by Steven James
He knew that if he buried her in his basement and anyone found out, they would most certainly think that he had done something bad to her, that he was the one who’d killed her.
He scratched again and finally decided that the safest thing, the best thing right now, was to listen to the voice and just make sure no one ever, ever found out that she was here.
Timothy Sabian headed to the garage to get a shovel.
39
The feed came on.
An FBI SWAT unit was outside Blake’s condo and the team was coordinating its incursion.
Agent Raudsepp had the camera that was mounted to his helmet turned on, and I watched as he hustled up the stairs behind his team leader, watched as they positioned themselves outside the door, as they shouted, as they broke it down, as they rushed in and began to clear the condo. Shouts. Flashes of movement. Agents flaring off to each side as Raudsepp moved swiftly to the bedroom. It looked empty. He searched under the bed. In the closet. Nothing. Called out, “Clear!” and a few seconds later, returned to the living room where the rest of the team was assembling.
Greer and Sasha stood behind me as I sat at her kitchen table and watched things go down.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Sasha whispered. “I wonder if Blake cleared out because he somehow learned that you found me.”
I didn’t want to speculate on that either way but turned on the audio feed to Raudsepp and asked him to return to the bedroom. “Take us on a tour.” Then I said to Sasha, “Watch carefully. Let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary.”
As Raudsepp walked through the condo, starting in the bedroom, she occasionally asked him to pause, turn right or left, and walk closer to certain items.
“What do you see?” Greer asked her.
“It’s what I don’t see. The mannequins. They’re all gone.”
I had a thought, and if I was right, we wouldn’t see Blake or his men removing the mannequins on any of the security cameras in the building.
Through the audio feed, I asked to be transferred to Ralph, and a moment later, his voice came on. “What is it?”
“Check the bathroom,” I said. “And review the building’s surveillance camera footage. See if you can catch sight of anyone leaving the ground floor.”
“We’re already on the CCTV cameras. What do you want me to look for in the bathroom?”
“Powder around the drain. I’m wondering if Blake might’ve taken a shower with his silent ladies.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sasha told us that Blake is trafficking a synthetic drug that’s close in its chemical composition to cocaine but can be molded into different shapes. I’m wondering if the mannequins aren’t what they appear to be.”
“You’re saying they’re made of the stuff?”
“They might be.” I looked to Sasha for confirmation.
“It’s possible,” she admitted, “if it was mixed with some sort of starch to give it enough solidity. It would certainly explain a few things—especially Blake’s fascination with them and why he always has them around.”
“It’s called Selzucaine,” I told Ralph. “Let’s see where this takes us.”
I hung up, and Sasha called the lab to have them analyze the composition of the mannequin head to see if it might have been made out of the drug.
Then we waited for word on the security footage and the findings from Ralph.
* * *
+++
Timothy heard the words from his novel The Nesting Dolls, a refrain that came up several times in the book: “Gone is gone is gone. Dead is dead is dead is dead.”
Julianne had read from that book last night before the man in the car drove up.
But was that man even real? Did anyone else besides Julianne actually show up?
Honestly, Timothy couldn’t be sure.
“His car had duct tape over the license plate,” he said, trying to convince himself. “It was real!”
But why would someone do that? Isn’t it too much of a coincidence that he just happened to show up while you were talking to her? Right when she was telling you to get in the trunk?
Yes, it did seem too coincidental—unless someone had known they were going to be meeting out there at that time.
Did Julianne tell him? Was he working with her?
Timothy realized that right now he had no way of knowing. He could figure all that out later—if the guy really had been there. Right now, here in the basement, he had to take care of this body at his feet.
Before beginning to dig, Timothy rested the shovel on the ground and crouched by Julianne’s side. “Why did you have to die?” he asked her softly. “Things are going to be different now. You shouldn’t have died.”
He nudged her shoulder. Not hard. Not hard enough to leave a bruise. Just like you might do with a friend you’re messing around with.
And then he heard her response: “I would have stayed alive if you would’ve let me. I’d still be here, if only you would’ve stepped back, not held on to my neck so long.”
“But I didn’t. I—”
“Yes, you did. Why did you hold on? Even when you could see it was hurting me?”
“I don’t remember holding you. I don’t remember any of that.”
“You choked me just like Lonnie choked Rose. It was just like in your novel.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Timothy took her hand in his. Her dead, flaccid hand.
He was shaking as he tenderly kissed her wrist, but it wasn’t like in the fairy tales. She didn’t come back to life. She didn’t magically awaken.
“What am I supposed to do now?” Though he spoke the words aloud, his voice was pained and quiet, a child speaking.
“I can’t help you clean this up,” Julianne told him. He was surprised at how clearly she spoke without ever moving her lips. She just lay there and didn’t open her eyes and didn’t move her jaw, but yet he heard her as clear as day. “You’ve made a mess of things. You’ll have to take care of it yourself.”
