebody to tell him something in his earpiece. Looking at the trucks, the bustle of men and women, he feared for Kootenai Bay.

Avoiding the news crews, which had situated themselves so the front doors and sign on the county building would be visible in the background for camera shots, he walked around to the back, where the dispatcher was located. The door was open, as it should be, but the dispatcher-a heavyset woman with a bright red helmet of hair-looked up in alarm through thick lenses. She wasn't used to visitors walking into the building, and unlike most people in town, she didn't recognize him.

He said, ”Is the sheriff in? I saw his vehicle out front.”

”I think he's in for a minute,” she said, looking around, her eyes winking like crazy behind the gla.s.ses, ”but I think he's going to go home. Is this something that can wait until morning?”

Hearne felt a surge of impatience. ”Do you think I would be here at this time of night if it was something that could wait? Where is he? In his office?” he asked, pus.h.i.+ng through the batwing doors on the side of the reception desk, striding past her.

”Yes, but you should wait until I call him....” she said, her voice trailing off.

Sheriff Carey was in the act of hanging up his telephone. His office blazed with lights, even though the rest of the department was dark. When Hearne stepped into the doorway, Carey looked up slowly, without expression. It didn't seem to surprise him that the local banker was in his office late on Sunday night. He looked terrible, Hearne thought, completely unlike the confident man holding the press conference the day before.

”Sheriff, are you okay?”

Carey nodded slowly. His eyes seemed moist, oily. The dark circles surrounding them looked painted on. ”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Hearne.”

Hearne reached across the sheriff's desk to greet him. Carey's hand was chilly and without strength.

”Sheriff, you look like h.e.l.l.”

Carey smiled slightly, sadly. ”I'm real tired, Mr. Hearne.”

”Call me Jim. I won't keep you. I'm just trying to figure a couple of things out, and I hoped you could help me.”

”Pretty late for that.”

”I know,” Hearne said, not knowing if the sheriff meant the time of night or the situation in general. He looked hard at Carey and saw a man who was physically and emotionally spent. This was not the time to confess. That would have to be later.

”When I ran for sheriff, I really didn't think there would be nights like this,” Carey said softly, looking at a place just above Hearne's left shoulder. ”I don't think I'm ... equipped for this sort of thing. There's too much going on. I'm in over my head, Jim. I just want to go home and get into my bed and never wake up, you know?” Hearne didn't know what to say. He barely knew the man, and what he knew wasn't encouraging. He didn't expect to be witness to what appeared to be a breakdown in progress.

”Can I get you something? Coffee?” Hearne asked lamely.

Carey shook his head. ”A bullet in the brain might help.”

When Hearne's eyes widened, Carey held up his hand. ”Just kidding,” he said. ”Sort of.” He gestured outside with a nod. ”Those people out there want a statement from me. Now, it's big-time.”

Carey began to tell Hearne what had been happening for the last three days, from the missing Taylor children to the confession of Tom Boyd, from the creation of the task force, to the call he had just received from a deputy reporting the severe beating of Oscar Swann. Not only that, but Monica Taylor was missing from her house, taken by a man who fit the description of Jess Rawlins. ”Fiona Pritzle suspects Rawlins as well,” Carey said. Hearne was stunned by it all.

”How could this all be happening?” Hearne asked, finally. ”It's like I don't know this place anymore.”

Carey shook his head. ”Me neither.”

Hearne thought about it for a minute, his mind whirling, filled with possibilities, all of them dark. ”Sheriff, do you know where Singer is right now? Or the rest of the task force, for that matter?”

Carey shook his head no. Like everything, he seemed to be saying, the task force was out of his control.

”How can they just be gone?” Hearne asked. ”Are they at the hospital, with Swann?”

Carey shrugged. ”Maybe. I don't know.”

”What about Eduardo Villatoro? The detective? Do you know where he is?”

Carey shrugged again.