Playing Dead

by Allison Brennan

  “It’s amazingly easy,” Hans said. “My guess is Palmer died and Langstrom assumed his identity. Or he killed Palmer and destroyed the body sufficiently to prevent recognition, then went about living the guy’s life. That’s going to take a little more research. But Langstrom all but disappeared fifteen years ago. He has a residence in Los Angeles, files taxes—on a sizable inheritance—and is considered a recluse. Palmer has also paid taxes, on a much smaller income.”

  “None of this makes sense,” Mitch said. “Why would Langstrom kill two people he doesn’t know? Do you think Collier is credible, that Drake and his cohorts blackmailed Langstrom into murder?”

  “As far-fetched as it sounds, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe it wasn’t simple blackmail. It looks like Palmer has a sizable bank account. His income is higher than what I’d imagine a fifteen-year veteran of the police force would make. But I don’t have his tax records. It’ll take our finance people to make sense of it.”

  “An assassin,” Meg said. “They brought him up here for a job.”

  “Why did he stay?” Mitch asked. “If he went back to L.A., he’d never have been connected to Taverton’s murder. A hired gun. He could disappear.”

  “This is why.” Hans handed Meg a photograph over the seat.

  “Jessica White?”

  “Doesn’t she look familiar? I mean, I haven’t seen Claire O’Brien in person, but I’ve seen her photograph and they certainly look a lot alike.”

  Mitch stole a glance at White’s picture. The resemblance was there. Black hair and blue eyes and pale skin. “That might mean nothing.” But Mitch didn’t believe his own statement.

  “Hold on. I found something.”

  Mitch glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Hans open his laptop and start pounding away on the keyboard. He asked, “What?”

  “Let me pull up a photo if I can find it.”

  “Photo of who?”

  “There’s an odd thing in Langstrom’s file. Sealed juvenile records.”

  “Not a criminal file,” Hans added. “He was a witness. Damn, I can’t access the file, but I have a name. State of California v. Bridget Lincoln.”

  “Did he testify for the state or the defense?” Meg asked.

  “Don’t know,” Hans mumbled, typing frantically. “Bingo!”

  He handed his laptop over to Meg.

  “Shit, Hans, she looks just like Claire.”

  Mitch tried to look, but Meg said, “Keep your eyes on the road. You’re going over ninety. There’s Watt.”

  “I see it.” He cut across lanes to exit.

  “Trust me, she looks like Claire,” Meg said.

  “What happened to her?”

  Hans said, “She went to prison for five years for statutory rape. She was the principal of a private K–8 school in Glendale. I’ll bet a million bucks that Langstrom went to that school and was one of her victims.”

  “That’s sick,” Meg said.

  “Men aren’t the only pedophiles,” Hans said. “Women pedophiles and rapists are rare, but they exist. It’s usually a maternal situation instead of a violent attack. They provide a needed mother figure to the male victims—usually prepubescent without a mother in the home and often with a domineering or distant father—and in exchange for affection, they molest or manipulate the boys into engaging in sex with them. Bridget Lincoln wasn’t a Mrs. Robinson seducing a college boy, she was a sexual predator.

  “Langstrom fits the profile. Only child, mother died young, father successful and largely absent. Lincoln comes in, gives the young boy attention—it appears she preferred twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys—and when the one got too old, she traded for another. If Langstrom was already pre-wired a sociopath, the rejection could have set him off.”

  “But,” Mitch asked, “as a boy, wouldn’t he have a harder time coming forward?”

  “Absolutely. Any victim of sexual abuse has a hard time telling authorities, but boys especially feel that they aren’t men if they cry rape. And Langstrom doesn’t seem to be the type to go to his father. I suspect that Ms. Lincoln preyed on the wrong boy—maybe one who had someone in the home who saw the signs and cared enough to do something about it. The police would have done an investigation, probably interviewed Langstrom. And he testified in court. He’d have felt humiliated and worthless and it would spur his anger, especially if he didn’t receive decent counseling. And even if he had—” Hans shook his head.

  “Don’t sympathize with him,” Mitch said.

