Fractured, page 24
part #2 of Will Trent Series
Will wasn’t sure what he would be saying in her place, but he found himself wondering if Abigail was focusing so much on Adam Humphrey because the alternative—focusing on the fate of her own daughter—was too much to bear.
She asked, “What should I say when the reporters ask me about Adam?”
“Nothing,” he told her. “We told them from the start that they’re only supposed to direct their questions to Amanda. They won’t do that, of course, but you don’t have to talk to them.”
“What if I want to?”
“What would you say?” Will asked. “Because if it’s the things you just told me, I can tell you right now that they’ll have you nailed to a cross by nightfall.” He added, “If you want to punish yourself for what happened to Adam Humphrey, then take some pills or try experimenting with heroin. You’ll be much better off than throwing yourself onto the mercy of the press.”
“You are honest.”
“I guess I am,” Will admitted. “Save yourself for Emma. If you can’t be strong for yourself, then be strong for her.”
“I’m so sick of people telling me to be strong.”
Will wondered what else could be said—be weak? Fall on the floor? Rend your clothes? Wail? All of these things seemed like obvious reactions that a normal person might have, but they certainly wouldn’t play well for the cameras.
Abigail said, “I’m not usually this melodramatic. I’m afraid I might . . .” She shook her head. “What if he sees me on television and thinks that Emma deserves it? What if I do something wrong or don’t look grieved enough, or look too grieved, or—”
“You can’t keep playing this game in your head.”
“Game?” she asked. “I want this all to be a game. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and yell at Emma to get ready for school. I want to scream at my husband for screwing around on me. I want to play tennis with my friends and throw dinner parties and decorate my house and ignore my husband’s affairs and . . .” Her composure had held up longer than he’d thought it would. Slowly, she started to shatter. It started in her mouth—a slight tremble of her bottom lip that spread up her face like a tic. “I want to change places with her. He can do whatever he wants to me. Fuck me, sodomize me, beat me, burn me. I don’t care.” The tears came pouring now. “She’s just a baby. She can’t take it. She won’t survive . . .”
Even as he took her hand, Will felt the awkwardness of the gesture. He did not know this woman and certainly was in no position to comfort her. “Emma’s alive,” Will reminded her. “That’s what you need to hold on to. Your daughter is alive.”
Impossibly, the moment turned more awkward. Gently, she slipped her hand from his. She ran her fingers under her eyes in that magical way women do to keep their eyeliner from smudging. Unexpectedly she asked, “How do you know my husband?”
“We met a long time ago.”
“Were you one of the boys who bullied him?”
Will felt his mouth open, but could not find any words to answer.
“My husband doesn’t talk much about his childhood.”
Will could’ve told her some stories. Instead he said, “That’s probably a good thing.”
Abigail looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they’d met. He could feel her eyes scanning the scars on his face, the thin, pink line where his lip had been split so badly that there wasn’t enough good skin left to sew it back together straight.
Her gaze was so intimate that it was almost like a touch.
They both looked away uncomfortably. Will checked his watch to make sure the battery was working. Abigail rummaged around in her purse.
Footsteps clicked against the tiles as Hoyt, Amanda and Paul made their way back up the hallway. Paul looked positively defeated, and Will wished that he had paid more attention to the exchange. Paul silently took his wife’s hand and placed it on his arm.
Amanda said, “Thank you,” to Hoyt, shaking his hand. He kissed his daughter on the cheek, gave Paul a clap on the shoulder, then headed toward the exit. Will guessed the millionaire’s work here was done.
Amanda took both of Abigail’s hands in hers. The naturalness of the gesture was surprising, but women—even Amanda—could get away with that sort of thing. “Chin up,” she said. “Don’t let them see you break.”
Will chewed his lower lip, knowing that Amanda was hoping for the exact opposite. The grieving-mother card could never be played enough times in situations like this. Paul was simply an accessory. Knowing how these things worked, Will guessed that half the people following the story assumed that the father was the root of all this evil. If Abigail came across as too strong, then they would toss her onto the list of suspects, as well. Then, of course, there was the only opinion that mattered—that of the person who was holding Emma Campano. If the abductor thought that the parents were unworthy, then he might have second thoughts about returning their child.
“This way,” Amanda said, indicating the opposite end of the hallway. She opened the door to the pressroom and lights flashed like a strobe, blinding them all for several seconds.
Will stood at the edge of the door, making sure the cameras followed Amanda and the Campanos to the impromptu stage at the end of the narrow room. He didn’t want his picture in the paper. He didn’t want to answer their stupid questions. He just wanted the kidnapper to see Abigail Campano, her sunken eyes and chapped lips, her thin shoulders. He wanted the man who had taken Emma Campano to see what he had done to her mother.
The reporters shuffled around as Amanda took her sweet time adjusting the microphone, unfolding the prepared statement. There were about fifty reporters in all, most of them men, all of them giving off a slightly desperate smell in the cramped room. The air-conditioning wasn’t doing much to help matters, and hot air was blasting through a broken window like heat from a flame. Not much news had leaked out on the case, mostly because no one on Amanda’s team was stupid enough to open their mouths. This had left the press to their own devices, and from what Will had heard on the radio this morning, they had started to report on what other stations were reporting.
