“You’ve reached the Boise District Office for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Our normal office hours are eight to five Monday through Friday. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911 to contact local authorities. If it isn’t an emergency, please stay on the line and leave a message. A special agent will return your call as soon as possible.”
When he heard the beep, Jess hesitated for a moment. Then, in a hushed voice, he gave his name, number, and said he knew something about the missing Taylor children.
He hung up, not at all sure he had done the right thing. Would the agent call him back directly, or contact the sheriff and the ex-cops first? If the latter happened, everything could go to hell. He stared at the receiver, wishing he could retrieve and erase the message somehow. He should have hung up and waited until tomorrow, when he could talk to a real person. This wasn’t like him, being impulsive. But he had to do something. Gonzalez on his own porch had unnerved him. They would suspect him now, and he was sure they’d come back.
THE CHILDREN seemed to be as comfortable as they’d been since they arrived, Jess thought. They sat in the living room, surfing through television channels. He found himself staring at them from the doorway in the kitchen, wishing he could be as carefree. Annie looked over and smiled at him, then turned back to the television.
Something had happened, he thought. Because they had overheard the exchange with Gonzalez, the children trusted him completely now. They thought he could take care of them. Jess wasn’t so sure about that. He needed help, and some kind of plan. He didn’t know where to turn.
He thought of the man he’d had breakfast with, Villatoro. Jess could tell Villatoro had connections, knew people in law enforcement on the outside. Maybe even their home telephone numbers. Perhaps the ex-detective could put him in contact with a friendly FBI agent who could circumvent a call to the sheriff? Jess dug the card out of his pocket again, called the motel, and again got voice mail. Jess cursed to himself, and left a message asking Villatoro to call him whenever he got back to his room.
Who else could help? Buddy?
He looked up the deputy’s number and called. The phone was busy. Probably off the hook, Jess thought, while the man slept.
Jess paced his kitchen, washed and dried the dishes, stared at his watch and the telephone that didn’t ring.
Maybe, he thought, Sheriff Carey would believe him if he could talk to the man without the ex-cops around. Maybe. He would need to try, and he couldn’t chance waiting until morning. By that time, the ex-cops might be coming back to his house or the FBI might be in contact with them. It would need to be tonight.
And as he looked again at the Taylor children sprawled on his couch, he thought: Don’t let them down. You’ve already overseen the destruction of one family, your own. Don’t let it happen again.
They needed to reunite with their mother, and she needed to know they were all right. Those kids trusted him to protect them. He would do his best, or die trying. He had nothing to lose.
“I’M GOING to be gone for a while,” he told them, after muting the volume on the television so he could get their complete attention. “I need to go to town.”
“Tonight?” Annie asked. “Are you going to leave us here?”
He nodded. “I have to.”
“What if that man comes back?”
Jess paused. “Annie, I’m going to show you how to operate a shot-gun. If anybody besides me comes into this house tonight, I want you to know how to use it.”
Annie nodded slightly. William looked at her with obvious jealousy.
Jess opened his gun cabinet, withdrew his twenty-gauge over and under, and broke it open. “I taught my son how to hunt with this gun,” he said. “Just remember it’s not a toy. Come here, and I’ll show you how it works…”
BEFORE HE LEFT, Jess went back to the gun cabinet. He looked at each weapon, doing a quick checklist of pluses and minuses associated with each. He quickly dismissed his scoped hunting rifles. They were good at long range, of course, but were unwieldy if the target was close or moving fast. The bolt actions made them slow to reload, and he’d be limited to three or four cartridges. The shotguns were devastating at close range and didn’t require perfect aim, which is why he showed Annie how to fire one. But beyond fifty yards they lost stopping power. He needed a weapon that would fill both needs, long and short, and most important, something he was comfortable with.
Jess withdrew the.25-35 Winchester. It had been his grandfather’s gun, a tough little open-sight saddle carbine that held seven cartridges. High-velocity, small-bore, simple, and reliable. He had shot his first deer with it when he was a boy, and had kept it for J.J., who had never showed interest. As he held the weapon, it felt like an old friend, with a tie to the past.
He loaded it as the children watched. “Remember what we talked about,” he said, shoving in cartridge after cartridge. “If somebody besides me comes into this house, point the shotgun at the thickest part of his body and pull the trigger. Don’t forget about flipping off the safety first. Whether you hit him or not, I want you two running and out of here the second after you fire. Annie, where will I find you if you have to run and hide?”
“The old corral up in the trees behind the house,” she repeated.
“Good. Are you up for this, William?”
William nodded. Jess had the impression William was looking forward to it and would be disappointed if Gonzalez didn’t come back.
“Okay, then,” Jess said. “Keep the doors and windows locked, and the curtains pulled. If anybody comes, don’t look out at them.”
Annie and William said they understood.
Jess winked at them. “I won’t be long,” he said.
The Winchester would not leave his side until this thing was done.
Sunday, 5:30 P.M
WHAT IN the hell do you think you’re doing?” Swann asked Monica sharply.
She was packing, throwing clothes into a small suitcase on her bed. Her clothes, Annie’s clothes, William’s clothes. They would surely need a change of clothing. She was startled, hadn’t realized Swann was in the hallway watching her.
“I’ve got to get out.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m smothering to death in this house. I feel like your prisoner. Why can’t I leave?”
“What if they call?” Swann asked, sputtering. He had the same panicked reaction Newkirk had shown earlier when she told him she wanted to leave. That told her all she needed to know.
“What if who calls, Oscar? I thought you were all convinced Tom took them? Since when is Tom a they?”
Swann hesitated. She could see him biting his lip.
“Maybe I’ll talk to the reporters down at the county building, make a plea for my children.” She said it to test him.
Her destination, she had decided, was outside of town. But she didn’t want to tell him of her suspicion. That confirmed in her mind that the situation had changed. Swann, she thought, is not here to help me.
“Monica, sit the fuck down.”
His command froze her. She could tell by his face that, if necessary, he would cross the room and make her stay.
“This is for the best,” he said. “You have to trust me on this.”
She weighed his words against the crazy look in his eye, the set of his shoulders, his clenched fists.
“I don’t trust you at all,” she said.
He raised one of his fists, opened his hand. Her car keys were in them.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.
Sunday, 5:49 P.M.