  “I’m not,” Hans said. “But understanding his background gives us an advantage.”

  Meg said, “What you’re saying, I think, is that Langstrom came to Sacramento to assassinate Taverton—either because of blackmail or money or both—and he saw Claire and fixated on her.”

  “Exactly. He returned later with a new identity as a cop. Got a job with Sacramento PD. Befriended Dave Kamanski, who was close to his age, and whose father had become the guardian of the minor Claire. He insinuated himself in all of their lives. And when everything started spiraling out of control, he took her.”

  “Why?” Mitch asked, slamming his fist on the dashboard. Faster, faster. The longer Langstrom had Claire . . .

  “Because he couldn’t leave her behind.”

  “What about the judge and Mancini?” Meg asked.

  “Payback. I don’t think Langstrom had anything to do with drugging Claire at the Rabbit Hole. From what Mitch said, and the Lora Lane journals Grant found in Harper’s car, Ms. Lane had drugged Claire because Harper told her to. When Langstrom found out about the attack on Claire, he snapped. He went after all of them, taking them out to avenge Claire and protect his identity.”

  “So he’s not going to kill her?” Mitch asked.

  “I don’t know what he’s going to do,” Hans admitted. “But I don’t see any good coming from this. Bridget Lincoln is dead. She was strangled two weeks after she was released from prison.”

  “You think Langstrom did it?”

  “No one was arrested, but I don’t have the police files. I don’t know who they looked at or what evidence they had.”

  “Then what is he going to do with Claire?” Mitch said.

  “I think he intends to kill her, then disappear. But first I think he has something specific in mind for her.”

  Hans didn’t say it, but Mitch knew he was talking about sexual assault. Mitch forced himself not to speed more recklessly.

  “Why now and not five years ago? Ten years ago?”

  “Because he still felt like he had control over Claire and over his life. Even with his blackmailers dead, he probably assumes they have records about him and his crimes. He knows his duplicity will be exposed. And in his mind, he can’t leave Claire. Unless she’s dead.”

  Mitch had the accelerator floored. Dillard Road was one mile ahead. “Where off Dillard?” he asked through clenched teeth, not daring to take his eyes off the road.

  “Two point six miles south turn left. Lemon Road. Go to the end, five miles. That’s where he lives.”

  Fight, Claire.

  Claire took the stairs as fast as she could, biting the inside of her cheek against the pain in her leg. She hated that she was naked, not just because of modesty, but because her skin was so pale. Even in the dark, she would be easy to spot. She wanted dark clothing for camouflage. And a gun.

  She’d take what she could get. Freedom. She made it to the bottom of the stairs. The front door was ten feet away. Almost there.

  The two deadbolts slid quietly into their slots. Good. She opened the front door.

  An alarm pierced the night.

  No!

  She limped as fast as she could down the steps of the large farmhouse. A car was in the driveway. She couldn’t count on there being keys in it, but it would provide a shield if Phil started shooting at her across the yard.

  She reached the car as the alarm shut off, the silence ringing in her ears. She crouched behind the driver’s side, where the wheel wou
ld block her feet from being seen by anyone looking under the car. It was dark, but a half moon illuminated the acreage. She glanced around, looking for anyplace to go, anyplace to hide. Blood dripped down her leg from the gunshot wound. She put pressure on it as she collected her thoughts.

  “Claire!”

  Phil stood silhouetted on the front porch. There was no easy place to hide. The house was thirty feet on the other side of the car. He would find her here.

  She had to run, but she couldn’t outrun him.

  “Claire, I will find you. You’re naked. You’re injured. You aren’t going to escape.”

  She looked around as best she could without exposing herself. She saw something in front of the car. Feet. She leaned down to see . . .

  . . . a body. She’d thought she’d been awakened—or jolted out of her drug-induced loss of consciousness—by a gunshot. She was right. A man lay in front of the car. From the angle he had fallen, Claire suspected he was dead.

  Was that man the owner of this car? He would have keys to the car. If she could get in, she could drive anywhere. Would he have left the keys in the car?

