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  We had to contact Clay as soon as possible. Like Detective Glick, I just knew Jake had taken Wendy to the log cabin in the woods that he'd inherited from his foster father. We desperately needed Clay to explain where we could find that cabin.

  As if reading my mind, Stone said to Baines, "Jake owns a hunting cabin in the mountains. Do you know where it's located?"

  "No. I didn't even know he had one. I didn't know he was a hunter either. I thought his only recreational activity was snorting coke," he replied in an indignant tone. His manner indicated he had a low regard for drug abusers.

  Ron turned away from McFarland, but then turned back toward him with one last question. "By the way, what was it you were planning to tell 'Wesson' when you called the NYPD Homicide Division?"

  "Oh—uh—just that about once a week or so, an older, white-headed man would come into the club just to speak with Jake. He still does, actually. I saw him in here just the other day. I don't know his name or his connection to Jake. But he pulls Jake off to the side to speak with him privately for a few minutes, and then he leaves. The old guy is probably just a drug dealer. Probably has nothing to do with your murder case at all," McFarland said, dismissing the importance of the information with a wave of his hand.

  Chapter 25

  The four of us were sitting in a small cafe eating greasy hamburgers for lunch. Stone had called Tufts-New England Medical Center and, after being transferred to a different department several times, he was told Wade Williams had been released three days before. His patient records showed pneumonia as the reason for admittance, and his address was listed as 756 Eighth Street. I recognized the address as Jacoby's.

  Stone had ended the call and passed on the information to the rest of us. Before he could reattach his cell phone to his belt clip, another call rang through on it. The caller was Clay, Stone reported as he handed the phone across the table to me.

  "Oh, thank God it's you, Clay," I said into the phone. I was breathless in my relief. I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my son-in-law's voice. "Where are you?"

  "I just got off a plane at JFK. My connecting flight in Chicago was delayed. Where are you and your friend, er—?"

  "Stone Van Patten's his name. Stone and I are in Boston. Detective Ron Glick of the Schenectady homicide division and Stone's nephew Andy are also with us. Right now we're all grabbing a bite at a cafe across the street from the Fantasy Club."

  I'm sure Clay was astonished to learn I'd ever even heard of the Fantasy Club. I knew he was familiar with the place. During our first conversation with McFarland, Baines had mentioned that Clay had picked Jake up at the club at least once.

  "Did you find Jake there? Have you found Wendy? Is she okay? He didn't hurt her, did he? What's going on?" Clay asked the questions in such rapid succession, he left no opportunity for me to answer them. There was anxiety and concern in his voice. He may have been evasive, and even untruthful, with Wendy, and he may have reacted badly to her pregnancy, but it was obvious to me he did care about what happened to her, and this meant a great deal to me. Wendy had sincerely loved Clay. I would hate to think he could feel complete indifference for her.

  "No, Clay. I'm sorry to say we haven't found either Jake or Wendy yet."

  "Oh, no." There was a catch in his voice that could not have been faked. "In your voice mail message you said you've found out that Jake is really Rod Crowfoot. How can that be? I never met Crowfoot, but I've seen a photo or two of him. I don't recall him looking at all similar to Jake. How can Rod and Jake be the same person?"

  "I don't know, Clay."

  "Me neither. But... uh... well, now that I think about it, if Rod changed his hairstyle, changed from glasses to contacts, and got tattoos and body piercings, it's possible. Like Rod, Jake was pretty puny before he joined the gym and bulked up with the weightlifting. Yes, I think it's very possible, the more I think about it."

  "So you think he could have changed his appearance and taken on a new identity after he killed your wife Eliza?"

  "Um-hmm. I actually think he could have. It'd make sense to change his identity—especially if he had plans to befriend me. But why would he even want to befriend his victim's husband? None of this makes any sense to me."

  "I don't know, either," I said. Clay was thinking out loud, and I didn't want to distract him. I was learning more by listening to his rambling than by asking him questions.

