Hunger Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 5)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  Roarke found himself nodding. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that Singh had an understanding of Cara that went far beyond what he could grasp.

  He was about to respond, when the restaurant door opened and Ortiz walked out.

  “Ortiz just exited the restaurant,” he said, low.

  His hand slipped to the holster of his Glock. It was all he could do not to leap out of the car, jump the man, shove him against the wall . . .

  But he remained seated. He knew what Ortiz was: the worst kind of predator. But he also knew where to find him. And he was betting he had a better shot at answers with a private citizen like Parker.

  So as Ortiz drove off, Roarke sat back in the rental car, watching.

  It was a few moments later, but when Parker emerged from the door and walked out through the parking lot toward his car, Roarke was ready.

  Parker beeped the Chevy open, reached for the door handle—

  And froze, as Roarke stepped out of the dark, holding his credentials out.

  “We’re taking a walk.”

  Parker pulled himself up, blustered, “Like hell. Why would I—”

  “So that I don’t arrest you for that little meeting you just had, there.”

  “Arrest me, motherfucker,” Parker snarled. “And get me a lawyer.”

  Roarke refrained from backhanding him. “Oh, I’ll be happy to arrest you. Let me spell this out for you. It’s Friday night of a long, long weekend. I can make sure you’re in federal custody for the whole two days and three very long nights.” He knew he didn’t have to remind Parker how well retired law enforcement does in lock up. Even if Parker or Ortiz had local pull, it wasn’t a chance any man in his right mind would want to take.

  Roarke continued, “Then I’m going to charge you with abduction, sex trafficking, and criminal conspiracy.”

  He stopped, let it sink in. Parker had gone very still.

  Roarke lifted his hands. “Or—we can talk, like reasonable people. We can come to an understanding. Entirely up to you.”

  Parker stood, fuming, but he knew he was busted. Roarke could tell from his reaction—he didn’t even have to go into detail on what he had on the PI, which meant what Ortiz and Parker were up to was big enough to scare Parker into compliance.

  “So what’ll it be?” he asked.

  Parker ground out through his teeth, “Let’s talk.”

  “I hoped you’d see it that way.” Roarke nodded out toward the dark desert beyond the parking lot. “After you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  It is all going exactly as planned.

  Jade and Topher walk, drunk, dizzy, down the few short blocks to Del Playa, past other drunk, dizzy people. Stopping every block to make out, dry humping. She massages him through his jeans, enough so he gets a taste of how very good she is. But she steps away every time, leaving him groaning in her wake.

  Del Playa is block-to-block people, with music blasting from every other yard and balcony, but Topher grabs her hand and steers her expertly, if unsteadily, through the crowd to the KAT house.

  Inside is more pulsing music, but compared to the chaos of the main house, this one is a sanctuary. This house is dark, lit only by random strings of Christmas and red chili lights. And it has nowhere near the volume of people. This is the fuck palace, the private party for the upper echelons of the fraternity.

  Of course he takes her straight to the Basement. Leads her down a narrow flight of stairs, opens the door.

  Jade’s eyes skim her surroundings quickly.

  It’s a long rectangle of a room, with a wall of glass opposite, looking onto the deck and the shimmering ocean beyond. She can hear the rumble of the waves below the house.

  There are candles, tiny red lights, and couples in various stages of undress. A built-in bar area: sink, cabinets, island counter crowded with bottles and cups. Couches and armchairs occupied by people making out, one pair openly humping on a sofa. And the pot smoke is thick enough to choke a horse.

  Topher’s the boss. When he orders, “Everybody out,” they all grab for their clothes and scramble out of the way.

  The ensuing disorder gives Jade all the time she needs.

  When the last throbbing, disgruntled couple is gone, he locks the door and turns.

  She has already cleaned a space on the bar, used a convenient plate of mirror to cut some lines.

  And now his drink has something extra. She’s spiked a shot of tequila with roofies. She knows it’s his drink tonight because she’s been tasting it when they kiss. Not that it matters. By now he’ll take anything she gives him.

  She presses a shot glass into his hand and they down the shooters. Then she passes him the mirror and a rolled-up bill.

  He hoovers a line up greedily as she watches.

  The lines are from the vial she cut with Rohypnol. And that’s not his first dose of the night, either. The bumps he did on their walk down to Del Playa were from that same vial. She doesn’t know exactly how much he’s had, but it’s slowing him down. His coordination has been deteriorating by the minute.

  She pushes into him, dancing against him teasingly, stroking him off at the same time.

  And smiles as he wobbles, stumbles.

  She swings him around, pushes him down on the couch, straddles him. She has another spiked shot in her hand, but at this point he doesn’t look like he can hold it without spilling. So she takes the tequila into her mouth—and then bends over him, kissing him, gushing the shot into his mouth so he swallows yet another dose.

  On top of the rest, possibly enough to kill him already.

  His head drops back against the armrest. She rides him, grinding against him, and he’s breathing unevenly. “Oh yeah, baby . . . yeah . . .”

