by CJ Lyons
“We’d been working on the theory that he was titrating the drug to make it last longer—maximize the amount of time he had to inflict pain before they became unresponsive.”
“Yet the amount of time he’s kept them has shortened, not lengthened. Maybe he’s more interested in the drug itself? Making the actual assaults on these women some kind of twisted experimental protocol?” Jacob asked.
That propelled me off the stretcher, startling Ozzie and both men. “They’re people, not lab rats. This man tortured these women—and it’s pretty clear from the physical findings that he enjoyed it.”
Ryder leaned forward against the back of the chair he straddled. “We know. But I’m trying to get beyond the presentation of the crime to his motivation. What if this guy is looking to create some perfect form of PXA? Something he can make big bucks with—and the opportunity to torture women is just a nice bonus for him?”
“Maybe he’s a meth cook gone amok?” Jacob asked.
Ryder nodded. “Except I don’t know of any street value for PXA—in fact, the junkies call it Death Head and avoid it like the plague.”
I was still trying to process the idea of someone torturing these women, literally driving them out of their minds with pain, as a means to a commercial end. The pain I’d experienced when I was in Allie’s mind—was it all for money? “There are some medical protocols experimenting with variations of PXA. It has potential as a non-addictive opiate alternative.”
Jacob jerked his chin at that. “I don’t understand. A drug that stimulates the pain centers can be used as a painkiller?”
“Potentially. It’s all about the balance of the chemicals available for the brain to process. For instance, capsaicin, the active ingredient in hot peppers—”
“The stuff we use in pepper spray,” Ryder put in.
“Right. Painful stuff. But it has also been used to stop pain by overstimulating pain transmitters until they’re depleted. As for PXA, I haven’t read the research behind it. Louise might know.”
“If it is possible, how much would a drug like that be worth to someone?” Ryder asked.
“A safe and effective replacement for opioids is pretty much Big Pharma’s Holy Grail. It’d be worth billions.”
“And all of it legitimate money.” He pushed the stool away as he stood. “I think we need to stop looking for a typical sadistic serial rapist and start looking at someone with ties to drugs and pharmaceuticals.”
“It does open up a whole new line of investigation,” Jacob agreed. Was that a hint of respect in his voice? “Angie, if we analyzed the PXA found on the other victims, would it be possible to nail down something about this guy’s manufacturing process? Perhaps he’s varying ingredients or something?”
“Maybe.” What he was asking was totally outside my field of expertise. I treated drug overdoses all the time, but the chemistry behind them? I left that all behind in med school. “You should talk to the lab guys. They’ve got all the evidence. Maybe they can run it through a mass chromatograph or something.”
Jacob bounced on his heels, now totally sober and energized. He’s as passionate about his work as I am, loves digging in and getting his hands dirty to build a case that’s a surefire win once he gets it to court. “I’ll head over there as soon as they open.”
“Don’t forget our other victims,” I reminded both of them. “Jacob, could you follow up with tracking the families of our seven kids found in the tunnels? Apparently, Children’s Services is getting nowhere.” I was loath to put their faces out there with the media, but that might be necessary if we couldn’t identify all of the kids and find their families soon.
“No problem. You heading home?”
“No. Ryder and I are going to notify Alamea Syha’s family.”
Jacob drew himself up to his full height, rigid. His face masked, his voice dropping into the danger zone, he stared at me, not Ryder, as he said, “Could we have the room?”
As if I didn’t know that look, that tone? “Hell, no. First, if you’re talking about me, you’ll do the courtesy of doing it in front of my face. Second, this is my job, and you have no right to interfere. Third—”
I ran out of steam, realizing that not only did I not have a third, but neither man was listening to me. They were too busy playing testosterone tug-of-war. Ryder’s hands were open at his sides, near his gun. His mouth had tightened at the corners, revealing the slightest hint of his canines. Jacob did what I’d seen him do a hundred times right before he ground an adversary into legal dust. He relaxed. Smiled. Like he enjoyed the challenge and would be sorry when the fight was over.
