by Dan Ames
Mack squinted at the image – it was black-and-white and grainy, but he could make out a relatively short, stocky figure. The face wasn’t visible.
In less than a minute, the janitor and the cleaning cart came back out.
“That was quick,” Mack said.
“The security camera works on a revolving time schedule,” Logan said. “It only captures part of the mall at certain times, so we don’t have the actual time it was taken, but it’s the same time frame as when we believe the abduction took place.”
“And no, Rebecca never came back out,” Bullock added.
Mack squinted at the image of the janitor’s cart.
Logan must have sensed Mack’s focus. “Our best guess is ‘Capitol Cleaning Services’ and the rest of it is impossible to make out, even with video enhancing,” he said. “We’ve searched and put out the call, but so far, no luck.”
“Let me see the whole thing again,” Mack said.
He watched the sequence.
“Two things,” he said. Bullock took out a notepad and a pen.
“One, that janitor had already picked Rebecca out. It wasn’t a case of hitting the bathroom and grabbing whoever might be in there. This was pre-planned. You can even tell that the janitor knows where the security camera is and purposely didn’t let it get a good look.”
Bullock nodded.
“And the second thing, I’m almost as sure of.”
Mack squinted at the computer screen.
“That janitor is a woman.”
CUSTOMER SERVICE
16
Nebraska
Her name was Butterfly.
At the same time Mack was studying the security camera footage of her in Des Moines, she was nearly four hundred miles away on the outskirts of North Platte, Nebraska.
It had been a long drive as she had been forced to observe the speed limit for most of the trip. A little extra time was not worth the risk of getting pulled over only to have an overeager traffic cop look inside the van.
Now, she exited the freeway and followed an unpaved road for several miles until she reached the abandoned junkyard. It was a spot she had carefully chosen for its location, and its complete absence of people.
She spotted the pickup truck she had stashed in order to switch vehicles, and saw a man sitting on the ground next to it, with his back against one of the rear tires.
Butterfly didn’t hesitate.
She pulled the van up next to the Dodge pickup truck with its camper shell and shut down the engine.
The man watched with silent curiosity as Butterfly got out of the truck.
Finally, he smiled, revealing a row of stained and broken teeth. “Well looky here, my prayers have been answered!”
He got to his feet and Butterfly took in the dirty clothes, the smell of the man, and knew he was a transient who had probably made a temporary home in the back of her getaway vehicle.
“Get away from my truck,” Butterfly said.
The man cackled with laughter. “Who the hell you think you’re talkin’ to little lady?” he said, his voice ragged and raw. “You see any one else out here but you and me?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He thumbed a button and the blade shot out with an audible swish.
Butterfly saw the solution instantly and she walked right up to him and with each step that brought her closer his eyes got a little wilder. She could tell he was torn between trying to stab her or running away. She hoped he wouldn’t run as her legs were still a little cramped from the drive.
“Get back bitch!” the man hissed.
But by then Butterfly was within an arm’s length and he thrust the knife at her. She slapped his arm with her left hand and caught his wrist with her right. She pulled him closer and drove her left elbow into his temple. He sagged and her right hand closed on his wrist. She turned the knife back toward him and slammed it into the center of his chest. He sank to his knees and his hands fell away from his body. Butterfly pulled the knife from his chest and ran its blade across his throat, cutting his neck wide open. He fell to the ground and she thumbed the button on the knife and its blade retracted into the handle. She slipped the knife back into his pants pocket.
Butterfly went to the back of the van, got the girl out, and transferred her to the pickup truck. There was a blanket and a plastic bag of clothes that must have belonged to the homeless man. She took those out.
The truck wasn’t as comfortable as the van, but it had a mattress and some tie-downs in the back so she was able to secure the girl in place.
Next, she dragged the dead man to the back of the van and heaved him inside, then did the same with his blanket and clothes bag. She went to the front of the van and wiped it down even though she’d worn gloves, peeled off the Capitol City Cleaners stickers, and tossed them inside the vehicle.
From the back of the van she took a gas can and thoroughly doused the vehicle inside and out, along with the dead man.
It was likely no one would notice the fire, and even less likely that those who did would report it. Smoke at a junkyard? No need to call the police.
Now, she splashed a trail of gas fifty feet away, then tossed a lit match onto the trail.
A bright blue flame erupted and raced to the van.
Butterfly trotted away and climbed into the truck, keyed the ignition, and pulled out of the yard.
By the time the van erupted into flames and exploded, Butterfly was merging onto the freeway, heading for the cabins.
17
Colorado
Charles Starkey was a long way from his plumbing supply business in New Jersey.
But he was alive in a way he’d never felt before.
This was not his first trip to The Store, by any means. He’d performed several transactions already, but each one was special.
This purchase had been no different.
Starkey had been one of the Store’s first customers. In what felt like a very brief amount of time, he had spent the vast majority of his wealth on products from this exclusive outlet.
