“Oh, that’s right.” Carol reached over to grab a napkin to wipe up the spill. “I must be losing my mind.” She picked up her tea again and took a prim little sip. “Well, Joy will just have to settle for the guest room.”
Ann cleared her throat and suppressed a smile.
“That’s currently Marina’s room, Mom.”
“That’s not the point.” Carol looked deep into her tea as if it held some answers to questions not yet raised.
“Where are the girls anyway?”
“Oh, they’re at the park. Marina’s teaching Malia how to play tennis. I’m sure both girls will be a huge help. Marina’s a bit stiff around little ones, but Malia’s something else altogether. That girl could calm a hurricane if she wanted to.”
“I’m sensing a conspiracy.”
Carol shrugged and stirred the remains of her tea.
Knowing the matter had been informally settled, Ann picked up her tea and stood.
“I’d better get back to work.”
Her mother caught her free arm as she moved past.
“Be careful, baby.”
“Always,” Ann whispered, leaning over to plant a kiss on her mother’s head.
***
General McLane High School
Edinboro, Pennsylvania
Agent George Baker wouldn’t say he hated prayer vigils, but they rarely turned out to be happy, uplifting occasions.
People always pray best after something’s gone wrong.
He needed to take pictures of those who attended in case the person who took Karen Tyler couldn’t resist the urge to stay away.
“George!” called Joy Davidson.
He turned toward her voice and saw her waving. Returning the wave, Baker walked over to his fiancée and gave her a quick kiss.
“Hi, honey. Didn’t think you’d make it. Thought you’d be on your way home by now.” He stepped back so he could admire the simple, stunning purple dress she wore. It had ruffles starting at the short sleeves and running down the neckline, finishing just above a black band designed to look like a belt. “You look amazing, as usual.”
“You’re sweet,” Joy said, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “So, what’s the job?”
Baker marveled at finding a girl like Joy Davidson. She probably had to work tomorrow and yet here she was at a stranger’s vigil helping him canvas for a kidnapper. Pulling another camera from his suit pocket, Baker held it out to Joy and leaned close.
“Take pictures of everyone you can so we can track who showed up,” he instructed. “It’s a long shot, but kidnappers like public events.”
“People pictures, got it,” said Joy. “I’ll expect payment in the form of two large slices of pepperoni pizza from Vinnie’s Pizzeria someday soon.”
“You’ll have to show me where that is, but I’m a man who pays my debts. You go left, I’ll go right. We can meet by the mementos in a half-hour or so.”
Baker’s picture-taking finger was sore by the time he stopped in front of the miniature mountain of pictures, flowers, stuffed animals, and cards flanked by hundreds of candles. A young man to his left stared at the large framed picture of Karen. It wasn’t like any old school picture, though enough of those floated around that Baker knew Karen could charm any camera into making her look great. This picture had been taken in a park on a beautiful autumn day. Her long, golden hair reflected the sunbeams perfectly as she half-turned to smile defiantly at whoever held the camera, her expression caught between surprise and delight.
“I took that picture,” said the young man.
The comment broke through Baker’s thoughts and prompted him to look at the speaker. His mind made connections between this picture and several others on display.
“You must be Connor.” Baker held out a hand for the teen to shake.
“Yes, sir. Connor Daniels,” said the youth, taking the proffered hand and shaking firmly. The style of his short, light brown hair said he’d probably be the clean-cut sort. A few patches of hair stuck up in odd directions where he must have run his hands through it.
“You’re the one who saved Silas Carver. Do you know Karen well?” Baker could tell just by looking that the boy did, but he wanted him to talk about it.
Connor nodded. His jaw trembled as he clenched his teeth against a wave of grief.
Several of the photos on display featured Connor and Karen with their arms around each other.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Was,” Connor corrected, looking miserable. A flash of horror entered his eyes as he realized the possible double meaning to his one-word answer. For a brief moment, it looked like he wanted to explain something, but he shook his head and turned away.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Baker gently probed.
“Not much to say.” Connor heaved a sigh. “We broke up over a stupid fight.”
“What was the fight about?” Baker asked.
“She decided to skip senior year.” Connor shifted uncomfortably and his face reddened. Mumbling an excuse, he quickly strode away.
Though high school was a distant memory, Baker understood the strain such a decision could put upon a relationship, but he didn’t know how to comfort Connor. While contemplating pursuing the teenager, Baker noticed Mrs. Tyler stood to his right. He felt compelled to say something, but everything that sprang to mind sounded stupid, cliché, or inadequate.
Joy slipped past him to the grieving mother’s side and placed her left hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Tyler?”
“Yes,” confirmed Mrs. Tyler in a shaky voice. She squinted, trying to focus on Joy.
“It’s good to meet you, ma’am.”
“Are you one of Karen’s teachers?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Joy Davidson. My fiancé and sister are working the case for the FBI. I wanted to let you know I’ll be praying for your daughter every day. She’s got good people working to find her. That I know for a fact.”
