Fatal Judgment Read online

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  The grim expression on the faces of the two men grew more somber.

  “Ms. Reynolds, we have a search warrant in process for this house. But we need to start searching now.”

  Patricia’s first instinct was to protest. She’d always done everything she could to protect her baby brother. As a child, she’d lavished him with love, trying to mitigate the damage their father had inflicted with his constant hounding and criticism. She’d always known Marty was a sensitive soul, and she’d tried to shield him from hurt, both inside and outside their home. She hadn’t wanted him to carry any psychological scars into adulthood. And she thought she’d succeeded. He’d gone on to live a productive life, and he’d been blessed with a wonderful, supportive wife and a happy marriage.

  Sometime in the past few years, though, Marty had changed. A lot. In many ways, he seemed like a different person. Where once she would have called the suspicions of these men ridiculous, now she wasn’t certain. And with the judge’s life hanging in the balance, how could she refuse to cooperate?

  Yet how could she betray her brother?

  As she struggled with her dilemma, a sentence from one of the readings at church the previous Sunday echoed in her mind. The pastor had focused on an unfamiliar passage from Deuteronomy in his sermon, and it had stuck with her.

  You shall not distort justice.

  The meaning was clear. Saving a life had to take precedence over love and loyalty. She had to cooperate with these men who were dedicated to serving justice.

  Even if Marty would pay the price.

  Lacing her hands tightly together, Patricia took a deep breath. “You can start searching whenever you like. And I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  21

  ______

  “The Post got another letter.”

  At Mark’s comment, Jake stopped sifting through the incendiary material in the drawer of Reynolds’s built-in desk. Todd and Spence had joined them, along with two more FBI agents, and all of them were working at warp speed. After half an hour of tearing apart the house, they’d uncovered a veritable arsenal in the man’s basement—but were no closer to figuring out where he’d gone than they had been when they’d started.

  Mark’s grim expression did nothing to quell Jake’s burgeoning anxiety. He gripped the back of the desk chair, trying to brace himself. “What does it say?”

  “It has yesterday’s date at the top, and for the most part it’s a continuation of the same diatribe. Except for the last line, which the judge again hand wrote and signed. It says, ‘Tomorrow I will die.’ ”

  A sudden boom of thunder rattled the windows, echoing the panic that shook Jake to the core and sucked the breath from his lungs.

  “We also have some intel on Reynolds. In the past couple of years, in addition to losing the malpractice lawsuit, the house he’d lived in for more than twenty years was declared blighted through eminent domain, he was hit with a sizable fine from the IRS for underreporting his income, and he lost his job.”

  “Wow.” Jake’s grip tightened. “That’s a recipe for rage and a persecution complex. And a perfect fit for the profile Christy laid out.”

  “I agree. I don’t think there’s much doubt he’s our man. Now we have to . . .” Mark stopped speaking, pulled his BlackBerry off his belt, and pressed it to his ear. “Sanders.” He listened for half a minute, then reached for a pad of paper and pencil on the desk and jotted down a few words. “Got it. We’ll stand by.”

  Pressing the off button, he slipped the device back onto his belt. “That was Luke. The owner of the copy shop caved once our guys exerted a little pressure. Told them Reynolds bought a cabin a year or so ago somewhere near Potosi, close to Mark Twain National Forest. Our office is running property deeds. We should have an address momentarily. In the meantime, you might want to get with your boss. We’ll give you backup, but you guys are the arrest specialists.”

  “Do you have any agents in the area?” Jake pulled his own BlackBerry out and speed-dialed Matt.

  “One guy in Rolla. He’s up in northern Gasconade County working a case, according to Luke. We have a few agents in Cape Girardeau. But none of them are any closer than we are.”

  “Potosi’s at least an hour by car, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Maybe a little longer.”

  They both knew that might not be good enough.

