with him. His discomfort was so genuine, so sweet, she almost laughed out loud. Almost. The child’s loud, shrill screams made it impossible to focus on much else than saving her eardrums at the moment.
She climbed into the driver’s seat and twisted her face toward the back.
“Why the vest?” She had to shout to be heard over the boy’s screaming.
“Remember our conversation about swaddling? The weight of the vest and the snug seat belt should help Adam feel a little more secure on the trip home.”
As if on cue, the boy continued to sob but the sounds no longer rent the air.
“Who’s Rerun and Charlie?”
“I’ll explain later. Just get us out of here.”
A tap on the driver’s side window drew Liz’s attention. A woman she didn’t recognize held a microphone in her hand. A photographer stood behind her with camera ready and probably rolling.
“Sheriff, is it true that you’re taking the boy back to the scene of the crime?”
“Sheriff.” A second voice grabbed her attention. Harriet Townsend, a reporter from the local paper, tapped on the passenger window. “Has the boy said anything to you yet? Is he able to describe the killer?”
Within seconds, Liz saw at least a dozen more people running toward the car. Heaven help them, their little hometown secret had leaked out and was now national news.
As reporters stormed the car and banged on the windows, Jeremy’s cries began to intensify.
“Get us out of here before those idiots make the situation worse.”
Liz ordered the people to step back and slowly eased her car through the growing crowd.
She heard Adam trying to soothe the screaming child. He spoke in short, concise sentences. His voice remained low and calm.
Liz pulled out of the hospital lot and moved into the flow of traffic. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Adam held a small wad of brightly colored putty in the palm of his hand. He squeezed and stretched the putty and then handed it to the boy and encouraged him to do the same. Sobs subsided into whimpers and then hiccups rather than tears.
Liz breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention back to the road. She admired the way Adam was able to take charge of the situation and soothe the boy. Of course, he should know how. This was his job.
But not all psychiatrists knew what they were doing.
Fleeting thoughts of Luke surfaced and left a bitter taste in her throat.
She glanced in the mirror one more time. Satisfied with the peace that had descended upon the backseat, Liz allowed herself to relax. On the very slim chance that Dr. Adam Morgan was half as good as the reputation that preceded him, she conceded that maybe he was right. Maybe the familiar surroundings of his own home would be good for the boy. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the full-blown disaster she’d anticipated after all.
But just in case, she started to pray.
* * *
He positioned himself on the ground, well hidden from view in the brush at the edge of the woods. He’d just surveyed the area with his binoculars for the fourth time in the past hour and was certain he’d picked the optimal spot. There were no houses, no hiking trails, no reason for anyone to be walking in this area. No witnesses.
He propped himself up on his elbows and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He adjusted the scope and aimed the weapon exactly at the crest of the curve in the road. He calculated wind velocity, car speed and made all necessary adjustments. He was ready.
Where were they?
Rivulets of perspiration dotted his forehead and slid down the back of his neck. Gnats buzzed around his head, and he steeled himself not to lose concentration and swat at them.
The news on the radio had prompted him to action. He’d raced to the Henderson house to make sure they hadn’t arrived before him only to find hordes of media camped in the driveway looking for their lead story for the night.
Well, be patient, folks. Real soon now, I’m going to make sure you get the story of a lifetime.
He sniffed and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. Hours ago, he’d shot up with heroin and cocaine, known on the street as speedballing. He needed another fix and he hated himself for it. The hit of cocaine he’d had in his kitchen wasn’t taking the edge off the urge for more heroin. It simply energized him for this task so he wouldn’t nod out.
When had he become a junkie? Nothing good came from drugs. He knew that. But still… How could he ever explain how great it felt to shoot up? The feel of the rush. Wired up. Energized. Alive. And then the nodding out. The deep well of black nothingness. Maybe it wasn’t all bad.
He tapped his finger against the gun stock and tried to distract himself by beating out a rhythm to one of his favorite songs. A bead of sweat dripped into his eye and he cursed as he wiped it away. Boy, he needed another fix.
He shifted his weight and visually checked out his rifle. The barrel rested in the tripod. He adjusted the vertical cheek piece. He looked into the telescopic sight and then he saw them, approaching fast from the east. He eased his finger against the trigger and waited.
Any second now.
Wait for it.
Wait.
The police cruiser pulled into the curve.
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