Serena screamed, and she discovered she was in a small place, because the noise rattled back and forth between the walls, unbearably loud and tinny. Outside, though, it was a murmur held up against the roar of the wind. She kept screaming until her throat was hoarse and sore, and when she stopped, nothing at all happened. No one ran to find her. The blizzard paid no attention.
“Scream if you want, but no one will hear you,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
“Go two feet outside, and you can’t hear anything. Believe me, you don’t want to go outside now. You wouldn’t last thirty seconds.”
It sounded like thirty seconds of paradise to her. Thirty seconds of exposure, and then she could be warm and asleep and out of pain.
“Why me?” she asked.
“You were the one I wanted all along,” he said.
“Why?” she repeated.
“Haven’t you guessed?”
Something in the way he said it made her realize for the first time that this wasn’t random. She hadn’t crossed paths with a stalker and accidentally wound up in his sights. This was about her and him and always had been. Personal.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I think you know.”
He was right. She did know him. When she thought about it like that, she realized that there was something familiar about him, something in his voice that stirred memories. She searched her past, but there were so many names. It was like that when you were a cop—the names blurred together. Most of the time it didn’t matter, because how many perps cared about being collared by a fat cop in his fifties? But when you were a woman, when you were beautiful, when you were from Las Vegas, the past somehow hung on and never let go.
Her bad luck.
Right then and there, she knew. Bad luck. Tommy Luck.
Tommy Luck, who scarred his girlfriend with the point of his knife. Tommy Luck, who kept that ugly wall in his apartment with dozens of secret photographs of Serena—tortured photographs with missing eyes, slashes across her neck, red paint splashed on her body, holes where he had stabbed the images repeatedly with an ice pick. Oh, God, oh, God, why hadn’t she kept track? He was in for twenty years, but the more they piled people into prisons, the more they let others out.
He was out. He was back. Tommy Luck. She should have done what she thought about doing years ago, when he first got out of prison. Followed him. Killed him. She could have erased him and erased all the pain for everyone else who wound up in his path. Maggie. Tanjy. Eric. All the others.
Her fault. She should have killed him back when she had the chance.
“You know, don’t you?” he asked her.
She was silent.
“I want you to see me for what comes next. I want you to look into my eyes. I’ll tape them open if I need to. You’re going to watch what I do to you.”
She felt the knife again, on her face this time, bruising her cheekbone as he cut away the blindfold. She couldn’t help herself—she opened her eyes even when her mind told her to keep them shut. There was only a single bulb lighting up the space, but it was bright anyway after so much darkness, and she squinted and turned her head. He loomed over her, huge and strong, coming between her and the light, a silhouette of evil.
FIFTY
They went through his apartment door with battering rams at two in the morning, but Stride knew he wouldn’t be there, and he wasn’t.
He was using the name William Deed, and the people who knew him called him Billy. Mitchell Brandt and Sonia Bezac both confirmed that Billy Deed was the Byte Patrol tech who worked on their computers, and the store owner who was now seated in front of the computer in Deed’s apartment checked his records and told Stride that Deed had handled the setup and firewall for Tanjy Powell.
There was no record of William Deed in the state’s criminal justice database, and the social security number he had provided on his employment application was false.
Stride ran both hands through his wavy hair and tried to hold himself in check. His adrenaline raced, coursing through his bloodstream as if he had swallowed down half a dozen cups of strong coffee. His heart was skipping beats; he could feel it stutter every minute. Along with the adrenaline was a coiled fist of dread in his stomach, churning up acid that burned a backward path up his throat. He couldn’t think about Serena now. If he did, he would go crazy. He could only think about William Deed and how to find him.
Max Guppo emerged from Deed’s bedroom. He was a flatulent, three hundred pound detective, fifty years old, with the worst comb-over in the upper Midwest, and he was also Stride’s best evidence technician. They had worked together since Stride joined the force. No one wanted to be locked up in a van with Guppo on a stakeout, but the man was a wizard with latent prints and evidence maps and knew his way around computers as well as anyone from Byte Patrol.
“Plenty of prints,” Guppo told Stride. He had a line of perspiration on his upper lip. “I raised the best of them. I’m on my way to City Hall to scan them in.”
“Call the duty officer at BCA in Saint Paul, and get someone in the lab to check the database for us right now. If there’s no state match, have them send it on it to the feebs and put a rush on it.”
“Already done,” Guppo replied. “I woke up my buddy who’s the top guy in the BCA lab, and he’s on his way downtown. He said he’ll handle it personally.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Don’t worry, sir, I’ll get back to you in less than an hour even if I have to wake up the special agent in charge.”
Guppo hustled from the apartment, and when Guppo hustled, the floor shook. Stride knew that Guppo and the rest of the team were working double-time all night on this case. They’d do it on any abduction, but this one was personal. Their loyalty was the one comfort he had right now.
Teitscher arrived at the apartment a few minutes later, and his bloodhound eyes found Stride by the window. His trench coat was wet with snow.
“Anything?” Stride asked, but when he saw Abel’s face, he knew it was bad news. His heart misfired again.
