Sarah sat up in bed and screamed. The darkness enveloped her. She didn’t know where she was, and she crawled back against the headboard, shadows dancing everywhere before her.
The door flew open, and a man stood there. He flipped on the light. The man was bald and in a button-front shirt and tie. His gun was held in front of him, and he swept the room.
“What happened?” he said, panic in his voice.
She took a deep breath, her heart loud in her ears. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry. It was a nightmare,” she said breathlessly.
The agent scanned the room and then checked the bathroom. He gave Sarah an odd look and said, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” she said, one hand to her head, partly from the headache that was just making itself known and partly from embarrassment. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything. I’m right outside.”
When he had left, Sarah exhaled loudly and fell back into bed. The moon had shifted positions, and the light was in a different spot from when she had first gone to sleep. She stared at it awhile, hoping it would have the same hypnotic effect, but nothing was happening. She knew sleep wouldn’t be coming again tonight.
40
The home was surrounded by neighbors, but Wolfgram knew instantly it wasn’t the type of neighborhood where people got involved in each other’s affairs. All the blinds were drawn, and no one was out on their porches. Though, granted, it was evening.
He parked up the block and walked back after slipping on a jacket that said, “Philadelphia Electric Company” across the back in bold lettering. A clipboard was tucked under his arm, and he glanced at the addresses on the houses as if he didn’t know where he was going.
The home was not well kept. The lawn was shaggy and yellowed in spots, the windows were so greasy he could see the smears in the dim light of the setting sun, and the driveway was cracked and chipping.
Wolfgram glanced around one more time and then walked to the door. He knocked and then rang the doorbell and waited.
No sounds came from inside, no feet on floors or running down stairs. Nobody was home: even better.
He walked around to the back. Fences hadn’t been put up, and that saved him having to pick the lock. He simply rounded the house and was at the backdoor. The only neighbors that could have seen him were the ones directly behind, to the south. But no one was out. The lights weren’t even on.
Wolfgram took out his lock-pick set and went to work. Picking a lock was more an art than a science. He’d gone to Home Depot and bought every lock they had and then ordered the unique and rare locks from Amazon. He would practice for hours at a time, opening every combination of lock and timing himself. His fastest time yet was five seconds.
It took about triple that to open the backdoor. Wolfgram stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Kenneth Lott sat in the darkened bar and finished his second beer. The glass was frosty, but the beer was warm. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t drinking it for the taste, anyhow. The beer went down quickly, and he burped. After leaving a twenty on the bar, he headed home.
The story on Sarah King had gone national, and his name was everywhere. The piece had been well written. He stayed up for twenty-six hours straight editing and reediting it. The sensational aspects had been downplayed, and the angle he had taken was that the FBI, the paragon of well-run investigations, was bringing in mystics because they were so desperate.
Only a few blocks in, Lott realized he was too drunk to drive. Debating whether to pull over, he saw the freeway entrance up the road a bit and decided to risk it.
The freeway was busy, and he weaved between the lanes a couple of times but thought that otherwise he was doing fine. The only difficult part was how many times he had to check his rearview to make sure a cop wasn’t behind him.
But, despite how drunk he felt, he got home without incident. He parked in the driveway and got out, a dizzy spell hitting him and making him wobble before he took the few steps to his door. A key in a lock was not the easiest thing for a drunk person to do, and he probably spent a full minute trying to open the door. But once it was open and the familiar smell hit him, he felt at ease.
Lott kicked off his shoes and headed to the fridge for the leftover pizza from the other night, and he threw a couple of slices in the microwave while he nibbled on a cold slice. As he leaned against the oven and took a few bites, he noticed a light coming from his basement. He didn’t remember going down there today, but it was possible. Or he could’ve left it on from yesterday.
“Damn it,” he mumbled. There were few things he hated more than spending money when he didn’t have to.
Lott walked down the stairs to his basement, the slice of pizza still in his hand, and saw the dangling lightbulb in the center of the ceiling. He walked to it and turned it off, leaving himself in the dark.
As he turned to leave, all he saw was a white flash, and then he felt the cool cement of his basement floor against his face.
41
“Wake up, Kenneth.”
Lott was only dimly aware that someone else was near him. He thought that perhaps the voice had been in his head, so he didn’t respond. Then he felt something cold on his face. The sensation startled him, and his eyes darted open, getting cold water in them, and he had to blink several times to get it out.
The man standing over him was smiling, and Lott realized he was lying on the floor. He was dressed neatly and appeared calm, almost friendly. Lott felt an enormous throbbing pain in his head and tried to raise his hand to touch it but couldn’t—his hands were bound.
“I need a hospital,” Lott whispered. Even his eyes hurt, and he knew he’d suffered a concussion.
“Perhaps later. I need something from you first.”
“I need a hospital.”
“Do try to pay attention, Kenneth. I need information.”
“Please, just take me to a hospital.”
