June 19, 2004
Northern Virginia
Baldwin

Baldwin was sitting in Goldman’s office. His personal problems could wait. He was finally focused the way he needed to be on this case. He sent a prayer upward, that the families of the fallen girls would understand. It would be nice to get their absolution, though he’d never forgive himself.

Gretchen Rice had been gone for less than twenty-four hours. There was hope, a chance, that she was still alive. This was it. Their last attempt, a last-ditch effort to nail Arlen to the wall. Despite the shifts watching him, he’d managed to get another little girl.

Baldwin had sifted through the files again and come up with the same answer. All the roads led to Harold Arlen. He knew there was evidence out there, real evidence. The thought made a flash of heat burn in his chest—he was still furious with Charlotte. What was she thinking? They could solve this case, close this case, without cheating. And to do that, they had to search Arlen’s house again. Slowly, carefully, methodically. This time, he was going to be in on the search. They’d missed something before, and by God he was going to help them find it.

Goldman finally walked into the office and handed him a sheaf of papers.

“The new warrant just came in. You think we’ll find something this time around?”

“I can only hope. This is merely a formality. But I need to be sure. I want to cover every inch of that house, let my people have a chance to see it all firsthand. We missed something. And another girl was taken because of our negligence.”

Goldman looked at him, brows knit tightly across his forehead.

“Dr. Baldwin, you know that’s not the case. You’ve been doing this a long time. You know you’re not responsible for them. Arlen, if it is Arlen, is responsible. This is his fault, not yours. You didn’t kidnap and kill these girls.”

“Either way, I want to find Gretchen, and I want to be able to get her home to her parents in one piece.”

“That’s what we all want.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Baldwin drove up to Great Falls with Goldman. Geroux, Sparrow and Butler were already outside of Arlen’s house, waiting for them. Charlotte was off the radar, and that was good. She hadn’t called in, and he didn’t care. He didn’t want to deal with her right now, with the bombshell she’d dropped in his lap. He needed to focus on getting Gretchen Rice back alive.

He’d made an appointment to come in and talk with Garrett Woods late this evening. He’d take Garrett to dinner, expose his secret over steak and whisky, hope for the best. Garrett wanted to know what the meeting was about, knew instinctively there was something wrong, but Baldwin had purposefully been vague, wanting to wait until the search was over today. He had a good feeling about this. He wanted to be able to go in to his boss and lay a victory at his feet before he admitted his actions.

The affair with Charlotte was a huge mistake, and Garrett would help him decide what to do next. Then, he could take whatever steps he needed to rebuild the trust of his team. Because they weren’t stupid people. He got the sense they all knew what had been going on with him and Charlotte—there’d been enough sidelong glances and whispered conversations. Sparrow had been especially aloof with him for the past couple of days. Yes, this was the right course of action. He’d fall on his sword, and they could all go back to work without the specter of Charlotte hovering around them like a well-dressed, insistent ghost.

And he could decide what path he wanted to take with his own future.

Goldman and Baldwin exited the vehicle. Goldman did a press check on his weapon—force of habit. The sun beat down on them. It was only about seventy degrees and very clear, a nice change from the past few days. It had been especially muggy for June in D.C. this week, their searches tempered by tendrils of humid oppressiveness. The violent rains had washed away the heaviness in the air.

Geroux was the first to hail them. “We just got here. We don’t know where he is.”

“What do you mean? Where who is?” Goldman asked.

“Arlen. He’s not answering the door. We knocked about five times, and nothing.”

“That’s impossible. My people have been on him all night. The power was off until early in the morning—there’s no way he could have gotten his car out of the garage. Both doors, front and back, are covered.”

“Well, I’m telling you, no one’s answering the door.”

Baldwin rushed up the stairs to the door. “We need to make entry now. I bet the bastard offed himself.”

“That’s what we’re thinking, too.”