Teitscher’s mustache formed a frown. “We found Pete McKay’s squad car in a downtown parking ramp.”
“Did you check it out?”
“Yeah. Look, Lieutenant, I can’t sugarcoat this. We found bloodstains in the trunk. But we’re not talking about a lot of blood. No one bled out in there, okay?”
Stride needed a cigarette badly. His racing nerves made his fingers tremble. He reminded himself again not to think about Serena and not to dwell on what might be happening to her. Think about Deed. Work the case.
“So you think he switched cars,” Stride said.
“Yeah. I also think Serena’s alive.”
Teitscher didn’t explain, but Stride knew what he meant. If Serena were dead, Deed would have left her body in the trunk of the car. “Were there any cameras in the ramp?” Stride asked.
“No, but this guy has one of the purple Byte Patrol vans checked out to him. We haven’t found it. We’re calling everyone with an emergency ATL on the van. We’ve got highway patrol staking out all three of the north-south arteries—Thirty-five, Sixty-one, and One sixty-nine—in case this guy tries to head toward the Cities. The Canadian border is on alert, too.”
“How about Wisconsin?”
“Yeah, we’ve got Wisconsin Thirty-five covered. K-2 pulled in off-shift personnel, and we’re blanketing the city. The media’s on it, too. I know it won’t do much good until the morning news programs, but we’ll have the public on the lookout tomorrow. We’ll get helicopters up when it stops snowing.”
Stride couldn’t escape the feeling that tomorrow would be too late. “He probably has another vehicle,” he said.
“Probably.”
Stride shouted at the store owner, who was sifting through the material on Deed’s computer. Craig was no more than thirty, wearing gray sweatpants and a red UMD sweatshirt with ratty sneakers. He looked half-asleep. He was tall and thin, with big, f
rizzy red hair and a lumberjack’s beard. “Hey!” Stride called. “Do you know if this Deed had another car? Did you ever see him driving anything other than your van?”
Craig rubbed his eyes. “No, he kept the van overnight most of the time.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” Teitscher said. “Those vans are so noticeable that no one notices them.”
“So maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’s still in it,” Stride replied. “Keep me posted. Check in every half hour.”
“I will. Look, Lieutenant, I know this doesn’t mean shit coming from me, but I feel bad about this.”
“Thanks, Abel.”
“I’m also not saying I was wrong about Maggie, but this thing looks more complicated than I thought.”
“You played it the way I would have done in your shoes,” Stride told him.
“Maggie called and asked me if she could be part of the search. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I said okay.”
Stride shrugged. “She would have done it anyway.”
“I know.”
“Better be careful, Abel, people will start saying you’re soft.”
“Yeah. That’ll happen soon.”
Teitscher left, and Stride continued studying Deed’s apartment, looking for clues to the man. The apartment building was a drab high-rise near the pawn shops and gun stores on the far south end of Superior Street. Through his sixth-floor window, Deed looked out on a jigsaw puzzle of highway overpasses where the freeway broke apart into the city streets. It was cheap, anonymous, and seconds away from a quick escape.
Inside the one-bedroom apartment itself, there was little to distinguish the man. He ate chicken TV dinners, tacos, guacamole chips, and frozen chunks of walleye wrapped in aluminum foil. The kitchen reeked of fish. The apartment came furnished, and Deed had added little of his own other than a high-end PC. They found no magazines, no bank records, and no receipts. All they had was a description of the man: tall, heavy, strong, early forties, with black hair down below his neck, dark eyes, and a hawklike nose. He wore jeans and denim shirts when he wasn’t wearing the Byte Patrol purple T-shirt.
Something about the apartment bothered Stride, but whatever it was waited like a ship in the fog and refused to show itself. The more he tried to focus his senses, the more the feeling became gauzy, as if he were imagining things. There was nothing to see here and nothing to find.
Stride pulled a kitchen chair next to the store owner, Craig, who was clicking the computer keys and staring at the screen through bleary eyes.
“What have you got?” Stride asked.
“Enough to fucking well put me out of business,” Craig retorted. “This asshole put back doors and spyware into every computer he touched through the store.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he could use their Internet connections to log on to their systems, paw through their hard drives, and track every fucking keystroke they made. He knew everything.”
“I’m going to need names.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll print you a list. They’re all going to sue me.”
“What else?” Stride asked.
“What else am I looking for?”
“Anything that will help us find this guy. Where he goes. Where he shops. What he does. He’s got to have a hideaway somewhere.”
“What I’ve found isn’t going to help you. It’s mostly hardcore porn. Disgusting stuff, lots of bondage.”
“What about local sites? People, places, businesses based around Duluth? Blogs, MySpace pages, anything like that?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did he ever visit a blog called ‘The Lady in Me’? Or mention a woman called Helen Danning?”
Craig tapped the keys for a few seconds. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“What about online bank records?”
“Nope.” Craig yawned.
“Am I keeping you up here?” Stride asked.
“It’s three in the morning, man. I should be asleep.”