“Alright, Julianne. Alright, I will.”
He found a freshly washed bedsheet and laid it over her so she wouldn’t get dirty while he was digging and so he wouldn’t have to look at her looking at him as he worked.
Then he drove the shovel into the dirt floor and began to dig Julianne Springman’s grave.
40
We convened at the Field Office for a briefing.
Sasha rode with Greer, Ralph met us there, and after introductions, the four of us headed down the hall toward DeYoung’s office.
On the way, Greer slipped off to the restroom, and a few moments later I received a call from Christie. Although I kept walking, I hung back from the team to answer it.
“Hey,” I said warmly. “How are you?”
“Good. I’m good.”
“And your weekend? Do you feel refreshed?”
“I think so. Refocused, at least.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
A pause. “Yes. Listen, is Tessa okay? I just listened to the message you left the other night. You mentioned she was upset?”
“I think she’s alright. I heard her crying in her bedroom on Saturday, but she’s seemed fine since then.”
“Do you know what was wrong?”
“On Friday, she said that she thought you were angry at her. Also, I think she’s still lonely from Azaliya leaving. I’m guessing it might’ve been a combination of the two things.”
“Did she say why she thought I was mad at her?”
“No. It was just the way you took off, I think. Kind of abrupt. And you were more quiet, more reserved than usual before you left.”
“I’m not angry. It’s not that.”
“Okay. I told her you weren’t, but you should probably
talk with her when you get back.”
“Yes. Of course.”
* * *
+++
Christie knew that Tessa’s school didn’t allow cell phone use during class, but she figured that her daughter would be checking her messages during lunch, so she decided to text her as soon as she was off the line with Pat.
“My flight is delayed,” she told him, “but I should get to LaGuardia around three. When are you off work?”
“Probably not until six or so. The case has taken a few turns I didn’t expect.”
“Let’s meet somewhere nice for dinner. Just the two of us.”
“Great. Do you have a place in mind?”
“No. Surprise me.”
“Hmm. Alright. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe try to snag a seven o’clock reservation. That sound good?”
“Perfect. It’s a date.”
“Try ‘extinct insects,’” he said.
She loved tongue twisters, and he was always searching for one that would stump her. She tried this insect twister five times fast and did pretty well until the fourth time through when she caught herself saying, “extinct inkstects.”
“I like it. You try.”
“I think I’ll sneak in a little more practice first. I’ll give it a shot when I see you tonight.”
“Deal. I’ll try to come up with one for you by then.”
“I love you, Christie.”
“I love you too.”
After their good-byes, she texted her daughter, asking her to call when she had a chance, then she left the monastery and headed for the airport.
* * *
+++
After I was off the phone, I heard Ralph confirming to Sasha that his team had indeed found Selzucaine residue around the drain. “It looks like the mannequins aren’t being used as vessels to smuggle the drug inside of them,” he said, “they are the drug. And hot water disintegrated them? Or do you think they needed another chemical to do it?”
“I kissed a mannequin and it didn’t dissolve. But enough pressure, enough water, if it was hot enough, based on its chemical structure it’s possible that could have been all that was needed.”
Talking drugs and the next step for the task force, the two of them went on ahead. Greer caught up with me.
“He’s a big fella,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“Ralph.”
“Toughest guy I know.”
“I’d hate to have to fight him.”
“So would I.”
Greer was single and in the dating scene, so as we started toward the briefing room, I asked if he had any suggestions for a good place for a romantic dinner.
“Romantic, huh? So something beyond your typical pub and grub?”
“Yeah. Somewhere special.”
“Giuseppe’s in the Village. I was there last week. The place is amazing. That’s where you need to take your woman. When are you wanting to go?”
“That’s the thing. It’s a bit last-minute. Tonight. You think it’s too late to get a reservation?”
He scoffed lightly. “There, you’d be lucky to get one a month out. But I know someone who knows the manager. Maybe I can call in a favor.”
“Not if it’s any trouble.”
“No trouble at all. What time?”
“Seven. A reservation for two.”
“Don’t worry, Pat.” He congenially slugged my arm. “We’ll get you two taken care of.”
41
Blake stared at the email.
It was a photograph of Julianne Springman, the young woman who’d come to him the other night asking for his help, asking if he knew someone she could work with. Now, in this picture, she was in the trunk of a car, and based on the color of her skin, she was deceased.
The reddish tinge spoke to carboxyhemoglobin, which might come from carbon monoxide poisoning, or possibly, smoke inhalation.
Okay.
Interesting.
There was a message typed beneath the photo: I’d like to speak with you.
Was this the work of Timothy Sabian? Was that possible? How else would she suddenly show up dead right after having his name passed along to her?
Although it wasn’t by any means conclusive, the timing certainly spoke to a connection.