Baldwin knocked once, hard, then tried the knob. Locked. He drew his weapon, lifted his leg and kicked, hard. Luckily, the dead bolt wasn’t thrown. The door swung open with a crash, the wood splintering from the frame. They filtered into the house carefully. Baldwin’s heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear the others calling out from the lower floors.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Garage is clear.”

Baldwin was in Arlen’s bedroom now. Nothing was missing, nothing out of place. The closet held only clothes. He shouted, “Clear,” then went back downstairs.

“We got nothing,” Geroux said. “It’s like he disappeared into thin air.”

Baldwin could hear Goldman in the kitchen giving one of his detectives a major dressing-down. Arlen had obviously slipped out during the power outage. Though there were no open windows and the back door was locked, the front door’s bolt hadn’t been thrown. It was within the realm of possibility that Arlen had simply waited for the perfect moment and slipped out the door unnoticed.

The detective kept insisting that there was no way that could have happened; he and his partner were on the house all night, the only person who’d been in or out was the FBI chick, yesterday, during the storm. Goldman wasn’t hearing any of it.

Baldwin shut his eyes for a minute, both to tune the shouting out and to will his adrenal gland back into submission. He took a deep breath, then another. A thought hit him. Oh, my God. Why hadn’t he considered that before?

“The basement. We need to look in the basement again.”

Goldman cut off his diatribe. “Why? We’ve been through it.”

“Because there’s a tunnel,” Baldwin replied.

The basement was quiet as the grave. Baldwin went first, inching slowly down the stairs. If he was right, and he was suddenly sure he was, Arlen could be most anywhere. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

He felt the breeze before he saw the opening, smelled the damp, musty air. Old air.

He had a small Maglite in his pocket. He turned it on, splayed the light over the far wall. There. The light spilled into a hole in the wall, a dark entrance to somewhere. The shelving unit was pulled back, the drywall along with it. In the light, it would have looked like seams in the mud, just what you’d expect from an unfinished basement. Baldwin tamped down his anger at the Fairfax crime-scene tech and his own team for missing it. My God, they might have been able to save Kaylie if they had seen this.

He had just turned to signal to Geroux when the shooting started.

He whipped back in a flash, saw Sparrow go down. He trained his weapon on that trajectory, saw Butler fall out of the corner of his eye. He started shooting, moving quickly to the mouth of the tunnel. He butted up against the edge, Geroux took the opposite side. Goldman and his detective had taken cover.

Baldwin started to signal Geroux, but he whipped around into the mouth of the tunnel just as a fresh load of bullets winged through the cool air. Still firing, Geroux took one right in the neck and went down in a heap.

Baldwin squeezed the trigger again and again. The returning shots stopped. There was a gurgling noise coming from about fifteen feet away. He’d hit the shooter. His training took over, he acted to neutralize the threat. Another shot fired, and the gurgling stopped with a strangled sigh.

Quiet. Was that footsteps? No, probably his imagination—his ears were ringing from the shots. Using the flashlight, he scanned the far reaches of the tunnel. Arlen was down, his back to him. He must have been running away when Baldwin or Geroux’s shots hit him. Baldwin kicked the gun out of his hand and knelt to feel for a pulse. He was gone.

There was shouting and screaming now, calls to ambulances, the Fairfax County guys making themselves useful. He felt numb, couldn’t feel his hand. It took both hands to reholster his weapon. He struggled to get his breathing under control. He finally held his breath to stop the ragged jags of air forcing their way into his lungs, and his heart slowed a bit.

That’s when he heard the crying, quiet and faint.

He stumbled past Arlen’s body in the dark, used the small beam of the flashlight to guide him, deeper and deeper. He turned a corner and saw Gretchen on the floor, in a nightgown. Her legs were broken, but she was very much alive.

He gathered the girl in his arms, felt her forehead press into his neck. She was sobbing. He realized he didn’t know whose tears were landing on the front of his shirt—hers, or his.