The holding cells in the FBI building were little more than windowless offices with a reinforced door. Everything about the room was temporary, including the government surplus chair, a bunk with a US Army property tag, and a stainless-steel sink-and-toilet combo unit that looked like it came from a scratch-and-dent sale at Leavenworth. The single thing that hinted at the room’s purpose was the metal plate on the inside of the door where a doorknob should have been.
John sat on the edge of the bunk and rubbed the red welts from where the handcuffs had cut into his skin. The cuffs had come off when they’d tossed him in this custodial way station while Lincoln and company figured out their next move.
A shadow crossed the six-by-six-inch window in the door. The bunk springs creaked when John rose. Out in the hall, one of Lincoln’s men sat in a chair facing the door. The man showed no expression when John peeked through the window glass.
John paced back to the bunk. He couldn’t sit still while his son was out there, stashed away like last week’s garbage. The worst scenarios tumbled through his mind. He knew what Winnow did to the people he kept. Tommy was a liability, an object Winnow no longer needed for leverage.
An expressionless FBI agent’s face filled the small window, and the lock mechanism clacked as the bolt unlocked. The agent opened the door and stood back. Special Agent Lincoln strode into the room with two uniformed federal officers. Lincoln stopped a few feet from the doorway.
“You’ve lost your damn mind, Lincoln.” The frustration made John’s words venomous. “You people are dicking around while my son is still out there.”
Special Agent K. Lincoln looked down her nose at John. She paced in front of the small metal table as she spoke.
“Between the two of us, Mr. Penley, I’d say that you’re the one who’s lost his mind. I mean, I get it. I get why you thought you needed to go out on your own. But you couldn’t think you’d ever get away with this.”
“Listen, I told you. Winnow told me to pick up those cases. I did what he told me to do so I could get Tommy back.”
Agent Lincoln sat in a chair across from John and leaned forward. She spoke in a soft voice. “I understand, and I want to help you. You’ve gotten in way over your head, so make it easy on all of us and tell us where he is.”
“I don’t know where that asshole is,” John said. The exasperation bubbled over in his voice.
“For a time, I wondered what you may have done with the boy.”
“Boy? Wait, my son? You think I did something to my son? Find Melissa. Winnow said he was going to release Tommy to her.”
“It has to be a huge financial drain, having a kid with all these medical bills. I think we’ve had this discussion before. I have to ask. Child abduction is a nasty thing. Did you have anything to do with Tommy’s disappearance?”
“Brice Winnow has him,” John said.
“I know. We all saw the video. He took him from the hospital.”
One of the FBI agents handed Lincoln a file folder. She placed it in front of her and made a show of opening and turning a few pages. She relished having something John didn’t.
“It says here you were recently denied a home-equity loan. I imagine you needed that to pay down some of those hefty medical bills.” Lincoln didn’t bother looking up from the file. “It sure would be nice to have that problem go away.”
“That’s why we needed the loan.”
“So your idea was to get rid of the problem? Right?” she asked.
“What are you talking about? You saw him take my son on that hospital surveillance video.”
“Did he take the boy for you?” she said, closing the file.
John looked across the table in disbelief. He couldn’t imagine how she could make that connection. It was wild fantasy, unless . . .
Lincoln saw the uncertainty in John’s face. “I know about the ten-thousand-dollar payment made to Patrick Horn’s account.”
John shook his head. “There was no payment.”
“You paid Horn to abduct the boy and then set up this elaborate chase. Can you explain the ten-thousand-dollar deposit into Horn’s account?”
“I don’t know anything about a ten-thousand-dollar deposit.” John remembered the web pages on his laptop—the ones he hadn’t opened.
“What was that?”
“I’ve told you everything I know. I want my son.”
“Give your wife some closure. Tell me what you did.”
John fell silent.
“This is your last opportunity. Tell me. You paid ten thousand dollars to Patrick Horn, didn’t you?”
“No.”
She held the file in front of him. “I have your own bank records showing an electronic transfer of the money to Horn’s account.”
Lincoln stood from the table, tucked the file under her arm. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with the human remains we recovered in the trunk of your car. Lieutenant Barnes and that partner of yours managed to get you crossed off the suspect list, for now. But there is still a connection between you and the killer—the money and your son’s disappearance. That isn’t easily explained away.”
“Brice Winnow set all this up, the killings, the organ harvesting, and he took my son.”
Lincoln paced, avoided eye contact with Penley, and said, “And your interference in this investigation put me further behind.”
John started to respond, but Lincoln waved him off.
“Maybe there is a way for you to get us back on track,” she said.
“Fine, let me go after him.”
“Call Winnow and get him talking. We’ll monitor the conversation. Get him to give up something incriminating.”
“How does that help me get Tommy?”
“If Winnow is who you think he is, he’ll lure you in with a chance to reclaim your son. When he does, we’ll have the hostage rescue team ready to respond. HRT will put this son of a bitch down.”
“He won’t come out of hiding to take a phone call. He’ll demand something more secure.”
Lincoln leaned on the table, palms flat, and leaned in toward John. “What do you have in mind?”
“I need access to my laptop. I contacted him before, I can do it again,” John said.
Lincoln pondered the idea for a moment. “He’s too smart for that. He picked up that we hacked the connection last time.”
“Then don’t. Stand over my shoulder if you have to, but don’t give him any reason to think you’re listening.”
Lincoln stood, straightened the hem of her jacket, and nodded. She looked to one of her men and said, “Bring her in.”
The door opened, and a confused Paula Newberry entered.
“Your partner is ready to go. Pick up your laptop and wear this.” Lincoln slid an undercover radio transmitter across the table.
“I’m wearing a wire?”
“You narrate what Winnow says, and I will be with the HRT on the takedown.”
“Rescue, not takedown,” John said.
“All the more reason for you to be precise and get him to give up the location.”