Now, sitting in one of the “kill cabins” as he thought of them, Starkey surveyed the swath of destruction he’d cut in the little cabin’s main room. Every muscle in his body, every particle of oxygen in his blood bubbled with a life force he’d never felt before.
But with the smallest hint of disappointment, he realized that the ecstasy he’d felt in the past was fading faster. And each of his purchases had been completed with less time between them. On one level, he realized that it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay satisfied. At the same time, he knew he could never stop.
The boy he purchased two weeks ago was now dead. Starkey had made sure of that.
His victim was facedown on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, partially dismembered.
Starkey giggled at the recent memory of his frenzy; he had literally climaxed when he’d felt the boy’s death shudder, and he’d begun tearing him apart.
Despite the faint stirring of disgust and regret that always hit him immediately after one of these ‘projects,’ Starkey felt himself getting aroused again. He checked his watch. They were getting the private plane ready to take him back to New Jersey. His bag was packed, and the limo would be picking him up in ten minutes.
He began to head back toward the boy.
He giggled again.
The more he enjoyed his purchase, the better the value he got for his money.
He figured he had time for a quickie.
18
Des Moines, Iowa
Mack looked across the confined space of Arichbald Spencer’s study at Hopestil Fletcher, Deputy Director of the FBI. She had arrived in Des Moines hours earlier and requested an immediate meeting with Mack and Spencer.
Hopestil Fletcher was a tall, imposing woman with broad shoulders, a long angular face, and blazing blue eyes. They had narrowly missed each other at the Bureau, but Mack had heard nothing but good things about her. The word w
as she was extremely tough but fair.
Now, those eyes were coolly appraising Mack.
“You’re going to Colorado,” she said.
“Why?” Mack and Spencer simultaneously replied.
Back when he was still with the Bureau, Mack used to accept these assignments with a whirlwind of enthusiasm and questions. And a spine tingling sense of adventure, an eagerness to dive into a case and come out with the solution.
Now, he simply thought about his sister.
Luckily, he knew she would be in good hands with Adelia.
“The local cops pulled three bodies out of the ground in a park 120 miles or so from Denver,” Fletcher said. “All of them were children.”
“What the hell does that have to do with my daughter?” Spencer asked. Agent Bullock, who had been standing near the entrance to the room, backed away. Smart move, Mack thought. You never want to hear your boss spoken to in a certain way.
“Maybe nothing,” Fletcher said.
“Then why are you sending Mack?” Spencer demanded. “I just flew him up here for Christ’s sake.”
Mack wondered that, too.
Fletcher looked around the room. It was just the three of them now.
“Look, this is highly classified,” she said. “But we have been investigating a disturbing pattern of children abductions. The problem is, there is some doubt on whether or not it’s a pattern at all. However, some Internet traffic involving two abductions was traced to several broad locations in the West. However, one of them was Colorado.”
“So you have a hunch,” Mack said. He was a big believer in hunches.
“Not necessarily,” Fletcher said. “But the fact that we have another abduction here that at least initially seems very professional, and the discovery of several deceased children in what may be an area of other abductions, does seem to convey a sense of symmetry.”
“I think you’re right,” Mack said.
“Go to Denver. Meet with SAC Kunzelman, he’s expecting you,” Fletcher said. “They are already investigating so by the time you get there you should be able to make a quick assessment of the situation. Report back to me right away, and then I’ll probably have you come right back. You could be back in Iowa in 48 hours.
“Arch?” Mack asked his friend.
Spencer nodded. “If whatever’s out there has anything to do with Rebecca, you might be more valuable working that end of this situation.”
Fletcher turned to Mack. “Report back to me the minute you have some conclusions. I’ll be here with the Senator, he’ll be in good hands.”
“Got it,” Mack said. Fletcher’s phone rang and she reached for it. Mack stuck out his hand and Spencer took it.
“Hang in there,” Mack said. “We’ll find her.”
Spencer nodded.
“Damn right we will,” the Senator said. “Do what you have to do, Mack, then get your ass back here.”
19
Denver, Colorado
Mack thought they should change the nickname for Denver from the “Mile High City” to “Miles from the Airport.” It took nearly forty-five minutes for Mack to get from the airport to the city.
He had been to Denver several times and always enjoyed the sight of the city, with its postcard-quality setting in front of snow-capped mountains.
Mack looked at his cell phone. He had debated calling Fletcher, but he had thought about it on the flight and wanted more information on the leads she hinted the Bureau had been investigating.
He felt a little blind going into the situation.
The FBI offices in Denver were on Stout Street and Mack quickly found the building, showed his identification, and was whisked up to a large conference room on the second floor with spectacular views of the city and the mountains beyond.
There were more people in the conference room than Mack had expected. It must be the entire office, he thought. The twenty or so agents sat around the long conference room table or stood by a variety of easel displays with maps and photos of the crime scene.
A few of them turned and looked at him when he was brought in.