  “Dammit, Claire, don’t make this harder on yourself. You can’t escape your fate.”

  He was closer. Claire didn’t dare open the car door. The dome light would come on, exposing her position, and if the keys weren’t in the ignition, she’d be toast.

  She crawled around to the front of the car. She felt the man’s pants for keys in his pockets. Nothing. But . . .

  . . . he had a gun next to his hand. A 9mm. Was he a cop? Had he come here to rescue her, only to be shot by Phil?

  No, the police would never send a lone cop to a scene like this. And if it was a routine patrol, or a neighbor calling, if he hadn’t checked in they would have sent backup. Not a cop . . . but Claire couldn’t dwell on who he was or why he was here. She reached for the gun. Instantly she felt more in control.

  “Claire, time to stop the games.”

  He was standing behind the car.

  You can’t run from him. This is the only option.

  Standing, Claire aimed the gun at Phil. She pressed the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Again and again.

  Phil laughed. “I can’t believe you didn’t check to make sure there were bullets in the gun. I emptied the cartridge after I shot him. Couldn’t be sure he was dead, didn’t want him shooting me in the back.”

  Claire turned and ran. Limped. Her leg hurt, the pain blinding her, but she moved as fast as she could.

  Phil was still laughing behind her. And gaining.

  Please, please, please.

  Claire didn’t want to die. She stumbled, aiming for the bushes where she might be able to find some cover. She wanted time, dammit! Time with Mitch. Time with her dad. She wanted all the time back that Phil Palmer had stolen from her.

  But how could she get away from a madman? She pushed through bushes and small trees, sharp branches and leaves cutting into her skin. She had one bad leg and a useless gun. She could hit him over the head with it. But to do that, she had to let him get close.

  Her blood loss was making her dizzy. Where was he? She didn’t hear him laughing anymore. She didn’t hear anything except the echo of panic in her ears. She willed herself to calm down. If she wasn’t calm, she couldn’t think rationally, and couldn’t find an escape route.

  There was a shed twenty feet to her left. Could she make it? Would she find anything useful inside? Maybe cutting shears. Or a chain saw. She almost laughed at the thought, as if she’d found herself involuntarily in a B-horror flick. No, she’d be trapped over there. Stick to the bushes and trees, and keep moving.

  “So predictable.”

  She jumped, tried to turn away from Phil. He’d gone around and come at her from the opposite direction.

  He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. He’d pulled on jeans, but had on no shirt.

  She swung her arm up and around, gun in hand. He clutched her wrist and slowed her momentum. Squeezed. The gun fell from her grasp.

  His face was inches from hers; he’d pulled her up off the ground with angry strength. “I didn’t want you to suffer, Claire. But you made me mad.”

  She screamed at the top of her lungs. Someone had to be around! Someone would hear her and call the police. He slapped her, once, twice, three times until she was on the ground. She felt around for the gun. It had fallen right here . . .

  “You’ll be better off dead,” he told her.

  “Fuck you!” she yelled. With her good leg, she kicked him. Made contact dead-on with his dick. He winced, bent over, and she stood, all her weight on the uninjured leg, gun in hand—this time holding the barrel.

  He put his hands around her neck. She was startled, not expecting the intense and instant pain as her breath was stolen from her.

  She used all her energy and coldcocked him with the gun. He released her, holding the back of his head, and she fell to the ground, greedily drawing in fresh air. She crawled away from him. He was on his knees, a cry of pain escaping his lungs.

  Go, Claire! Go.

  She continued moving away from him, unable to focus, but knowing if she was going to survive she couldn’t be anywhere near him. Her head felt thick and her leg was slick with blood. She wanted to hold it, to stop the bleeding, but he’d come for her.

  “Claire, you bitch!” he screamed, but he hadn’t moved. She had. Or had she? Her mind was muddled, and she didn’t know where he was.

  She looked up and saw a backhoe in front of her. She almost laughed at the thought of using a slow machine as a getaway vehicle. She took a deep breath, put her hand on the metal, pulled herself up.

