The 6th Target - James Patterson [82]
“Oh, by the way . . . if anyone makes a move toward me, I’ll shoot this little —”
I saw the black hole appear in her forehead before I heard the echoing crack of the Remington’s report from the rooftop across the street.
Madison screamed as the woman calling herself Laura Renfrew stood framed in the window.
She released the little girl as she fell.
Chapter 114
WAS MADISON TYLER ALL RIGHT? That’s all I was thinking as Conklin and I burst into the front bedroom, second floor. We didn’t see the girl anywhere, though.
“Madison?” I called out, my voice high.
A single unmade bed was against the wall adjacent to the door. An open suitcase was on the bed, with girls’ clothing tossed inside.
“Where are you, honey?” Rich Conklin called out as we approached the closet. “We’re the police.”
We reached the closet at the same time. “Madison, it’s okay, sweetie,” I said, turning the knob. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
I opened the door, saw a pile of clothing on the floor of the closet, moving in time with someone’s breathing.
I stooped down, still afraid of what I might see. “Maddy,” I said, “my name is Lindsay and I’m a policewoman. I’m here to take you home.”
I nudged aside the pile of clothing on the closet floor until I finally saw the little girl. She was whimpering softly, hugging herself, rocking with her eyes closed.
Oh, God, thank you. It was Madison.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, my voice quavering. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Madison opened her eyes, and I reached out my arms to her. She flung herself against me, and I held her tightly, putting my cheek to her hair.
I unclipped my cell phone and dialed a number I’d committed to memory. My hands were shaking so hard I had to try the number again.
My call was answered on the second ring.
“Mrs. Tyler, this is Lindsay Boxer. I’m with Inspector Conklin, and we have Madison.” I put the phone up to Madison’s face, and I whispered, “Say something to your mom.”
Chapter 115
EARLY THAT EVENING, Conklin and I were at FBI headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue, thirteenth floor. We sat in a room with fifteen other agents and cops, watching on video monitors as Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, interviewed Renfrew.
I sat beside Conklin, watching Stanford and Thomson dissecting the acts of terror committed by Paul Renfrew, aka John Langer, aka David Cornwall, aka Josef Waller, the name he was given at birth.
“He’s lapping up the attention,” I said to Conklin.
“It’s a good thing I’m not in the box with him,” Conklin said. “I couldn’t handle this.”
“This” was Waller’s smugness and affability. Instead of smart-mouthing or showing defiance, Waller talked to Stanford and Thomson as if they were colleagues, as if he expected to have an ongoing relationship with them after he’d finished the clever telling of his story.
Macklin, Conklin, and I sat riveted to our chairs as Waller caressed their names: André Devereaux, Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and a little girl named Dorothea Alvarez from Mexico City.
A child we hadn’t known about.
A child who might still be alive.
While he sipped his coffee, Waller told Stanford and Thomson where the three missing children were living as sex toys in rich men’s homes around the globe.
Waller said, “It was my wife’s idea to import pretty European girls, place them as nannies with good families. Then find buyers for the children. I worked with the nannies. That was my job. My girls were proudest of the kids who were the most beautiful, intelligent, and gifted. And I encouraged the girls to tell me all about them.”
“So the nannies fingered the children, but they never knew what you planned to do with them,” Thomson said.
Renfrew smiled.
“How did you find your buyers?” Stanford asked.
“Word of mouth,” Renfrew said. “Our clients were all men of wealth and quality, and I always felt the children were in good hands.”
I