“Yeah, things are tough all over. I already woke up a judge in the middle of the night to get a search warrant, and she’s not too happy with me either. It’s really too bad I yanked you out of bed just because this son of a bitch you hired has kidnapped a woman and may already have raped and killed her. So keep looking and find me something.”
“Yeah, okay, okay, sorry.” Craig hunched his shoulders and went back to the keyboard.
Stride’s cell phone rang, and the song taunted him. He was in a hurry and knew why. He got up and walked to the window again as he answered the call.
“Negatory on the state database,” Guppo said. “He’s not local.”
“How about the feebs?”
“They’re working on it right now. They promise it’s a top priority.”
“Thanks.”
Stride hung up.
He straddled a chair and studied the barren apartment again. What the hell was it? There was something here, something obvious that didn’t make sense, and he was missing it. He got up and checked the garbage again and looked at the scraps of food wrappers. Bacon packaging. An empty egg carton and broken eggshells. The butcher’s paper from a package of ground beef, purchased at a local twenty-four-hour market. He had already sent someone to the store to see if any of the employees remembered anything about Deed. Where he went, what he drove, who he was with.
He was still missing something.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Craig called. “I think you should see this.”
Stride stood over the man’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“Pictures. Lots of them. Mostly of the same woman.”
Craig dragged the mouse and clicked a tiny icon, and a string of thumbnail images scattered across the black screen.
“I can run them all like a slide show,” Craig said.
“Do it.”
The first of the pictures zoomed out to full size. Stride’s heart sank. It was Serena. He recognized the area, which was downtown Saint Paul, in Rice Park near the Ordway. Another photo clicked onto the screen, and this was Serena, too. Near the Duluth courthouse. He forced himself to look at the entire collection. They were almost all of Serena, more than sixty images. Secret photos, taken from a distance. Some were near their own home, on the beach, through their windows.
This guy had been planning to take Serena for a long time.
Stride pointed at an image in the middle, which was nothing more than a flash of white light. “What’s that?”
“A mistake,” Craig said. “The camera probably went off accidentally.”
“Pull it up again.”
Craig restored the image to the screen, and Stride leaned in, staring at the photo. The blob of light was obviously the camera flash firing, but he could also make out something else, which looked like brown spots and wavy dark lines.
“What’s that?” Stride asked.
Craig looked closer. “I’m not sure.”
“I think it’s wood.”
“Too smooth for that.”
“Wood paneling, I mean. Cheap stuff.” Stride looked around the apartment. There was no wood paneling anywhere. He checked the bedroom and the bathroom and didn’t find any panels there that matched the photo.
“Do you put wood paneling inside your vans?” he asked.
Craig shook his head.
“So where was this taken?” Stride asked, but he was talking to himself. To the air. Thinking that wherever the wood paneling was, Serena was there now. This was Deed’s hidey-hole.
While he was running down a mental list of places that had fake wood siding, Guppo called back.
“Tell me you got him,” Stride said.
“Yeah, but there’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The match is perfect,” Guppo told him. “He’s got records in Arizona, Texas, and Alabama. Drugs, murder, extortion, and two rape charges that were dropped when the women got cold feet.”
“Sounds like our guy,” Stride said. “What’s the probl
em?”
“The problem is, he’s dead.”
“Say what?”
“The Alabama authorities claim he’s dead. He was a witness in a narcotics trial, and two officers were escorting him back to the state CF in Holman. They ran square into a hurricane, and all three died.”
“Did you say a hurricane?” Stride asked, hoping that Guppo had made a mistake and knowing that he hadn’t.
“Yeah.”
The dread he was feeling mutated and multiplied. Stride knew where this was going. He was there when Serena got the call last fall from the Alabama police and remembered the look of relief on her face. She felt liberated. Free.
“They found the two cops,” Guppo said. “The car, too, which was a wreck. No sign of foul play, though. They figured the prisoner washed out to sea.”
That was the logical conclusion, and it was wrong. He didn’t wash out to sea. He escaped and headed north like a laser beam. Stride remembered how Serena described the dead man who had tortured her past. Brilliant, ruthless, charming, scheming. Exactly the kind of spider who would love to play games with his prey and then eat them. A drug dealer. A blackmailer. A rapist. A killer.
“What was his name?” Stride asked, but he already knew.
“Take your pick,” Guppo told him. “William Deed, alias Billy Deed, alias B. D. Henry, alias Billy ‘Dog’ Ketcher, alias Blue Dog.”
FIFTY-ONE
She was wrong. Terribly wrong. It wasn’t Tommy Luck standing over her. It wasn’t anyone from her days in Las Vegas at all. This was worse. This was a ghost from years ago, from her childhood, a ghost straight from hell.
“You’re dead,” Serena gasped.
Blue Dog grinned. “Yeah, I’m like the invisible man. I don’t exist.”
“The Alabama police called me,” she insisted, although the evidence was in front of her eyes. “They said you were killed in a storm.”
“You don’t know the prison system down South. They’ve got so many bodies crammed into a cell that one less inside is a reason to celebrate. I’m sure they figured the storm did them a favor.”
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