NINE

Jeremy Potter. Age nine in 1997. Disappeared from a playground while waiting for his older sister’s softball game to end. His mother told the police that one minute he was there, the next minute he was gone. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. As if he’d never been.

Steven Craeger. Age twelve in 1996. Older than Woods’s usual victims, but according to reports, he was small for his age. Disappeared from a parking lot where he was waiting for his father to come out of a drugstore.

David Chandler. Age seven, 1998. Disappeared while on his way home from school, three blocks from his home. His older brothers were walking ahead of him and claimed to never having seen or heard a thing. He was behind them when they got off the bus, but he never arrived at the house.

And on it went, article after article, story after story, boy after boy. A knot settled in the back of Portia’s neck and a painful lump balled up in her throat. Her fingers trembled on the keyboard, and with every new name, she found herself hoping against hope that this next child might have somehow escaped to tell a story of survival. But none of the boys on the list had survived. She’d known that when she’d turned on her laptop that morning. Still, the knowledge hadn’t kept some small part of her mind from holding out for one happy ending.

But there were no happy endings when Sheldon Woods was involved. Unless, of course, you considered recovering remains a happy ending, she thought wryly. For some families, that was as close to good as they were likely to get.

The amount of suffering caused by this one small man was incomprehensible. When you counted the children who still had question marks next to their names, it was beyond horrific, beyond unspeakable. How in the name of God do abominations like Sheldon Woods exist?

She took a long drink from a bottle of spring water and cleared her aching throat. What, she wondered, had he been like as an infant? Had he been a sweet baby, an inquisitive toddler, a charming young child? Had something monstrous happened that transformed him into the devil he’d become? Or had he been born with the hideous seed within him? Had he been terrorized as a boy, or had he been born to terrorize others?

Nature or nurture, she thought. It always seemed to come back to that.

Portia put down the newspaper articles she’d printed off the Internet and rubbed her eyes. She’d been reading since she got up that morning, and it was now almost eight at night. The loud rumblings of her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, which explained why she had such a pounding in her head.

There was chicken in the refrigerator, leftovers from the meal Miranda had prepared a few nights earlier. Portia heated up a generous portion and ate it on the little back porch where she found a small table and two chairs. Just perfect for the two of them, she thought as she sat on one chair and rested her feet on the other, and noted there were no extra chairs for guests.

She’d need to make some decisions, and soon, she reminded herself. She was wondering if it was possible to find a three-month lease when her cell phone rang.

“Cahill.”

“John Mancini, Portia.” John wasted no time getting to the purpose of his call. “I just got off the phone with Tom Patton, the ME up there in Oldbridge Township. Lisa Williams drove her brother’s dental records up to him yesterday, and he got right to it.”

“And? Did he find a match?” Her heart rate sped up, anticipating the news.

“He sure did. It’s Christopher Williams, no doubt about that,” John told her. “He’s a good man, that Patton. Went to work right away, X-raying the skull and making impressions. Called me as soon as he’d made a positive ID.”

“Terrific. That’s wonderful news. Who’s going to tell Madeline and Lisa Williams?”

“I am, first thing in the morning. Would you like to accompany me?”

Portia hesitated, then said thoughtfully, “No, I think this is yours, John. It’s always been yours.”

“You found him, Portia. You’re entitled to be there when I give them the news.” He hastened to add, “And you’d be welcome.”

“Thank you for offering to include me, but this is something between you and Madeline Williams. You’ve both waited a long time for this moment. As much as I appreciate your offer to include me, I think I’ll pass.”

“If you change your mind between now and tomorrow morning, give me a call. Make it early, though.”

“Will do. Thanks again. Have a safe trip.”