Certain Joy would tell the woman about her own harrowing experience, Baker turned his attention back to the cards and pictures, scanning them to make sure they sounded appropriate. Most of the guests were Karen’s friends and teachers. Their messages ranged from standard we-miss-you stuff to the more sentimental we-love-you-so-much missives to the slightly quirky please-don’t-die pleas.
Where are you Karen?
***
Davidson Residence
Fairview, Pennsylvania
That night, after dinner, Patrick and Ann skipped the prayer vigil planned for Karen in favor of studying the cases silently for about an hour before beginning their discussion. Joy and Baker could handle the picture-taking and mingling duties while Ann and Patrick traded ideas about the new case.
“I think there’s something more than kidnapping and murder going on here,” said Patrick.
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Patrick admitted. “Two bodies showing up in the Erie National Wildlife Refuge two days apart, probably killed years apart, is puzzling and disturbing. Baker has people looking into the victims’ identities, but I don’t think he’s too hopeful about finding results. The missing persons databases are coming up zip on a match to their descriptions.”
“Can you refine the descriptions?” Ann inquired.
“We’re trying,” Patrick said. “I called Dr. Bahl, the anthropologist Dr. Rannok recommended, and she promised to get to the case as soon as possible.” He shrugged. “I’m hoping it means tomorrow or Wednesday. I let her know it’s probably connected to the Tyler case. She said the sooner we catch this crazy guy, the easier she’ll sleep.” Patrick shrugged again. “I think that means she’s motivated to get to it quickly.”
Ann hummed agreement.
“This case seems bigger than one crazy guy or even a pair of crazy guys.”
Patrick nodded.
“In any case, we’re going to have to figure out what to do with Joseph and Amanda. I think their maintenance is a little bey
ond Olivia’s pay grade.” He referred to the teenager they had hired to check on the house and walk Danny, their golden retriever.
“I meant to bring that up. Thanks for reminding me. My parents offered to kid-sit until the case is over. What do you think?”
“Do they realize how much work they’re signing up for?”
The sound of Amanda’s cries reached out to them, emphasizing the point. Ann got up to comfort the baby, but Patrick caught her arm.
Ann made a face.
“That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“Your mother knows a thing or two about raising kids,” Patrick said, sliding his hand down her right forearm until he reached her hand. He briefly gripped her hand before letting it drop.
Ann chuckled.
“Yes, I believe I’ve heard that lecture at least once today from my mother.”
“Always listen to your mother,” Patrick said. His attention turned to the case pictures spread before him.
“What’s on your mind?” Ann peered over his shoulder at the pictures.
“We might have two cases, Ann.”
“I think we have way more than that,” said Ann, straightening to a normal standing position.
“I mean two different kinds of cases. Look at these.” Patrick scooped up a handful of gruesome murder scene pictures and held them out so she could see them better. “Most of these murders are unique and elaborate. They look staged.” He plucked out the top one and flipped it up to give her a prime view. “This isn’t a random stabbing. There’s a pattern.” He let the picture fall back onto the pile and plopped the whole stack back onto the desk. “The kidnappings too—the ones we know about—are well-planned and cleanly executed.”
“So? Maybe we’ve run into that rare breed of smart criminal,” Ann suggested.
Patrick shook his head.
“It’s more than that. We’ve mentioned it several times already. Both the murders and the kidnappings have a high level of taunting. It’s almost too high.”
A thought popped into Ann’s head.
Most crimes are about money.
“How does money figure into the murders or the kidnappings? Only about fifty percent of the kidnapping cases I think could be linked ever had serious ransom demands. Less than forty percent of those delivered the ransom, and only three kids were returned, including Silas Carver whose family never even got a ransom demand.”
“I don’t know,” Patrick admitted, “but answering the money question will probably break this case wide open.”
***
Wickerman Residence
Albion, Pennsylvania
A man dressed in khaki shorts and a Steelers’s jersey drove slowly down Bessemer Street. Approaching his target for the ninth time, he pulled over and snapped a bunch of pictures. The client had specified needing pictures taken at all hours. The request for pictures of the residents themselves might place the job on the shady side of the law, but it also made it more profitable. As the man took one last look at the place, he idly pondered the job. Truthfully, he would have preferred to turn down the job, but times were tough. He didn’t have the luxury of turning away paying clients.
Why would somebody want pictures of a cop’s house?
Chapter 10:
The Game and the Ransom
Ryker’s Base of Operations
Elk County, Pennsylvania
By Monday, the sheer number of details needing serious thought gave Ryker an intense headache. He had to contact the Tylers to let them know how the game would pan out. He also had to sort through the secret bids. His supply of private investigators needed to be refreshed. His Base of Operations might need to be moved. Reuben said the last big bang had been a success, but a check of client comments said the next one had to be truly spectacular to keep the betting interest high. He also had his personal project to think about.
He poured himself a second cup of coffee and devoted his energy to his favorite dilemma: a proper reintroduction.
How do you greet old friends after so many years?
The most appropriate answer was obviously a gift, but it had to be the right gift. One could hardly expect a gift to be memorable if he ordered any old random stuffed animal, box of chocolates, or flowers from the internet. It had to be special. The pictures would help, but even pictures lacked effect if misused.