Men. Idiots. Darwin was so wrong if this was the best evolution had to offer.
I threw the curtain open hard enough to make it rattle. “Take it outside. Not in my ER.”
Both men blinked and swiveled to look at me. Ryder’s face relaxed into an honest, self-deprecating smile, revealing a dimple I hadn’t spied before. Jacob looked puzzled, as if he didn’t understand why I was angry.
Then Jacob stepped to me, his palms resting on my shoulders as he turned me to block the rest of the room—and Ryder—from my vision.
“I don’t like the idea of you going over there, not tonight,” he said in a low voice filled with concern. “That place is on the verge of total collapse. I really wish you’d think about this, Angela. Come home with me. Let Ryder make the notification. You can pick this up in the morning.”
I’ve had years of practice, and it was still hard to resist Jacob when he did that. It wasn’t just the tone of his voice, it was the way his body curved toward me, offering comfort, protection, everything I needed.
I almost said yes. I wanted to say yes. Exhaustion had melted my bones. Not to mention the fears I’d bricked up behind a wall of denial. It would be so easy to simply leave it all behind, take what Jacob offered.
Ozzie’s wet nose tickled my palm, reminding me of what was at stake. No easy way out for me.
Standing on my tiptoes, I kissed Jacob—a brief brush of the lips, more than casual, less than a promise of more. “Thanks, but I have work to do.”
He didn’t look happy, not at all. He looked over my shoulder to Ryder. “She’s your responsibility.”
Ryder nodded. It was perfectly clear they weren’t speaking as prosecutor to police officer. I wanted to haul off and slug them both, but someone had to be an adult.
Shaking my head, I grabbed Ozzie’s leash and walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Devon was glad to leave Good Sam behind. The place creeped him out—even more so after watching Angela do her séance thing. As he walked, he absently scratched the scars on his palms.
Angela’s spells were nothing like Mrs. Anders and her deliverances. When Mrs. Anders got going, praying and chanting over him and his mom, trying to purge the evil that was Daniel Kingston, she’d leave for another world. But not like Angela. Mrs. Anders’ trances seemed like cheap carnival sideshows compared to Angela’s.
No wonder Angela was scared shitless. Especially being a doctor. Damn hard to face something like that when you’ve seen up close what happens to people sick in the brain. Tumor, that’s what he figured. Not that she’d asked for his diagnosis. But what else could it be?
He didn’t blame her for not wanting to find out for sure. Hell of a death sentence.
His phone rang, and he moved out of the wind to a storefront to answer. It was Harold. “What did you find out?” Devon asked.
“Remember that Nigerian who tried to hustle in on Andre’s territory? Idiot wouldn’t shut up, kept blabbering about American freedoms and how they protected his right to try to steal from any fool willing to part with his money?”
“Yeah. Andre stitched the guy’s lips shut before he shot him dead.”
“Well, these folks got their lips sealed just as tight.”
“Nothing on Esme?”
“It’s weird. The people in the Tower don’t act like they’re scared she’s in danger, but th
at somehow she’s a danger to them and that scares them. Like if she gets found, the whole place comes toppling down.”
“So you got nothing about who took her or where she might be.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“Cops hassling folks over there?”
“Nope. They’ve finished and gone. Tyree’s folks are on alert, patrolling the halls. The place is on lockdown.”
Devon didn’t ask how Harold had maneuvered his way past Tyree’s men. Harold was good at circumventing obstacles—either with money, talking or, if need be, a well-placed fist. For a white guy, he was pretty handy to have around.
Tyree was protecting someone. If it wasn’t Esme, then it had to be the Kingstons.
“Any mention of Leo or Daniel Kingston?”
“Some whispers. About Leo. Folks look over their shoulder when they mention his name, like the devil is chasing them. I think he might be tied to the girl you found in the tunnels because folks sure shut up fast when I asked about her or those other kids you found.”
