The Murderers' Club
Page 20
“Might not narrow it down.” Gerard confirms my suspicions. “Sorry, I’m not giving you much hope, am I?”
“No. But I appreciate you telling it like it is.” I pause.
“Combining the words would be a better search. So I could search for murder and Mojave Desert.”
“That sounds great. What sort of time frame are we talking about?”
“The search is quick, but it’s sorting through the results that’s the problem. It could take weeks to manually review every single Web site.”
“Shit.”
“Sorry. Looking for a specific site is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Betsy’s set up to perform blanket screens, to monitor and report all the nasties she finds, rather than search for one site.”
I don’t respond, disheartened.
“I’m real sorry, Agent Anderson.”
I come to my senses. “That’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
“I’ll still start the ball rolling this morning and let you know as soon as we find something.”
“Great, thanks.” I try to sound enthusiastic, but it’s hard when we don’t have weeks.
We get back to Darren’s place at 7:00 p.m. I have offered to cook a Thai prawn curry, so I get moving on that while Darren showers. Fifteen minutes later the curry’s bubbling on the stove, the rice is on and Darren emerges in shorts.
“Shorts?”
“I cranked the heater up for you. You’ll feel it soon.”
“Thanks.” I’m genuinely touched. Even though I’ve been in the States for just over a year, my body still hasn’t fully acclimatized to the northern hemisphere. Probably never will.
“Smells good.” He hovers over the pot. “Man, I’m hungry.”
“Me, too. But it’ll be at least another fifteen minutes.”
He shrugs. “I can wait.” He opens the fridge and emerges with two beers, opens both, and hands one to me without even asking if I want it. It feels comfortable, natural.
I think back to Vegas and our fleeting kiss at the motel. Will Darren try to kiss me again? Do I want him to? Maybe I should be the one initiating. No, I’m sensible enough to know I’m not ready. And Darren’s not a rebound guy; he’s a keeper. Nervously, I begin talking about the case for a distraction. “This case is frustrating the hell out of me.”
“Me, too.” Helaughs at first butthenpauses. “Who’dhave thought we’d be complaining about not getting another body?” The comment sounds flippant, but I know he doesn’t mean it that way. This job has just as strong a hold on Darren as it does on me—well almost. At least as far as I know, Darren’s sibling wasn’t kidnapped and murdered when Darren was a child. I turn away, hiding the emotions that always come up when I think about my brother, John. And then I remember that Darren’s aunt was killed by the DC Slasher, so it’s personal for him, too. The only difference is that Darren was already a cop when she was killed; he’d already chosen his career. Not me. John’s murder is why I became a cop and it’s shaped me in so many other ways.
“You okay?” Darren walks toward my line of sight, and I fight the desire to turn away from him again.
“I’m fine. Sorry.”
“Did you see something?” His voice is hopeful.
“No, nothing.”
“So still no visions? No visits from Cindy?”
I turn back to the stove and focus on the pot. “No.”
“And you’re still not going to try and induce something?”
I take a swig of beer and give the curry a stir. “No.”
He’s silent for a little while. “We’re dying here, you know.”
I bite my lip. “I know.” Two more days until the next victim’s “due.” Could my visions save him or her? I shudder as excerpts of my dream about the brunette, and Cindy standing in the desert, play in my head. Dammit, leave me alone!
The images seem to obey my wishes and they subside. But within seconds they’re replaced by flashes from the DC case, then flashes from my brother’s disappearance. I’m reminded of Darren’s words in Vegas again—it’s a calling. And the calling isn’t casually tapping me on the shoulder for attention; it’s violently shaking me.
“It’s hard for me, Darren.”
He leans against the kitchen counter so eye contact is guaranteed, even though I’m hovering over the stove.
“It reminds you of DC? Of what happened?”
“That, and…”
“Yes?” His voice is eager.
I stir the curry some more, stalling. Finally I say it. “The Slasher wasn’t the first time I saw things.”
Darren doesn’t seem at all shocked.
“You’re not surprised?”
“No.” He picks at the label on his beer bottle.
“But—”
“I know you’ve been hiding things from me, Sophie.” Unlike our conversation in the project room, this time there’s no hint of accusation in his voice, just acceptance and perhaps hurt.
I feel like I’ve betrayed him. “I’m sorry, Darren.” I touch him lightly and quickly on his upper arm.
He forces a smile. “My aunt knew lots of psychics. She said it nearly always starts in childhood.”
I let myself look into his eyes properly and nod my head. “I had…I had a brother. He was taken from our house when I was eight. They found his body a year later, but they never caught the guy who did it. And for a week before his abduction I had nightmares—nightmares that John was in danger.” I say it quickly, with a forced detachment.
Darren puts his beer down and moves closer. He rubs his hand up and down my arm. I can feel his breath on my skin. “I’m sorry, Sophie.” It’s a standard response, but I can hear the sincerity and emotion behind it.
I drop my head. “The first time I had visions someone I loved was in danger, and the second time that’s how it played out, too.” And that brings me to another huge area of avoidance…is someone I know in danger? Someone I care about? I look at Darren—what if it’s him? I couldn’t stand to lose anyone else.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” he says.