“Plotting evils already, are we?” asked Dr. Surhan, coming into the kitchen to make his customary bowl of hot oatmeal. “I would think you’ve had your fill of mayhem for the week.”
“Good morning, doctor. Did you check on our special guest yet?”
“Yes, and my report stands much the same as yesterday. The girl’s fine, aside from being repeatedly frightened beyond her wits.” Dr. Surhan filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil.
“Excellent,” replied Ryker. “Have Second Jaya prepare the girl for delivering the message.”
“Her name is Dara,” Dr. Surhan snapped. He slammed down the box of oatmeal he had picked up to pour into a bowl. “She’s my only—”
“Dad, don’t,” interrupted Dara Surhan, entering from the living quarters. “Let it go.” She picked up the box of oatmeal, measured out the proper amount, added water from the tap and a hint of brown sugar, and popped the whole thing in the microwave. She turned off the kettle on her way past.
Ryker shrugged as if Dr. Surhan’s outburst meant nothing.
“People change names. I say she is Second Jaya.”
Dara gave her father an encouraging, if forced, smile. When the microwave pinged, Dara retrieved the oatmeal and handed it to her father, pausing long enough to sprinkle more brown sugar on top.
“Jaya, go prepare Karen. Make sure she’s fed and knows what to say,” instructed Ryker.
“She should eat first,” groused Dr. Surhan. He shoveled a large spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and looked like he wanted to spit it in Ryker’s face.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’m not really hungry.” Dara brushed back her long blond hair and ignored Ryker. She patted her father’s shoulder then padded away softly to attend her assigned tasks.
“She’s a good girl,” Ryker murmured, gazing fondly after her. “To the right buyer, she would be worth—”
Dr. Surhan slammed his spoon down against the ceramic bowl.
“We have a deal. Let’s have no more talk about changing it.” His tone implied threat.
Ryker smiled at the doctor.
“Real threat might improve your odds, doctor.”
Dr. Surhan muttered a curse.
“You would be sick enough to include us in your twisted games. So what ransom did you place on our lives?”
“You are quite valuable to me, so naturally, you’ll be set at a premium,” Ryker assured. “I’m quite fond of Jaya, as I know you are, so she will be high too.”
“I’m not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed,” said Dr. Surhan. He scraped the last of his oatmeal from the bowl and studied the mush like it would give him the answer. Finding nothing new or inspirational, he finished his breakfast.
“That’s the beauty of the game!”
“Oh, here it comes,” grumbled Dr. Surhan, realizing he’d earned a sermon on the game’s merits.
“Life is unpredictable, fragile, brutal, and beautiful. Some people want to be heroes. We cater to that, but most people want to be in control. They want to know they can make a difference or at least earn some easy money. We don’t write the story. We just provide the elements so that others can write it.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Say what you will, my good doctor. As long as you do your job, I care not what you think of me.”
“I can’t believe people seek out stuff like this.”
“You have a flawed understanding of humans, doctor.”
“How so?”
“You believe them to be good. They are not. Do you know how much money is spent annually on banned websites? Billions upon billions, but when one ple
asure gets old, you need something new, revolutionary, and unique.”
“Killing people isn’t unique,” Dr. Surhan retorted. “Even betting on killing people isn’t unique, so why do you think you’ve discovered something new?”
“I let people indulge in dark fantasies without the risk of imprisonment. They get the highs of each kill without the mess. No other service offers what I do.”
“Great, you found a way to spread misery further than the tip of your knife. Congratulations.”
“Think bigger, doctor. I’m a simple man who asks questions and lets others voice their opinions for a price. What will it take to make a boy try to kill a fellow captive? What sort of pressure will it take to control a policeman? How far will a mother go to save her daughter? How long will a child survive tied to a tree? Even if you never get an answer, there’s fun in the speculation. Those who correctly predict the future gain glory and wealth.”
“You’re cheating. It’s not predicting the future. It’s controlling the future of others.”
Ryker beamed at Dr. Surhan.
“Now you understand the keys to human hearts: power, control, and wealth.”
***
Karen Tyler couldn’t believe her change in fortune. A girl about her age rescued her from the community cell, showed her to a shower, gave her a new set of clothes, put salve on her irritated wrists, and even supplied fresh fruit and a granola bar. Most of this happened in blessed silence, but then the girl started whispering rapidly.
“Sorry the clothes are too small. My name is Dara Surhan. I sometimes answer to ‘Jaya’ for Ryker—the man who dreamed up this nightmare. But that doesn’t change who I am. I’m considered a guest here because my father is a doctor for Ryker. I’m supposed to tell you what to say to your mother. I’m forbidden from telling you about the rest of the game, but I’ll tell you what I know anyway.”
“Why would you do that? Won’t he be mad?”
Dara stared into Karen’s eyes.
“I don’t care what he thinks. My father and I have been here almost a year and a half. Nobody’s looking for us. Ryker showed me news articles to prove it. Officially, my father kidnapped me to keep me from my mother. You deserve to know the truth, and you have the chance to communicate with the outside.”
The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4) Page 8