The man reached down, and Lott couldn’t see what he was doing. Then he felt cold against his ribs, and a pain so intense that he had never felt anything like it. It was like fire shooting inside. Lott screamed as he felt something wiggling inside him and was only dimly aware that it was the man’s hand inside of his ribcage.
Something tore. He could feel it—as though the man ripped something inside of him.
The man rose back into view. “Kenneth, I need information. If you can’t help me, I’m afraid you’re no use.”
“What—what information?” he said, panic overtaking him.
“Sarah King. I was unable to find out much about her, but you seemed to know her entire history. How?”
“The… the psychic?”
“Yes.”
“She’s Amish. I went to—to her house. To her father’s house.”
“Where?”
“Please, I need a hospital. My head is killing me, and I can’t see. I need a hospital.”
Pain again, agony so acute that he felt faint and dry-heaved once before the vomit shot out of his mouth. His attacker had ripped something else out of him, something that made him go numb and lose control of his bladder. He felt the urine pooling around him.
“Please,” he cried, “please, let me go. Let me go. I won’t tell anybody. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”
“Where did you find the information about Sarah King?”
“Her father’s house. Some guy at the farm told me. Some fucking cousin or something.”
“You will tell me exactly where her family’s home is.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said desperately, “I’ll tell you everything. Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The man smiled. “I know you will.”
“And then you’ll let me go to a hospital?”
“Certainly. We wouldn’t want to be considered a liar, now would we?” The man leaned down, his bloodied hands softly caressing Lott’s head. “I promise I will take you to a hospital. You have my word on that.”
&nbs
p; 42
The kitchen table seemed unsteady. One of the legs was too short. Sarah folded some paper towels several times before sticking them under the short leg. It didn’t help much, but that would have to do.
She sat down and stared through the window at the rising sun. She had always been an early riser. On the farm, her father had woken her up at 4:00 a.m., and it had stuck. Several times a month, she tried desperately to break the habit and sleep in, but it never worked.
The coffee was hot, and there were some granola bars in the pantry. The fridge was empty except for a box of Arm & Hammer. Sarah sipped the coffee quietly as the guard who had burst into her room last night slept on the couch.
The door opened, and the alarm went off as Rosen pulled his key out of the lock. He saw the agent asleep on the couch and stared at him as the man rose, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and acting as though he had just been resting.
“Agent Hoffman. Get a good night’s sleep?”
“No, sir. Just resting my eyes.”
“Giovanni and I are here. You’re relieved.”
“Thank you.”
Rosen sat down at the table as Giovanni came in and said something to the agent that she didn’t catch. Rosen watched her a moment with a kind smile.
“How you feeling?” Rosen said.
“Like I’m in jail.”
“You’re free to leave. Did I not explain that to you?”
“I’m kidding. It’s a huge step up from my apartment.”
“Oh. That’s good to hear. Do you have everything you need?”
“I thought I’d go grocery shopping today, if that’s okay. Maybe we can have dinner here tonight.”
“I’d like that.” He looked at Giovanni. “Listen, we have a proposal. Giovanni was against it, but Kyle and I think it’s a good way to resolve this case more quickly.”
She looked from one of them to the other. Giovanni wouldn’t look her in the eyes. “What is it?” she asked.
“We think that, if the story has piqued the Blood Dahlia’s interest, there may be a good way to draw him out. If he knew where you were at a certain time of day, for example.”
“You mean I’m bait?”
Rosen looked uncomfortable and glanced down at the table. “Yes.”
“You want to use me as bait?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it, Agent Rosen?”
Rosen leaned back in the chair and held her gaze this time. “It’s up to you—no one will force you to do it. But we think if we put you in what he thinks is a vulnerable position, we can bring him out into the open. You’ll be surrounded with agents and wired the entire time. At no point will we let him anywhere near you.”
The coffee was now cold and bitter. She wondered if there was any sugar in the house and then chastised herself for thinking about something so trivial at this moment and only then realized she was obsessing. Pushing the coffee away from her, she met Rosen’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”
Rosen nodded. Giovanni looked up at her but didn’t say anything.
“Good,” Rosen said. “We’ll get everything set up, and hopefully this will be over tomorrow night. The sooner the better.”
43
Wolfgram had never been one for nature’s beauty. It was lost on him. But as he drove into Lancaster County, he was struck by how much open space there was.
The morning was cooler than the past few days—not enough that he could see his breath but enough that he had to wear a cheap jacket that looked expensive. He preferred, whenever possible, to dress well. People tended to be less suspicious of the well dressed.
He parked in front of the Kings’ home. No use hiding anything. The space was simply too wide open to remain hidden. But the car was a rental under a fake name that he would dispose of after today, and he wore a blond wig that had hair down to his shoulders. Instead of a beard, he opted for thick glasses and a fake tattoo on his chest, the top of which poked out from his button-front shirt.
