This is it.
He grabbed the manila envelope, ripped open the top without bothering with the metal clasp, and dumped the firework mortar and old t-shirt onto the floor.
Though he’d grown up with M-80s that could sound like an army was invading, those weren’t available any more. Instead, he was going to make do with a mini mortar shell–essentially a cardboard tube with fireworks in it. It was meant to hold a single, one-inch diameter ball of powder with a fuse but he’d already filled it with three. He stood it in the bottom of the toilet bowl and hurriedly jammed the worn shirt all around and on top of it, sealing it in, with just the fuse showing.
Experience had taught him that the tighter you could seal the explosion, the bigger the boom. A number of empty toilet tanks in the junkyards of his youth had been blown to dust.
He drew the lighter from his pocket and opened the stall door. Still no one. Quickly, he lit the fuse and, as it sizzled loudly behind him, he ran.
• • • • •
Isabelle sat in the strained silence of the conference room with Sergeant Dixon and Captain Atakawa, a distinguished Asian man with a crew cut, possibly in his early fifties, who wore a dark, blue suit. Though the captain had cast a few glances at her gloves, he hadn’t asked. Nor had she offered to explain. More than likely Sergeant Dixon–
A booming noise, accompanied by a shudder in the floor and a rattling of the glass wall behind her, made Isabelle start, hands landing on the table in front of her.
“What the–” yelled the captain as he jumped to his feet.
“That was an explosion,” yelled Dixon, following the captain to the door.
Isabelle got up as well.
“No,” Dixon said, thrusting his palm at her. “Stay put. Let me see what’s going on first. I’ll be right back.”
A crowd of people began to flow by in the hallway. In moments, the sergeant and the captain had disappeared into the mass of uniforms and suits that were running toward the explosion.
Oh my god, Isabelle thought. Where’s Mac?
She grabbed her purse and was just pulling out her phone when a police officer flew through the doorway into the conference room.
“Isabelle de Grey?” he panted breathlessly.
“Yes?” she said, putting the phone away.
“Sergeant Dixon sent me,” he said taking her by the arm. “We’re evacuating.”
• • • • •
The elevator came to such a hard stop that Mac had to crouch low and the young man in the corner lost his footing and sat down hard.
They’d heard the explosion only seconds before. An alarm began to sound beyond the confines of the elevator and a red light next to the emergency call button on the elevator panel began to blink. Mac stood and looked up to the indicators above the door. None of the numbers was lit. The last number he remembered seeing was eleven. He’d been on his way to the seventeenth floor to see Ben.
“Are we stuck?”
Mac turned to the young man, who’d managed to stand but had left his backpack on the floor. He looked like he might be twenty at most.
“For the moment,” Mac said. At least the boy didn’t appear to be panicking. Mac looked up at the indicator lights again. Still nothing. He pressed the red button with the white phone symbol on it. “The elevator is probably programmed to stop when it senses a jolt.” He checked the lighting at the elevator ceiling. “We’ve got power, so no interruption in electricity.”
“So we’re okay?”
Mac nodded at him and smiled.
“We’re okay.”
Though Mac spoke slowly and casually to keep his companion calm, his mind was racing.
That had been an explosion.
Where is Isabelle?
• • • • •
Prentiss all but dragged Isabelle down the stairs after him. It was chaos in the stairwell. People were flooding into it and it was getting more crowded as they neared the lobby level. This was something that Prentiss had counted on. Isabelle hadn’t questioned him, simply done what she was told. Though he could feel the panic all around him, the crowd still moved at a steady pace, the bumping and jostling mostly coming from firemen who were charging upward in the opposite direction.
“Get clear of the building!” they shouted as they headed up.
As they surged into the crowded lobby, Prentiss kept his grip firm on Isabelle’s arm but he felt her resist.
“I’ve got to find Mac!” she yelled.
He glanced backward at her, the amber eyes blazing, her lips parted with heavy breathing.
“We have to get clear of the building,” he shouted back, using the dialogue he’d just heard.
Whether he’d convinced her or not, he didn’t know but she sped up again. As the throng crushed near the double doors, Prentiss pushed with them. After several long minutes of bodies pressed together, people screaming and shouting, firemen trying to get in, they were out.
Prentiss ran now, not wanting to lose momentum.
“To the parking lot,” he called over his shoulder. “All the way clear.”
He could see his white sedan from here–the one he’d worked so hard on. He’d bolted an aftermarket push bumper on the front of it and slapped a few magnetic-mount antennas on top. If you didn’t look too close, it was an unmarked police car–though he hadn’t been sure enough to park it next to other law enforcement vehicles.
The crowd had thinned out considerably. Lots of people had stopped to look back at the building or were taking pictures with their cell phones. Only a handful had reached their cars and, those that had, were quickly getting in. Prentiss felt Isabelle tug backward against his grip.
“I’m going to call Mac,” she shouted.
Prentiss slowed to a rapid walk, breathing hard, but he kept tugging. The car was only a dozen yards away.
