"Good idea." She headed for her backpack and withdrew a comprehensive map of British Columbia, which she then tacked to one wall. "We can use this to help us narrow the land search."
Brandon examined the map for a few minutes.
"That's a substantial area to cover, Jasi," he said finally. "You're talking the entire province."
"I know, but with support from Divine Ops we should be able to refine the search area to certain locations that have ranger towers and rivers nearby. Then we can ask Matthew to send in a team to search for her."
She could tell by the doubtful look on his face that he wasn't convinced.
"It's all we can do," she said, heaving a weary sigh, "unless I get more info from Emily."
"Have you tried creating an image of her face using the FRP and running that through the Missing Persons Database?"
"No, but that's an awesome idea."
The FRP was a Facial Reconstruction Program used by the CFBI and other agencies. Jasi could reconstruct Emily's face from memory, even age it, and they'd have a better chance of finding a match.
Jasi sat at the table, opened her laptop and said a silent thank you when she noticed the battery display indicated she had full power. Logging into the CFBI website, she entered her ID code and password, selected "FRP" from the navigation options and began the task of bringing Emily's face to life.
Brandon sat down beside her. "What kind of face shape does she have?"
She closed her eyes. Emily's face shape? Roundish.
Opening her eyes, she scrolled through the options.
"Cheekbones?" she read aloud. "High."
It took just over a half hour before she had an image on the screen that resembled the girl that haunted her dreams. A few tweaks here and there, and voila!
"That's her," Jasi whispered. "That's Emily."
"Save that picture," Brandon said. "Then we'll age it and save that one too."
As the FRP interpreted and assembled the data, the pixels within Emily's image contorted until the child morphed into an adult woman.
"She's very pretty," Brandon said.
Jasi had to agree. Emily had beautiful features.
"Her eyes look sad though," she said. "That's one part of her that has never changed in all my visions." She stared wistfully at the woman on the screen. I'm getting closer, Emily.
Brandon glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. We should call it a night. I have a feeling tomorrow's going to be a very long day."
She yawned. "I'm beat."
"Want to push two of these beds together?" he asked, grinning.
"Nothing's happening here, Brandon." The disappointment on his face made her add, "This place might be a sanctuary for some, but I'm not feeling particularly safe. In fact," she flicked a look over her shoulder, "I need to do something." She strode toward the door with the intention of locking it. "Damn."
"What's wrong?"
"There's no lock." She swore again.
"I guess they figure they don't need locks here. Everyone is family."
"Well, I need a lock." She grabbed a wooden chair and jammed it beneath the doorknob. "There. No one's getting here without us knowing it."
For good measure she checked all the windows, which thankfully came with standard manufacturer-installed locks. By the time she was done, Brandon had stripped to his boxers and climbed into one of the single beds.
"You sure you don't want to join me?" he asked, peeling back the covers to expose tanned skin and defined muscles. "Last chance."
It wasn't easy resisting temptation. And he was very tempting.
Jasi smiled. "Goodnight, Brandon."
She selected the bed next to his and shed her clothes, leaving her panties and bra on. Tucking the non-government-issued Beretta her father had given her beneath the pillow, she slid beneath rough cotton sheets and released a pent-up sigh. Going over the day's events in her mind, she made mental notes of follow-up interviews they'd need to conduct tomorrow.
She let her mind drift to Emily. Fear coursed through her, and she shivered. What if I don't find her in time?
A few feet away, Brandon snored softly. The sound reminded her of Pop. He'd fall asleep at the drop of a hat the second he plopped down in front of the television after a hard day's work. Sometimes he'd drop off while holding his coffee mug.
Although Mission wasn't far from Vancouver, Pop seemed a million miles away. She missed him. Last time she'd chatted with him he'd mentioned he was getting the boys together for cards—and by "boys" he meant his old cop buddies. She was happy Pop was staying active. After he'd retired, she'd worried about him. A cop's life expectancy after retirement wasn't promising.
Flashes of poignant memories played before her like a movie on the big screen. Pop beaming like he'd won the lottery when her mother came home. Her mother grinning, while Pop cursed because the sun was in his eyes, no matter where he sat in the living room. Her parents kissing when they thought they were alone.
Mom…
Calista McLellan—"Cali" to everyone who knew her well—had been brutally murdered, left for dead on the kitchen floor. Traumatized eight-year-old Jasi was the only witness to the crime. The odd thing was she didn't recall much about her life before that horrible day. And the event itself? Hazy and intangible.
For almost twenty years, authorities had assumed her mother's murder was a case of a home invasion gone wrong. They'd never caught the person responsible, and the case had grown cold. The files were probably locked away in a dank basement somewhere until new evidence surfaced.
She scrunched her eyes, trying to recollect that fateful day. The images slithered in sluggishly at first. It was Brady's second birthday. Pop had taken her brother out for the afternoon, leaving Jasi and her mother at the house.
Her mother told her someone was coming over. Something about "business." That in itself was unusual, now that Jasi was old enough to comprehend. Her mother had been a stay-at-home mom. What possible "business" would she have been involved in?
Someone had knocked on the door.
Everything changed after that.
