by Whitley Gray
Christ. Had Beck arrested him? Sent him to prison? Seen him at a dance club?
Holding a scalpel, the kidnapper circled him, knife glinting. The hair rose on Beck’s arms.
The abductor bent down. “Who am I?”
Not knowing the name could get him killed. The psycho had ruthlessly dispatched the others. Okay, he’d try for pseudo respect. “The Follower.”
The man gave a delighted chuckle. “As christened by law enforcement, true. But what’s my real name? Have you figured it out?” He drew the handle of the knife across Beck’s chest. “Try again.”
He tried. Think, think. A witness? A DPD employee? He closed his eyes and rolled his head to the side. Light exploded behind his lids.
A bright line burned across Beck’s forearm. He hissed and forced his lids open. Red welled up in the thin incision. The Follower had cut him. Beck’s heart responded with a panicked gallop.
“Ah, ah, ah, Detective. Eyes open.”
Adrenaline enabled Beck to maintain a wide-eyed stare. “They’re open.”
“Good. I’m going to take some pictures, and then we’re going to have some fun.”
* * * *
Over his time as a profiler, Zach had given scant consideration to the theory that someday some miscreant might seek revenge and cause physical damage to him and his.
Right now he wished he’d never taken the job. If he’d been anyone else, he could believe that Beck would be all right. Instead, he had a headful of data saying odds were Beck would not emerge from this unscathed.
Odds were he would not emerge at all.
Shove emotion aside and remain objective. Reason out what needs to come next.
That was why Zach stood in the middle of Beck’s suite at four a.m. Inside, he felt about as unsteady as he could get, trying not to fly apart with worry. Outside he tried to project calm.
The room looked about the same as when Zach had left: sheets rumpled, towels hanging up to dry in the bathroom. Beck’s duffel bag sat on the luggage caddy, holding a change of underwear and socks, a grooming kit with shave cream, razor, aftershave lotion, and hair gel.
A clean polo shirt hung in the closet along with a Windbreaker. A laundry bag held the shirt Beck had worn last night, a pair of athletic socks, and a pair of boxer briefs.
No jeans. Beck must have pulled those on before answering the door.
Running shoes sat beneath the clothes.
Beck was barefoot.
On the dresser, Beck had left a handful of spare change, the receipt from dinner, and his wallet. The key to the room was there, but Beck’s keys were missing.
“Did somebody bag his keys?”
Negatives all around. For the first time, Zach felt a gleam of hope. “Beck may have his keys, and the keys have a GPS tracker.”
Evans nodded. “Good. That’s good. We’ll get your tech guy on it pronto. Good catch, Littman.”
But would it be enough? Zach couldn’t dredge up a smile.
Faded bruises coloring his face, Van met Zach outside the suite. Zach realized Van was uncomfortable around him.
Van looked worried. “What can I do?”
“Can you get in touch with Hogan? See what he came up with on the owner of that RV.”
“Done.” Van’s phone buzzed, and he stepped away to answer it.
Zach found SJ. “I think we need to ask for the public’s help.”
“Are you thinking press conference?”
“A news brief on TV. We don’t have time to organize a conference.” They didn’t have time to wait for a six a.m. newscast either, but Zach would take whatever he could get.
Van jogged up. “That was Matt Unger. I think you need to talk to him.”
* * * *
“There was a trail of hot-pink balloons inside my house, leading upstairs to her room.” Unger’s voice was tight. “It was on her pillow. He was in my house again, Goddamn it.”
“Slow down,” Zach said. “What was on her pillow?”
“Her last school picture and a note. I fixed that window—”
“Do you keep a spare house key outside on your property?”
“Yeah. It’s well hidden.” Unger sounded irritated.
“I suggest you rekey your house. What did the note say?”
