Forty-Three

“Let me begin by apologizing for calling,” Peyton said. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you on a Friday night.”

“I’m an academic, agent. I was reading.”

“Actually, I was too.”

“Want to trade secrets again? What were you reading?”

Peyton told her.

“You win,” Fontaine said. “That’s much more enjoyable than my book. What can I do for you?”

“Can you tell me when Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall’s summer class meets?”

“You called on a Friday night at nine forty-five for that?”

“Again, I’m terribly sorry.”

“No, it just seems so inconsequential. Now I’m curious. Her class meets Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, from six to nine p.m. It’s quite a grueling schedule, actually, but most of our students are nontraditional. They have jobs and families.”

“And you said she hasn’t taught the class in two weeks,” Peyton said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right. I covered a couple nights this week myself. But last week, she just failed to show up one night, which I didn’t anticipate, seeing as how badly she wants a full-time job here.”

“Which night was that?”

Suzanne told her.

Peyton hung up and finished her glass of wine, then went to bed, thinking of what she’d just learned.

She slept with her cell phone on the bed stand and her .40 in the drawer, but neither allowed her a restful night’s sleep.

She dreamt of a faceless boy wandering through a wooded path, trying to sidestep mines. When his foot touched one, she woke, breathing hard. The clock read 2:14 a.m.

She woke next at 3:33, but this time a dream had nothing to do with her stirring. Her cell phone was ringing. She fumbled with it.

“Peyton,” Mike Hewitt said, “I’m sorry to bother you late at night.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Listen, we found Matt Kingston.”

She sat up in bed. “What? Where? Is he okay?”

“He’s okay, if upset. There’s something else. Something you need to get out of bed for.”

“What’s that?”

“He told us where Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall is. I need you to come with me to apprehend her.”

“Apprehend her?” She was sitting on the edge of the bed now, trying to keep up with the conversation.

“Yes. Sherry kidnapped Matt Kingston at gunpoint, Peyton. She’s armed. You negotiated a hostage situation in Texas, right?”

“Once. A long time ago.”

“And you have a relationship with this suspect. If there’s a standoff, I want you on the bullhorn.”

“I can’t leave Tommy home alone, Mike.”

There was a long silence. Hewitt was thinking, and Peyton was wondering if she’d just shot her own chances at any promotion that might come her way.

“Miguel Jimenez is on the night shift. I’ll bring him with us. He can stay with Tommy. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she said.

“You have an overnight bag?” she said when Jimenez entered the kitchen.

“No, I didn’t bring an overnight bag. I’m not a babysitter. I’m not happy about this. I should be going with you guys.”

“I appreciate this. There’s a case of beer in the garage. You can have it. Come by when you’re off duty. The garage is always unlocked.”

Jimenez went to her fridge and got a can of Diet Pepsi. He sat at the table, took the remote, and switched on the TV that hung beneath a cupboard.

“Miguel, you know this is my case, right? You know I have to be there.”

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But this still sucks. You get a soccer channel?”

“I get basic cable,” she said. “Sorry. I owe you one.” She closed the door behind her.

Mike Hewitt was waiting for her in the driveway.

“Stone Gibson got Matt Kingston’s father and we all met Matt in the ER, where he was checked out. He’s fine physically, a little shaken up, though.”

“Understandable.”

“Yeah. The kid is impressive. While the ER docs were checking him over, I asked him some preliminary questions. He walked into the Extra Mart across town, asked to use the phone, dialed nine-one-one, and told them he’d been kidnapped but escaped.”

“How did he escape? Have you debriefed him?”

“Not thoroughly. Stone is with him and will get more. But he said she fell asleep and he somehow got loose and ran. This is time-sensitive. We need to go. She might be gone by now.”

“Where is she?” Peyton asked.

Hewitt drove the Expedition. FBI Agent Frank Hammond was in the passenger’s seat. Hewitt wasn’t using the siren, but the flashers were on, and they were pushing eighty miles per hour on a winding stretch of Route 1.

Peyton wore jeans, hiking boots, and a T-shirt. She opened her backpack and retrieved her Kevlar vest and service belt. As she checked the load in the .40, Suzanne Fontaine’s remark—I thought law-enforcement officers didn’t get attached to people in their investigations—came to her. She had fired her service revolver only three times in the line of duty. And Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall was about the last person she’d want to exchange gunfire with.

“She took him to her father’s,” Stan Jackman said. “They’re on Fred St. Pierre’s land.” He was next to her on the back seat.

Hewitt glanced in the rear-view mirror. “I have someone from the Maine Warden Service meeting us. He knows where the second cabin is.”

“There are two?” Hammond said.

Peyton vaguely recalled Fred telling her he’d built two cabins. She was surprised to see Jackman, especially since an agent had to stay with Tommy. Now she understood why Miguel Jimenez had been upset: Hewitt chose Jackman over Jimenez for this detail.

Peyton thought about that. What was Hewitt’s motive? There was usually a reason for what he did. Was he trying to boost Jackman’s confidence? She looked at Jackman. He was maybe thirty pounds overweight, his face bloated from beer and too much red meat. As he stared out the window with his .40 resting on his thigh, his right hand lay on the gun absently the way one sets his hand on a dog laying beside him while focusing on something else.

But this was the take-down of a kidnapper—no matter how unlikely a kidnapper Sherry appeared to be—and an armed one at that. Had Jackman been the better choice? Jimenez was young, fit, and had scored over 90 percent when qualifying with both his handgun and carbine. Jackman, as much as she loved the guy, had failed in his latest attempt to qualify, scoring 73 percent of the needed 80. But she stifled those thoughts. She respected Hewitt and would trust his decision.

Hewitt turned off Route 1. “Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall was waiting for Matt Kingston outside Tip of the Hat when he got out of work Wednesday night.”

“We need to talk to her,” Hammond said. “We need to find out the motive here.”

“I think I know the answer to that,” Peyton said.

Hewitt looked at her in the rear-view mirror. “Really? A theory?”

“Yeah.”

Hewitt saw the warden’s forest-green pickup and hit the brakes; the Expedition skidded to a stop. “Let’s bring her in, and then tell me what you know. We’re on foot from here,” he said, killing the engine and flashers. “Stan, you’re the point person.”

Now Peyton knew why Hewitt had chosen him over Jimenez: he wanted a veteran quarterbacking this detail.

“We’ll all have radios, but we’ll split up. You’ll coordinate, okay?”

“Got it,” Jackman said.

“Obviously you know what to do if you see a car leave the property.”

“I’ll radio for backup and go in pursuit.”

“Yes. And there’s also a carbine in the back. If you hear gunshots, bring it.”

“Will do, Mike.”

“Sunrise is at four thirty-eight,” Hewitt said. “That gives us about half an hour. We’ll be in radio contact, Stan.”

Hammond handed Peyton an earpiece, which she put in.