by Karen Rose
Sasha regarded her seriously. “Why is this important to you? Or are you just keeping your mind busy so you don’t have to sleep?”
Daisy shrugged. “It’s a mystery, the only lead to the man who attacked me. Who might have . . . I don’t know what. Raped me? Killed me? That alone is reason enough. Finding the guy so that he can’t hurt anyone else. Or come back and hurt me.”
“That’s a very good reason. But don’t you trust Rafe and Erin to find him?”
“I guess I do. But I’m my father’s daughter. I don’t like to cede control.”
“No,” Sasha deadpanned, chuckling when Daisy flipped her the bird. “But I get it. It gives you back some semblance of control, and you must have felt you kind of lost that when you were attacked tonight.”
“Yeah. But it’s also curiosity,” she admitted. “I hate not having the information. Rafe made me leave before they said anything really good. Or before Gideon accidentally blurted out anything else.”
“That in and of itself is significant. Gideon doesn’t blurt. Ever.”
“He did tonight.” Daisy bit her lip. “When he got lost there at the end—after he said the man was dead—I put my hand over his fist. He’d clenched his hands so hard that his knuckles were bright white. As I was leaving he . . . thanked me. It meant something—you know, to me. I just don’t know what.”
Sasha nodded knowingly. “Ah. I get it. Someone like Gideon, so self-contained, thanking you. It’s nice. Makes you feel like you earned something.”
“Yeah.” That was it. She’d felt special. “And, if I’m honest, some of it is that I don’t want to go to sleep. I’m afraid of what I’ll dream.”
“You want me to stay with you?”
“You don’t have to.” But Daisy wished she would.
Sasha rolled her eyes. “What time do you have to be out of here for work?”
“Four twenty-five.” It was less than three hours. “Hardly seems worth trying to sleep at this point.”
“Rafe’s here,” Sasha said. “He came in when I was making the tea. Said he was going to grab a few hours in his old room. If you want to stay up until it’s time to leave, I’ll stay with you. We can play cards and braid each other’s hair. Or Brutus’s hair.”
“She’d let you, too. Cards would be nice.” Daisy logged out of her e-mail and handed the laptop to Sasha. “Thank you.”
Sasha drew a pack out of the pocket of her robe. “I thought you’d say yes. Rummy Five Hundred okay with you?” She shuffled and dealt, then waited until Daisy was studying her hand before murmuring, “So . . . Gideon. He’s not my cup of tea, but I have to admit he is easy on the eyes, wouldn’t you say?”
Daisy thought about the man’s strong jaw, clear green eyes, and the threads of silver in his black hair. She wasn’t going to even think about what was under that suit he wore like it was made for him. “Enough, I guess. Sure.”
Sasha snorted. “Right. He is very pretty, DD. You can admit that my mother was right. I promise not to tell her.”
Daisy glared at her over the cards. “Be. Quiet.” She dropped her gaze to her hand. “Fine. He’s very, very pretty.”
And he’d blurted out things when that wasn’t his norm. She wanted to believe she’d had something to do with that, but it was far more likely that he had been rattled about something else.
She glanced at the laptop. What had she expected to find? A lead to her attacker or a glimpse into the man who’d all but taken her breath away when he’d walked into that little interview room? She still wasn’t certain.
A smirk bent Sasha’s lips. “Ooh, very very? I say the girl is smitten.”
Daisy glared daggers. “And I say if you say one word to your mother, no one will ever find your body.”
“Fine. Just for that, I’m going first.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 4:05 A.M.
He staggered back, breathing hard. His back hurt, his hands hurt, his jaws hurt. He was covered in blood and he didn’t give a shit. He stared at the woman in his bed and grinned from the pure joy of it all. Catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror on the wall, he broadened his grin, admiring his own image. Wild-eyed, covered in blood . . .
He looked insane.
He felt exhilarated.
Throwing a fist into the air, he laughed, exultant. This moment. This was the best moment. When he’d just finished and the endorphins were running through him like fire . . .
It was like he could fly, all by himself.
He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling for a few moments longer. It would be a while before he felt it again. Yes, he’d fly again, but not all by himself. Not like this.
His breathing began to level off and he opened his eyes. The woman stared up at the ceiling, her eyes open. Glassy. Dead.
Because she was dead. He’d gotten too into it, he supposed. He used to make them last. For days. But now they seemed to give up so quickly. Took a lot of the joy out of it, so he had to up his game. Had to get what he needed more efficiently since the women seemed to be growing frailer every time he hunted.
Rolling his head on his shoulders, he shook out his sore muscles and went into the shower to wash the blood off his skin. The hot water felt good on his exhausted body. Between the blonde in the alley and the one in his bed, he’d gotten one hell of a workout. He’d be able to sleep now.
And to think. He really needed to think about finding that damn blonde. He had to think about his job. What would he do now? He’d given the best part of his life to one fucking employer. It was supposed to be his only job.
I was supposed to retire with this fucking company.
Fucking bastard. We’re watching you, his old man had said. Just a little more experience. You’re next on the promotion list. Take on extra hours, extra shifts. Work holidays so the family men don’t have to. Be patient. It’ll happen for you soon.