  She turned. Where was Phil? She didn’t see him. Her heart pounded. No, no, no. Where was he? She looked right, left—

  “You found your grave.”

  He pushed her and suddenly she was falling . . .

  . . . she hit mud, landing flat on her back. She was staring up at the starry sky, the half moon casting odd shadows in the hole she’d fallen into.

  Hole?

  You found your grave.

  An engine roared to life. Dirt rained down on her . . .

  She pulled herself to standing. Reached as high as she could. The hole was taller than she was. She tried to climb out, digging her toes into the dirt. But it was too hard. She couldn’t get out.

  More dirt came down on her head. A rock hit her, stunning her.

  She screamed.

  No one could hear her over the grave digger.

  Mitch slammed on the brakes in Langstrom’s driveway, behind a sedan. “I heard a scream.”

  “Wait for backup!” Meg said. “They’re two minutes behind us.”

  Mitch ignored her and jumped from the car, gun drawn. He heard Meg swear under her breath, but she followed him out, Hans close behind her.

  Silence.

  They walked around the parked car. Mitch knelt and felt for a pulse on the body. He glanced at Meg and shook his head. Meg mouthed to him “Riordan.”

  Mitch pointed to the marks in the dirt and gravel of the drive. Meg didn’t see what he saw, but she hadn’t had as extensive training in tracking humans.

  They kept low. There were voices, beyond the bushes. A hundred yards away. They were all vulnerable in the open, but Mitch couldn’t wait for backup and a game plan. Saving Claire was the only thing on his mind.

  “Fuck you!”

  It was Claire’s voice.

  Mitch ran across the open space.

  “Claire, you bitch!”

  It was Langstrom, it had to be. Mitch continued toward where the voices came from. He couldn’t see anyone yet, but they had to be near here.

  A startled cry, then the sound of an engine.

  He turned to the right and saw the backhoe on the far side of the property. A pile of dirt was being poured out . . . into a hole?

  Where was Claire?

  Mitch sprinted toward the backhoe. “FBI! Freeze!” He aimed his gun at
Langstrom.

  “If you shoot, she dies!” Langstrom shouted. A scoop full of dirt was held over the hole.

  Claire was in there.

  Mitch heard nothing over the motor. Was Claire still alive? Had he already killed her?

  “Claire!” he shouted.

  He thought he heard a faint cry from the hole, but it might have been his imagination and hope.

  Mitch saw faint movement on the other side of the backhoe. Meg and Hans were circling around. Mitch needed to buy time. But he didn’t know how injured Claire was. She could be dying in that hole. She could be suffocating . . .

  “It’s over, Langstrom,” Mitch shouted. “Step down from the backhoe and surrender.”

  He laughed. “No, Special Fucking Agent. It’s not over. It’ll never be over until Bridget is dead.”

  Bridget? Who—the woman who was strangled. The one Hans suspected had molested the young Bruce Langstrom.

  “She hurt you, didn’t she?” Mitch said. He felt uncomfortable in this role. Hans had always been the one to talk to the psychopaths, working through their past and getting them to surrender or make a misstep. What if Mitch screwed this up? What if he said the wrong thing and Claire ended up dead because of him?

  “You’re not part of this. Go away.”

  “No,” Mitch said. “I know about Bridget. She raped her male students and went to prison. You were one of her victims.”

  “Victim? Fuck you, Fed. I’m not a victim. I was never a victim! I loved her. I wanted her.”

  “Is that what you told the judge when you testified against her?”

  “I never did that! I’d never hurt her. My father—he humiliated me. He did it, not me. He had shrinks come in and interpret what I said and change everything around.”

  “Shrinks. I can’t stand them either. Come down, Bruce,” Mitch said, trying to turn the conversation more personal. “Come down and we can talk about the damn shrinks.” Even as he said it, Mitch knew Langstrom wasn’t going to bite.

  “You’re transparent, Fed. You’re going to back off, right now. Back off. Go back to your car. Drive away. Then I’ll let Claire live.”

  She wasn’t dead. At least, if Mitch could believe this killer, Claire wasn’t yet dead. Mitch held on to the hope.