A tall man with dark hair approached Mack.
“Mr. Mack?” he asked.
Mack nodded.
“I’m Kunzelman. Glad to have you here,” he said. He turned to the group. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce Wallace Mack from D.C. This case is right up his alley, you’ve probably heard of some of his exploits.”
A variety of people nodded at Kunzelman’s assumption, others simply stared at Mack. Kunzelman turned back to him.
“Mack, I’m going to have each person who’s in charge of a clear aspect of the case to brief you, it should take about two hours. Once you’ve been briefed, I assume you will want to go to Locust Springs and see the crime scene firsthand.”
“Yes, definitely,” Mack said.
“Okay, then, folks, let’s get this man up to speed.”
It took closer to three hours, and by the end, it was clear that they didn’t have much to go on.
With his laptop open before him, Mack quickly perused an email with attached documents Director Fletcher had forwarded to him. He had been reading through them as the Denver team briefed him.
Now, they all looked at him, expectant expressions on their faces.
“Who here has some cybercrime expertise?”
It caught them off guard.
Finally Kunzelman said, “Uh, that would be Jerry.”
Mack looked around the room but no one reacted.
“Uh, he isn’t here. In the room, that is,” Kunzelman explained. “I can have you taken down to his office, if you’d like.”
“That would be great. And then I’m going to need a car and directions to the crime scene.”
Kunzelman nodded, and a young agent took Mack down to the office of Jerry Renfro, a middle-aged man with a handlebar moustache. The younger agent made the introductions, and then Mack opened up his laptop, clicked open the documents Fletcher had sent him, and began asking questions.
20
Washington, D.C.
There were days, and today was one of them, where he felt less like a man with an addiction and more like an addiction that resided in the body of a man.
Everything in his life could be traced to it.
His rotten childhood. His tortured life as a young man. His inability to hold steady work. And his current station in life.
He was Owner of The Murder Store.
And wanted by the FBI.
His name was Terry Piechura and he always wondered if it was his addiction that drove him to develop a genius-level intellect when it came to computers, or if it was his amazing skill in the cyber world that ultimately facilitated his extremely divergent sexual compulsions.
It didn’t matter, of course. What did matter was that as a tertiary supplier to a non-classified government entity, he had hacked his way into the national criminal database and had expunged his name from every law enforcement computer in the country.
This allowed him to get his passport and travel to the Far East for his hobby.
Ultimately, however, he had left a breadcrumb or two and that hadn’t gone over well with law enforcement.
But he was getting his revenge now.
And boy was he having fun.
Piechura went into his office and logged into his bank account. He saw that one of his best customers, Bernard Evans, had pulled the trigger on young Rebecca Spencer. The quick photos Butterfly had taken of the girl weren’t great, but they had obviously struck a chord with Evans. Piechura smiled. He had seen Evans’ name all over the place as a software genius and billionaire. Well, that may have been true, but Piechura knew that Evans had the same kind of interests he had. And satiating those thirsts was an expensive proposition.
The Owner of The Store confirmed the deposit, immediately transferred it through several shell accounts, and then split it into dozens of small amounts, and funneled them separately into his main account in the Bahamas.
<
br /> He then picked up his satellite phone, punched in the number for the remote router located in his supercomputer in the San Fernando Valley, and placed a call to his associate.
“Hello, Butterfly, my love,” he said. “I have your next assignment.”
21
Nebraska
Rebecca Spencer was a pendulum. One minute she was terrified, ready to scream and cry at the same time, the next minute she was angry and prepared to fight to the death.
She had been consumed with hope when the van stopped. Her mind went on an image sprint: the driver abandoning the truck, Rebecca hearing the sound of voices. And then she was being dragged from the van.
The first thing she saw was the dead man. There was no doubt he was dead. There was a gaping wound across his throat and his shirt was covered with blood. His face was white and frozen, his eyes wide and staring into nothing.
“What are you doing?” Rebecca screamed at the woman.
The woman ignored her, and pushed her into the truck, and tied her in place.
Minutes later, the smell of gasoline filled the air around her.
An engine started up, and then an explosion, and they were driving once again.
At that point, her hopes had gone up in flames with what she assumed to be the van. Rebecca figured that her captor had probably switched vehicles and for some reason had set the abandoned vehicle on fire. Probably to destroy evidence.
Rebecca thought about the dead man. She had never seen a dead person before, except for her grandmother at a funeral home, and that hadn’t even looked like the woman she had known. But now, seeing that dead man who had just been alive moments before? Rebecca wanted to vomit, in fact, she felt the bile rise in her throat but she fought it back down.
Who was this woman? Rebecca thought more and more that her kidnapping might be political. Usually, men kidnap young women to rape and kill them. But this woman had knocked her out in the ladies room at the mall. Which convinced Rebecca that the dead man had probably been an innocent bystander. Unless he had brought the truck so her captor could switch vehicles.