Soon. Soon. Soon.
More like never, never, never. He winced, realizing he’d scrubbed his skin raw. He turned off the water and got out of the shower, drying himself off, then went to the bed and examined the woman one more time. She’d barely put up any fight at all, saying she was sorry and begging his forgiveness with the very first slice into her skin. She was kind of skinny, her torso so narrow that he hadn’t been able to get all the letters carved in.
“S-Y-D-N” sprawled across her stomach. He’d added “E” on the right thigh and “Y” on the left. He made sure he got all the letters in each time, at least on the ones he brought back to his guest room. Otherwise it felt . . . incomplete.
This one had begun to beg before he’d finished the first curve of the “S.” By “D” she was already begging for death.
Miriam, on the other hand, had lasted two whole days. She’d had a will to live that almost made him regret having to break her. Almost. Because that was one of the best parts—when they finally gave up, recognizing that he alone held their lives in his hands.
That moment of surrender was what drove him, each and every time.
But this one was gone. Pulling the plastic sheet from the bed, he rolled the woman up like a burrito and dropped her into the chest freezer against the wall. She’d keep until he could dump her body.
He quickly sorted through her belongings. Her clothing and her backpack would go in the incinerator, as would most of the backpack’s contents, including the apron bearing the logo of a local bakery.
Huh. She’d had a day job. It wasn’t the first time one of the hookers had had a day job, but it wasn’t the norm. That meant someone would be looking for her. He wasn’t terribly bothered by this. He’d been driving the beige Chevy, which traced to someone else who wouldn’t be answering any more questions.
He glanced at her driver’s license, visible through the plastic sleeve in her wallet. Kaley Martell was twenty-nine and resided in
Carmichael.
Thank you, Kaley. I really needed this tonight.
He went about cleaning around the bed, disinfecting the floor, the walls, and his tools with bleach. Just in case. Damn forensics were too good these days. But he kept one step ahead. He never left blood behind. Never left fingerprints.
He never left skin samples behind. Not until tonight.
Never left a witness alive. Not until tonight.
A little of the euphoric peace and satisfaction disintegrated as he once again thought about the blonde. Tomorrow. He’d start looking for her tomorrow, after work.
Needing to regain the satisfaction he’d lost, he opened the cabinet on the wall next to his bed. He normally let his guests see the contents because it eroded their resistance, but he’d gotten carried away with Kaley.
The cabinet opened like a triptych, with display shelves covering the back and sides. His souvenir cabinet, ten years in the making. It was impressive, if he did say so himself.
He slid Kaley’s driver’s license into the next open slot, then scowled at the empty hook beneath Eileen’s. He should be hanging the damn locket on that hook, but it was gone. Stolen by the blonde.
But, thanks to Kaley, he had a new trinket—a crystal horseshoe, ironically enough. Her neck was too slim for him to use her chain, so he used a longer chain from his stash. Standing tall, he put the chain over his head, the charm hitting level with his heart. He drew a breath, feeling like himself again as he closed the cabinet doors.
Shutting the basement door, he listened for the click of the lock, then nearly tripped over Mutt. The dog lay on the floor just outside the basement door, just like he always did.
He leaned down to scratch behind Mutt’s ears. “Let’s go to sleep.”
SIX
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 8:00 A.M.
Gideon straightened his tie nervously. Calm down. He’d talked to his boss hundreds of times and never once had been nervous, but it had never been personal before. Now it is.
He rapped on the door and entered when he heard a muffled “Come in.”
When he did so, he found Special Agent in Charge Tara Molina at her desk. “Special Agent Reynolds. Good morning.” She pointed to a club chair and Gideon sat down, willing his hands to be still.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” He met her eyes directly. She was about fifty and angular. Every movement she made was economical and he’d never known her to mince words or waste anyone’s time. So he wouldn’t waste hers. “I have a friend on the SacPD force. He’s a homicide detective. Last night he asked for my assistance on a case.”
Her brows rose. “Not the usual way SacPD requests help. Why didn’t your detective friend go through channels?”
“Because he knew that my connection to his case is personal. My friend is Rafe Sokolov. I’m kind of part of his family. They . . . helped me out when I was a teenager.”
One side of Molina’s mouth lifted, surprising him. “The family you make, as they say.”
“Yes, ma’am. Exactly.” Even though he’d decided what to tell her, Gideon still hesitated. “Have you heard of the Church of Second Eden?”
“The cult where you grew up,” Molina said, surprising him again. She rolled her eyes. “I read your file, Agent Reynolds. I read the files of everyone who works in my field office. I know you grew up there and escaped. I know you’ve made allegations of abuse that were substantiated by hospital records. I know that you reported them to SacPD, but they found no evidence of the community. I know you reported them again after joining the FBI, but the search yielded nothing. I know you’ve made several requests to reopen the investigation in the years since, but there was no new evidence to support reopening the case. Are you asking to reopen the investigation?”
He was impressed. “Yes. I am.”