Portia disconnected the call, placed the phone on the table, and turned her attention back to her dinner. It would be wonderful to be there when someone got some good news for a change, but she’d meant it when she’d said this was a moment for John and the Williams family to share. She’d have felt like an outsider there. She may have found the remains of the missing boy, but it had been John who’d kept Christopher and his mother in his heart all these years, John who’d arranged the meeting where the killer gave up the location. Convinced she’d done the right thing by passing on the invitation, Portia took her plate back into the kitchen, rinsed it, and stacked it in the dishwasher. She poked around in the freezer for the carton of almond fudge ice cream she knew was in there, and scooped out a few tablespoons before she talked herself out of it. She took the bowl outside and sat on the back steps, which were still warm from the heat of the day.

Fireflies were just starting to light up the tiny backyard, and the cicadas were still humming. Before she knew it, she found herself envying her sister’s life. It must be really nice to sit out here and watch the seasons with someone you love, she thought. From the yard next door, she heard the hushed voices of children as they stalked and caught fireflies. From the steps she watched the specks of yellow light dance across the air, and remembered other summers, when she and Miranda were the kids chasing the small flying insects, catching them in cupped hands, studying their glow before setting them free again.

Thinking of the games of children reminded her of the boys she’d been reading about all day, boys who had probably chased lightning bugs on summer nights. Boys who’d laughed and played with their friends, who had been young and innocent, until their paths had crossed with a soulless man who took their lives without shame or remorse. How is it possible to do such unmentionable things, she wondered, to cause such terrible pain to so many people, and simply not care?

Tired of asking such questions of herself, she went back inside, and called the only person she could think of who might have answers. The number rang several times before the recording picked up.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Anne Marie McCall. I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a number so I can call you back.”

“Oh, damn, Annie, I missed you again.” Portia sighed with frustration. “This is Portia Cahill, and I was hoping to maybe pick your brain about…”

“Portia?” A breathless Annie picked up. “I’m sorry. I left my phone in a pocket and couldn’t remember where I put the shirt. I know you’ve been trying to get me; I’m sorry I didn’t return your call sooner but I was out of town and just got back a little while ago.” Annie took a breath. “So how does it feel to be back on the A team?”

“It’s okay. Different from what I’ve been used to, but okay.”

“That bad, eh?”

Portia recognized a touch of what sounded like disappointment in Annie’s tone, and hastened to explain.

“No, no, not bad. Just…different.”

“How are you adjusting to the change?”

“I’m adjusting.”

“If there’s anything you want to talk about, even off the record, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Annie. I appreciate that. If I ever felt I needed to talk something out, you’d be the first person I’d call.” The offer had made Portia smile. Annie was a friend first, a psychologist second, and a highly respected profiler third. She never hesitated to help a friend or a colleague. It comforted Portia to know that she was there. “Actually, I was calling you for help, but not for myself.”

“Sheldon Woods.” Portia could almost see Annie’s eyebrows knit together in thought. “Yes, I certainly do remember the case. I didn’t get the call on that one; I was too new at the time. But I remember it. What has he done to put him in your crosshairs?”

Portia explained the events of the past week.

“Shit,” Annie said. “I’d never heard that he’d been suspected of killing so many children. Interesting that he responded so strangely to your inquiry about the unidentified boy. Are you sure he wasn’t just holding off in hopes of making another trade?”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“What impression did you get?”

“That this boy is someone he’ll never give up.”

“Which of course implies that the boy is very special to him.”

“We’d thought of that. That maybe the boy was his first kill, or his last.”

“Maybe. It’s obvious that this one was very personal to him.” Annie paused before asking, “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to find out who he is. One way or an other, I’m going to give him back his name,” Portia told her without hesitation. “I was just hoping you’d have some insights into the case. Or into Woods.”

“Without reading all the reports, I’m afraid I’d be blowing smoke, and I really try to avoid doing that. The best advice I can give you is to speak directly with the profiler who handled the case back then.”

“Dr. Rollins is retired but I can probably get his number from someone at headquarters.”

“Don Rollins? I have his number. I just spoke with him a week or so ago. Give me a second to find it…”

Portia heard some rustling of papers before Annie got back on the line and gave her the number. Portia repeated it to make sure she had it right. “I’m going to call him right now. I’m sure he’ll re member the case.”

