Chapter 6

Faith awoke in a hotel room—in the only respectable hotel in Moyock—dismayed that she'd actually slept while her son was in the clutches of a kidnapper. What kind of awful mother was she?

It was Fitz who'd insisted on getting her a room. "Just rest for a little while. There's nothing we can do right now but question more people while we wait for forensics to get back to us."

The barbeque sandwich she'd eaten for lunch had filled her belly and lulled her to sleep in the king-sized bed. She sat up, dismayed to see a twilight sky through the open curtains. A glance at the bedside clock confirmed her realization that it was nearly evening already. She had slept the afternoon away!

Lunging for her cell phone, she expected to find an update from Fitz, but only Grace had texted her, sending a reassuring picture of her two boys playing with Olivia and another of her husband, Amos, holding Mary Mae with a smitten look on his face.

Keep us posted,Grace had written.

Faith texted her back: No news yet except we found Grayson's backpack and his cell phone. Waiting on forensics.

Then she called Fitz, pleased when he answered on the first ring. "What did forensics say?" And why did you let me sleep so long? She bit back the second question.

"Come on downstairs. We're just off the lobby in the little conference room."

His dampening tone informed her they'd made very little progress. Crushed, Faith closed her eyes as she absorbed the disappointment. "I'll be right down."

* * *

Grayson was so hungry that the soles of his shoes would have tasted good. Brian's spaghetti, made from a box of pasta, a jar of sauce, and sausage from the freezer, was every bit as delicious as the kind his mother made. Sitting at a table for four in the dilapidated kitchen with peeling wallpaper, Grayson discovered it was awkward but not impossible to eat with a fork, even with his wrists tied together.

"I grew up in this house."

Brian's admission had Grayson picturing him as a kid, sitting at this very table.

"My grandparents raised me right, but they were strict."

Grayson easily pictured him—a quiet, sullen boy wedged between a stern, older couple.

"I'm glad they died before…before everything happened." Brian stared out the window at the bleak backyard with nothing in it but a woodpile.

Curiosity got the better of Grayson. "What do you mean by everything?"

Brian looked over at him. "Before I got into trouble the first time," he clarified. "They were long gone by the time Tommy got shot by the police."

Grayson laid his fork down as he put two and two together. "My father? My father shot your son?" His appetite vanished.

Brian shook his gray mane. "No, but he might as well have. I would never have been arrested again if it weren't for Jerry. Every day he would come into my gun shop, and we'd talk. I thought he was my new friend." A sneer turned the scar on Brian's lip white. "So when he asked if would I sell a semiautomatic to some guy with a criminal record, I did it, just for him."

Staring at Brian's haggard face, Grayson couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"You know, there's a term for that kind of trickery. It's called fruit of a poisonous tree, and it's just wrong. I was in the back room making some coffee when they came to arrest me. Tommy'd thrown up that morning, so he didn't go to school, and I had to bring him to work with me. The troopers said he popped up over the counter holdin' a water pistol." Brian's voice thickened with grief. "They shot him, thinking it was me with a real gun. Tommy caught two bullets, and I got ten years at Augusta Correctional Center."

Goose bumps scrabbled up Grayson's spine and dug into his scalp. Poor Tommy. Poor Tommy's dad.

Brian swiped the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed. "All I could think about the whole time I was there was how I was gonna make Jerry Saunders pay for what he did, trickin' me into breakin' the law."

Brian's words, spoken through his teeth, raised the hairs on Grayson's forearms.

Say something.

But the tension rolling off his abductor as he picked up his fork and swirled his noodles kept Grayson's throat clogged. He focused on Brian's beefy hand and the tattoos inked onto his knuckles, right there where he would always see Tommy's name. Grayson could only imagine the sorrow and regret the man carried in his heart. Pity rose in him.

"You could let me go, you know," he suggested softly.

Brian's head came up sharply. His deep-set eyes narrowed.

"I'll just say I ran away. Everyone would believe that. I haven't been myself this last year."

His captor's shaggy eyebrows sank slowly together. "Hush," he finally growled. "Don't lie to me, boy."

"I'm notlying. Trust me, they'll believe I ran away. I swear I won't tell anyone anything about you. I don't want you to get into any more trouble."

Brian shot out of his chair, which would have flipped backward if the wall hadn't caught it. Grayson flinched, expecting to be backhanded, at the very least.

"Dinner's over." Reaching across the table, Brian swiped Grayson's plate and fork away. He carried them to the sink, where he proceeded to scrub them viciously.

Grayson sat heavily in his chair, afraid to move. The emotion rolling off his captor filled the room with a stormy energy that warned him not to say anything. He peered out the window at what remained of the fading sunlight.

Another day gone. He'd been here for a day and a half with no indication that anyone was even looking for him yet. The rope around his wrists seemed to burn whenever he moved his hands. He wanted a bath, to brush his teeth, to lie in his own bed in his great big room and listen to the hoot owl that lived outside his window.

Brian turned off the water and wiped his hands on his grimy jeans. By the time he turned around, meeting Grayson's cautious regard, he seemed calmer.

"You ain't goin' nowhere."