  “Okay. Let’s pull in the local police or highway patrol to meet us in Potosi with some vehicles. I’ll get us helicopters from County or the city. We need to move as—”

  “What have you got?” Matt’s voice crackled over the line, cutting off his exchange with Mark.

  Jake shifted away from the agent and gave his boss his full attention. “I have an ops plan to run by you.”

  Forty-five minutes later, with the helicopter rotors beating out a pounding rhythm that vibrated through his already taut nerve endings, Jake checked out the group assembled in the aircraft. Mark now wore jeans, a Kevlar vest, and an FBI jacket. The five SOG members were attired in their standard uniform and assault equipment—Royal Robbins khaki pants, long-sleeved black T-shirts, Kevlar vests, tactical holsters, and boots. He’d exchanged his suit for the assault gear in the helicopter. They all had earpieces tucked away in case things got dicey and a tactical resolution was needed.

  Todd sat next to him, a Remington 700 sniper rifle outfitted with a 40-power spotting scope beside him. All the other SOG members were armed with MP5 submachine guns and .45 caliber Springfields.

  There was no lack of firepower for this takedown.

  And there was another helicopter of SOG members on their tail. FBI agents were following by land.

  Through the rain, the single-runway Washington County Airport near Potosi came into view. As the helicopter sped toward it, Jake saw several vehicles gathered near the main building, including a couple of SUVs. Good. They’d be set to head out the instant they landed. And Reynolds’s cabin was less than eight miles away.

  If all went well, this would be over in less than an hour.

  The rain had stopped.

  It was time.

  Rising from the wooden table where he’d spent the past hour cleaning his favorite hunting rifle, a .22 Winchester Rimfire, Martin carefully set it down and made a final, slow circuit of the cabin, picking up trash, straightening the bedclothes, looking for any evidence he’d had company on this trip. He didn’t plan to come back here today once his mission was finished, and he wanted nothing left behind that might incriminate him.

  When he was satisfied the rustic structure held no evidence of its second occupant, he hauled the trash bag out to the car, deposited it in the trunk, and opened the passenger side door. After closing and locking the one set of shutters he’d opened, he went back inside and tugged on a pair of latex gloves.

  The judge hadn’t moved a whole lot in the past few hours. Nor spoken. In fact, she’d gotten real quiet. Even her moaning had stopped awhile back.

  As he approached the support beam where she was tethered, her eyes flickered open. They were kind of dull, and the way she was blinking, he figured she was having trouble focusing.

  Leaning down, he cut the restraint on her leg, tucked his hunting knife into a sheath on his belt, and pulled her to her feet.

  She groaned and doubled over, pressing her bound hands against her rib cage.

  “Please . . . that hurts.”

  She gasped out the words, like she couldn’t catch her breath.

  No matter. She wouldn’t be breathing much longer, anyway.

  Blocking out her moans, he dragged her to his car and shoved her into the passenger seat. She huddled over, and he saw a sheen on her cheeks as he shut the door.

  How about that? He’d made a judge cry. Just like so many of her ilk made average people cry when they used their power to undermine justice and chip away at freedom.

  But they weren’t so high and mighty once you got them out of their courtroom.

  He
returned to the cabin, locked the dead bolt and the padlock on the front door, then joined her in the car. As he put the key in the ignition and turned on the engine, he spared her one brief glance.

  She was shaking. Badly. And her eyes were kind of sunken in. As if she’d had all she could take.

  Too bad.

  Because the dramatic grand finale was still ahead.

  One that would make front-page headlines all over the country—and serve as a call to arms for all the patriots out there to join the fight to restore the unalienable rights the founding fathers had fought so hard to protect.

  Reynolds’s cabin was deserted.

  After approaching it by stealth and seeing no sign of movement or any evidence of a vehicle, the marshals had pried off a shutter. One look through the dirty glass was all it had taken to confirm there was no one inside.

  As the reality sank in, Jake’s spirits plummeted. He’d been convinced Reynolds had brought Liz here. They all had. It had been their only hope of finding her in time. They had no backup sites to investigate.