  "You know, at the time he approached me at the gym and introduced himself as Jake Jacoby, I had a gut feeling it wasn't just a chance meeting. It seemed orchestrated, almost like it'd been planned in advance. I hadn't known Jake much more than a few days when he offered me a place to stay during the week while I was attending classes at the police academy. I thought he was just a friendly or lonely guy. I still can't understand why he'd want to be near me after he killed my wife. It seems to me it would've been safer and wiser to avoid me. I suspected he was gay, although he never approached me in that way. But he did constantly try to persuade me to break up with Wendy after she and I started dating. He also talked me into selling him my Mustang—"

  "And coerced you into doing cocaine with him?"

  There was a long stretch of silence before Clay spoke again. Even then, I could tell it was with a great deal of embarrassment that he responded to my question.

  "Maybe 'coerce' is not the correct word, Lexie, but, yes, Jake did convince me to try cocaine. And I'm sorry to admit that I really liked it. I was one of those instant addicts you hear about. I know you must be very disappointed in me, and I apologize. It's been tough, but I've succeeded in kicking the habit. I've been clean for a while now, I promise."

  "Good for you, Clay," I said with sincerity. "The important thing now is to find Wendy. We think Jake's most likely taken her to his cabin in the mountains."

  "Yes, I agree that taking her there would be something he'd do. Jake was very fond of his uncle Bill, the guy who left the cabin to him. Bill was the only foster father he had for any length of time, or at least that's what he told me. He said he lived in a lot of different foster homes when he was a kid, and none of them could handle him. I guess he was bitter and rebellious from being abandoned by his mother and belittled and knocked around by his father. His real father sounded almost as mean and abusive as mine."

  As interesting as I found the discussion about Jake's childhood, I knew time was of the essence. The three men sitting around me were staring at me with impatience.

  "Clay, can you tell me how to get to Jake's cabin?" I asked, changing the subject back to Jake and Wendy's current whereabouts.

  "Yes, I can try, but it's almost impossible to explain over the phone. There's an eagle etching on the door that makes the cabin easy to spot once you get close to it, but getting close to it is an entirely different matter. You have go to the outfitting outpost outside of DeKalb and drive north. Then you turn left at an unusually large, gnarly tree, and turn left again at a sheer rock ledge. You go a ways down a narrow, winding gravel road, then left once more by the old footbridge, before bearing right at a certain fork in the road, and on and on," Clay said. He sighed in frustration. "I know all the landmarks to look for, but I couldn't really describe them to anyone. If you tried to follow my directions, you'd be hopelessly lost before you knew it, I'm afraid."

  I was repeating a lot of what Clay told me to Stone, Ron, and Andy. Andy now motioned for me to hand him Stone's cell phone.

  "Clay, this is Andy Van Patten, Stone's nephew. I'm helping them try to locate Wendy. We need you here to lead us to that cabin. Listen carefully. You'll need to go to a different gate in another terminal, most likely. I'll have a pilot there, waiting to fly you to an executive airport here in Boston. I'll have to make the arrangements first, and then I'll call you right back with the details. Okay?"

  We abandoned what remained of our sandwiches and headed out to our rental car. Andy was talking to his friend named Josh as we pulled away from the curb. Andy had told us that Josh owned a small commuter service in N
ew York City. Andy ended the call to Josh and began to dial Clay's number, which he'd scribbled across the back of his hand. While he waited for the connection, he told us Josh had agreed to shuttle Clay to Boston, where we'd leave the rental car and board Andy's Cessna. Andy would fly the five of us back to Schenectady County Airport. From there we'd all take Click's squad car to the cabin in the woods. With any luck at all, Jake would be holding Wendy there, and she'd be unharmed when we swarmed in like the cavalry to rescue her. I sent up a prayer that Jake would surrender and hand her over to us peacefully.

