Michael called her. “We’re done at Hope Davidson’s house. Jim said that Matt and Kara are likely being held in southern Georgia—I don’t want to drive in the opposite direction and go back to the resort, I want to be closer to where they are being held.”
“The hotel here in Jacksonville has allowed us to use one of their conference rooms,” Catherine said. “I need to talk to Reid’s lawyer, but he hasn’t returned my call. Meet me here, and we’ll head over to his office to have a conversation with him.”
“Can we do that?”
“Yes. He doesn’t have to talk to us, but he needs to know what we’re dealing with—who he’s dealing with.”
“What are we dealing with, Catherine?” Michael asked bluntly.
She hesitated, only a moment. She was confident, but her previous errors still weighed heavily on her. “I believe, based on what others have said and the crimes committed, that Clara Dolan is a psychopath. I believe she has Antisocial Personality Disorder. Her deceitfulness, using multiple names, impulsiveness, reckless disregard for safety, rationalization for her acts, lack of empathy for her victims. There are a few traits that don’t quite fit, but psychopathy is not a hard science, and people are unique. Most people with mental disorders aren’t killers, but those who start killing do so with complete inner justificationof their actions. Without a formal interview, I can’t state this all with certainty.”
“And Garrett Reid is the same?”
“No. Reid isn’t a naturally violent person. He’s certainly a sociopathic con artist, but I don’t believe he would have ever turned violent without Clara’s influence. He naturally avoids confrontation. Which is why I want to talk to his lawyer. We’re going to offer him a deal.”
When Michael ended the call, Catherine turned to Ryder. “I need everything about Becca McCarthy and her disappearance, every detail you can find no matter how trivial. That’s how we get Reid to turn on his wife.”
Then she called Tony. She would have to convince him to pull out every favor he had to offer a deal to a suspected killer.
30
By the time Matt and Kara crossed the field, Kara had stopped talking altogether. She leaned into him, her weight dragging on his shoulder with every limping step. She could still walk, but was in obvious pain. The T-shirt he’d tied around her calf was red with her blood.
Matt ached all over from the fall. His body felt like a single, pulsing bruise. His ankle throbbed, but held. The sun beat down on his bare back, searing his skin. He was probably burned, even with his darker complexion. Kara, pale and blistering red, fared worse. They’d eaten a few berries, enough to dull the edge of hunger, but not their thirst.
At the edge of the field, he stopped. The house loomed ahead—weathered, listing, half boarded up. A hurricane, probably the same one that had flooded the factory, had left its mark. But there, above the sagging porch, a single light glowed.
Electricity. Maybe someone was inside.
This was the rural South. Sometimes you met the kind ofpeople who’d offer you a drink and a hot meal. Other times, they’d run you off their land with a shotgun. Matt didn’t like the odds, but he didn’t have a choice.
He considered that the house belonged to whoever had taken them, though that seemed unlikely. Once the cameras had gone dark in the factory and he disabled the generator, whoever was watching them would have come to investigate if they were this close. Still, unlikely didn’t mean impossible.
He couldn’t risk Kara.
He eased her down beneath the shade of an oak tree, her back against the rough trunk. “I’m going to check it out. Stay here. Don’t move unless you have to.”
“Roger that,” she whispered, her eyes already closing.
She didn’t protest. Didn’t insist on going with him. That said more than anything else: she was worse off than she’d let on.
If this house turned out to be the wrong kind of refuge, Matt didn’t know if either of them could run.
Matt kept his hands in the open and to his side to show that he wasn’t a threat as he approached the property. While he was still fifty feet away from the base of the broken steps, he called out, “Hello? Is anyone home? I need some help. Hello?”
He walked slowly forward, listening.
“My name is Matt Costa,” he called out. “I’m an FBI special agent and I’ve had some trouble. Is anyone home?”
He was only a couple feet from the bottom stair when he heard footsteps running inside, then the front door burst open. “Stay back! Don’t come any closer!” a woman shouted.
“Okay,” he said, keeping his hands up. “I don’t mean to bother you.”
“Back up!” she demanded.
Matt took two steps back. This woman wasn’t their kidnapper, he was nearly certain of it. She was in her late thirties with long dark hair braided down her back. She looked terrified, evenas her voice commanded that he stay away. She wore dirty surgical scrubs and scuffed white shoes that reminded Matt of every nurse he’d met.
“Are you a nurse?” he asked.