Disobeying her mother, who had ordered her to go outside, Jasi hid in a closet. She heard a man's low voice, and he didn't sound happy.
"Where's the kid?"
"She's not here," her mother said.
The man swore. More yelling.
Sitting on the closet floor, Jasi peeked through the slat in the door. Her mother's slippers rushed past, followed by a blur of evil, its voice exploding with rage. He wore a baseball cap low over his face. She glanced down and saw shiny black boots. They reminded her of Pop's work boots and they had the same chemical scent. Shoe polish.
The man proceeded down the hall, and she heard glass shattering. She held back tears, afraid she'd make a sound and the bad man would find her.
Her mother screamed, followed by an ear-splitting crack. The air smelled weird, like burnt toast.
Jasi remained in the closet, shaking with fear. Footsteps approached, and she saw the man carrying something shiny and metallic. A gun.
She shrank back into the shadows. Please don't find me. Please.
The man jerked his head as if he heard something. "It didn't have to be this way, Cali. But you left me no choice. I'm sorry, Cali."
The black shoes clicked across the floor, out of view.
Jasi fought back tears. She was so scared.
Another loud bang echoed through the house. Then all was silent.
When she'd finally gathered the courage to leave the closet, she discovered her mother's body on the kitchen floor, one hand stretched out. Her bright green eyes and mouth were wide open, frozen in a silent scream, and it was that image that haunted Jasi all her life. That and the pool of crimson blood that stained the floor.
Lying in bed in the cabin at Sanctuary, Jasi embraced the tendrils of memory that had always eluded her. She'd gone over them a hundred times during the years that followed, without ever seeing anything new. But in the cobwebbe
d recesses of her brain, she knew she'd seen more.
What am I forgetting?
She remembered the pungent scent that had wafted from the wound in her mother's forehead, how she'd coughed and struggled to catch her breath, how her vision had grown distorted and her body light.
My first psychic vision.
How terrified she'd been when she realized she was seeing everything from the killer's eyes, feeling him, touching his malevolent mind.
Remember…
She recalled the man's powerful rage coursing through her body as she connected with him. She could almost hear his thoughts. He wanted something. He craved something. And he'd do anything to get it. He'd done far worse to Cali in the past. He couldn't think of that now. He had to get the…
There! Something new.
Now she knew why her mother's killer had come to their house that day. He hadn't asked about Jasi because he was concerned she was home and would see something. He'd come to take her away. For some reason he thought Cali would allow Jasi to leave with him. Was he insane? And why had he wanted her? Was he trying to kidnap her or take her away for a few hours?
And another thing—the man had known her mother well and for a long time. Had he been in love with her? Was he stalking her? Had her mother taken a lover?
No, that's not possible.
Jasi summoned more of that first vision.
Before her death, her mother had scratched her attacker, drawing blood. Yet the police report clearly stated that no traces of foreign DNA were found on her body or in the house. Now Jasi knew why. The killer had meticulously eliminated all incriminating evidence, other than leaving behind a body.
Muffling a gasp, Jasi sat up in bed.
Had her mother's killer been incarcerated? Is that where she'd find the answers—in some stark prison cell?
Reaching for her data-com, she opened a familiar file titled "Mom" and entered everything she'd just recalled. Her pulse fluttered with anticipation. Between this new information on her mother and everything she'd learned about Emily in the past day, she was more confident now than ever before. Ironic how these breakthroughs had come right in the middle of a case and while she was sequestered inside a cult.
Perhaps Sanctuary isn't so bad after all.
With every intention of going to sleep, she rolled onto her stomach, but the constant buzzing of random thoughts pissed her off. She wanted to scream, "Will you please shut the hell up and let me sleep?"
She spent the next ten minutes repositioning her body to avoid the wayward springs that jabbed her rib. There was no escape. She pounded the pillow to make it less bricklike, but that made no difference. Half an hour later, she gave up on the notion of sleep. With stealthy movements, she escaped the confinement of the torturous slab that some fool had mistakenly labeled a bed.
Dressing with haste, she tiptoed to the table and palmed Brandon's data-com. She'd leave a message in case he woke up before she returned.
'Can't sleep. Gone for walk to test ATVs.'
She mentally kicked herself. She'd been so distracted by her vision of Emily that she'd forgotten to complete the one significant task that had been on her agenda—retrieving the soil samples.
She grabbed the Beretta from beneath the pillow, securing it in the shoulder harness she wore. She found a flashlight in the front pocket of her backpack, which she eased over her shoulder. With a backward glance, she hesitated. Should she wake Brandon and ask him to join her?
No. It'll be a quick in-and-out mission. He'll never even know I left.
Jasi moved the chair, opened the door and slipped out into the night.
14
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Sanctuary, outside Mission, BC
Back in the surveillance van, Ben activated the cameras he and Natassia had positioned inconspicuously around Sanctuary's fence earlier that evening. It was a few minutes after midnight. If anyone headed into the forest or came close to the gravesites, they'd know it. He doubted anyone would be foolish enough to engage in illegal activities while Sanctuary was under the CFBI's magnifying glass, but one thing he'd learned in his years of investigating criminals, most weren't that intelligent. They always slipped up at some point.