  As we drove toward the executive airport, I borrowed Stone's phone and called Harriet. I knew she was worried and concerned, and I wanted to keep her abreast of what was happening. I made a mental note for myself that the first thing I'd do when I returned home to Kansas was to buy my own digital cell phone. I'd never realized how handy they were, in general, and how crucial they could be in a crisis.

  I leaned back in the seat and took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm my nerves. Although I knew I should be experiencing a sense of relief that things were falling so smoothly into place, I couldn't shake the sense of foreboding I was feeling.

  Chapter 26

  The Clayton Pitt we picked up at the executive airport in Boston was a different man from the Clayton Pitt I'd known before. Gone was the cockiness and pretentiousness that never failed to get under my skin. An unassuming, timid attitude, and an apparent lack of self-confidence that wouldn't allow Clay to look me in the eye had replaced his old demeanor.

  After Clay disembarked from Josh's plane, we all quickly made our way to Andy's plane, still parked in the hangar where we'd left it earlier. Andy shook hands with Josh, as did Ron and Stone, and after we had all expressed our appreciation to the young pilot, we climbed into the small Cessna.

  "Anything new to report?" Clay asked once we had taken off and reached our cruising altitude. His question was not addressed to any one of us in particular. It was just a general inquiry that hung in the air for a few seconds before Stone finally responded.

  "I don't think we know anything more than you do at this point."

  "Oh."

  "Can you tell us about how long it takes to get to the cabin from downtown Schenectady?"

  "Just over an hour, I'd say."

  "That will put us there just before dusk. It's been a long day already, but I don't think we have the option of putting this off until tomorrow, do you Ron?" Stone asked.

  "No, I'm not willing to risk it. I want to go straight to the cabin, however long it takes. Clay, tell us about how the cabin is situated. Is there a way to approach it without being detected well in advance? Jake will be armed, I'm sure, and we don't want to put Wendy's life in jeopardy, or be sitting ducks ourselves."

  "The cabin sits in a clearing," Clay said. "There's some foliage in the rear of the cabin, but it's not dense like it is in much of the surrounding forest. There are no windows on the north side of the cabin, so if we approach it from that side we shouldn't be as easily detected. We'll want to park behind the timberline though, and sneak in from there, so Jake can't hear the car's engine. There's a rock well on the northwest corner, about fifty feet or so from the cabin. It may offer us some protection if we can get close enough to duck behind it."

  "Okay, that's good." Ron said. "The rock well—how big an area are we talking about? Is it big enough for all of us to take cover behind?"

  "The well isn't all that big, but there's a rock wall running along beside it that's at least three feet tall, and ten or twelve feet wide. We can all easily crouch behind it."

  "Anything else? What kind of weapons might we expect him to have with him?"

  "Jake owns a deer rifle that he leaves at the cabin. He also owns a Colt forty-five, a double-action six-shooter. He keeps it loaded and carries it around under the driver's seat of the Mustang."

  "Why?" Ron asked.

  "According to Jake, it's for protection if a drug deal goes down bad."

  "Does he deal?"

  "No, but he buys, and uses—a lot. He usually gets his crack, cocaine, and amphetamines from some guy he's known for awhile."

  "Who's the guy?"

  "Don't know, and never asked. I never met the guy, and Jake never volunteered to introduce us. I tried not to get too involved in that scene. Once in a while Jake would buy it on the street when he was in desperate need of a fix. He bought the Colt after he got his jaw dislocated one night. Owed some dude a bunch of money and couldn't come up with it when the dude tried to collect it from him. The guy sent a couple of his goons to give Jake an attitude adjustment."

  "Where did you buy your coke?" Ron asked.

  Clay had the decency to look ashamed, but he answered quickly. "It was mostly crack. And I got it all from Jake, although it was only on rare occasions. I was enrolled in the police academy and couldn't afford much at the time, anyway. And I'd have to lay off it whenever I knew it was almost time to piss in the jug. If there was anything predictable about the academy, it was their 'random' drug tests—first Monday, every other month, like clockwork. Jake didn't charge me rent to stay at his place, which is why I took him up on his offer. I guess I should have questioned his generosity."