It appeared that Mr. Sabian was mentally deranged and of murderous intent after all.
Well, you did warn Julianne. You did do that.
But how did Sabian get this email address? And why would he have sent this photo? What was the point? Was it meant to be a threat?
Blake couldn’t come up with any good reason why the psychotic novelist would’ve sent him a photograph of Julianne Springman’s dead body. If it was a taunt, it was not well-advised.
Over the last eighteen months, Mannie and his hacker friends had proven to be invaluable to Blake, so now he called him into the room and showed him the picture. “I want to know where this email originated from. Can you figure that out for me?”
“I can.”
“Do it. Whoever sent this deserves a little visit.”
Mannie left for his workstation.
Blake had moved his team to the old greenhouse facility just over the line in Connecticut.
The Eastern Bay Greenhouse had closed three years ago, and no one had taken care of the plants inside it when the owners shuttered its doors. Consequently, the plants had continued to grow unchecked. Of course, over time, they’d all eventually died and dried out. Now, the brown stalks and intertwined vines tentacled up to the ceiling, nearly filling some of the glassed-in enclosures. When you looked at them, it brought a touch of cognitive dissonance: the buildings are greenhouses; you expect green life. Here, you found only brown death.
Six structures stood on the property: five sprawling, abandoned greenhouses that’d been built decades ago, and one recently renovated office building that was finished not long before the business closed its doors for good.
Despite their age, each of the tent-shaped, thick-glassed greenhouses still had its ventilation fans. Three still had their climate control units in place. Garden tools, scattered pots for the plants, and stacks of replacement windows lay stored at the end of one of the greenhouses.
In some cases, the buildings’ glass panes had shattered and fallen in, and wedge-shaped shards of glass were still embedded in the soil of the dead plants that’d climbed and entwined their clinging death grip on the tall wooden stakes meant to guide their growth.
No one ventured onto the deserted, fenced-in property anymore. Six months ago, Blake had purchased it and found it a useful place to regroup when the heat was on inside the city.
Also, this was the location where the mannequins would be treated, as soon as the shipment of chemicals arrived from Phoenix. It’d taken some work, but the sprinkler system in one of the greenhouses had been reconfigured and retrofitted so that it could be used to spray down and prepare the silent ladies for shipment.
A group of eighty of them stood in two obedient lines, patiently awaiting their turn beneath the sprinklers. With a street value north of thirty grand per kilo, it was a sizable stash of Selzucaine.
More than enough to do the trick.
On its own, Selzucaine gave a powerful short-term high. But when it was treated with Tranadyl, things took a turn in a more permanent direction.
It was similar to when a chemist in the 1970s tried to create synthetic heroin and contaminated it with 1-methyl-4-phenyl-1,2,3,6-tetrahydropyridine, otherwise known as MPTP. It crossed the blood-brain barrier and metabolized into 1-methyl-4-phenylpyridinium, or MPP+, which caused the user to develop a severe form of Parkinson’s disease. Victims were completely conscious but unable to move. The user was trapped inside himself and was left knowing that he had imprisoned himself by his own decision.
Terrifying
.
In this case, the user wouldn’t experience that specific result but, because of the interaction of the two drugs, would very likely slip into a coma. Or, the drug cocktail would prove fatal.
Tranadyl was a synthetic derivative of Fentanyl. With its Fentanyl base, it was arguably more potent than either heroin or morphine, and if you mismanaged its dosage, just like China White, you could be in serious trouble.
People on the street knew not to mix Selzucaine and Tranadyl, so the key was not letting them know that the two drugs had been combined.
Designer drugs were being created on an almost daily basis. The DEA determined which drugs were illegal, but there was virtually no way for them to keep up with what was happening on the streets and in private labs across the country. So by manipulating synthetics, you could stay one step ahead of the law.
Earlier, Blake had received word from his NSA contact that the Feds were planning to raid his condo in Manhattan. He’d taken care of the silent ladies he’d had with him there before leaving, so he wasn’t worried about them providing any evidence, but he was curious who’d betrayed him and leaked the location.
Ibrahim came to mind first.
After watching what’d happened to Jasper, it was quite possible that the Syrian had gotten cold feet in moving forward with everything, and that did not bode well for the timing of treating the mannequins and getting them onto the streets.
And it did not bode well for Ibrahim.
The man’s connections to extremist groups were vital to Blake’s plan. To make things play out like he envisioned, it was crucial that Ibrahim stayed on task, at least for the next thirty-six hours. Then, it wouldn’t matter whose side he was on, or which side he thought he was on. He would be revealed for who he truly was and would either spend the rest of his life in prison or die at the hands of law enforcement while being apprehended.
Or suicide.
That was possible.
He might take his own life.
Considering his religious devotion and his reticence to getting caught, that seemed like a legitimate possibility.