Grayson swallowed hard. God help him. He might just end up living here forever.

* * *

Faith knew when she saw Seth and the five remaining FBI agents seated in the hotel's conference room looking at the notes scribbled across the big white-erase board in front of them that they were brainstorming, which meant they had no good leads.

"Hey." Fitz stood as she opened the door and ventured in.

At her entrance, Seth and every other agent in the room except for Fitz and Charlotte got up and filed out, heading to dinner, given their murmurs. As soon as they were gone, Fitz pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit down.

Faith's hopes dropped another peg. He had bad news to share.

Sitting beside her, he gratified her by covering her hand with his. She latched on to it fiercely, regretting deeply having pushed him away. His warm, sure touch was the only thing preventing her from falling apart.

Charlotte, sitting on the other side of Fitz, glanced at their interlocked hands, then sent her a sympathetic grimace.

"Tell me what forensics said," Faith demanded through a tight throat.

Fitz drew in a breath and said quickly, "Just that the phone was probably discovered by the perp, somewhere in that area, and immediately destroyed. Forensics lifted a partial fingerprint, which they're running through our databases. Regarding the backpack, there were several fibers that could have come from anywhere, but nothing definitive. Prints were also lifted off the bag, but they all probably belong to Grayson."

Faith nodded. "So, we're back where we started." Jerry's death had shattered her world just one year ago. Why would God put her through this again?

Fitz tightened his hold on her hand while the muscles in his jaw flexed. Poor man, the weight of this investigation was resting on his shoulders. He sent her a sudden, sharp look as if something had just occurred to him.

"What?"

"I mean, it's probably unrelated, but do you happen to know anyone who drives an old Buick, late nineties model, with a purple or burgundy paint job?"

On the other side of Fitz, Charlotte cocked her head at him, clearly wondering what he was talking about.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Well, something happened about three months ago while I was watching the baby for you."

That had to have been the night she'd broken up with Fitz at the counselor's recommendation. "What happened?"

"Half an hour before you came home, I was in the living room giving Mary Mae a bottle, when I heard a car coming up your driveway. I thought it was you, so I went to look out the window. There was an old Buick, which stopped when the driver saw me. Before I could put the baby down and step outside, it did a three-point turn and drove off."

"An old Buick." Faith considered another moment then shook her head. "None of my clients have a car like that."

A thoughtful silence fell over the table. Charlotte was the first to break it.

"I think we should ask the store owners at the strip mall if any of their clientele own a Buick that color."

Fitz nodded and checked his watch. "I agree. Let's go now before they close."

* * *

At their description of the Buick, the proprietor of the liquor store glanced toward the windows at the front of his store as if picturing a car just like it, parked out front.

"Uh, nope." The older man looked back at him and shook his head. "Doesn't sound familiar."

The man was lying. Fitz waited, sending him a hard stare and causing the man's Adam's apple to bob. "Okay then." Pretending to accept the proprietor's word for it, he guided a frowning Charlotte and pale-faced Faith out of the store, where they were joined by Seth and the other agents who'd postponed their dinner plans, just in case.

Darkness had fallen, and the liquor store sign cast a surreal green light on their dark-blue jackets. Fitz saw Faith shudder in the damp chill.

"Charlotte, check our trunk for another jacket for Faith, would you? I'll be right back."

Charlotte frowned at him as he summoned the special operators, or SOGs, on his team to join him at the far corner of the building. Holmes and Chisolm, both ex-Navy SEALs, followed him, then listened intently as he conveyed his suspicions.

"For whatever reason, Mr. Dawson is lying to us. I know he recognized the vehicle I just described to him. Let's go elicit his cooperation."

Sometimes it took intimidation tactics to get people to be upfront—especially people with an innate mistrust of law enforcement. Not five minutes later, with the two SOGs looming behind him, displaying their harnessed pistols, Mr. Dawson confirmed Fitz's suspicions.

His expression cleared abruptly. "You know, now that I think about it, a customer did roll up here yesterday, late afternoon in a maroon Buick, older model. That's right. He bought a bottle of Old Crow whisky."

Fitz's blood flowed faster. "Was there a kid with him? The one whose picture we showed you?"

The proprietor's eyes flashed with indignation. "No, of course not. I would've told you if I'd seen the kid. I've got grandkids myself."

"Describe the driver. Do you know him?"

"Oh, I've seen him here from time to time. Burly fellow, late forties, with a head of graying hair. Sometimes he has a beard; sometimes not. He's got a scar on his lip." Mr. Dawson touched his own mouth.

Fitz scribbled himself a note. "How often does he come here and from which direction? Did he ever give his name?"

"No name. Comes here maybe once, twice a week from the eastbound lane. Told me he drives across the state line cause my store's closer than the one in Edinburgh."

"Good." Fitz made a note that the man resided in Virginia. "What else has he told you? What have you inferred about him?"

"Um," Mr. Dawson thought back, "well, he asked me once if my security camera worked. Should've told him, yes, but he didn't seem like the type to rob me, even with the tattoos on his hand."

Fitz pounced on the detail. "Tattoos of what?"