She folded her hands on her desk. “I assume you have new evidence this time?”
“Yes, I do. Last night a woman was attacked on J Street. While fighting off her attacker, she pulled a locket from the man’s neck. It was a locket worn by the women of the community. I’m requesting to both reopen the investigation into the community and that I provide security for Miss Dawson, the woman who was attacked. If this man comes back for her, his apprehension could lead us to the location of the community.” And, as a side benefit, he’d be watching over Daisy. That would take a load off the collective mind of the Sokolovs. Yeah. Right. The Sokolovs. He wanted to roll his eyes at his own bullshitting self but forced himself to focus because Molina was watching him.
“How did you know it was a locket worn by a woman from the Second Church of Eden?” she asked.
“Because I recognized the engraving on the front—two children praying under an olive tree guarded by an angel with a flaming sword.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, nodding. “I remember mention of that in the file. Was there a name on the back?”
“Yes. ‘Miriam.’” On his phone he found the photo he’d taken of the locket and the photo inside and passed it to her. “That’s the locket and the photo inside.”
Molina’s eyes flashed with sympathy. “She’s so young. Twelve, right? The age that the girls were forced to marry.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know this girl?”
Gideon swallowed. “Yes. Her real name was Eileen. ‘Miriam’ was forced on her by the community.”
“How did your friend know to call you?” she asked. “Had you told the Sokolovs about the community?”
“Not really. It was . . . painful to remember. I don’t talk about it often.” Reaching into his pocket, he found the photo of him and Rafe by the river and wordlessly passed it to her.
Molina studied the photo for a few long seconds, then her gaze flew up to meet Gideon’s. “They tattooed you?”
He nodded. “On my thirteenth birthday.”
“That wasn’t in the file.”
“I . . . don’t like to think about it.” The tattoo. The day he received it. What had happened afterward. I killed a man. And had nearly been killed himself. “I’d hoped the description of the locket and the abuse and forced marriage of twelve-year-old girls would be sufficient to get the FBI involved. It was, so I kept the rest to myself.”
She didn’t look away and neither did he, the two of them in something of a standoff until Molina dropped her gaze to the photo of the locket on his phone. “They’re not exactly the same,” she murmured. “Twelve branches on the locket’s olive tree, thirteen on the tattoo’s. For the age of maturity?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he managed. His throat was thick and swallowing physically hurt.
“You were thirteen when you escaped?” When he only nodded, she sighed. “You’d been beaten badly according to your hospital records.” She gave him a scrutinizing look. “Your medical records had been sealed, along with your foster records because you were a minor, but you gave us permission to access them when you joined the Bureau.”
“I wanted the community found. Desperately.” For Mercy. For Mama. And for me. “I’ve been searching for them for seventeen years.”
Molina leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “But you left the records sealed from the time you were eighteen until you joined the FBI, six years later. Why, if you wanted them to be found so desperately? Why didn’t you report them sooner?”
He’d never been asked this question. He should have known that Molina would catch the small—but critical—fact. “Early on, I guess I figured the SacPD hadn’t really believed me. That they thought I was just a kid, making up fantastic stories. I never thought of contacting the FBI on my own then.”
“But later? The file from your initial FBI interview says that you always wanted to be a special agent, that you’d chosen your college degree in linguistics after consulting the FBI’s Web site. So you thought
enough of the Bureau at eighteen to want to join, but you didn’t think to report this case?”
Of course he had. But he hadn’t reported the community because of Mercy. Because she’d begged him not to. And because he’d been afraid enough for her mental health at the time that he’d agreed. He didn’t think Molina would accept his excuses. “Can I expect confidentiality, ma’am?”
She considered it. “Unless you violate policy.”
“I didn’t even tell my friend this part of it last night. I’ve never told anyone.”
She nodded once. “I understand. You’re asking me to keep your secrets.”
“Just this one, ma’am, because it’s not my secret to share. My sister was also raised in the cult. She didn’t get out at the same time as I did.”
“So when you searched, you were looking for her.”
“Yes. I eventually found her.” But not where he’d been looking. Finding Mercy had been the doing of Irina Sokolov. Just one more thing he had to be grateful for. “My sister had also escaped, but she wasn’t as lucky as I was. I was beaten. She was . . .” He swallowed hard, cleared his throat. “The words are easier to say when the victim is a stranger.”
“She was sexually assaulted?” Molina asked gently.
Gideon’s jaw clenched and he fought back the wave of emotion that always followed thoughts of Mercy’s ordeal. “Yes, ma’am.” Repeatedly. For years. “She won’t make a formal report. I can tell you this before you ask. She’s . . . dealt with it. Kind of.” Not really.
“But you want revenge?” Another carefully phrased question.
Hell, yes. “No, ma’am. I want justice.” Which was also true. “I want freedom for the others that are still being held against their will. I don’t want other children to be forced to grow up the way we did.”
Molina looked away, studying the view out the window. On a clear day, one could see the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Today wasn’t going to be a clear day. Clouds had already gathered. His boss watched them float by, her arms still crossed, tapping one bluntly manicured fingertip on her upper arm.