  And then he’s silent.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  She is slung over someone’s back, being carried. Someone is climbing a rock face, seemingly straight up. The figure is slight, mere flesh and bone, but unbelievably strong. She hears muttering from whoever is carrying her.

  She knows it can’t be happening. But whatever is going on, she is too weak to struggle.

  She gives in to whatever it is, and slips back into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Forty

  Roarke and Parker walked in silence, out from the lights of the parking lot, away from the blinking neon of the cactus sign, twisting past sagebrush and real cactus. Roarke caught a whiff of creosote in the wind.

  The music of the restaurant bar faded behind them and there was only the soft crunch of sand beneath their feet. The night was clear and the moon nearing full. It was no hard thing to find their way between the scrub, the delicate fronds of mimosa, the occasional Joshua tree.

  Finally they were far away from the sight of the last cars, with the moon and stars the only light. Roarke stopped and motioned to a large flat rock. “Have a seat.”

  Parker did as he was told, reluctantly. And Roarke rattled off what Singh had found out about him. “Your name is Corey Lewis Parker. You served in the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department from 1984 to 2013. You worked with Detective Gilbert Ortiz in Major Crimes from 2005 to 2007. You’re now a private investigator, company name Private Solutions.” He paused. “And you’re doing a little work for Ortiz under the table.”

  “Sounds like you know it all,” Parker sneered.

  “I want to know what Ortiz hired you to do.”

  Parker was truculently silent.

  “Lockup, then?” Roarke suggested.

  Parker grimaced. “I’m investigating responses to—” He broke off.

  “His bounty offer?” Roarke said. “Conspiracy to commit murder?”

  Parker smoldered. Roarke looked out into the dark of night, and saw a Joshua tree.

  For a moment he could almost see the skeleton of a girl.

  Ivy.

  He turned back to Parker, with barely contained fury. “A serving law enforcement official offers a bounty for rape and murder, and you’re profiting from t
hat.” His voice dropped, low and deadly. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”

  For the first time, Parker looked truly worried.

  “Oh—you’re getting it now, aren’t you? You could really not come out of this alive.”

  Parker spoke fast. “I’m hired to check out people who respond to—the offer. I do background checks.”

  “What are you checking for, specifically?”

  Another long pause. “Criminal convictions. Firearms ownership. A history of activity in—certain online forums.”

  Roarke didn’t have to ask what online forums he was talking about. “I take it none of those are disqualifiers. That’s a list of the minimum requirements.”

  Parker gritted his teeth, but nodded.

  “So you’re looking for people with records.”

  For blackmail purposes, and to increase the chances that respondents would actually follow through.

  “Yeah,” Parker answered.

  “And these firearms—I’m guessing they’re not legal.”

  “Right.”

  Roarke paced on the sand, a million jagged stars above him. “And if candidates pass that threshold?”

  Another pause. “Then my understanding is that certain information is passed on to those individuals.”

  Roarke felt sick. “Information like . . . location? What?”

  Parker shifted on the rock. “I don’t know. That’s not my part of this.”

  “He’s recruiting hunters to bring him Cara Lindstrom.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Ortiz have Lindstrom right now? Does somebody?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Roarke felt anger well up in him, and before he could check himself, he was dragging Parker up by his collar.

  “I swear I don’t,” Parker choked out. “All I do is screen applicants.”

  “I want a list of these applicants.”

  “All right. Yes. Yes.”

  “I mean now.”

  Roarke pushed Parker away and the man fumbled for his phone. He tapped, scrolled, finally handed it over to Roarke.

  There were eight names, with addresses in California, Nevada, Arizona.

  Roarke swallowed, gathered himself. “You’ve checked all of these men out in person?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then what?”

  “I do a report. Living situation, family situation, finances. How they present.”

  “How much has Ortiz paid out for this, so far?”

  “Upwards of twenty-five grand.”

  Roarke didn’t react, but he was shaken. It was a steep price for . . .

  For what? Revenge? Rape? The opportunity for a private murder?

  The chill he felt had nothing to do with the desert night.

  “Send it all to me. Everything you have. Now.”

  Roarke gave Parker an email address. It was a Hotmail account that Roarke had as yet never used. He’d set it up when he’d taken his hiatus, just in case. In case of what? was an interesting question. But the account wasn’t in his own name, or any variation of it.

  He watched as Parker fiddled with his phone again. When Parker looked up, nodded, Roarke checked the email account, opened the file, read enough to know that Parker had sent the real thing. Then he turned back to the man.

  “Why were you meeting Ortiz tonight?”

  “There’s another couple applicants that came in today he wants screened.”

  The posters from the forum?

  “Are those on the list?”

  “Yeah. The last two.”

  “You always meet Ortiz in person?” It seemed an unnecessarily risky way to do this kind of business.

  Parker frowned. “We don’t, usually. Not since the first time.”

  “So why did you meet in person tonight?”

  Parker looked honestly bemused. “I’m not sure.”

  “Guess,” Roarke said tightly.

  “Ortiz has gone paranoid,” Parker admitted. “Thinks he’s being monitored. Wants to know who he’s talking to.”