“No doubt. This was one for the books, literally. At one time, I’d heard Don was planning to write a book about Woods. I don’t know if that ever got past the talking stage, though.”

“There are quite a few books out there on the case. Maybe one was his.” Portia thought for a moment. “But we probably would have heard about it if one of our own published.”

“Most likely. I’m sure he’ll be happy to discuss the case with you. Give him a call.”

“I’m going to do that right now.” Portia bit her lip, then asked, her voice almost breaking, “Annie, what happens to make people turn out like that? Like Woods? Why this insatiable need to inflict such pain? To brutalize a child?”

“Honey, that’s a question for the ages. If I told you I had the answers, I’d be lying. Each case is different, and yet there are always similarities in their backgrounds. For killers like Woods, the history almost always reveals terrible abuse. I don’t know his story, but Don would have details.” There was a long silence before Annie spoke again. “I’ve spent my life studying human behavior, and I’ve come to believe there is no one explanation, no stock answer. When it comes to the predators, the sociopaths, we take them one by one, and try to make some sense of the chaos. I wish I had a better answer for you, but the truth is, there isn’t one.”

“It’s so depressing.”

“Yes, it most certainly is.” Annie sighed deeply. “Let me know if I can help out in any way. I’m heading to Maine tomorrow but you can always get me on my cell if you need me.”

“My sister left for Maine yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll see her there. I heard she was assigned to the case.”

Annie proceeded to discuss the case in Maine for another minute or so, but Portia’s heart wasn’t in the conversation. She wanted to get off the phone.

The minute they hung up, she immediately dialed the number Annie had given her for Don Rollins.

The number rang five times, and though disappointed, Portia was mentally preparing her speech for voice mail when a gruff male voice answered.

“Dr. Rollins?” Portia asked.

“Yes? Who is this?”

“My name is Portia Cahill. I’m a special agent with John Mancini’s unit, and I…”

“How is John these days?”

“He’s very well. I called because…”

“And that pretty wife of his?”

“Genna’s fine. They’re both fine.”

“Good, good. Now, which one of my old cases are you calling me about?”

“Actually, I was calling about Sheldon Woods.”

Ther silence on the line lasted so long, Portia was prompted to ask, “Dr. Rollins? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. I’m still here.” Portia heard a sharp intake of breath, as if he’d been taken by surprise. “What exactly did you wish to talk about?”

“A few days ago, Woods gave up the location of another grave, and we recovered another of his victims.” She explained the circumstances, then added, “Actually, we recovered two of his victims, but he refuses to identify one. When I asked him for the boy’s name, he said, ‘This one is mine.’”

“‘This one is mine’?” Rollins repeated the phrase thoughtfully.

“Yes. I thought it was an odd choice of words.”

“Odd, but not at all out of character for Sheldon Woods. He was—apparently still is—a controlling little son of a bitch. And yes, before you ask, that was my diagnosis back then.” Rollins sighed. “Sheldon Woods is as typical a pedophile as you’ll ever meet. He fits the stereotype so closely one might think he’d posed for the poster. Low self-esteem, though he hides behind a veil of arrogance. He likes to appear to be in charge, likes others to think he’s a powerful personality. He’s a bully in this respect. Sexually, he’s inadequate. Can’t form mature relationships with women. Started abusing other boys when he was twelve.”

“What was the family history?” Portia asked. “I know it’s in one of the files somewhere but I haven’t come across it.”

“Again, it’s exactly what you’d expect. He claims to have been sexually abused as a child, but refused to identify his abuser. He would never go into de tail, wouldn’t discuss what exactly had happened to him or when.”

“Do you believe the abuse actually occurred?” Portia asked thoughtfully. “I mean, if some terrible things had really happened to him as a small child, wouldn’t that have been his excuse for what he’d done later? Wouldn’t he have hidden behind that?”

