by Неизвестный
“And?”
Joseph Garcia spoke up. “Kate Donovan is notorious in the department. You either love her or you hate her. Agent Paige Henshaw was Donovan’s partner. They set up the sting after Trask was suspected of killing a teenage girl online. But—and no one is exactly sure what happened because Donovan disappeared—apparently she and Henshaw set up a sting without any authority. They walked into a trap. Henshaw was kidnapped, raped, and stabbed to death. Donovan missed saving her by minutes.”
“Or getting herself killed as well,” Peterson mumbled.
“Why is she a former agent?” Dillon asked. “Did she quit?”
Garcia raised his eyebrows, glanced at Peterson. “That was before my time. I only know the rumors.”
Peterson sighed. “When Agent Henshaw went missing, Kate was told to step back. The Office of Professional Responsibility wanted to talk to her about why they set up the sting without backup and in direct violation of their orders. Instead, Kate went underground to find her partner. She resurfaced only to ask for backup, but when teams were sent to two false locations and she claimed she’d finally isolated the feed, it was the case of crying wolf. No one believed her, and after the death of one agent and Henshaw still missing, the powers that be refused to act on unsubstantiated data. After Paige Henshaw died, Kate disappeared. She was right that last time, but the FBI had acted too late.”
Dillon stared at the documents in front of him, pages of reports about the activities of “Trask.” The films, rapes, murders. Suspected and proven. His extensive pornography network.
“Trask thinks of himself as playing a role like an actor. But he considers himself superior to Hollywood types,” Dillon said slowly. “He’s smart, probably a genius-level IQ, but for him I think this is more a game, a sense of grandstanding, showing off his intelligence. But why not fraud? Theft? Hacking into banks? Something about this manner of gamesmanship, this online show, fuels his fantasy. There’s something very personal in his choice of murder.”
“Yeah, he gets his thrills from killing women,” Connor spat out. “Talking about this bastard isn’t getting us any closer to finding Lucy.”
Dillon stared at Connor, wishing he could release his own rage and frustration, but he would leave that to his more volatile brother. “If we don’t understand him, we’ll never find him.”
“Fuck that! We’re sitting around doing nothing while Lucy is…is—” Connor couldn’t finish. He stared at the computer screen, drawing all their eyes to a half-naked Lucy. Scared and vulnerable. Tears coated Connor’s eyes and he ran a hand over his face. Carina squeezed his arm.
“I’m sorry, Dil.” Connor’s voice was thick with emotion.
Dillon caught his brother’s eye, nodded. “I want to talk to Kate Donovan,” Dillon said to Peterson. “Do you have any way to reach her?”
Peterson looked uncomfortable. Garcia spoke. “I need to take a leak. Can I get anyone coffee?”
“Thanks, Joe.” Peterson watched him leave. “He knows I’ve been talking to Kate. He wants plausible deniability, and I don’t blame him. Her former boss wants her head on a platter.”
“Why does she trust you?” Dillon asked.
“We were in the same class at the Academy. And I wasn’t working the case five years ago when Paige Henshaw died. She considers me neutral.”
“And are you?”
“Hell, no. I’m on Kate’s side. Always have been. But I can’t give her the one thing she needs.”
“Which is?” asked Dillon.
“Immunity.”
The complexity and sensitivity of the situation was becoming clear to Dillon. But Lucy’s life was at stake, and if Kate Donovan could help save her, Dillon would find a way to convince her to help.
“Kate Donovan’s been tracking this killer for over five years,” Dillon said. “She has the answers. I just need to ask the right questions.”
“You should know that some of the information she’s turned up was false. No doubt a setup by Trask, but the Bureau doesn’t like wasting resources setting up rescues or stings when there’s no one to rescue. Two years ago we almost lost a team of agents in a trap. Kate warned us it might be, but, well, it was just the case of crying wolf all over again. We had her analysis and methodology, but didn’t have time to run the scenarios ourselves. The FBI won’t do that again, but being methodical takes time.”