Without preamble, Amanda read from the statement. “The reward for any information leading to the safe return of Emma Campano has been increased to one hundred thousand dollars.” She gave the particulars—the toll-free number, the assurance that the call would be completely anonymous. “As you already know, Emma Eleanor Campano is a seventeen-year-old girl who attends a private school outside of the city. Emma was abducted from her home three days ago between the hours of eleven a.m. and twelve noon. At approximately ten-thirty yesterday morning, a call was made from a man claiming to be Emma’s kidnapper. A ransom demand was made. We are awaiting details and will brief you at this same time tomorrow morning. I will now read from a statement written by Abigail Campano, Emma Campano’s mother.”
The cameras flashed like mad, and Will could see Abigail Campano looking for him in the back of the room. He stood up straighter, his height giving him a natural advantage. She finally found him, and he could read the terror in her eyes.
Maybe Will had spent too much time with Amanda lately. He was glad to see the terror, glad that the cameras would pick up this woman’s fear. You could read every second of the last three days in the mother’s expression—the sleepless nights, the arguments with her husband, the absolute horror of what had happened.
Amanda read, “ ‘To the man who has Emma: please know that we—her father and I—love Emma and cherish her, and will do whatever you want in order to have our daughter returned to us. Emma is only seventeen years old. She likes ice cream and watching reruns of Friends with us on family night. Her father and I are not interested in vengeance or punishment. We just want Emma returned.’ ” Amanda looked up over her glasses. “ ‘Please return our Emma to us.’ ” She folded the paper. “I’ll take a few questions.”
A local reporter shouted, “Abby, what did it feel like to kill—”
“Rules, please,” Amanda cut him off. “Remember to direct all your questions to me.”
The reporter didn’t give up. “Are you going to press charges against Abigail Campano for the murder of Adam Humphrey?”
“We have no plans to pursue charges at this time.”
Abigail stared blankly at Will, as if unworried about the equivocation. Beside her, Paul seemed to be struggling to hold his tongue.
Another local reporter asked, “What leads do you have at the moment? Are there any suspects?”
“Obviously, we’re full speed ahead on this investigation. I can’t tell you about particulars.”
And yet another question came. “You’ve posted police around Westfield Academy. Are you worried this is the work of a serial killer?”
The serial killer angle was a hot topic of debate on the talk shows. The Hiker Murders back in January were still fresh on everyone’s mind.
Amanda told them, “This has absolutely none of the markings of a serial case at this time.”
Will felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. The flashes seemed to be making the room hotter. He opened the door to let in some fresh air.
“When do you think an arrest will be made?” someone in the front asked.
Amanda artfully dodged, “As soon as we are certain we have our bad guy.”
“What other lines of investigation are you following?”
“We’re pursuing any and all leads.”
“Which are?”
Amanda smiled. “I can’t go into particulars at this time.”
Will caught Abigail’s eye again. He could see that she was swaying and did not know if it was the heat or the circumstances. Her face had turned completely white. She looked like she might faint.
Will tilted up his chin, which was enough to get Amanda’s attention. She did not need to look at Abigail to know what was worrying him. Instead of calling the meeting to a close, she asked, “Any more questions?”
A man in the back wearing a blazer that screamed New York and a sneer that screamed Yankee even louder, asked, “Don’t you agree that valuable time was lost due to the incompetence of the Atlanta Police Department?”
Amanda’s eyes found the man, and she gave him one of her special smiles. “At this point in time, we’re more focused on finding Emma Campano than we are on pointing fingers.”
“But wouldn’t—”
Amanda cut him off. “You’ve had your turn. Give the others a chance.”
Will heard some of the more seasoned local reporters snicker. For his part, Will was more interested in Abigail Campano. She was searching in her purse again, her head down. She was leaning too far forward in the chair. For just a moment, it seemed like she might fall to the floor, but Paul caught her at the last moment, putting his arm around her, shoring her up. He whispered something in her ear and Abigail numbly nodded her head. She looked up at the people crowding in on her, the crush of humanity seeking to drain every emotion from her face. Her mouth opened for air. The camera flashes blinked wildly. Will could almost hear the reporters trying to come up with adjectives for the captions: devastated, crushed, mournful, broken. Amanda’s plan had worked beautifully. Abigail had swayed them all without even saying a word.
More questions were allowed, each asking for details that Amanda skillfully sidestepped. Some were valid—they pressed again on what clues had been found, what progress had been made. Some were meant to be inflammatory, like the man who asked again whether or not this was the work of a sadistic serial killer who was “targeting affluent young girls.”
Amanda gave them nothing, rapping her knuckles on the podium like a judge ending a court session, then leading the Campanos off the stage.
Another barrage of photographs were taken as Amanda followed the parents back toward the exit. Abigail could barely walk on her own. She leaned into Paul like a crutch. The reporters kept their distance, not crowding the group. If Will didn’t know any better, he would have sworn they were being respectful.