That room where they’d found the girl and the other little kids, that had felt a lot like Mrs. Anders’ old deliverances. The crazy exorcism mood.
Mrs. Anders had always insisted that Devon be purified as well as his mother. Back in her home country, Mrs. Anders had told him, she was a famous witch hunter. Witches and demons liked possessing children best, because their defenses were weak. Whenever a devil visited an adult, it came from a child nearby.
Had she any idea the guilt trip that placed on a little boy? He would have done anything to purify his soul if it meant setting his mother free. He would have died if Mrs. Anders told him that was the only way to save his mom.
He held up his palm, letting the predawn mist settle on his scars. Burns from holding candles during the purification rituals. A skinny boy kneeling for hours on a hard floor, hands held out in supplication, candles balanced on them, hot wax searing his flesh. Small price to pay for his mother’s healing.
“Whatcha want me to do, boss?” Harold’s voice broke through the haze of memories.
“Keep working things there. Let me know if Tyree makes a move.”
“Will do.”
Devon headed back toward St. Timothy’s. It was four a.m., but not too late to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with his old friend, Father Vance.
<<<>>>
To my surprise, Ryder decided to walk back to the Tower. “It’ll take just as long as driving,” he explained. “Streets are blocked with the emergency crews after the explosion.”
“What caused it?”
“Fire guys thought it was phosphorus. Used in making meth. Good thing the door blew shut or else the entire place would have gone up.”
He sounded awfully blasé for someone who could have just as easily been blown to pieces. His expression was emotionless—which I gathered meant he was feeling a hell of a lot more than he was willing to share.
“One of Tyree’s booby traps gone wrong?”
He shrugged. “I’m sick of playing crazy eights.” He drew a horizontal figure eight with his finger in the air, Ozzie following the movement with his nose. “Good Sam to Tower to Good Sam to Tower and back and again, with the occasional stop by St. Tim’s in between. Makes me feel like a damn cosmic yo-yo.”
“Patrice or your friend Father Vance would say it’s God’s will.”
He scoffed. “I say it’s the job. It’s sometimes like this. You go where the answers are.”
“And the answers are in the Tower.”
Again, he paused before answering. “Maybe. Or maybe that’s just what we’re meant to think.”
He told me about seeing the bloody handprint right before the explosion. “Forensics won’t be able to get DNA because of the heat, but they think they can lift a print.”
“Maybe somebody took advantage of Tyree’s security to use the tunnels for their own purposes. Allie and the other victims could have been held there without anyone knowing.”
“I think there’s a lot going on down there that no one ever suspected. Allie could have been dumped with the other kids to divert suspicion and to give the actor time to set up the phosphorus trap. Anyone came knocking, it would destroy any evidence he left behind.”
We continued on, crossing the street, Ozzie swinging his head in both directions, checking for traffic. Ryder cleared his throat. “So, I thought you and Voorsanger…”
“Yeah, so did he.” I shrugged. Ryder sounded interested, which was nice since I felt the same about him. Except that right now, with my mind taking crazy left turns into la-la land, I couldn’t risk it. Shouldn’t risk being here at all. What if I had another fugue and he saw?
Now it was my turn to feel panicked. My skin rippled with a sudden need to flee. Before I could surrender to it, he touched my elbow.
That was all. The touch of his hand. And suddenly I was calm.
“Why did you and Voorsanger split?”
“It’s not like we didn’t love each other. I guess we still do. Only we needed different things. We met when I was in med school and he had just finished law school. He was an intern at a law firm, broke his ankle sliding into third during their company softball game.”
“Love at first sight?”
“Kind of, I dunno. Definitely like at first sight. We were comfortable together. After a long day at work, we’d be together, and it was easy—an oasis, a safe haven. For a lawyer, once he’s out of the courtroom, Jacob is the least confrontational or competitive guy I know. Anything I wanted, he was fine with.”
