GIBSON RADCLIFFE THOUGHT he was Clinton Caine’s son? Morgan sincerely doubted it was true—Clint kept close tabs on all his offspring and had never mentioned Gibson. More likely Gibson was just another lost kid hanging onto a delusion he hoped would turn him from a no one into a someone.
She wondered when Gibson’s obsession with Clint had begun. A quick search of Gibson’s computer revealed a folder labeled “Trig” that actually contained clippings of Clint’s crimes and his capture. There were a lot of them—Clint’s depravity and his willingness to speak to the press made sure he’d grabbed headlines across the country.
She also found drafts of letters from Gibson to Clint. The kid was definitely a fan, that was for certain. Talked about proving himself worthy of Clint, making him proud…poor kid had no clue that Clint received dozens of letters like his every day.
In prison, Clint wouldn’t have had access to email, so Gibson must have sent paper letters—and if Clint replied, it would have also been via regular postal mail. She continued to ransack the books and other papers strewn around Gibson’s lair. Nothing from the prison. She debated calling Jenna to see if any of her former Postal Service connections might be able to track any correspondence but decided against it. The feds would have already checked that.
Besides, Clint was much too smart to ever put anything on paper that could be used against him. The most he would have done was to arrange future, more secure communications. Maybe using his lawyer as a conduit…but only if he had use for the boy.
As she continued her search, she wondered at that. Clint and the other two prisoners would have needed help to coordinate their escape. Transportation, clothes, food, shelter, cash, weapons… They had to have had an outside accomplice, and who better than a malleable teenager desperate for a father figure? Gibson certainly fit the bill.
Which meant it was no coincidence Gibson’s mother had called on Galloway and Stone to investigate his disappearance. She’d bet it was Gibson who placed that magnet so prominently on the family refrigerator and who made certain his mother saw the article that featured Jenna and Andre.
Big question was: how well did Gibson cover his tracks? He would have left an obvious trail for Morgan to follow—one that led to where Clint wanted Morgan to go, no doubt a trap.
She took another look at the ancient laptop. Nothing. He’d cleared all of his accounts, the only thing remaining an automatic reminder about a family portrait appointment at the mall tonight. She was surprised Gibson still cared enough to join in on the ritual—not as if many of his photos made the wall of honor upstairs.
She kept looking, digging deeper into the computer’s files. No way could a sixteen-year-old kid from Monroeville hide all evidence of the logistics needed to assist a prison break. Maybe he had another computer he’d taken with him? Or maybe he’d used his phone for everything?
No. Clint distrusted phones, he would have minimalized any communication using them. She scanned the room once more. It was obvious that the most-used piece of furniture was the gaming chair. She sat down in it, ignoring the reek of testosterone-laden sweat that emanated from it, and reached for Gibson’s controller. Computer games—the one piece of modern technology Clinton Caine had embraced.
Especially after he discovered their dual function as communication devices—communication many adults were oblivious to. Before he was arrested, Clint had established a multitude of gaming aliases and used them to engage his “boys,” as he called the collected group of offspring spawned via his rampage of rapes and abductions.
As Morgan scrolled through the games and retraced Gibson’s latest virtual steps, she shook her head at the irony. Of all his children, Clint had only truly been interested in the males, hoping to find a protégé worthy of continuing his bloody legacy. It had been Morgan, his eldest daughter, who had filled that role…and yet, even now, he was still focused on grooming a boy, not even his own blood, to be his partner in crime.
Or maybe he was preparing Gibson as a Judas goat? Setting him up to take the fall? Typical Clint, he’d have a dozen scenarios mapped out, all of them ensuring that Clint escaped and someone else paid the price. She almost felt sorry for Gibson.
Part of the gaming system was the ability to swap points earned in virtual reality for gift cards that could be used as real world cash to purchase merchandise. Once she cracked Gibson’s account, it was easy to trace the ebb and flow of points and cash gifted to him by various online sponsors—all of whom would eventually be traced back to Clint or the other two prisoners, no doubt.
She envisioned Clint sitting in his cell, his fingers flying over a handheld gaming console small enough to be smuggled in and hidden from the guards, weaving his web of deception around lonely, desperate Gibson.
Gibson was a good choice. Pliable enough that he’d obeyed Clint—as evidenced by the purchases of freeze-dried food, enough for several men for several weeks, a dozen prepaid calling cards and burner cells, a variety of knives and hunting equipment, oh, and look there, a nice stockpile of ammo and handguns. Now, if she could just discover where all of this treasure trove was sent…but Gibson wasn’t that dumb. He’d most likely completed the transactions using a burner phone. Untraceable.
She went back to Gibson’s gaming history, tried to see if he’d created any other accounts tied to his real life activities. Wait. An account in his stepfather’s name—created two years ago but unused until last month. Then it was reactivated and used to buy several kilos of sodium metal, phosphorus, camping fuel tablets, two dozen large canisters of gel fuel, and remote car starters.
Each alone was fairly unremarkable. Put them all together and…
“How’s it going down here?” Andre’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, holding Diane’s precious envelope of memories. “Any luck?”
“None of it good.” She didn’t mention Gibson’s communications with Clint—for right now, those were for her eyes only. But this new information made for an excellent diversion to occupy Andre’s time. She showed him the purchases made in Gibson’s stepfather’s name. “I have a feeling Gibson isn’t working on a project for the school science fair.”
Andre squinted at the screen displaying the list, his forehead knotting. “Our lost boy is planning to blow something up.”
“Not only blow it up—also burn it down,” she corrected. “He’s got the makings for several wicked incendiary devices. Enough to—”
“Bring down a good sized building. His school?”
Diane Radcliffe came into the room. Somehow she seemed even smaller and more mouse like here in her son’s domain.
“Any luck?” she asked eagerly.
“We found a few indications of intent,” Andre said, obviously stalling as he gestured for Morgan to turn off the TV.
“Intent?” She echoed the word, her tone puzzled.
“Gibson wanted to leave. He had a plan. And he covered his tracks.”
Diane shook her head, her gaze darting around the room as if expecting her son to pop out of the woodwork and tell her this was all a joke. “I don’t understand. Why would a sixteen-year-old boy plan to simply vanish? Leave everything, his family, his life behind? It makes no sense.”
Sure it did. But Morgan said nothing, let Andre do the heavy lifting. The mother responded better to him anyway.
Andre continued, “You told me Gibson was having trouble with some of the kids at school. Is there any chance that he might want to get even? That he might be planning something?”
“No. No. He’s not like that. He’d never hurt anyone.”
“I’m sorry, we have to ask.”
“No. That’s impossible.” Her tone grew strident and for the first time she raised her face to meet Andre’s gaze. “Why would you even think that?”
Because he fits the profile of a mass murderer, Morgan thought. Even before he hooked up with a psychopathic serial killer as a mentor and father figure. But she kept her mouth shut. She was more interested in the SUV idling at the curb. A black Tahoe. Exactly like the feds used. More than surveilling if they parked directly in front of the house—a very weak tactical position unless you wanted to make sure whoever was inside the house knew you were coming.
Which meant they weren’t here for Gibson or his psychokiller mad bomber plans. They were here for her.