  Now, Liz would die.

  “I found some tracks on the side of the cabin.” Todd joined the small group gathered in front of the ramshackle structure. “There are fresh tire impressions in the mud. Since they haven’t been washed away by the torrential rain we had up until the last half hour, I’m thinking the driver left very recently.”

  A flicker of hope ignited in Jake’s heart. Maybe they weren’t too late after all.

  Unless . . .

  He didn’t want to consider the possibility, but they had to check out every scenario. “We need some people to search the woods for disturbed ground.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say the word grave.

  “Clair and her people are on the way,” Mark offered.

  Turning to their chauffeurs—two highway patrol officers hovering in the background—Jake motioned them over.

  “We think our man is in the area. I need you guys to make sure area law enforcement is aware of the BOLO alert the FBI issued with his license number and car description.”

  As they jogged back toward their vehicles, Jake headed for the door of the cabin. “Since Liz managed to leave a clue on the dining room table in the condo, my guess is she might have tried to do the same here. We need to get in. Now.”

  No one argued. Todd retrieved a sturdy piece of wood from the nearby pile, and several hard downward blows on the latching side of the padlock were all it took to release the bale.

  “You want me to try a few bump keys on the dead bolt before we knock in the door and maybe destroy evidence?” He produced a key ring from his pocket and jiggled it.

  “You carry bump keys?” Jake raised an eyebrow. Keys with specially designed teeth that worked on a variety of locks weren’t part of a marshal’s standard equipment.

  Todd shrugged. “You never know when you might need one.”

  “Okay, give it a shot. You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  It only took him twenty.

  As the door swung open and Todd stepped back, Jake crossed the threshold. “I need some light in here.”

  While another SOG member went to retrieve one of the powerful flashlights from the highway patrol officers, Jake peered around the dim interior. The furnishings were sparse and basic. A bed covered with blankets. An upholstered chair that was losing its stuffing. A small table with a lantern on top. A wood-burning stove. A couple of cabinets with a chipped Formica counter underneath. A battered table with one chair. A matching chair stood near the wall, catty-corner from the table, near a support beam.

  Jake’s gaze lingered there. Why weren’t both chairs at the table? If Reynolds wanted to relax away from the table, wouldn’t he be more likely to use the overstuffed chair rather than a hard one?

  “Here’s the flashlight.”

  Jake grabbed it, clicked on the beam, and homed in on the chair. He wasn’t an evidence technician, but he had a good eye. Although he didn’t intend to contaminate the scene by touching anything, he wanted some proof Liz had been here.

  He swept the light over the chair and the base of the support joist. At first he saw nothing. But on a second pass of the joist, he thought he detected a slight variation in the color of the wood near ground level.

  Dropping down to balance on the balls of his feet, he took a closer look.

  “Did you find something?” Mark joined him.

  Jake indicated the lighter-colored ring on the beam. “That’s been rubbed.”

  “As if someone was tied here and was trying to get away,” Mark theorized.

  “That’s my take.” He flashed the light along the edge of the wall, where it met the floor. A small, irregular shape half wedged under the joist caught his eye. Pulling his knife off his belt, he flipped it open, got down on his hands and knees, and handed the flashlight to Mark.

  “Shine it there.” He pointed to the object.

  As the light illuminated it and Jake leaned in, he realized what it was.

  A fingernail.

  Using the knife blade, he worked it out. Flipped it over. Stopped breathing.

  “She was here.”

  “How do you know?” Mark bent down to take a closer look.

  “That’s the color of the nail polish she always wears.”

  Rising, Jake exited the cabin, motioned the two highway patrol officers over to join the group, and gave them a quick update.

  “We need every available law enforcement person in a fifty-mile radius on this,” he concluded. “But I don’t want anyone moving in unless it’s a life and death situation. The marshals need to handle this rescue and arrest. You guys”—he gestured to the representatives from the highway patrol—“contact the police in the area and alert them to the situation. Todd, call Matt. Get the ETA of the rest of our people. Mark, can you do the same for your agents?”