I give him a puzzled look.
“You were always psychic, Sophie. Always. You probably just didn’t realize it.”
“But—”
“Let me finish.” Darren holds up his hand. “Could you find stuff when you were little? Did you know stuff? Like maybe the phone would ring and you’d know who was calling? I’m talking about before your brother’s murder.”
I take myself back to that wonderful time before it happened. It’s hard to navigate through the memories, so many of which I’ve repressed over the years, but finally I reach my early childhood and realize that Darren’s right. “Little things, yes. But coincidental stuff.”
“No. It wasn’t coincidental, it was normal for you.” He pauses. “And then, when John’s life was in danger, your gift became more intense.”
“Yes.” I remember seeing John from the killer’s eyes.
“And when he really was taken, when you knew he was dead, you repressed your gift. It was always there, waiting to surface, waiting for you to let it out. And you did, when you needed it the most. Don’t forget, Sophie, your visions broke the Slasher case. They did save lives.”
I nod, unable to find fault with his theory, unable to deny the truth. “But that means someone I care about is in danger now. Why else would they resurface after six months of silence?”
He shakes his head. “Like I said when you first got here, I think the visions were triggered by you being at a crime scene. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense.” He moves us across to the table and we sit down. “Rose used to do long-distance readings for people, but she said it took her a while to refine her gift enough that she didn’t need the person physically present. And I think that’s what it’s like for you. You’ve been looking at photos back at the Bureau and nothing happens. But you come here and see Malcolm’s body, in real life. You have a connection to the case because of your physical proximity. And on
ce that connection’s established, the floodgates open.”
He’s right there. I’ve been fighting them but they’re still coming. I stare into his blue eyes across the table, ready to hear what else he has to say.
Darren continues. “I’m sure at some stage in the future you won’t need that physical connection—just like Rose trained herself to do long-distance readings.”
“I don’t know if that’s a comforting thought.” The intensity of the past few weeks has been incredibly draining. Imagine if that happened with every single case I profiled.
“Eventually you’ll have to accept that this is part of you—it always has been.”
I let the thought sink in, trying to imagine accepting the visions and not fighting them. It’s hard to argue with Darren’s reasoning.
* * *
AmericanPsycho: We need to vote for Jonathan this time. He’s acting weird. He may be catching on to what’s really happening.
DialM: The sooner he’s dead, the better. He’s seen me! I still can’t believe he carried Ling’s bags up to the surface for her.
AmericanPsycho: There was nothing we could do, M. If I’d told Jonathan over the speakers to return to the main area, he may have been suspicious. Besides, I was busy with Danny.
NeverCaught: How did you do Danny?
AmericanPsycho: It was a quick one. No real pleasure in it really.
BlackWidow: I would have liked to have seen his face. Good?
AmericanPsycho: He was an interesting one. His face showed surprise rather than disbelief.
BlackWidow: Do you think he had guessed?
AmericanPsycho: No, definitely not. But he was more aware of what other humans can do. As a soldier he’d seen war crimes and murder in his daily life. I think he was more surprised that he was part of it, rather than that it was actually happening.
NeverCaught: Bummer.
AmericanPsycho: It was disappointing.
DialM: Back to Jonathan. I want him gone. Dead. Now.
AmericanPsycho: Okay, okay. Jonathan will be dead soon enough. Won’t he, BW?
BlackWidow: I’m tingling with anticipation. And don’t worry, I’ll find out if he’s suspicious, and if he’s discussed it with anyone.
NeverCaught: How? Torture?
BlackWidow: It’s not always about pain…it’s amazing what a man will tell you to ensure his sexual satisfaction.
NeverCaught: Lucky guy.
AmericanPsycho: How’s Ling, M? Having fun?
DialM: You better believe it.
AmericanPsycho: The live feed of Ling will stay up on the Web site until M kills her. Then her body will be dumped just like the others.
NeverCaught: It’s boring to watch. She just cowers in the corner of that bed all the time.
DialM: I love watching her.
AmericanPsycho: Back to the business at hand. Jonathan.
25
We sit in the project room, staring at the board blankly. Tomorrow’s the day and we’ve got nothing. I tried to induce a vision after dinner last night, but no luck. I finally decide to go for it and that part of my mind shuts down.
“Do you want to try again?” Darren says.
“I guess. We’ve got nothing else, right?”
I move from my upright position in the office chair, trying to move down into a more relaxed body shape, but with no luck. Finally ergonomics has got it right, making it impossible to sit in this chair in anything but an upright posture. I make do with the body position, but try to relax into it more, sinking into the chair itself, as though my flesh was melding with the chair.
I take a deep breath in, then out, and with each outtake of air I focus on releasing tension from my body and clearing my mind. I find both hard to do. Nearly every muscle in my body contracts, unwilling to do my bidding. My thoughts flutter, constantly on the move. Asking me to relax and clear my mind is like asking a biker to get up on stage and dance the lead role of Sleeping Beauty…in a tutu. I push the bizarre thoughts away and go back to my breathing. I’ve just got to do this. No excuses, no distractions. Our options have run out and this is the only alternative left. I can’t wait weeks until Special Agent Gerard finds the Web site.