“Well, yes, you’d expect him to attempt to use his own abuse as part of his defense, but he never did. He was a very odd study, Agent Cahill. Very odd.”

She reached for a pad of paper and wrote a note to herself. Ask Cannon if Woods had ever mentioned that he’d been abused.

“Woods had an older brother if I remember correctly,” she recalled. “Could he have been the abuser?”

“It’s possible. I think the brother left home when he was sixteen and lived with a relative until he graduated from high school and enlisted in the Navy. Woods once made some offhand comment about his brother having been embarrassed by him and leaving town.”

“Embarrassed…?”

“By Sheldon’s antics. Sheldon began exposing himself to younger boys when he was about ten or eleven—often the first step toward aggressive sexual behavior. His acting out escalated quickly.

By the time he was twelve, he was already sexually abusing kids from the neighborhood.”

“I read about that. He’d been picked up a few times but got off with a slap on the wrist time after time.”

“Parents didn’t want to press charges because they were afraid it would stigmatize or traumatize the victims.” Rollins snorted. “As if those kids hadn’t been traumatized already.”

Portia opened her mouth to comment, but before she could speak, Rollins said, “Douglas. That was the brother. Douglas Nicholson.”

“Different father?” Portia raised an eyebrow.

“Mama was a rolling stone,” Rollins quipped. “Or so I’d heard. Married a number of times.”

“So it’s very possible that the abuser could have been a stepfather.” To her previous note, she added, Who was Woods’s stepfather when he was twelve?

“It’s certainly possible.”

“Any other siblings, half siblings, stepsiblings, besides Douglas?”

“I was never really clear on that,” Rollins admitted. “There was always a question in my mind that there may have been another brother. Or there might have been a sister. He was always very vague when it came to his family.”

“Wouldn’t that make you wonder if perhaps his own abuse was at the hands of a relative?” Ask Cannon about siblings.

“It so often is, yes.”

“Where is the mother now, do you know?”

“She was living in Vegas back then, but who knows where she might be now. You’d have better luck tracking down the brother.”

“Good point. He’s more likely to have kept the same last name.” Track the mother—maybe Las Vegas?—and brother. “Did you ever speak with him? The brother?”

“Oh, yes. At least, I tried to. He wanted nothing to do with Sheldon. Or his mother, for that matter. Told me he’d had no contact with anyone in his family after he left home and had no interest in discussing anyone related to him.”

“I wonder if anyone actually interviewed him,” Portia thought aloud.

“Someone did, maybe John. I do recall seeing something in the file but there was no substance to it, nothing that would give us a picture into their home life or the relationships within the family. The brother clearly burned his bridges and never looked back.”

“I haven’t come across that report, but I’ll look again.” Ask John if he interviewed Douglas Nicholson—if so, where is the report? “I’ll see if I can track him down. Maybe after all these years, Douglas might be willing to talk a little more.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Thanks for speaking with me, Dr. Rollins. I appreciate your time.”

“Not at all. It was one of those cases you never forget. I have to admit I’ve thought about Sheldon Woods many times since I left the Bureau.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“It isn’t often you have an opportunity to get up close and personal with the devil, Agent Cahill. I’d seen a lot of really nasty people, but I never came across anyone who came close to equaling Sheldon Woods’s level of depravity.” Rollins cleared his throat. “The best advice I can give you is, if you have to deal with the man, keep your distance. Don’t let him get to you, don’t let him ever see that anything he says or does has gotten to you. He’ll see any show of emotion as a weakness, and he’ll be more than happy to use it against you. Everything is a big game to him.”

“I’m not planning on having any more to do with him.” Not, at least, until I’ve identified my lost boy and I see Woods’s ass prosecuted. “And I have no intention of playing any of his games.”

“Man plans, God laughs, as the saying goes,” Rollins said softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Portia frowned.

“It means that, when it comes to Sheldon Woods, you may not have a choice. If he wants to play with you, he’ll find a way to make you take part in the game. Whether you want in or not, if it’s in his best interest, he’ll find a way.”