"Oh, I don't know." Mr. Dawson searched his memory. "Letters," he replied, sounding more certain. "I remember reading T, O, M. Couple of M's, I think."

"Was it a name? Tommy maybe?" Fitz quizzed.

The proprietor stared down at the counter as if picturing the perp's hand. "Yeah, I think there might've been a Y on his pinkie."

"That's good, Mr. Dawson. You've been very helpful. Now, if you don't mind, we're going to lift fingerprints off your front door and this counter here—won't take but half an hour or so."

The store owner crossed his arms and sighed. "Be quick about it. I'm bound to lose business with Feds milling around my store."

* * *

Hearing a quiet knock on her hotel-room door, Faith wondered if she'd imagined it, but she wasn't about to ignore the sound or wait for Fitz to knock again since it was quite late. Please, let it be him!

She padded to the door in the plaid pajamas she'd stuffed into a bag that morning.

Fitz, still in the butter-yellow polo and navy slacks he'd worn all day, regarded her through red-rimmed eyes. His wavy, auburn hair stuck up in places, giving him a boyish demeanor. "Were you sleeping?"

His tone alone told her he had news. "No. What did you find out?"

He glanced past her. "May I come in?"

She hesitated the barest second, balancing propriety against her need to be near him. "Sure." She pulled the door open, admitting him.

As he entered the room, Fitz's gaze went straight to the rumpled bed before he veered toward the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down on it.

Faith sat at the foot of the bed close to him. His gaze flicked over her pajama-clad frame, and his lips twitched toward a smile, one that faded as he prepared to tell her his news.

"We have the perp's prints."

Elation and terror filled Faith in equal parts. "Seriously? Out of all the prints you lifted from the shop? How's that possible?"

"His were one of just two prints in the system. His name is Brian Sutton. He owned a gun shop near here, just across the border in southeast Virginia."

Faith's mouth turned dry. Goosebumps ridged her arms. She knew this story.

"A decade ago, he was arrested for selling a semiautomatic weapon to a felon. Since he had a prior record, he got ten years. He was just released from prison three months ago."

Faith clenched the bedspread to contain her runaway panic. "So, this is an act of vengeance."

Fitz frowned. "How so?"

She gripped the bedding harder as the room went into a slow spin. "Brian Sutton was the gun dealer Jerry befriended when he was working undercover." Her voice went faint with horror. "When troopers went to arrest him, Jerry said Sutton's son was in the shop playing with a water pistol. One of the troopers got spooked when the kid popped up over the counter with a water gun. They shot him, thinking it was Sutton. I'm pretty sure the boy's name was Tommy."

Fitz stilled, his face a taut mask. All at once, he lurched across the space between them, sitting on the bed beside her and pulling her into his arms. Clinging to him, Faith quaked with the terrible certainty that Brian Sutton was avenging Tommy's death.

"He's going to kill him." Articulating her suspicion made it even more real. Faith pushed her face into the crook of Fitz's neck and burst into tears.

Not my son, Lord. Please don't take my son from me.

Her shoulders heaved as grief tore into her heart, wrenching sobs from her that sounded like they were coming from someone else. Fitz held her tightly to him, rocking her ever so gently, saying nothing.

At last, when her sobs came intermittently, he murmured, "We're going to find him soon, Faith."

He meant the kidnapper, of course. Grayson's fate wasn't so certain.

Faith lifted her head from Fitz's damp collar to read the reassurance in his gaze.

"The man is on probation, which means his probation officer knows where he lives. We're tracking him down even now. We'll have him by morning."

The words were meant to be comforting, but they also meant by morning, she might learn that her son was dead. An eye for an eye. A son for a son. How could God let this happen? He'd always been there for her, comforting her, blessing her.

With an indrawn breath, Fitz caught her face between his hands and gazed deep into her eyes. "I know how you feel. You're not alone right now."

Through her misery, she recalled the story he'd once shared, how he'd come home one night to find his entire family dead in their beds. How could he have endured the loss of, not just his wife, but of all three children, the youngest just a baby? Yet here he was, sitting here with her now, still alive, still functioning.

"I love you." The words slipped off her tongue, uncontainable. She'd been guarding them in her heart for months now.

His fingers seemed to tremble as he stared back at her, clearly caught off guard by her confession.

"It's okay." She tried her best to smile but couldn't. Dragging his hands down to her lap, she held on to them, squeezing hard. "I know you love me, too. What I don't know is how things will ever work out for us, but I hope they will. This world is full of so much suffering. What we have is a gift."

A sheen of tears appeared in his eyes before he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her—a bittersweet kiss that, nonetheless, contained the promise of passion and permanence.

With a groan, he severed the kiss and lifted his head. "I need to get back to my team."

She nodded, releasing him reluctantly. "Please come back," she begged him. "I won't be able to sleep…"

He sent her the smallest of nods, as if reluctant to get too close but helpless to stop himself. "Okay."

Before standing, he brushed a thumb across her cold cheek, then walked briskly to the door, letting himself out. The look he shot her through the closing door enjoined her to be strong: She wasn't alone.

Even in this terrible trial, God had not abandoned her completely.