“I’m sure you have a thousand questions, but now’s not the time for them, lady.”
“Help me sit up. It’ll clear my head.” Rachel still felt like she wanted to sleep for a year.
The man reached under her arms and lifted before dragging her back a few feet and propping her against a wall.
As her back hit the cool cement surface, she realized how damp the place felt. Basement, she concluded. But where?
Rachel slowly turned her head this way and that, trying to work out a few kinks and observe more of her surroundings. She couldn’t see much. The lighting looked like it was going for fancy photo shoot, but the comforting beams only illuminated the area a few feet to either side of her. She wasn’t bound, a fact to be grateful for, but she also knew escape would be impossible in her current state. Nothing hurt, per se, unless she counted excessive stiffness, but her muscles felt like they’d gone on strike.
“In a few minutes, I’ll have to bind your hands and feet so your message will be convincing,” said the man, sounding apologetic.
“Who’s making you do anything?” Rachel wished she didn’t sound so lethargic.
“My master’s name is Ryker.”
“Master?” The term caught Rachel by surprise. It sounded like something out of a fantasy series her boys would love. Rachel flinched. “What happened to my children?”
“I’ll answer your questions after you tell Special Agent Julie Ann Duncan to forget about the Tyler case.”
“She never forgets a case,” said Rachel.
“Even to save a friend?” The man sounded curious.
Would Ann drop a case to save me?
Rachel had never considered such a question, but now that it lay before her, she analyzed her friend.
Ann hates being manipulated, but she’s dangerously self-sacrificing.
They had been close in high school, lost touch during most of their twenties, and rekindled the friendship a few years back. Ann could be fiercely loyal, but she also possessed a strong sense of justice. She wouldn’t be considered everybody’s pal, but she cared about her friends and family enough to smother them in good will and affection.
She loves details, hates delays, and brings new meaning to the word rational.
If loyalty were pitted against justice, Rachel suspected Ann might side with justice, but she honestly couldn’t tell for sure.
“She would do whatever’s right.”
“My master is eager to have an answer,” said the man.
“What’s really going on?” Thinking about Ann had primed the pump on Rachel’s thought processes.
“I told you. My master wants you to—”
“People don’t kidnap whole families to stop one woman from investigating a crime that’s probably already resolved.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I think you would lie if it suited you.”
The man laughed.
“My master said you might prove amusing.”
“When do I get to meet him?”
“I don’t think you want to meet him. He kills most of the women he meets.” The man wheeled over a rolling chair, locked it in place, scooped Rachel up, and deposited her into the chair. She tried to get up, but he pushed her back down. “Stay there. I’m not supposed to kill you yet, but I can hurt you.”
The word “yet” made Rachel mad.
“Why are you bothering with this stupid challenge, if I’m supposed to die anyway?”
“Why does anybody bother with anything?” returned the man. He retrieved a roll of duct tape from a shelf barely visible outside the pool of light. Then, he taped Rachel’s calves and ankles together and her forearms to the chair itself. Next, he tore off a long strip and used it to secure her stomach to the back of the chair.
“Isn’t that … excessive? I can barely move.”
“It’s about appearances,” the man explained, as he tore off another long strip to wrap around her waist and the chair. Once finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. “It’s missing something.” He grinned wickedly and slapped a piece of tape firmly across her mouth. “All part of the show.” The man yanked the bandana back into place across his mouth and nose. “Are you ready for your five minutes of fame?” With an exaggerated wink, the man pulled a remote from his pocket and fiddled with it.
A digital recorder whirred to life. A tiny red light on the camera’s left side blinked to let them know it was recording. The man had his back to Rachel. She wanted to kick him with her bound legs, but he stood just out of reach.
“Good evening, Agent Duncan. My master regrets his absence and the lack of live communication for this part of tonight’s entertainment. You will see why momentarily, and I’m sure he will correct that oversight later. For now, your friend would like to say something.”
The man stepped back, so Rachel could take over as the center of the camera’s attention. Bracing her head with one hand, he gripped the tape and yanked it free.
Even prepared for the move, it still stung. The skin around Rachel’s mouth tingled. She moved her jaw slowly, contemplating what to say. This could be the last message she ever sent her friend, and she wanted it to be meaningful. The countless things she needed to say choked her for a moment.
“Speak.”
Staring at the blinking red light, Rachel drew a deep breath as her thoughts cleared.
“Goodbye, Ann.”
The sharp blow slammed into her right cheek, snapping her head back.
“Try again.”
It might be simpler if you complied for now. Do not worry. Your friend will know your true thoughts. Your eyes speak the truest messages.
Rachel had no idea where the voice came from, but she decided it spoke sound advice. Staring into the camera, she started again.
“Hi, Ann. This man and his master wish for you to stop working on the Tyler case. I told them you wouldn’t listen, but he insisted I tell you anyway.” The message she glared at the camera was much simpler: Don’t you dare give up on that case. And go find my kids!
A sharp pain in her right arm caused her to gasp. She started to turn but suddenly felt lightheaded.
All part of the show.
Glancing back at the camera, she realized with horror that it was still recording everything, including her surprise and alarm. Then, she passed out and ceased caring.