“Time that Lucy doesn’t have,” Dillon said quietly.
Peterson stood, walked over to where Patrick was sitting at the computer station in the corner. Five screens had been set up, two for the FBI, Lucy’s computer, and Patrick’s laptop. The fifth screen showed Lucy via the webcam.
There’d been little movement for the last twenty minutes. Every few moments Lucy tried in vain to break free from her chains. Her jaw was clenched, her neck taut, as she stoically held up against the terror that glistened in her dark eyes. Her mouth moved, but sound had been turned off at the source.
If Lucy died, Dillon didn’t know if he could hold everyone together. His family was already fractured, yet even under tragedy they’d managed to stay together. Lucy’s death would break them. Dillon couldn’t let her die, especially like this.
Peterson brought up an instant messaging system on the FBI computer and typed in a code, then wrote:
I need to talk to you.
A moment later.
User not online.
“Dammit!” Connor exclaimed. “I can’t sit around here and do nothing.”
“What do you suggest we do, Mr. Kincaid?” Peterson said. “Where would you look? The world is a big place. We’ve narrowed his network down to the North American continent, but from Canada to the Panama Canal? A lot of territory to cover. Kate shares her technology with me, and I give it to the powers that be. They’re tracking him just like Kate is. Thing is, she’s on it twenty-four/seven. She eats, sleeps, and breathes this bastard. If anyone is going to find him, it’s her.”
“Even with all her mistakes?” Connor questioned. “The traps and the dead ends? Sounds like she should be ignored.”
“It sounds bad, but you have to understand the environment we’re in. Kate provides information with reservation. She doesn’t know if it’s legitimate, but she can’t in good conscience withhold it. In the past, some people have jumped the gun and then blamed her when the operation went south.”
“She’ll go after him on her own if she believes she knows where he is,” Dillon said quietly.
Peterson impatiently tapped his fingers on the table as he stared at the screen. “You have her pegged.”
“May I?” Dillon motioned to the computer.
“Be my guest.”
Peterson walked to where Nick and Carina stood in the corner. They spoke quietly as Dillon put himself in the mind-set of a vigilante FBI agent ridden with guilt and anger. And pain. Lots of pain.
He began typing.
Kate, my name is Dillon Kincaid and I’m Lucy’s brother.
User not online.
I think you are online. I think you’re waiting for word from Quinn Peterson. Listen to me. We need your help.
User not online.
Lucy is eighteen years old. She graduated from high school yesterday. She’s smart and beautiful and the youngest of seven kids. I’m her oldest brother.
User not online.
Lucy’s going to Georgetown in the fall. She wants to be a diplomat. She’s well versed in languages, speaks four fluently. She loves Irish folk music and Cuban rock.
User not online.
Eleven years ago my nephew was murdered. Justin and Lucy were best friends, seven years old, and Justin was kidnapped from his bed and killed. My older sister Nelia never recovered from Justin’s murder. My family was changed forever. My sister Carina and two of my brothers became cops, wanting to stop predators like the one who killed Justin. I became a forensic psychiatrist. I get into the heads of killers. I think I can find Trask. I can find this predator who kills women for pleasure and profit. But I
need your help.
Nothing.
Dillon’s heart pounded. Had he hit a nerve?
Belatedly,
User not online.
“You’re online, Kate,” Dillon mumbled, “and you’re going to talk.” He turned to Patrick. “Start a trace.”
* * *
FIVE
NO ONE WAS in the room. It was just her, half-naked, and the damn blinking red eye of a camera. Filming her.
Lucy didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she feared her life was on the line. After all, she’d seen their faces. Isn’t that what she’d always heard? If you can identify them, they won’t let you go.
They’re going to kill me.
Her face burned remembering how Trevor had told someone that she was a virgin. He’d been standing in the corner, talking into a phone, as if he were a game-show announcer, talking about paying to watch her.