“I’ve got a radio in the car,” he said, not turning to her. “It’ll be quicker than a phone. Everything’s going to be jammed.”
Isabelle came abreast of him and tried to pull her arm free.
“I’m fine,” she said. “You can let go.”
They were almost at the car.
“Not really,” he said as he reached to his duty belt.
Though the gun wasn’t real, just an air gun with an empty clip, the handcuffs and riot baton were real. Prentiss unsnapped the leather loop around the baton and removed it with his left hand.
• • • • •
Isabelle glanced back at the building. The sound of sirens filled the air and firetrucks of all types and sizes were joining the few that were already on the scene.
Where is Mac?
How was she going to find him in all this confusion?
Hopefully the police officer was right.
But just as they arrived at his car, her phone rang. It was Mac’s ringtone!
Though she heard the chirp of the car alarm as well as the door opening, she didn’t look. She was trying to dig the phone out of her purse when she realized they’d stopped at the back of the car and the trunk was open. She was just thinking how empty it looked when a sharp blow at the back of her head pitched her forward and the world suddenly went black.
CHAPTER FOUR
“What do you mean you left her here alone?” Mac screamed at the top of his lungs.
Dixon’s ears seemed to pin themselves to the side of his head but he didn’t back up.
“I’m sorry, Mac,” he said, locking gazes with him. “How many times do you want me to say it?”
Mac had been stuck in the elevator for an hour before an emergency technician had been able to override the stop. By then, the building had been empty. Calls to Isabelle’s cell phone had gone unanswered. Mac had checked at the rental car–one of the few remaining vehicles in the lot. But there was no sign of her anywhere.
“We don’t know that she’s been abducted,” Ben said.
“You don’t know,” Mac spat, whirling on him. “I do!”
“Mac,” Dixon said. “
We’re doing everything we can.”
“It’s not enough!” Mac yelled, pacing to the far end of the conference room.
They’d already sent a black and white to her apartment. It was en route now but Mac already knew what they would find. Nothing. Isabelle wouldn’t have left without him. Mac reversed direction and paced, stopping behind the chair that Isabelle had been sitting in when he’d last seen her.
24/7, he’d said. Never leave her side, he’d promised. Never lose her, he’d vowed.
He glared down into the empty seat not even seeing it.
It was his worst nightmare come true.
The Chameleon has Isabelle.
• • • • •
Prentiss watched as Isabelle’s eyes slowly opened. The amazing amber of them was almost like the actual stone. It took her several moments as she slowly blinked once and then twice but she eventually tried to move her hands. The handcuffs rattled against the heavy chain.
He’d laid her on her back on the metal cot. Just a heavy shelf of metal with golfball-sized holes, it was attached to the wall with giant hinges so it could be folded up or down. At the moment, it was down and the thick, taut, diagonal metal chains at its head and foot held it in the horizontal position. He’d used three pairs of handcuffs, one for each hand and one to cuff her ankles together. A loop of chain that slipped through one of the holes in the cot and a large padlock through the chain below the bed would keep the third cuff in place. He hadn’t wanted to spring for the leg shackles at the adult store. The one hand was tethered to the support chain of the cot near her shoulder. But the other arm dangled from the upper part of the chain, where it attached to the wall. The arrangement obviously confused her.
She tried to move her bare hands again and this time looked up.
But she immediately winced and took in a quick, hissing breath.
“There’s quite the lump on the back of your head,” he said, amiably, starting with good cop. “That’s got to hurt.”
He’d drug in a metal office chair and sat in it facing her, the chair facing backward so he could lean his forearms on the edge of the back.
Her eyes, truly open now, snapped to his face.
“Hello, Isabelle,” he said smiling. “Welcome to cell number A35.”
He sat close to her in the tiny space and his voice echoed with just the tiniest bit of reverb in the all metal room. The bars behind him were closed but unlocked–the mechanisms probably all stripped out long ago to prevent any accidental imprisonments.
“No,” Isabelle gasped as she yanked her arms and feet.
That had to hurt too, Prentiss thought, still smiling.
“I see you know me,” he said. “Recognize my voice from the message I left you?”
He was particularly proud of his voice.
“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I think you know me better than that,” he said, opening the button on his left shirt pocket. He’d donned latex gloves the moment she’d landed in the trunk. “But what I’ll bet you didn’t know was that I’m a bit of a collector.” He reached down to the bottom of the pocket and drew out a thick silver chain, dangling it between them. “This belonged to Esme.” He stood then and moved the chair aside. “That’s who we’re going to start with.” He watched as Isabelle’s eyes widened with his approach. She squirmed on the metal cot and the chain creaked even under her slight weight. “And I think you know why Esme.”
She’d been the only one of his victims to have survived and it had been because of Isabelle.
“No, please,” she pleaded, trying to back away from him. “Don’t.”
He gathered the chain up into a loose wad and lowered it toward her hand, which she immediately balled into a fist. He smirked at it. Time for bad cop.