Unger cleared his throat. “‘Last December Nathan Perny tried to abduct your daughter from the alley behind your house. She collapsed and died before he got her into the car. She didn’t suffer. He left her in a shallow grave under a snow-covered spruce. I watched over her all winter.’” Unger’s voice hitched. “‘When spring came, I made sure she was found, so you could have her back. I placed her barrette with Perny’s trophies so you would know who was responsible. I had met her before, you see, and knew she was yours.’ He signed it with a smiley face. Who is this fucker, Littman?”
Annika had been Perny’s type; the only surprise was trying for her in a neighborhood likely to have a lot of security cameras. The Follower had confessed to planting the barrette; he’d painted himself as the good guy, yet he had taken the finger. He couldn’t resist the token right in front of him.
“I think he’s telling the truth,” Zach said softly. “Could Annika have suffered a collapse from fear?”
“She…had a congenital heart problem. Surgeries when she was a baby, and then worries about bad heart rhythms. In and out of the hospital about once a year. She was supposed to wear a vest that could shock her heart and restart it if that happened, but she was bad about wearing it unless we stood over her. That’s why we walked her or drove her—we didn’t want her alone in case something…happened.”
“When did you find the balloons?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. I was at the condo with my wife. Came home to change before work.” Unger paused. “How did things turn out with the interview?”
Zach took a deep breath. He was doing this no matter what Evans said. “The Follower kidnapped Detective Stryker at two o’clock this morning.”
“Are you sh—kidding me?”
“No. The man who left the trail in your house is the same one who has Beck. And I need your help.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
At five, they moved to robbery/homicide to give the B and B owners a break. It was still dark outside; the fluorescent lights poured harsh illumination over the bull pen. Someone had made coffee, and for once Zach didn’t care about quality over quantity. He poured a cup and trudged to the conference room.
The triptych of serial killers seemed to mock Zach: We’re winning, Littman, fifteen to zero. Sixteen is in the balance; may the best man win.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his heart stopped. Picture message. His hand shook as his finger hovered over the button. Please, God. Please let Beck be okay.
He tapped the screen.
The shot was distorted by a wide-angle lens. Beck lay faceup, strapped to a steel table. He wore only underwear. There was a slash of red on his left forearm; the blood was smeared around, making it difficult to assess the wound. Beck stared into the camera; despite the determined set of his jaw, his eyes were filled with terror.
The image reached out and clenched Zach’s heart. There must be a clue where the photo was taken, a way of triangulating the phone call. Zach hurried to find Ernie.
A text message followed: Have you figured out who I am?
Zach’s stomach twisted. Was that rhetorical, or would solving the identity riddle save Beck’s life? Zach replied. I know you’re not a cop.
The response was another picture. A cut along Beck’s right forearm, the twin of the other incision. Zach squeezed his eyes shut. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? The Follower had tracked them to the B and B; he had known Beck was alone, and that Beck would open the door to law enforcement. He’d probably been aware of the security surrounding Zach.
Keep trying, Dr. Littman.
Give me a hint.
You’ve had plenty.
A trade. It broke about a dozen tenets of hostag
e negotiation, but Zach couldn’t give a flying fuck. Beck had to survive. You can have me if you let him go.
Tut, tut, Dearest Doctor Littman. The game doesn’t work that way. Your move. Beck is counting on you. Tick…tock.
What move? What do you want?
There was no response.
* * * *
The Follower set aside the phone. “Your lover wants to trade places with you.”
“No.” Beck fisted his hands. Those pictures would have made Zach crazy; still, he knew better than to offer an exchange. “No.”
“Aww. Love him, do you?”
What answer would avoid further assault? If I’m going to die, it’ll be with the truth on my lips. “Yes.”
“Very brave.” The Follower sorted through the instrument tray. “Just like in the hospital.”
In…the…hospital. What did that mean?
Grinning, the man pushed up the left leg of Beck’s briefs.
What the—Beck jumped as wet gauze wiped the crease between groin and leg, too close to parts Beck cherished. The bite of rubbing alcohol hit his nose. The Follower picked up a scalpel.
This guy castrates his male victims.
Heart banging, Beck tried to shift away. The straps were too tight.