***
House for Sale
Kissimmee, Florida
Jonathan Parker woke up with many of the same questions as his wife, but he had the advantage of a straightforward captor in Wayne Casey.
“Wake up, Parker,” grumbled the man, slapping Jon’s face. “Got a message for you to give to Patrick Duncan.”
“What message?” Jon shook his head slowly to make sure it worked.
“Tell Patrick he’d better find you by noon tomorrow or you’re a dead man,” said the man. He slapped Jon a few more times, only slightly more gently.
Jon blinked against bright lights and squinted in the direction of the voice.
“How is he going to find me?”
“I’ll give him a trail to follow,” the man promised.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m being paid.” He had a low, rough voice.
“Where are my children?”
“Probably dead.”
Alarm brought Jon to a sitting position and a solid tap on the jaw from his captor sent him right back down again. His head hit the ground hard enough to release starbursts behind his eyes. Jon tried to lift his right arm to punch back, but it refused to budge.
“Did you kill my children?” The question hurt, but Jon refused to believe without proof.
“No.”
“Then how—”
“That was the plan.”
A young woman’s voice silently countermanded the man’s statements. Your children are safe, Mr. Parker.
Jon wanted to believe her.
“Where’s Rachel?”
“Probably prepa
ring a message for the female Agent Duncan.”
“What message?” Jon repeated, this time referring to what Rachel’s captor might make her say.
“It’s a test,” replied the man. The barest glint of sympathy touched his eyes. “She’s to ask Agent Duncan to drop the case. If the agent agrees, your wife dies. If she refuses, she gets a few days to find her.”
Anger cleared Jon’s head of the remaining cobwebs.
“What kind of a test is that?”
“A test of knowledge. My master wishes to know how well Agent Duncan knows him. Your wife’s chances of survival are probably better than yours.”
Jon’s expression asked the question as well as any words: What makes you say that?
“If Patrick Duncan is half the agent he’s reputed to be, he’ll know his wife is in as much danger as you. Given that choice, he’ll likely pursue her.” The man thumped Jon on the chest. “Don’t take it personally. Now, get up. It’s time for you to record that message.”
Having little choice in the matter, Jon let the man lead him to a chair and duct tape his wrists to the arms.
“I know it’s stupid, but my boss insisted.” The man taped each of Jon’s legs to a different chair leg. “I’m supposed to tape your mouth too and rip it off for the camera, but I’m going to skip that part.” The man drew a remote from his pocket and turned on the recorder. Straightening, he said, “This message is for Patrick Duncan.” Stepping aside, he waved for Jon to continue.
Jon knew instinctively that any deviation from the outlined script would prove painful.
“Hey, buddy. You’re supposed to come down here and find me by noon tomorrow, but I—”
The red light on the camera went dark.
“That’s enough. Thank you, Parker,” the man interrupted. “You’ll be grateful in a few days when you’re still alive.”
Not if Ann’s dead.
Chapter 30:
Plan of Action
Davidson Residence
Fairview, Pennsylvania
As dinner approached a close, Ann Duncan got up, thanked her mother, and walked around to her father. She planted a kiss on his cheek.
“I’m going to need your office again tonight, Daddy. Is that okay?”
“Go ahead, sweetie. I’m getting used to doing without anyway,” Able Davidson replied. “Go save the world.”
“I’ll try.” Ann walked farther around until she reached her son’s highchair. “Wow, I think you’re wearing more mashed potatoes than you ate.”
How did I miss that? She picked up a fairly clean napkin and took a few swipes at her son’s face.
He screamed like she wielded a hot iron rather than a napkin.
“No!”
“Who taught you that word anyway?” Ann wondered, starring hard at her son.
“No!” Joseph shrieked again, pitching his head forward.
Ann caught him before he brained himself on the plastic tray.
“I’ve got him,” Joy said, unbuckling the straps and pulling Joseph free of the highchair. “Go ahead and get to work. I think this mess requires a full bath.”
“No bath!” Joseph screamed as if it might be the worst torture imaginable. “No bath, Mommy!” The boy flung out his arms toward Ann like she was his last, best, and only hope.
Joy waggled her eyebrows at Ann. Her expression said: Watch this.
“I’ll give you a cookie.”
Joseph stopped mid-shriek and allowed Joy to pull him upright.
“Two!”
Since when did he learn how to negotiate?
Ann blinked at Joseph, unsure whether to laugh or scold. If she chose scolding, she wondered if Joseph or Joy needed it more. Her parents burst out laughing, deciding the matter.
“Deal, but only if your mother agrees,” Joy said.
Putting on the sweetest smile, Joseph twisted around to look at Ann, flung out a hand, and said, “Cookies please.”
“I’d call it a fair trade,” said Ann’s father.
“Able, don’t encourage them!” Carol scolded.
“What say you, sis? Two cookies for one bath,” Joy said, summarizing the deal.
What is this world coming to?
Ann threw up her hands and laughed.
“Fine, but when my kid turns into a lawyer, I’m blaming you.”
Joseph and Joy exchanged sly smiles, pumped their right fists, and said, “Yes!”