Back to the breath, back to the breath. In and out…in and out. Finally I gain some control over my rebellious mind.
A man’s in a tunnel, running. But he doesn’t know what he’s running from. It’s dark with only bare lightbulbs every twenty feet or so ensuring he doesn’t fall. He looks up, toward something in the corner, and that frightens him more than the dark, more than the thing behind him.
Darren’s cell phone interrupts the vision and I come to with the man’s fear still running through me. My heart pounds and my breathing is no longer steady and smooth. Darren puts his hand on my knee and leans forward. “You okay? What did you see?”
“I—” Darren’s cell phone is getting louder with each ring. “I’m fine. Take the call.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, looks at the number and then puts the phone on the table. “They can leave a message.”
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Dunno.”
A strange sensation hits me in the pit of my stomach. “Darren, I think you better take that call.”
“It can wait. This is more important.”
My spider sense is tingling. “Darren, you need to take that call.”
“Okay,” he says, but his voice is hesitant.
I’m a ball of nervous energy and my stomach is doing flips at a million miles per hour. Something terrible has happened. Who’s on the phone and what are they saying? I stand up and pace. I glance at the clock. Darren is mostly silent, taking in the caller’s information, but I can tell from his face that he’s being told some shocking news.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he hangs up. There’s silence.
“Darren?”
“Sorry.” He sounds shaken, dreamy.
“Who was it?”
“It was a uniform from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department over at Catalina Foothills.” His voice is still vague.
“Yes?”
“About an hour ago a man called Jonathan Cantor walked into their station.” Gradually, Darren seems to be coming out of his stupor. “Sophie, you won’t believe this. You won’t believe his story.”
Three hours later Special Agent Daniel Gerard arrives at Tucson by charter plane. I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for him to come in on a commercial route, not after Darren’s news. And when I filled Rivers in, he assigned Gerard to the case, full-time.
I’m full of nervous tension, energy and, I hate to admit it, excitement. If Jonathan Cantor is telling the truth, the scheme is just so…so diabolical it’s hard to comprehend. The organizer truly is brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant. And we’ll need to move quickly—there are more victims being held captive in the Mojave.
Within twenty minutes of Gerard touching down, he’s standing with us, peering into Jonathan’s interview room. Through the two-way mirror we can see Jonathan pacing, wildly clutching a laptop under his arm. He refused to hand over the laptop, refused to talk to us anymore until we had a computer expert on site. He told his story to the officer on duty at Catalina, and since then hasn’t spoken except to demand someone with IT expertise.
Jonathan’s by himself, but the adjoining room is full—Stone, Darren, Gerard, me and Harris.
Harris’s eyes fix on me. “Do you believe this story?” His voice contains shades of doubt.
Normally I’d be hesitant to make any judgment call before personally speaking to Jonathan, but he’s the man from my vision, the one in the tunnels. And I did see Cindy in a tunnel in one of my visions. She was trying to lead me somewhere, to show me where she was before she died, but I couldn’t follow her then. And Jonathan’s story fits with the many anomalies in the cases. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” is all I say.
Harris turns back toward Jonathan. “Maybe he’s one of the perps. Working his way into the investigation.”
Harris shakes his head. “If he is involved he’s one hell of a good actor,” he concedes. “It’s just…I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, but this…”
“I know.” I look at Jonathan through the two-way. “I know.”
Jonathan’s hair is dark and the same length all over, roughly one-inch long. It looks like a shaved head on its way out. His face and arms are a reddy brown, indicating he’s seen a lot of sun recently. His face is angular, the most striking feature his bushy dark brown eyebrows that come together across his defined brow. Normally I imagine it would give him a natural brooding look, but today he’s clearly distressed and the bushy eyebrows give him a manic, slightly mad look. But if his story’s true and he’s actually been through what he claims, then he has a reason to be slightly insane.
His skinny frame does an abrupt turn and comes toward the mirror. “Come on!” he shouts. “What are you people doing in there?” He shakes his head and moves again.
Darren turns away from the pacing figure and looks at me. “What do you think?”
I continue to look at Jonathan. “He’s suffering. Very, very anxious and frustrated.” I turn to Darren. “But who wouldn’t be?” I take out a notebook and pen from my bag. Sometimes we take a couple of huge files into the room—even if they’re filled with blank paper—to make a suspect think we’ve got a load of evidence on him. But today, for the moment, a notebook and pen is enough. I also take out my Dictaphone. The station’s recording equipment will video the interview, but I want easy and fast access to whatever Jonathan has to say.
“I’ll go in by myself initially,” I say to everyone. “I need to see how he reacts to me alone, first.” Even though I believe Jonathan, I need to treat him like I’d treat anyone else in this situation, even if it’s cruel to Jonathan given his mental state. Besides, to accept his story instantly may arouse suspicion, especially from Harris and Stone. It’s normal procedure to treat anyone who comes forward with information as if they could be a witness or a suspect. “Once he’s settled, Darren, you might want to help with the questioning. Then we’ll bring Agent Gerard in.” I look back at Jonathan. “At the moment, he’s hanging on. Let’s see what his responses are like.”