Wolfgram walked to the house Lott had described and knocked. It took a moment, but a woman in a plain blue dress that came down to her ankles answered. She appeared confused at first, then her expression hardened to one of distrust and annoyance.
“We don’t have any business with the likes of you,” she said.
“Funny, I was told much about the Amish sense of courtesy.”
The woman suddenly grew embarrassed. Her face softened, but she didn’t open the door any wider. “Who are you?”
“My name is Haden Caufield. I’m here to inspect your property. Is your husband home?”
“No, he ain’t here.”
Wolfgram smiled. “That’s okay. I represent Rockport Developments, and several of your neighbors are looking into selling their property. I was hoping I could catch your husband today to have him show me around.”
“We wouldn’t be interested in something like that. And I ain’t heard of any neighbors lookin’ to sell. Now I’d appreciate it if you left.”
She tried to shut the door, and Wolfgram stuck his foot between it and the frame. He smiled at her again, attempting to calm her. “Now, this property is quite valuable. Are you sure you won’t reconsider? At least let me look around and make a proper offer to your husband.”
“I’m asking you to please leave.”
Wolfgram pulled out the pistol he had tucked in his waistband. He pointed it at her head. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
The woman didn’t move as he pushed the door open. It hit her and shoved her out of the way as he entered the home.
The first thing that struck him about an Amish home was the rugs. They were much thicker than most rugs he’d seen, and clearly handmade, with imperfections throughout. But they looked warm and soft.
Decorations didn’t seem to be much of a concern, but Wolfgram didn’t see any dust anywhere. Considering that they were in farm country, that was quite a feat.
He shut the door behind him. “Who else is here?”
“Just me and one of my daughters,” she said, her eyes glued to the gun. “Please, just take what you want and leave.”
“What I want is quite simple,” he said, taking a seat on the couch, which was rigid, as if not meant for leisure. “Information.”
“About what?”
Wolfgram held her gaze. The woman’s hands were trembling. How odd that she had never had a gun pulled on her, he thought. He’d assumed that these country folk would always be in some sort of feud or another. “Sarah, your daughter.” He looked over as another person walked in—a teenage girl. “Sit,” he said to her.
“Mama, what’s goin’ on?”
“Sit down. Both of you. Now.”
The women did as they were told. Wolfgram crossed his legs and waited a few moments. The gun was making them nervous, and when people were nervous, their memories tended to be affected. Wolfgram set the pistol on the couch cushion away from him.
“Tell me about her,” he said.
“What do you want to know?” the mother asked.
“What was she like as a child?”
The mother swallowed before speaking. “What’s this about, sir?”
“Oh, I’m ‘sir’ now? At the door I was an evil outsider you wanted to slam the door on. Now you show me courtesy? You see,” he said, wagging a finger as though she were a child, “that’s the problem with humanity. Force is the only thing people understand. Everything else seems to be in a different language. I attempted to be polite, and you could’ve shown me around, but instead, you brought yourself here.” He sighed, looking from one to the other. “Doesn’t bode well for us as a species. I’m afraid we are going to destroy ourselves.”
The girl said, “My daddy will be home soon.”
“Really? That would be grand. Because maybe a man could actually understand what I’m asking. Tell… me… about… your… daughter. Before I lose my temper.”
The woman was silent a moment and said, “She was a shy child. Kept to
herself. Other kids would try and play with her… but she couldn’t play with them.”
“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?”
“Bit o’ both, I guess.”
“Why couldn’t she play with the other children?”
The woman glanced at her daughter and then out the window. Clearly, they were actually expecting the husband to get home soon.
“She said that… that she could see what they were thinking and it frightened her. She knew what they wanted to do, what they really wanted to say. She didn’t feel like she had friends because no one could hide their thoughts.”
Wolfgram nodded. “How fascinating. What would that be like, if you knew the thoughts of all men and they couldn’t lie to you?” Neither of the women replied, and he was glad—it had been a rhetorical question. “What else?”
“What else you wanna know?”
“What type of boys did she prefer to date?”
The mother shook her head. “She never dated boys. Same reason. But”—she looked tentatively at her daughter, as though she were revealing too much—“somethin’ happened when she went through puberty.”
“What?”
“She started havin’ nightmares. She said there was dead people all around us, all the time. And they would talk to her. They wouldn’t let her sleep. One time, one of her sisters locked Sarah in a barn as part of a game. Sarah started screaming and pounding on the doors. She said she was being attacked. No one believed her of course. But that night, when I was givin’ her a bath, her back looked like… like it had been whipped. All red and cut.”
Wolfgram was silent a moment. “She can see the dead?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t speak. The possibility was both exhilarating… and horrifying. Even to him. “Why did she leave here? It’s my understanding Amish girls get married and stay close to their parents.”
The mother looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Wolfgram instantly thought that they had done something they weren’t proud of. He had to know.
Blood Dahlia - A Thriller (Sarah King Mysteries) Page 18