shoulder, but did not stop.
“God have mercy on you if you’re lying.”
Woods laughed and nudged the horse into a trot. “Haven’t you heard, Agent Cahill? God has no mercy for the likes of me.”
Portia walked to the door and without being asked, the agent at the door unlocked it. She was halfway to her car when she heard someone calling her name. She turned to see James Cannon jogging toward her. He wore washed-out denims and a blue polo shirt that matched his eyes.
“I’d like to come with you,” he told her.
“Why?”
“I was there when every one of the other boys was found. I want to be there for Christopher Williams as well.”
“Sorry. You have to ride back to the prison in the van with Woods. That was the deal, counselor. Cannon in the van on the way out, Cannon in the van on the way back.”
“You got what you wanted. What difference does it make now?”
“Because maybe—just maybe—he might decide to play this game again sometime. But if I break my word now, there won’t be a next time.”
The barn door swung open, thumping dully against the outside wall, and two agents emerged. As they walked toward her, Portia called out to one, “Shay, find out who has the jurisdiction in and around Oldbridge, Maryland—local, county sheriff, the state. Call them, talk to whoever’s in charge and tell him or her—and only that person—what’s going on. Have them meet me there with a crime scene team. If Christopher Williams is there, we’re getting him out today and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes while we do it.”
To Cannon she said, “Mr. Cannon, thanks for doing your part to make this happen. We appreciate it.”
She walked away and got into her car. Making a U-turn in the drive, she looked back, but he was gone.
Two hours later, the car’s external thermostat read eighty-five degrees, and Portia knew that the temperature would only continue to climb as the day progressed. Combined with the rising humidity, it was sure to become increasingly uncomfortable. She parked at the foot of the tower that stood just as Woods had described it: by itself, atop a hill, the tallest point around. There were pines exactly where he’d said there would be, and she could see the makeshift rock wall that ran behind them. The tower did appear to be some sort of monument, as Woods had suggested. She got out of the car and walked closer to see if she could read the words inscribed about eight feet up, but they were badly eroded. She started toward the pine grove that Woods claimed marked Christopher Williams’s resting place.
There was no path to follow, and here and there pale granite headstones, almost flush to the ground and worn by wind and weather over the years, were obscured by grass long overdue for cutting. She knelt to push aside the tall green leaves from one on which the date was barely visible—12 DECEMBER , 1723—and the name, not at all. When they were children, she and Miranda used to make rubbings of the headstones in an old cemetery not far from where they lived. Today the thought of two young girls playing in a graveyard made her shiver.
Portia was careful to watch where she walked, not wanting to willingly tread on the ancient graves, but it was almost impossible to avoid. Several times she stubbed her toe on stone that only rose above the soil by inches.
At the pines, she hesitated momentarily, then walked between the two largest and looked for the spot Woods had described. If he were to be believed, Christopher’s grave lay just two feet from where she stood. Silently she prayed for the lost boy beneath the ground.
Sorry, Christopher. So sorry it’s taken so long to find you.
She thought about that for a moment, then added,
If in fact we have found you. Your mother’s sick, Chris—did they call you Chris? She needs you. They sent me to find you, to bring you back to her, so that you could make the journey together. She’s holding on until we bring you home. I hope we
“God have mercy on you if you’re lying.”
Woods laughed and nudged the horse into a trot. “Haven’t you heard, Agent Cahill? God has no mercy for the likes of me.”
Portia walked to the door and without being asked, the agent at the door unlocked it. She was halfway to her car when she heard someone calling her name. She turned to see James Cannon jogging toward her. He wore washed-out denims and a blue polo shirt that matched his eyes.
“I’d like to come with you,” he told her.
“Why?”
“I was there when every one of the other boys was found. I want to be there for Christopher Williams as well.”
“Sorry. You have to ride back to the prison in the van with Woods. That was the deal, counselor. Cannon in the van on the way out, Cannon in the van on the way back.”
“You got what you wanted. What difference does it make now?”
“Because maybe—just maybe—he might decide to play this game again sometime. But if I break my word now, there won’t be a next time.”
The barn door swung open, thumping dully against the outside wall, and two agents emerged. As they walked toward her, Portia called out to one, “Shay, find out who has the jurisdiction in and around Oldbridge, Maryland—local, county sheriff, the state. Call them, talk to whoever’s in charge and tell him or her—and only that person—what’s going on. Have them meet me there with a crime scene team. If Christopher Williams is there, we’re getting him out today and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes while we do it.”
To Cannon she said, “Mr. Cannon, thanks for doing your part to make this happen. We appreciate it.”
She walked away and got into her car. Making a U-turn in the drive, she looked back, but he was gone.
Two hours later, the car’s external thermostat read eighty-five degrees, and Portia knew that the temperature would only continue to climb as the day progressed. Combined with the rising humidity, it was sure to become increasingly uncomfortable. She parked at the foot of the tower that stood just as Woods had described it: by itself, atop a hill, the tallest point around. There were pines exactly where he’d said there would be, and she could see the makeshift rock wall that ran behind them. The tower did appear to be some sort of monument, as Woods had suggested. She got out of the car and walked closer to see if she could read the words inscribed about eight feet up, but they were badly eroded. She started toward the pine grove that Woods claimed marked Christopher Williams’s resting place.
There was no path to follow, and here and there pale granite headstones, almost flush to the ground and worn by wind and weather over the years, were obscured by grass long overdue for cutting. She knelt to push aside the tall green leaves from one on which the date was barely visible—12 DECEMBER , 1723—and the name, not at all. When they were children, she and Miranda used to make rubbings of the headstones in an old cemetery not far from where they lived. Today the thought of two young girls playing in a graveyard made her shiver.
Portia was careful to watch where she walked, not wanting to willingly tread on the ancient graves, but it was almost impossible to avoid. Several times she stubbed her toe on stone that only rose above the soil by inches.
At the pines, she hesitated momentarily, then walked between the two largest and looked for the spot Woods had described. If he were to be believed, Christopher’s grave lay just two feet from where she stood. Silently she prayed for the lost boy beneath the ground.
Sorry, Christopher. So sorry it’s taken so long to find you.
She thought about that for a moment, then added,
If in fact we have found you. Your mother’s sick, Chris—did they call you Chris? She needs you. They sent me to find you, to bring you back to her, so that you could make the journey together. She’s holding on until we bring you home. I hope we
Similar Books