Using both his hands, he slowly pried up her index finger, then the next. Her hand shook and she groaned with the effort of keeping her fingers closed but there was no way she could resist. The delicate and soft skin of her palm began to appear and Prentiss let the chain fall into it.
“No,” she gasped as her body went rigid.
Though her eyes were open, they looked through him, completely unfocused. Her diaphragm sucked in and out at a furious rate as Isabelle panted through parted lips. Suddenly, she sucked in a huge lungful of air.
Prentiss braced himself for the moment he’d prepared for, even dreamt of, ever since Esme.
Isabelle screamed–a wretched and high-pitched wail torn from the very core of her.
Her back arched violently. The handcuffs rattled. And the chains creaked as the most exquisite sound he had ever heard seemed to never end. His ears literally rang with it. His body vibrated with it. A wild thrill shot through him, just as Isabelle heaved in another lungful of air. Then, Prentiss did something he’d never done before. He placed his free hand against her throat just as she screamed again.
Oh god. It was lovely. He could feel it, feel everything, the terror, the pain. It was ecstasy.
CHAPTER FIVE
The control room on the seventeenth floor of the Federal Building in Westwood was crowded. Mac looked around at the anxious faces, the chatter and heated discussions a dull roar. The bomb squad had quickly determined that a refillable mortar of fireworks had been set off in the bathroom on the eighth floor. It’d been so damn simple Mac had almost laughed–almost.
And the audacity.
Mac clenched his jaw.
The Chameleon had struck quickly and right in their own backyard. It was more than being cocky. It bordered on suicidal.
“All right, everybody,” Mac yelled over the din. “Quiet down. Quiet down.” He waited a few moments. “I need your attention, people.”
Slowly, quiet settled over the group.
“Let’s go around the room and see what we’ve got,” Mac said, standing in front of the large glass board. A photo of each victim ran across the top and, beneath each, was a column of data related to them. Isabelle’s photo now occupied a space at far right.
“Sergeant Dixon,” Mac said.
Dixon stood up from the desk he’d been sitting on and read from his notepad.
“Nothing from hospitals,” he reported. “If the Chameleon was treated for an injury to the knee, it wasn’t in the county of L.A. Records searches were variable but some went back to the 1980s.” He looked up at Mac. “But no hits. We knew it was a long shot.”
“What about the glove prints?”
Dixon shook his head. The prints that the Chameleon had left on the surgical instruments he’d used on Angela had transferred to a scalpel directly through the thin latex of his glove.
“No hits,” the sergeant said. “He doesn’t have a criminal record, a registered gun, or had a security clearance or been in any database.”
“All right,” Mac said nodding. “No help there.” He made a note on the glass board. “Ben?”
Though Ben was technically a number of grades above Mac, this was Mac’s investigation. Ben was handling the coordination with Quantico.
“No results yet on the foreign matter found on Angela’s body,” Ben said. “The lab is still trying to match it.” Mac made another note on the board. “They’ve finished their digital mock up though,” Ben continued, pointing to the fax sheet taped to the bottom right corner of the board.
“That should be on everybody’s cell phones,” Mac said, staring at it for the hundredth time. Did it seem familiar? “I also want it at airports, train stations, bus stops and every federal facility. I don’t think the Chameleon is going anywhere any time soon but the more places it can be seen, the better. Who can take care of that?”
A voice piped up from the back–a female agent that Mac recognized but didn’t know.
“I got that,” she said, making a note.
“Good,” Mac said. “Security footage?”
A male agent, completely gray, sitting in a rolling chair at the front spoke up.
“We’re going through it,
” he said, a toothpick clenched at the side of his mouth. “There’s…a lot.”
“Right,” Mac said.
Throngs of people had poured from every door, hallway, and stairwell in the building. It could take days to see all the footage and there was no guarantee Isabelle would be in it–obscured by someone taller or wider.
Mac took a deep breath.
“I’ve uploaded my latest profile to the server,” he said. “In it, you’ll find everything.” He turned in a slow circle looking at the assembled group. “But what you’ll find is essentially this: the Chameleon blends in with his environment using disguises; he’s a sexually-motivated, serial killer who’s probably a victim of incest and has had a knife wound to the knee that he is re-enacting; he’s been clever at not leaving evidence until last time; he wants fame; television coverage is a part of that; but he’s becoming less careful and more overconfident. We need to pay attention to the little things, no matter how unimportant. Put together, they’ll add up to the total picture we need to catch this son of a bitch.”
There were nods all around. Everyone in the room was pulling for this now. If the Chameleon didn’t know he’d made a mistake by angering this bunch, he was about to find out.
• • • • •
This was simply too delicious not to share. Prentiss looked down at Isabelle’s motionless form. Even though the pain was virtual, only in her psychic vision, it had been enough to cause her to pass out. Her breathing had finally slowed and become more even as Prentiss realized what a gem he’d found.
This could go on indefinitely.
There was no need to slice into her knee right away. He was doing it repeatedly simply by making her see what he’d done to the other victims. They’d work their way through all of them, one by one, without a single drop of blood being spilled.
Taken (Second Sight) Page 3