She might be a virgin, but she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know exactly what he meant. He was going to rape her.
She swallowed, a sob escaping before she could stop the betraying sound of fear. She didn’t want to show him anything. No emotion. She’d lie there and let him do whatever he was going to do. She remembered Carina teaching her how to fight back, giving Lucy a top-notch self-defense class every couple of months. Kick, scratch, scream, run. Get away.
None of it helped when you were already tied up.
But she’d also learned that rapists got off on the fight, on subduing their victims. He’d called her “feisty,” as if that were a good thing, a fun thing. She wouldn’t do it. She’d bite her tongue before she screamed or begged for mercy.
The blinking eye bothered her, though. The camera. They were recording her. Why? To watch the rape over and over again? So he could show it to his sick friends?
Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it uneasily, the vomit burning. She swallowed again.
Hold it together, Lucy. Think.
Someone would find her. They had to. By now her family knew she was missing. It was dark, late at night or early morning, she didn’t know.
They would be looking for her. Connor and Carina and Patrick and Dillon—and they had friends in high places. She had to hold on to that hope. And anything that might happen; well, put that aside. Put that away. Surviving was the most important thing. Everything else, she could deal with in time, right?
But her life—she had to survive, whatever brutality they had planned for her.
Where was she? The room was dimly lit, probably just bright enough for her body to be filmed. There was a single window, but the blinds were drawn. Two doors. She knew one led to a hall. The other? A bathroom? Closet? She didn’t know.
Trevor had brought her here on a boat. She’d heard something about an island. One of the guys said they were approaching an island.
What island? Catalina? Avalon? How could that be? Too many people and tourists. Maybe he’d taken her south, to an island off Mexico. Away from America, from safety.
The blinking eye of the camera mocked her. Lu-cy. Lu-cy.
“Enjoy the show for free” Trevor had said.
Was that camera live?
Her body involuntarily shook and she groaned out a cry of misery. How? What was he doing with it? Could people see her right now? Like this?
She pulled at her restraints, but they were tight.
“You fucking bastard!” she screamed. “Let me go!” Lucy strained and pulled.
On the other side of the door, someone laughed. It wasn’t Trevor.
It was a female voice. And it didn’t sound completely…right.
That scared Lucy even more.
Kate typed.
User not online.
Dillon Kincaid was persistent, she would give him that. Why was she even reading his pleas? She should have turned off the monitor when he first tried to draw her into conversation.
She was punishing herself. You want to know everything about the girl who’s going to die next.
Punishment? Where the hell had that thought come from? Kate was trying to prevent Lucy Kincaid’s murder. She still had a chance. Every one of Kate’s computers was working at full capacity. She had all the server space and computer resources she needed. The fastest drives, hundreds of gigabytes of memory. Nothing was slowing her down. Kate would find Lucy and she would save her.
Like she couldn’t save Paige and the others.
Dillon Kincaid was still writing.
My brother Patrick is a computer genius. He can help you. With your skills and his skills, together we can find Lucy before it’s too late. Talk to him, please.
There were good computer people, but no one was as good as Kate Donovan. All Patrick could do would be slow her down asking stupid questions about why she did this, why she did that. And he had a vested interest, his attention would be split. He wouldn’t be focused on the task, instead watching what was happening to his sister.
She typed.
User not online.
She glanced at Lucy Kincaid on the center screen. She was tugging at her restraints, yelling something. Fucking was one of the words. Kate smiled bitterly. Lucy was a fighter; Kate liked her.
Dammit, Lucy, I don’t want you to die.
Eighteen years old, her entire life ahead of her. Kate wanted to put a bullet in Trask’s head so badly she could almost feel her finger press the trigger, see the bullet enter his skull, picture his brains splatter on the wall. He deserved torture, but she’d be content with a quick death.
Dillon Kincaid sent another message.