The computer monitor flickered and split into six separate screens.
"Cameras are ready," he said.
Natassia peered over his shoulder. "You set the parameters?"
He nodded. "We won't be notified unless something larger than a dog crosses any of them."
"Good. I still wish we'd set up cameras inside Sanctuary."
"No warrant for that."
Natassia yawned. "So how are we going to do this?"
"We'll take turns on surveillance. I doubt we'll see much action tonight. Everyone at Sanctuary appears to have hunkered down for the night." He arranged chair cushions on the storage bin at the back of the van. "I know it's not much, but you should get some rest."
Natassia eyed the cushions. "I still don't get why we couldn't stay in a cabin like Jasi and Brandon."
"Matthew could only get authorization for two agents inside. There's not enough evidence to suggest someone from Sanctuary committed the crime. Evidently, Christiansen spouted that he had the right to a peaceful assembly, blah, blah, blah, according to the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Seems he has friends in high places, and they agreed."
"Doesn't that seem weird to you?"
He thought about this for a moment. "Giles Christiansen runs a non-denominational cult that practices polygamy. I can see why he'd want to make nice with the top brass in certain sectors." He opened his data-com's browser and activated a file search. "The good Father Jeremiah has connections to the Vancouver Police Department, at least three law firms and a handful of politicians. Not to mention, he's heavily financed by three multinational corporations, two well-known philanthropists and a popular motivational speaker."
"But that's what I mean. Why would they invest in Sanctuary? What do they get out of giving him money?"
"A huge tax write-off for one. And the appearance that they are out-of-the-box thinkers who are interested in helping others escape their addictions and find a peaceful existence."
Natassia shook her head. "That doesn't make sense to me. Tax write-offs aside, these investors all live relatively normal lives, with one wife, kids, the white picket fence around their mansions."
"Maybe they're closet cultists. You know, they fantasize about having the lifestyle Christiansen has." As he scrolled over the report, he paused. "Hmm, says here many of these investors have visited Sanctuary often throughout the years. Perhaps they want to escape the pressures of their normal lives."
"Maybe they're coming here to hook up?"
"You think Christiansen's pimping out the women?"
"And maybe the girls."
The thought made Ben sick. "We haven't uncovered any signs of sexual abuse."
"Maybe because the women are too afraid to come forward."
"You think this is what Sheral discovered, what got her killed?"
"Could be. Something is going on behind Sanctuary's doors and I doubt it's all sweat lodges, barbecues and 'Namaste.'" Natassia stretched out on the cushions, then groaned and changed positions.
"We'll be allowed inside tomorrow," he said. "Since we found the bodies buried so close to Sanctuary, Christiansen has to open the gates to us. Sanctuary will be swarming with CFBI agents come sunrise."
"So maybe we'll get that cabin?"
He chuckled. "We still can't stay overnight on the property."
"Damn…"
"Get some sleep, Natassia. I'll wake you up in four hours."
While his partner floundered on the makeshift bed, Ben continued to study the reports on Giles Christiansen, with a focus on the economic aspect of Sanctuary. The whole investor entity seemed suspect. These men had donated substantial amounts of money. Some had transferred funds via wire transfers. The further he dug into Sanctuary's financials, the more convinced he became that the mo
ney was the key.
Follow the money.
He made a note on his data-com. 'Possible reasons for donations: buying women/sex; trafficking women/children.'
He recognized many of the investor's names. If they were involved in something illegal, they'd lose more than tax deductions.
If the truth ever came out.
He thought about the bodies buried in the forest. Some were men. Surely they weren't being sold or abused. Had they threatened to reveal Sanctuary's sinister secret? If so, that could have led to their deaths.
What about Sheral Downham?
He suspected she had seen or heard something incriminating, perhaps even captured it on film. Then she'd been caught. And murdered. But why had the killer dumped her body in the incinerator instead of burying it with the others? If he had done the latter, the CFBI wouldn't be scrutinizing Sanctuary so closely, and the victims would be decomposing without anyone being the wiser.
The night of the murder, the residents of Sanctuary were told to stay indoors because of a bear sighting. The order may have been issued to allow the killer time to eliminate the body. But perhaps not everyone obeyed.
What if someone else was prowling around in the woods? Maybe that's why the killer disposed of Sheral's body in the incinerator and not out in the woods. He had no time.
"All we need is one witness," he whispered, staring at the photo of what was left of Cameron Prescott's friend. If only those bones could speak…
In some way they had. Natassia had received a clear but short vision.
He removed the gloves and stared at his fingers, flexing them with caution. His pale but well-shaped hands hadn't seen sun in years. He couldn't risk it. If he touched an object or a person, he'd often be inundated with symbolic visions.
He remembered the day Matthew Divine had found him. Ben was only twenty-one, and his parents had confined him to a psychiatric hospital. He didn't blame them really. They had no idea what was going on inside his head at the time. Hell, he hadn't even had a clue. All he knew was that sometime after his sixteenth birthday, his brain had become assaulted by thoughts and images whenever he touched specific items or people. He'd thought he was going insane—until some of his visions proved to be accurate.
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