  The other man was already pulling out his BlackBerry. “I’m on it.”

  Jake angled toward Todd. They were on the same SOG assault team and had worked together on a number of dicey assignments, including high-risk arrests and search warrants. Todd was one of the best snipers in the group. And after a week of advanced training, his skills would be razor sharp.

  “We may need you on this one.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  In general, Jake felt the same way. He preferred arrests that went smoothly, where no one was hurt.

  But as he looked back at the cabin where Liz had been imprisoned, he really didn’t care what happened to Reynolds.

  All he cared about was saving Liz.

  Whatever it took.

  “Hey, Colin . . . do you hear that?”

  Stubbing out his cigarette on the wet ground, Colin readjusted the slippery, waterproof jacket insulating his rear from the damp wood of the downed tree and shot Brian an annoyed look. “You need to chill, man. Even if we get caught, what are they gonna do? Throw us in jail for skipping out of school after a couple of classes and smoking in the woods?”

  “No. But we could get into big trouble for that.” Brian nodded to what was left of the six-pack sitting between them on the dead tree. They’d finished most of it in the car while they sat out the rain, pulled off the road behind some pine trees a quarter mile down the little-used rural route. But it was better to smoke in the open. That way there’d be no telltale smell in the upholstery. So they’d left the car and hiked down a ways until they’d found a good place to sit.

  “Trust me. No one’s gonna find us. I told you, I’ve done this before. Cutting out early is no big deal. We’re only missing lunch, study hall, and two—”

  “Shh.” Brian leaned forward, his posture tense. “I hear it again. It sounds like tires on gravel!”

  Humoring his paranoid friend, Colin pretended to listen as he pulled another cigarette out of the pack. All he heard was the chirp of the birds, the rustle of the dead leaves still clinging to the trees, the . . .

  He froze. Now he heard it too. And it was getti
ng closer.

  “Okay. We’re outta here. Grab the beer.”

  As Brian scooped up the plastic holder with two cans still attached, Colin pocketed the cigarettes. The crunch of gravel grew louder, and before they could flee, a dark blue car came into sight.

  The only good news was that it wasn’t a police cruiser.

  Muttering a word he knew his father would smack him for—even if he was sixteen—Colin grabbed Brian’s arm and yanked him down behind a cluster of scrubby cedar trees.

  “We’re gonna have to wait until he passes. I don’t want him to spot us.”

  Beside him, he heard Brian’s rapid breathing. Felt him shaking. Disgusted, Colin shook his head. Brian was too skittish for this kind of clandestine stuff. He’d have to pick his drinking buddies more carefully in the future.

  “Chill, Brian.” He leaned close and whispered the instruction in his companion’s ear. “As soon as he gets past us, we’ll take off for the car.”

  It was a good plan. Colin had every confidence it would work and they’d escape undetected.

  Until the car pulled to the side of the overgrown gravel lane, behind a stand of evergreens that hid it from the road, and rolled to a stop.

  Less than twenty feet from where they were hiding.

  Colin would have said that word again, except a man got out of the car, and he was afraid the sound would carry.

  Burrowing deeper behind the cedars, he peered through a tiny opening. The driver was an old guy, with gray hair. He was looking around, as if checking to make sure no one was watching him. The same way he and Brian had done when they’d picked this spot.

  But why should an older guy be worried?

  Unless he was doing something illegal. Like dumping trash, maybe. That was against some kind of ordinance. His dad had talked about the problem at dinner a few nights ago. Lots of people ditched stuff that wasn’t easy to get rid of, like broken washing machines, along the road.

  Except this guy’s car wasn’t big enough to hold anything like that.

  Brian was shaking worse now, and Colin sent him a dark look. If he jiggled the tree they were crouching behind, it could call attention to their hiding spot.