Harry nodded, but his grip on his gun was still tight. Paul eyed it, weighing his options.
“Then let’s get started,” Paul coaxed. “Where’s Brandon?”
Harry’s face crumpled, his shoulders slumping as all the fight seemed to drain out of him at once. “My buddy has a cabin outside of the city in Monkton. I took him there.”
A flash of hope went through him—but he knew this was far from over. Just because Harry was handing over Brandon’s location didn’t mean he was going to come quietly—or at all.
“What’s the address?” Paul asked.
“39821 Beaverton Road,” Harry said.
“Got it, boss,” Zooey said in his ear. “Agent Walker is in that area, questioning the grandparents. I’m sending the coordinates to him now.”
“You’re doing great,” Paul told Harry, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. Harry still hadn’t lowered his gun—it wasn’t a good sign. “You’re doing what’s best for Brandon. Now it’s time to do what’s best for you.”
Harry’s hands went up and Paul tensed, the grip on his own gun tightening. But instead of pointing the gun at him, Harry clutched at his head with his free hand, tears coursing down his face as he placed the gun at his temple.
Grace’s instincts and his own gut were right. This guy wasn’t a murderer. He was suicidal.
Fuck. He felt horribly ill equipped for this. Usually when something like this happened, he had Grace at his side. As a psychologist, she had way better tools at handling a suicidal perp.
“No, Harry, don’t do that,” Paul said, his body going cold. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to your kid.”
“He’s better off without me,” Harry moaned.
“No, he’s not,” Paul said. “Don’t do that to him. Don’t make him grow up like that. You screwed up, Harry. You’ve made mistakes. But you’ve got a disease. And you can get help. You can recover.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Harry said, and Paul watched in horror as his finger shifted toward the trigger.
“I do, actually,” he said.
The man’s eyes, which had been unfocused and desperate, suddenly slid back to him. He had Harry’s attention. Good. He was going to need it.
“First ten years of my life, my dad was blackout drunk for half of it, the other half, he was still drunk, but a happy drunk. Jovial. The life of the party. He was a funny guy when he was drinking. Everybody loved him. My mama loved him too.” The gun was still on Harry’s temple, but Paul could see his finger twitch away from the trigger, so it was resting on the barrel instead. Progress. Good.
“She had five children with him,” he continued, taking a small step forward. “And the day he drove drunk and crashed his car? She kicked him to the curb that day and told him he wasn’t allowed back until he got sober and stayed sober. So I think I know a little bit about this from your boy’s perspective.” Another step. Harry was watching him, transfixed, like Paul’s voice was the only thing keeping him afloat.
“I know what it’s like to have a shitty addict dad,” Paul said, his confession quiet and somber. “But you know what, Harry? I also know what it’s like to have a sober dad. One who coached my Little League team without the aid of a flask of whiskey, and who built a car with me when I was sixteen . . . the man who decided he loved his family more than he loved getting drunk. He made a choice. He confronted his disease. And he put in the work to get sober and to get his family back. When he passed a few years ago, he passed knowing that he’d done that work. He died sober and loved, surrounded by his children and friends and grandkids. That’s the kind of life you want, Harry. That’s the kind of death you want. You want to die when you’re old, clean and sober and loved, and surrounded by people who care about you. You don’t want this. You don’t want Haley to have to explain to Brandon what happened to his dad. Don’t take yourself from him. Decide right now to do the work. You put that gun down, Harry, and I will get you the help you need. I swear on my dad’s grave.”
Harry’s large tormented eyes stared at him, the hope in them beautiful and terrible to behold.
“Just hand over the gun,” Paul said. “Be the man you need to be for your son.”
Harry’s hand shook and then, finally, he lowered the gun.
It clattered to the ground and Harry fell to his knees, sobbing.
“Okay, Harry,” Paul said, kicking the gun away and taking the cuffs out of his pocket. “I’m gonna do this gentle, okay?” He carefully restrained him, helping him to his feet once his hands were secure. “It’s going to be all right,” he assured him as Harry began to stumble down the alley next to him, still shaking with sobs.
“Boss, I just got word from Agent Walker that he has Brandon. He’s fine. No trauma or awareness of the situation. He thought they were on a camping trip and that his mom knew all about it,” Zooey said over the radio.
Paul felt a small sense of relief. Someday, Brandon would learn the truth. But at least for now, he could be unmarked by any trauma or worry. His mom would find a way to explain it to him when she thought it was appropriate.
“I’ve called Haley and she’s on her way here to meet them,” Grace added. “Good job, Paul. You defused the situation like a pro.”
“We’re heading in,” Paul said.
“It’s going to be okay,” he told Harry again, as he opened the back of his SUV and shut it once Harry was safely inside.
Paul drove to headquarters, where Harry would be placed in custody.
He’d meant what he’d said—he’d work the system to get Harry the help he needed. But he also knew that with kidnapping charges laid against him, it was likely going to be a very long time—if ever—before Harry and Brandon were reunited.
It was always harder when the bad guy wasn’t completely bad. When he was a victim of sorts as well. A victim of life, of abuse, of addiction. Paul had seen it all. It never got easier.
Never.
Chapter 3
“Ah, sweet Cass,” Howard said, a smile flitting across his thin lips.
A shiver went through Abby, a reaction to the smile on his face that she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t a malicious smile, or one of perverse pleasure.
No, this was a smile of fondness. Of affection. Like he was a normal man thinking of a grandchild.
Abby swallowed, her throat suddenly and terribly dry. She didn’t want to show weakness—a croaky throat or a cracked voice would delight him to no end.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re doing a story on Dr. X’s last victim. What’s your angle, Lois Lane? You’ve got to have something fresh.”
“Let’s start with August of 2000,” Abby said, flipping through her notebook to where her time line was scrawled.
“Why in the world would we start there?” he asked. “That’s a full three years before I found sweet little Cassandra and made her mine.”
You cannot try to stab this guy with a pen, no matter how much you want to, she thought as her grip slipped on the pen in question. It was a miracle the guards had even let her in with one—she’d been prepared to bring her tablet to take notes—but she guessed that with Howard in a straitjacket, they felt it wasn’t as much of a security risk.
“I want to start in August of 2000,” Abby repeated, like a preschool teacher would say to a toddler. Annoyance flared in his eyes, and she felt a small burst of pleasure. Good. She was getting to him.
“What about August of 2000?” he demanded, his shoulders tensing underneath the rough canvas of the jacket.
“You were in Medford, Oregon, during that time, working as a coroner, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And five years before that, in 1995, you retired as chief of surgery from a hospital in Los Angeles?” Abby asked.
“Clearly you have the information that confirms that in front of you, Ms. Winthrop,” he said.