Outside, Amanda made all the right noises. She took Abigail’s hand, saying, “You did perfectly.”
Abigail nodded, obviously not trusting herself to speak. The ordeal had taken the last bit of strength out of her.
Amanda said, “The second call from the kidnapper is in three hours. I’ll be with you at the house.”
Paul said, “Thank you.”
Amanda shook Paul’s hand. She gave Will a sharp look. “My office. Ten minutes.”
He nodded, and she walked off toward the stairs.
For the first time since this had all started, Paul seemed concerned about his wife. “Are you okay?”
“I just got a little too warm,” she murmured, hand covering her stomach.
Will offered, “There’s a bathroom down here.”
She didn’t look at him. Still leaning on her husband, she made her way to the ladies’ room. Outside the door, she put her hand to his face, then his chest. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
She pressed her fingertips to his mouth, then went into the bathroom. Paul stood outside, facing the closed door as if he could still see her.
Will found himself feeling something like jealousy, coupled with confusion. How could someone like Abigail love Paul? How could she have a child with this man? He’d never been attractive, but Paul had let himself go over the years. He’d put on more than a few pounds. His hairline was receding. This, coupled with his roving eye, did not exactly make him a catch. What did she see in him that was attractive?
And why was it that even after almost thirty years had passed, Will was still comparing himself to the bastard?
Paul let out a long sigh. He walked a few feet away, then turned on his heel and walked back, as if keeping sentry. Will put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, wondering why he kept ending up outside the ladies’ room.
Paul stopped. He indicated his own face, asking, “Does it hurt?”
Their fight the day before was the last thing on Will’s mind, though the bruise that spanned the bridge of Will’s nose and ran under his eyes was reminiscent of an Egyptian Pharaoh. Instead of answering the man, Will looked down at the ground, noting that his shoes were badly scuffed.
“Here.” Paul held out the stack of photographs that Will had spotted in Abigail’s purse. All of them, he knew, would show Emma in various stages of happiness. “My wife wanted you to have these.” He did not look at the photos. “She wanted you to know what Emma looks like.”
Will took the photos, but did not look at them, either. The girl’s face was already seared into his mind. He did not need more visual cues.
Paul lowered his voice. “You hit back a lot harder than you used to.”
Will tried not to take that as a compliment.
“Anyway,” Paul said, but nothing else followed.
Will could not stop himself. “You’re a dumb bastard to cheat on her.”
“I know.”
“She’s too good for you.”
“I can’t look at her.” He kept his tone low, mindful his wife was on the other side of the door. “You heard her yesterday. I know she blames me.”
Will felt his radar come on. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No,” Paul told him. “Believe me, I wish there was. I wish there was some guy out there I pissed off, or somebody I fucked over, who I could point to. I’d beat the shit out of the fucker.”
“What about this girl you’re seeing?”
“She’s a woman,” Paul said, putting emphasis on the word. “It’s a casual thing. She works at the dealership. She was there when I was talking to Abby—when all of this started.”
“Is she married?”
“No.”
“Does she have a jealous ex-boyfriend?”
Paul shook his head. “She lives with her parents. She knows I’m married. She was just looking for some fun. Trust me, she’s had fun like this before. Lots of times before.”
“I’m still going to need to talk to her.”
“I’ll write down—” He stopped himself. “Give me your business card. I’ll tell her to call you as soon as I get home.”
Will took out his wallet and fished around for a card. “You won’t listen to me, so listen to your father-in-law. Let us handle this. We know what we’re doing. I know what I’m doing.”
Paul looked at Will’s business card, his eyes moving back and forth over the words. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke. “You and me—we lived that life. We knew that there was always a bad guy around the corner. With Em, I thought it would be different. You saw my house, man. I’m a fucking millionaire. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.” He stopped, his emotions catching up with him, tears flooding into his eyes. “I’d give it all up if I could have my little girl back.”
Will was uncomfortable being in the position to assure the man that everything was going to be okay, not least of all because they both knew better.
“Fuck me,” Paul whispered, sniffing, wiping his eyes. “I’m like a fucking girl here.”
Will looked back at his shoes. He’d paid seventy-five dollars for them a year ago. Maybe he should get some new ones. He looked at Paul’s shoes. They gleamed as if they’d been freshly polished. He probably had people who did that. At night, he put his shoes in the closet all scuffed, and then in the morning they were perfect again. Or maybe he just bought new ones when the old ones got marked up. How many hand-me-down shoes had they both suffered through at the children’s home? Pinched toes, blistered heels. If Will had Paul’s money, he’d have a new pair of shoes for every day of his life.
Paul let out another stream of breath, oblivious to Will’s observations. “I’ve been letting myself think about all the bad things he could be doing to her.”
Will nodded. Paul would know firsthand the nasty things men could think to do to children. Will had seen the scars, the bruises. He had heard Paul screaming in the middle of the night.
“You’re the only one I can talk to about this kind of shit.”
“Abigail doesn’t know?”
“She’s still with me, isn’t she?”