The man rolled his eyes. “Relax. You get to keep your precious dick. For now.”
With the scalpel, the Follower nicked the tender skin; it felt like a hot match. Next he held up a long needle.
Oh, fuck.
“Femoral vein,” the Follower muttered and plunged the needle in. The bright stab of pain made Beck gasp. The room dimmed, and he turned his head to the side and gagged.
From far away Beck heard, “No moving.”
The Follower sounded pissed, as if Beck had done it on purpose. The man did something with the needle and said, “Sheath,” in his mellow voice.
Oh my fucking God. His leg must be filleted open. Whatever “sheath” was, it hurt like hell, like an arrow had skewered him, scouring his vein without the benefit of anesthesia. Roaring filled Beck’s ears, and the dizzying nausea made a comeback. Deep breaths, Stryker. Stay awake. If he was to have any chance of escaping, he had to stay with it.
Smaller needle pokes, tugging. Suture? Using tape, the Follower secured whatever he’d stuck into Beck’s leg. Beck raised his head. There was a huge white IV line featuring a white cap and side tubing with a stopcock on the end.
Central line. Beck had had one in his neck while in ICU: a big IV line to infuse large quantities of blood and fluids in a hurry. What was this maniac planning?
The psycho hooked a stretch of clear tubing to the stopcock. There was a needle on the free end of the length, and the Follower poked this through the rubber stopper on a clear glass bottle. A flip of the stopcock and blood snaked its way through the tubing toward the container.
Beck watched as the first drops splashed down, ruby spatters on the crystal clear glass. The cylinder had gradations for accurate measurement. It seemed to have plenty of room. “What are you doing?”
“A little bloodletting. Then we’ll move.”
* * * *
“We have the car,” Van said. “The GPS tag led us to a Crown Vic. Beck’s keys were in the trunk. The car was reported stolen earlier this week. The plates are also stolen.”
“Where is the car?” Zach gripped his phone.
“A park-and-ride in Lakewood. We’re trying to get security footage.”
“Any evidence Beck was in the trunk?”
“Nothing obvious. There’s no blood that we can see. We’ll take it into the lab.”
It wasn’t much, but it made Zach feel a little more optimistic. “Thanks, Van.”
“You think this means he headed west, or it’s a ploy and he went in a different direction?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What else I can do to help?”
“If you get anything from the car, let me know. I’ll call if something comes up.”
“We’re going to find him, Zach.”
“Yeah.” But would it be in time?
* * * *
In the predawn darkness, Beetle steered the RV down the two-lane highway. He’d lowered the window, letting in the crisp mountain air, clean and fresh from recent rain.
Stryker was lovely. Much more of a warrior than Beetle had expected. But then again, the detective had been so stoic in the hospital, all alone with no one to lean on. Very brave. He’d been heavily medicated after surgery; maybe that was why he didn’t remember Beetle drawing his blood in ICU. And of course, he wouldn’t remember the shooting.
Almost exactly a year ago… Beetle could still see the panic in the emergency department’s trauma room, still smell the stink of fear and coppery tang of blood. The doctor had stuck a needle into Stryker’s femoral vein, drawn blood into a syringe, and passed it, still dripping, to Beetle.
While the ED poured O-negative blood into Stryker, Beetle had raced to the lab, performed the frantic type and cross for the OR, and the STAT run on the chemistry panel. John Beckworth Stryker, blood type O-positive, had survived.
That was then. This was now. Stryker had been saved for a higher purpose.
Call me eidolon, ghost, specter, spirit. I am the one.
* * * *
Zach was in the middle of pouring his third cup of coffee when his phone rang. A picture of sand dunes—Director Sands. “Hello, sir.”
“Find him?” Sands sounded growly, like a bad-tempered dog.
“Still working on it.” C’mon, c’mon. What do you have?
“You owe me a favor of epic proportions, Littman.”
Hallelujah. He must have something. Carrying the coffee, Zach made his way to the nearest desk in the bull pen and grabbed paper and pen. “What do you have, Director?”