Kate, I know you want to help. You’ve been helping for five years. You lost people you cared about. You’ve been running all this time, but still haven’t forgotten the victims. I have Quinn Peterson’s file here. His private file. I know what you’ve done, and I’m in awe of you. I also know what Trevor Conrad has done to these women—you know him as Trask.
Kate, together we can find him. As I read Peterson’s notes and your messages to him over the last five years, I see who this man is. Arrogant. Ruthless. Remorseless. He’s done this many times. Before Paige. Technology gave him the ability to broadcast his sick fantasies, but don’t think you pushed him into murder.
He’d been killing for years before you and Paige uncovered his crimes. You were going after him because of a missing girl. Well, guess what? If we dig further, we’ll find dozens of women he’s killed. You sent him underground. You’ve already saved lives.
Paige did not die in vain.
Please help me find Lucy. Don’t let her be his victim. Talk to me, Kate.
Her hands shook. She wanted to talk to Dillon Kincaid. He seemed to understand things even her friend Quinn Peterson didn’t.
But she couldn’t. Who was he, really? She couldn’t be stupid. Kate already had a plan, it was solid, she had to execute it.
She typed.
User not onlone.
She didn’t notice her typo until after she hit enter.
Hello, Kate.
She shut down the program, her heart pounding. He’d gotten to her, dammit.
Movement on the center screen caught her attention. Roger Morton walked into view.
The countdown read 44:05:00. Roger unchained Lucy, held her in front of him, his head close to hers. Kate reached over and turned on the volume.
“…pretty for the camera, Lucy.”
“Fuck you,” Lucy said.
“Oh, we’ll do that, sweetheart, I promise. But for now your fans just want a sneak peek.”
With a flick of his wrist, Roger extracted a butterfly knife and sliced open Lucy’s bra. Kate gasped, watched a thin trail of blood where the tip of the knife had nicked her breast.
Lucy stifled a scream and said, “Y-you bastard!”
She struggled. Roger laughed as he easily held her hands tightly behind her. Her struggles made her breasts bounce in the camera, perfect titillation for the sick perverts who watched Trask’s show.
Roger kissed Lucy’s neck and she us
ed her head to wallop his. The hard crunch of bone hitting bone made Kate’s head ache.
“Bitch.” Roger was pissed. He liked feisty, but he didn’t like getting hurt.
Suddenly Roger cried out and Lucy ran out of the camera frame. The shot had been a close-up, but there was no mistaking that she’d kicked him in the balls. She was out of view for one, two, three seconds. Then she fell into view, pushed roughly onto the thin beige carpet.
Trask didn’t show his face, but Kate knew him from his broad build and the short-cropped blond hair. He bent over Lucy, slapped her once, then again, then kneeled as he tied her back down. She fought him, and Roger grabbed her legs. Lucy shouted obscenities, her hand working furiously. She bit Trask on the forearm and he slapped her so hard the side of her head hit the mat, her cheek instantly red with his handprint.
Her hand. Something about Lucy’s hand. She was repeating the same motions over and over. It looked like sign language.
Then the feed stopped, froze.
The countdown read 44:00:00.
“Dammit, I paid, you bastard!” Kate spun around to another computer, frantically typed until she brought up Trask’s secure server and paid him again to watch the feed. It took her nearly ten minutes to get through. His server was getting a lot of traffic today, she thought bitterly.
A message popped up on the screen.
Hello, Kate Donovan. Just wanted to make sure it was you, sweetheart. This one’s free. Enjoy.
“What happened?” Dillon asked. “Why did it freeze?”
Peterson sat at a vacant terminal and typed in a bunch of codes. “We have to pay to watch. I thought this was taken care of.”
A message came up on the screen several minutes later.
Hello, FBI. I see you’ve gotten much better at hiding your identity, but you’re not as good as I am. I don’t think I want you watching this one. You might get the wrong idea. Remember, this is consensual fantasy role-playing, but I’d rather not have to explain it to a jury.