  "I would have thought so," Ron said. "But that's past history now."

  * * *

  We all piled into Ron's car and drove to the sheriff's office in DeKalb. Sheriff Crabb was going to follow us out to the cabin. Detective Glick wanted to have at least two armed officers on the scene, and Sheriff Crabb deserved to be involved in the final capture of the murder suspect in a case in his jurisdiction.

  When we pulled up to the curb in front of his office, we saw the sheriff sitting in his car, waiting for us. Standing outside his rolled-down window talking to him was Harriet, smoking a cigarette and sharpening a buck knife with a whetstone.

  "Harriet!" I yelled out. "What are you doing here?"

  If she heard me, she didn't bother to respond. She waved the buck knife at me and jumped into the passenger seat of Sheriff Crabb's car. Stone gave me a questioning glance, and I just shrugged my shoulders at him. One thing we'd both learned in the last few days was that Harriet was unpredictable.

  "When I called Harriet, she told me she'd been on the back porch, carving her gigantic pumpkin into a jack-o'-lantern," I said. "She must have brought the carving knife along for protection."

  "Reckon her 'pappy' never told her she shouldn't take a knife to a gunfight?" Stone asked, a humorous glint in his eyes.

  "Maybe not. Or maybe her 'mudder' told her if she planned to show up someplace uninvited, she shouldn't show up empty-handed." I had returned his playful banter with some of my own, but suddenly his words sunk in and I became alarmed. "Oh, Stone. You don't really think this confrontation will involve gunfire, do you?"

  "I think there's a good chance it could result in violence of some kind, Lexie. Jake has a lot to lose at this point. He's apt to go down fighting. That's why I'd like for you to stay behind and let us men handle it. Okay? It's no place for women. You and Harriet would be safer waiting in the car."

  "No, it's not okay. I can't speak for Harriet, but this woman is not going to cower in the car while you men risk life and limb to rescue my daughter. I would lay down my life for my child, Stone, and nothing is going to keep me in this car while her safety is in jeopardy. I'm sorry. I really am. But don't waste your breath trying to convince me to stay in the car, 'cause it's just not going to happen."

  "Oh, all right," he said in a resigned voice. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. Just promise me you won't try anything risky."

  "I can't promise you anything. But it's not in my nature to intentionally place myself in harm's way unless I can see no other alternative. Is that good enough for you?"

  "I guess it will have to be." Stone sighed and shook his head. "I don't imagine I'll fare any better trying to convince Harriet."

  On the drive out of town I felt compelled to ask Clay some questions that had been nagging at me. He was open
and forthright with his answers.

  "How come you never visit your mother anymore?" I asked.

  "I do visit her. Every time I'm in town. I call her about once a week too."

  Clay sounded sincere and I believed him. Wanda's mental illness must prevent her from acknowledging or remembering her son's attentive devotion to her. I began to doubt anything she had told me was accurate.

  "How about your father? Is he in prison?"

  Clay snorted, rolled his eyes, and said, "Not that I know of, but he probably should be. My father is a sociopath and is highly delusional. Whenever I was around him in the past, he became hostile and belligerent. When I was growing up, he was abusive to both my mother and me. He's always treated me as if I was some kind of threat to him. After he drove my mother insane, literally, I had to move out on my own to get away from him. I was fifteen. Lied about my age to get into the Navy at sixteen. After about a year, I was tired of living on the streets. I got my GED while I was in the service."

  I reached into my purse and pulled out the stack of photos reprinted from the negatives we'd stolen from Jake's house. "Are these your photos, Clay?"

  He looked through them briefly and replied affirmatively.

  "Is this elderly couple your grandparents? Your mother's parents?"