Before Cain Strikes. Joshua Corin
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Sheriff Fallon shifted in his seat. He was not charmed.
Esme, on the other hand, was enjoying P. J. Hammond very much. He was either a genuinely nice, optimistic human being or he was a fantastic performer putting out all the stops to conceal a bottomless darkness. Either way, it made for a great show.
However, Rafe was still stuck at the house, undoubtedly going stir crazy. “P.J.,” she said. “Could you walk us through exactly how you came to choose the Weiners to win the contest?”
“You bet, although it really wasn’t me who chose them.”
“Then who did?” asked Sheriff Fallon.
Because whoever had selected them was their prime suspect.
P.J. pointed a finger at his laptop computer, which was plugged into a cable modem. “It did.”
Sheriff Fallon blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It would take me too much time to sift through everyone who’s a subscriber. Like I said, we’re talking over a thousand people. They don’t make a hat that big, do they? Can you imagine a hat that big? Can you imagine a head big enough to wear a hat that big?”
“So you use a computer program,” said Esme.
“Computers run the world these days,” P.J. replied. “We just turn them on and off.”
“Can you demonstrate this program for us?”
P.J. shrugged and double-clicked an icon. A small window appeared. It listed a number—1,024—and next to that number was a radio button that read Select.
“All I do is press this button,” he said. “Except the name and contact information it’s going to select now won’t be the Weiners. It chooses at random from the 1,024 names in the system. I mean, the odds of it choosing the Weiners again—ever—would be…”
“One in 1,024?”
P.J. nodded. “Not astronomical, but high.”
“Click the button,” said Esme.
He did.
Another window popped up with a name and contact information.
Todd Weiner, 18 Value Street.
“Huh,” murmured P.J. “Well, like I said, the odds weren’t astronomical. That’s kind of cool, actually. Todd Weiner must be one lucky guy. Except for, you know, that whole house-burning-down thing.”
“Click it again, P.J.,” Esme said, so P.J. did.
Todd Weiner, 18 Value Street.
This time, P.J.’s sunny composure dimmed a bit. He stared in confusion at his laptop screen. Then he clicked the radio button again, and again, and again.
“Where did you get this software from, sir?”
“I downloaded it from this business website. Lots of people use it.” His confidence was mushing into a stammer. “I’ve been using it for years and have never had a problem!”
Which left, as Esme saw it, two options: someone had tampered with his software or P. J. Hammond was a lying sack of shit.
Sheriff Fallon rose to his feet. “Sir, I think you’re going to need to come with us.”
The shop door jangled open. All heads turned and saw two men and one woman, all in police browns, saunter in. The woman had a sheriff’s badge and a name tag that read Shuster.
“Afternoon, Mike,” she said.
“Hey, there, Betsy. I know I had one of my guys call your office to give you the heads-up that we were going to be in your neck of the woods. I hope they didn’t tell you we needed an escort.”
“Mike, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.”
He stepped away from the desk and followed Betsy Shuster outside. Her two deputies remained inside, appearing uncomfortable. Something was very wrong. Esme glanced over at P.J., who had become even grayer.
Sheriff Fallon returned.
“Let’s go,” he said to Esme.
“What’s going on?”
He looked past her at P.J. “Thank you for your time.”
By the looks of it, P.J. was as befuddled as Esme. She wanted to shout out, Wait, wait, but Fallon was reaching for her. He was eager to leave right now. And since she was only here at all as a courtesy, she really didn’t have a choice.
That said, once they returned to his car…
“What the fuck was that!”
He exhaled a weighty sigh and stared out the windshield at Betsy Shuster and her deputies, who were making their way to the vet clinic several doors down.
“Yesterday a child was abducted here. About ten minutes ago, the police received an anonymous email from the abductor. He said that if the Lynette Robinson investigation didn’t stop immediately, he was going to kill the child. To prove his veracity, he attached a very, very recent photograph of the baby’s face. So get comfortable. We’re heading home.”
7
When Esme relayed the news to Rafe, she was certain he was going to slam another pot against a wall. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. She felt like smashing a few pieces of cookware herself.
Sheriff Fallon had notified the state police in Albany of the situation. They were conferring about the matter. But Esme wasn’t sure what they felt they could do. She wasn’t sure what anyone could do. In one move, this psychopath had checkmated them.
If they’d had a stronger case, if they’d had more information, they might have been able to flank him, avenging Lynette Robinson’s murder while simultaneously keeping him from harming little Marcy Harper. But they’d failed. She had failed. Rafe had imbued all this trust in her—for the first time—and she had monumentally fallen on her face. If only she’d had more time…
P. J. Hammond obviously remained the prime suspect. In truth, he remained the only suspect. Had P.J. sent the anonymous email to the Ulster County police? It was possible. Sheriff Betsy Shuster was attempting to get a warrant to sift through his computer. Since the abduction had taken place so close to his place of business, and since time was so essential…
But Esme knew that no judge, not even a provincial saint, would sign such a warrant, not even in antiprivacy post-9/11 America. The FBI possibly could have pushed the warrant through, and she was tempted to call the local office, but until the crime crossed state lines, this remained out of their jurisdiction. She could plant a tip that Baby Marcy had been seen in Vermont…
No.
Tomorrow, Sheriff Fallon would have to break the news to Lynette’s family. Better they find out from him than from a leak in the department. She felt sorry for him. This was his land and an invader had murdered one of the citizens he’d sworn to protect and now that bastard was going to get away with it. There would never be justice. There would never be closure.
Now it was Saturday night. Rafe lay beside her in his parents’ bed. Even though his back was to her, she could tell he was awake. She wanted to say something. She wanted to make him feel better. But how could she, when she was in part to blame for his restlessness? And so she stared at the shape of her husband’s back, barely visible in the darkness of the room, barely more than the shadow of a shadow.
She dreamed about Galileo.
She was in her house back in Oyster Bay, on the second floor, in the hallway. All of the doors—to her bedroom, to Sophie’s bedroom, to the bathroom—were shut. Esme tried her daughter’s door first, but there was no knob. The door was really just an indented part of the wall. Even the flowery wallpaper was beginning to seep across the doors, as if its decorated ivy were real.