  It was the first truly spontaneous thing Parker had said that night. It was interesting. Roarke believed him. And now he saw an opening to get the contact Singh said they needed.

  “All right. You’re going to get back to your employer and clear your latest potential clients for contact. The guys ticked every box, passed with flying colors. Except—you’re going to give Ortiz a new email to use to send information to ‘them’ from now on. My email. If I’m not contacted in the next twelve hours, I’m kicking down your door with a warrant for your arrest for criminal conspiracy. And you’re going straight to lockup. Are we clear?”

  Parker gave a sullen nod.

  “I have your name. I have your address. I have your online accounts. I have your phone number. You are now under twenty-four-seven surveillance. Any news on Lindstrom, I expect to hear it from you immediately. Any move you make to contact Ortiz will be monitored. Don’t fuck up or I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life. That’s a promise.”

  Roarke walked the PI back to the parking lot, staying at a distance behind Parker. He watched as Parker got into his vehicle, drove the SUV off.

  Back inside his car, he phoned Singh.

  “Ortiz is using Parker to screen hunters. I’ve got a list of men he’s met with and passed on to Ortiz, and their contact information. I think the last two are the ones who posted in the forum today.”

  Roarke paused. Singh answered his unspoken question simply, “Send me the list.”

  “Thank you, Singh.”

  He ended the call, and stood alone in the moonlight. And hoped he was not already too late.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jade sits on top of Topher, not moving, staring down at him. His breathing becomes longer, deeper, labored.

  She stands up, watching him. He doesn’t move.

  Now she is free to drift around the room. She takes the vial from between her breasts, the unspiked vial, and bumps.

  She stumbles. And giggles.

  Okay, that last blast may have been a mistake.

  There is movement in the corner of her eye, in the dark beside the wall opposite the bar. A flash of bony white.

  She spins . . . and sees the skeleton hovering against a black curtain.

  She gasps.

  The vision fades.

  She breathes in, focuses.

  And realizes that the black curtain is draped across the wall where no window would be.

  She frowns, walks unsteadily across the room . . . reaches out and pulls the curtain aside . . .

  And stares up at the Trophy Wall.

  Printed-out shots on plain paper, glossy paper: the collage of female body parts. Naked breasts and thighs with Greek letters drawn on in marker. Beaver shots. Naked girls passed out, being fingered, being fucked.

  Fury rises in her, rushing though her veins, blinding her.

  She sees flashes in her mind, camera flashes. Danny shooting photos for the online sites, Backdoor, Redlight. Ass shots, breast shots.

  Do it and smile. Do it or get beaten.

  She chokes out a strangled cry of rage. She turns in the room . . . then strides to the bar, looking over it, her face burning up.

  She starts yanking out drawers, scrabbling through them . . . until she finds what she’s looking for.

  She straightens up, holding the knife.

  She walks deliberately over and looks down at Topher, hard. And the red Christmas lights gleam on the blade.

  “Now it’s your turn, motherfucker,” she tells him softly.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Cara wakes to the feathery brush of snow on her cheeks.

  Then nausea overtakes her and she sits upright with the overwhelming need to vomit. Suddenly she feels a slender dry hand on her head, and someone is holding a bowl for her to be sick into.

  She is sick for a long time, vomiting up all the bile from her dreams, from the hunters, from the photos, from the world.

>   Finally the retching stops. She is empty and shaking. But the sickness is gone.

  Her face is cold, but the rest of her is warm. The pain in her ribs has faded to a dull ache.

  She opens her eyes. She is on a bed of piled furs, buried in them. Around her, a curve of rock wall creates a cave. Beyond the semicircle she can see straight into the snowstorm, as if she is in the eye of it, high, high up in the sky.

  A tiny, ancient woman stands on the rock floor of the cave, looking at her. She wears antelope robes and a necklace of bones around her neck.

  Cara is suddenly shot through with terror, her mouth dry as dust.

  This is a different fear from what she felt with the hunters. It is primordial.

  The sheer power emanating from this being is terrifying. This is not human. It is goddess energy. It is not real, and it is far, far beyond real. It is mind cracking.

  The old woman takes the bowl and goes to the edge of the rock and throws it out. All of the sick turns to dark ash as it floats down into what Cara now knows is the canyon, hundreds of feet below.

  It is not the color and shape of the rock that tells her where she is. It is not the dizzying height, or the expanse of snowy sky.

  It is that small, wizened, robed figure.

  She is on the spire of Spider Rock.

  She feels her mind straining to encompass it, feels her mind on the verge of breaking with the strain.

  The old woman turns to Cara. Cara drops her eyes. She cannot look into this being’s face. It takes her breath away. She has always lived on the border of sanity, but now it seems she has finally crossed over. Or perhaps she is dead.

  She hears the ancient, bony voice in her mind, not aloud.

  Breathe, child, Spider Grandmother says. There is work to do.

  DAY FOUR

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Cara huddles in the bed of furs, dreaming awake. The naked bodies of the hunters are piled in a corner of the cave circle, on top of a heap of other bones.

  The old woman sits on a stool, rocking slightly back and forth. Her words come relentlessly in Cara’s mind.