“Here’s the down-low from the Bureau of Prisons.” Papers rattled. “There are thirty corrections officers at Supermax who rotate through Darling’s area. Over the past year, seven have quit and been replaced, so that makes thirty-seven potentials. Eight were working when Stryker was taken. Another five have to be at work at 0600—all five showed up. Of the remaining twenty-four, five are over the age of forty.”
“That’s down to nineteen.” Zach scribbled a note. Getting more manageable all the time.
“Fourteen alibied out via spouse, friend, or significant other. Among the remaining five, there are none with a medical background: no medics, no morticians, and no morgue techs. No big-game hunters who butcher their own meat. They all live in Florence, which is a hundred-mile drive from Denver. None has ever owned an RV, a gold Cutlass, or a blue sedan.”
“No one?” Zach was sure it had to be a guard.
“None.”
“Any other guards with issues?”
“None reported.”
“Is there anyone else who has access to Darling?”
“His attorney, and you said you’d excluded him.”
What situation might require someone else to visit Darling in person? “Family? Clergy?”
Sands snorted. “No family. No clergy visits.”
What if Darling became ill? Where did Darling and medical care intersect at a place like Supermax? “Has he been to the infirmary?”
“Darling doesn’t go to the infirmary. If he was dying of a heart attack, they’d probably leave him in his cell and watch it happen.”
Zach remembered the visit last fall when Darling had smashed his head into the barrier until he bled. “How does he get medical care?”
“Medical care comes to him.”
“I’m not following. A doctor?”
“If he needed a doctor, they’d sedate him and shackle him. The care that comes to him is a medical technician. In fact an MT comes daily to check Darling’s blood sugar.”
Zach rolled that around. It would fit. “The MT can talk to him alone?”
“The guards are there, but yes. If there were a problem on the block, the MT could potentially speak with him privately.”
“Are the MTs employed by the prison?”
“No. The BOP contracts with Denver Health to provide services. These people go through an orientation and background check, but they work for Denver Health. DH has a computer terminal at Supermax.”
There was a hell of a lot of personal information in an electronic heath-record system. Anyone with access could dig up privileged data and search for names, addresses, and phone numbers. “Do the MTs have alibis for tonight? This morning?”
“Two are women. We’ve excluded them. Two are men. One guy lives in Colorado Springs. The other resides in Denver. The Colorado Springs man, Black, has been missing since yesterday. And he owns an RV.”
Gut instinct said this was it. “It’s him. It’s got to be him.”
* * * *
“Open your eyes.”
Beck struggled to pry his lids apart. The sedative, along with the bloodletting, had drained his strength. He managed a slit-eyed view.
He was no longer moving, and it was very still. The leather restraints remained in place. The IV line remained in his groin, a burning discomfort that amped up every time he moved.
“Have you remembered who I am?” The man sounded genuinely interested; he raised his eyebrows.
Beck’s stomach flipped. Why didn’t he know? But the Follower had mentioned something. It could be a hint, intended or not. “Hospital.”
The Follower smiled widely. “Very good. Where?”
Shit. ICU? Surgery? Physical therapy? He racked his brain. Nothing came to mind. “Your hair was different.”
“And you were doing so well.” The man shook his head, walked to the table, and selected a scalpel. He trailed the handle over the field of scar tissue covering Beck’s left shoulder and chest. It felt like a cold tongue. Beck shuddered.
“You almost died, you know.” The voice was low, intimate. “You lost a lot of blood. They managed to get you to the OR and stop the bleeding.”
He had no real-time memory of that. After the fact, he’d been told what had happened. When Beck had come to in the ICU, the last thing he’d recalled was being hit; there had been a big hole in his memory. A hole the size of a lead slug.
There wasn’t enough air. The room closed in. My God, my God, not now. A bullet spun Dan around, and blood flew from his neck. Beck returned fire; his shoulder exploded in agony. Blood everywhere—