He made a noise, remembering the way Jacob challenged him in the ER. I’d never seen Jacob act that way before, except during a trial. Wasn’t sure if that should make me angry or not, but I knew I didn’t like being the pull toy in their testosterone tug-of-war.
“So you got married,” he said.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time. For about a year or so, it was. But then I was in my residency—long hours, demanding patients, life-and-death decisions—and I just couldn’t handle coming home to make more decisions, to take care of one more person. It wasn’t that he was demanding, just the opposite. Felt like if I didn’t make a decision, if I didn’t have a plan, then nothing got done. It was exhausting. Then I’d feel taken advantage of, so I’d try to get a rise out of him, pick a fight, anything to make him stand up and do something. Soon, that’s all we were doing, fighting, usually about nothing. We decided enough was enough.”
“But you still have sex.”
And our music. “Why not? Two people can enjoy and comfort each other without getting tangled up in emotions or causing pain.”
“Gee, you make it sound so romantic. Thought it was the guy who was supposed to be allergic to commitment.”
“Let’s just say I don’t want to see anyone else hurt because of me. Besides, why can’t people just enjoy the moment?”
We’d arrived back at St. Tim’s. Ryder had been right. The street now overflowed with vehicles and people. There were cameramen and reporters interviewing anyone who’d stop and talk, civilian or first responder, asking about imprisoned children.
“Damn,” Ryder muttered. “Word’s gotten out.”
I heard more than one reference to the kids as “feral” and “living like rats in the dark.” When one perky female reporter speculated on possible cannibalism, Ryder had to grab my arm to prevent me from rushing her.
“It’s our fault they don’t have any facts,” he reminded me. “Can’t have it both ways.”
We sidled around the edges, avoiding the lights of the cameras. I shortened Ozzie’s lead, not wanting him to get tangled up with the police and firemen hustling hither and yon, all with a sense of purpose in their expressions and gaits. We came to a fire department SUV with its rear gate open, two men huddled over something, one of them wearing a bright orange prison jumpsuit, the other in turnout gear. In the car, a guard was slumped down in the backseat, asleep.
“See you lived to fight another day.” The fireman greeted Ryder
and reached down to scratch Ozzie behind the ears. “Gotta thank you. The overtime my guys will be getting after your shenanigans will provide them with a very merry Christmas indeed.”
“Overtime?”
“Yessir. We’ve been ordered to follow your guys and clear every inch of those tunnels of any potential fire hazards. Job’s gonna take weeks.”
The prisoner in the jumpsuit bobbed his head excitedly, grinning. “And I’m the official consultant!”
Ryder looked over their shoulders at the map of the tunnels they had spread out. “Kingston’s giving you unlimited access?”
“Of course. Only way to do the job properly.”
“Interesting. He threw a hissy fit about me stepping foot inside earlier. Have they been able to get into the room where the explosion was?”
“No. It’ll be awhile. You have any idea how hot phosphorous burns?”
“Won’t be much evidence left after that.”
The fireman grunted. “Won’t be much of anything left after that.”
“Be safe down there,” Ryder told him, and we continued on.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Daniel Kingston stopped us—me—from searching the tunnels earlier. Pretty much threatened to have me fired, in fact. Interesting that as soon as that one room is destroyed, he’s giving us full access.”
“You think Kingston is involved with what happened to Allie and the others?”
“I think there’s no evidence left to prove anything, and that’s awfully damned convenient. So is the timing.”
“You know Kingston owns more than real estate.”
“Yeah, he also owns the mayor and the chief of police and probably the DA.”
“I mean other business holdings. He bought out Narcis Pharmaceuticals last year, made his son CEO.” I remembered because the Advocacy Center had been slated for grant money from Narcis, but the takeover canceled the funding. And yet, they somehow found money to throw a big gala celebration tonight. Guess treating the victims of violence, most of them from Kingston Tower, wasn’t high on Daniel Kingston’s priority list. “He’s planning to move their operations here to Cambria. It’s supposed to revitalize the economy, save the city from bankruptcy.”