Taking a deep breath and releasing it in a long sigh, Ann announced, “I’m going to go deal with things I understand. If you need me, you know where to find me.” With that, she waved farewell and retreated into her father’s office.
“Bye!” Joseph shouted after her.
Three hours passed as Ann absorbed one case after another, connected cases to the horrible website, and dug up every unsolved murder she could find that fit with the timeline Patrick had suggested. A fierce—but mercifully brief—storm had her praying the power would hold out and forced her to print a few of the case files. She found it easier to collate facts with a hardcopy in hand. She faithfully checked the tracer locator from time to time, but it gave her nothing.
In all those hours, Ann took one brief break to tuck her squeaky clean son into bed and kiss her slumbering daughter’s cheek. Afterward, she dove right back into murder, mayhem, and madness. Several times, she felt she had a viable suspect, but some annoying, undisputable fact—like his death—would come along and dismantle her theory. Dr. Bahl’s report came through from Patrick, and Ann eagerly consumed every scrap of it. She added the details to her knowledge base and used it to focus her search for victims who might have earned the distinction of first kill.
Two more hours slipped by while Ann skimmed newspaper articles about several murders around the eastern half of the US, spanning almost two decades. Only two of them were in the same county, but those had possibly taken place within hours of each other. The victims’ ages, races, gender, and cause of death differed mightily. That fit with the killer they pursued. The connections were vague but felt right to Ann. She cross referenced the shoebox contents Baker and Patrick had discovered with police reports and evidence logs.
Patrick called around eleven.
“He’s got them. I’m going to Florida.”
The news hit Ann like an avalanche followed by an earthquake followed by a meteor strike.
When? How? Why?
“All of them?”
“The kids are fine. Lawson and Wickerman will get someone to stay with them. I’m at Erie International now waiting for the flight to leave.”
“I’m coming too,” Ann said, sending up a prayer of thanks that the Parker children were safe.
“Stay on the case,” argued Patrick. “The kidnapper and his cohorts are supposed to return Karen Tyler within the next few days. Baker’s going to need your help. I already brought him and the bosses up to speed.”
The need to aid their friends clashed with her duty to help with the case. Her mind agreed with Patrick, but her heart balked at the unfairness.
“Good luck,” she murmured at last.
“We don’t need luck,” Patrick replied.
We have God on our side, Ann finished silently.
Frustrated tears burned, begging to fall. She dashed them away.
“Did he call?”
“Not yet, but the night’s not over. This guy’s not shy about communicating. I’ll set Brad to tracking him through the phones. Jon told me they were pursuing a program that spoofs other numbers. With this guy’s reliance on technology, I wouldn’t put it past him.” He let that thought sink in for a few seconds before continuing, “If we’re going to catch him, we’re going to need every advantage. See what Brad or somebody else on Jon’s team can do with your notes.”
“Good idea,” said Ann. Jon had mentioned the program some time ago, but she hadn’t gotten around to trying it out yet. Basically, the program read any document and searched it for locations, names, and dates. Then, it generated a map with pins that liste
d relevant details once you right clicked on it. A physical incidence map could provide similar information, but the electronic version could offer more details and easier comparison to other types of maps.
“So, what about your end? Did you find anything new?” Patrick asked.
“I found more murders committed by our guy, pre and post picking up a crew, but I’m still working on the identity,” Ann reported.
“How many people do you think he has working for him?” inquired Patrick.
“At least two or three,” Ann said. “There’s no telling for sure, but some of the body dumps require two people.”
“What do you mean?”
Ann told him about six-year-old Kayla Eaton, taken from school in Attica, New York and found three years later strangled to death. “Kayla’s body was found hanging from a telephone pole. Shoe prints around the pole suggested two different men.”
“Tell me about the other murders.”
Ann told him about Mandisa Scott and Royce Gary, Jr., both of Anson County, North Carolina. The former a nineteen-year-old track star found strangled with a jump rope, and the latter a twenty-nine-year-old drifter who died from multiple stab wounds. She remembered there was at least one more significant murder, but she couldn’t remember the victim’s name until she flipped through some of her notes. Then, she told Patrick about Kanvar Amra, the thirty-six-year-old business man from Warwick, Rhode Island who was shot twice in the chest and once in the head.
“I compared the notes from those cases to the shoebox contents. The silver bracelet was obviously Rachel’s, but the rubber ball looks like Kayla Eaton’s lucky ball. Her mother said she rarely let it out of her sight,” Ann explained. “The watch probably belonged to Kanvar. Its disappearance had the police looking at the case like a robbery gone wrong, but his wallet had been left untouched with almost three hundred dollars in cash inside.”
“What connects Mandisa Scott and Royce Gary, Jr.?”
“One of the necklaces matches a description of the jewelry Mandisa’s brother told police she had been wearing when she disappeared. The connection to Mr. Gary is more tentative, but the police found a hand-painted miniature figure near his body. There are probably other cases that fit, but the information either escapes me or was never entered into ViCAP.” The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program wasn’t the only database Ann had utilized, but it had given her these four cases. “We’re getting close, Patrick. I can feel it.”
The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4) Page 21