Bitter Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 4)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  “The moon will show you. It is time for you to choose.” He raises his arm, pointing to her. “Fear the wolf . . . or be the wolf.”

  She stares at him, and the night pulses around them. Then slowly he fades away.

  There is nothing there but a road sign under the moon.

  ROARKE

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  He woke to golden daylight pouring over the sand, as thick and sweet as honey, and the trace memory of trance music, of shooting stars and the exhilarating feeling of motion, of speed and freedom.

  He still had the Navajo blanket wrapped around him, and his parka underneath. He was stiff from the cold, and his ears still throbbed from the music; he could feel a headache coming on. But for the moment, he felt more at peace than he had for a long, long time.

  Other partyers lay still sleeping around him, cocooned in sleeping bags, huddled together.

  He threw off the blanket, got gingerly to his feet. A wave of dizziness came over him at the change in position . . . and in the blinding whiteness of the sunlight, he saw the rows of burned girls from the night before, standing black and still and entreating on the pale sand.

  Then his eyes adjusted to the light and he saw the truth: rows and rows of Joshua trees, their branches outstretched like limbs.

  And yet the image felt as real to him now as it had in the night.

  He breathed in shakily, tried to calm his racing pulse.

  A voice spoke from behind him. “You okay?”

  Roarke turned to see the slim black-haired guitarist from the band. The other band members were walking away across the sand, carrying their instruments, headed back toward what the world called civilization.

  Roarke answered, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  The guitarist stood his case in the sand and nodded out toward the radiant rising sun, the pristine calm of the desert. “Whatever else there is, there’s this, right?”

  Roarke looked at him, struck by the thought. “Yes,” he said, and added, “Thanks for the music.” The words were formal, and made him feel old, but the guitarist nodded solemn thanks.

  One of the other musicians turned and called back. “Hey, Eric, you comin’ or what?”

  The guitarist looked at Roarke. “Need a ride somewhere?”

  “I’m good.”

  The guitarist gave Roarke a small salute, and trudged through the sand toward his bandmates.

  Roarke turned and looked back out toward the Joshua trees.

  And he knew.

  Instead of following the band back out toward the road, he moved away from the other sleepers, and climbed a sand dune to sit at the top.

  He stayed there for some time, lifting handfuls of sand and letting the grains slip through his fingers, breathing the desert air and listening to the sounds around him: the scrabble of lizards on rocks, the call of birds, the rustle of jackrabbits in the brush. Time seemed to stop and everything seemed hyper-clear.

  His phone buzzed in the pocket of his parka.

  It was a moment before he reached for it. Because he knew it was Singh. And he knew what she was going to say.

  He clicked on to hear the distinctive voice.

  “I am sorry to call so early.”

  He was short of breath answering. “It’s fine. I’m up. I’ve been up.” He was already feeling the buzz of anticipation.

  She didn’t waste words. “I could find no report with any evidence that Laura Huell was raped. There was never a rape kit taken. The coroner ruled suicide: she cut her wrists and bled out. The official cause of death was exsanguination.”

  That wasn’t what Roarke had expected. “Where did she do it?”

  “She was found in the bathroom of her parents’ home.”

  Roarke had a sudden, unwelcome vision of the scene: that innocent girl, slumped on a tile floor in a pool of crimson blood . . .

  “There is no mention by the coroner of scarring or bruising that could have indicated previous sexual assault. However, there is no mention that the coroner was specifically looking for such signs, either.”

  Maddeningly ambiguous. Some departments didn’t see rape even when they were looking for it. So in a situation where rape wasn’t even mentioned as a possibility . . .

  On the other end of the connection, Singh continued. “A rape kit was collected for Ivy Barnes. There was never a match to any other DNA in the CODIS database. But as you know . . .”

  She didn’t have to finish. Even when a rape was reported, and reported in time for DNA evidence to be collected, it was fairly rare for the DNA to actually be tested, even more rare for it to be entered into CODIS.

  “As for the matches to previous or subsequent crimes: there were no close matches to the attacker’s MO in California, so I broadened the search to the entire US. I found two cases in which young high school girls were abducted and attacked in the same manner, and threatened with burning, though no actual burning occurred.”

  Roarke felt a jolt of adrenaline. Singh continued.

  “Those attacks took place in 1997, in Miami, and in 1999, in Phoenix. Both these girls were abducted into a panel van by a single assailant while walking to school early in the morning, and taken to some unknown location several miles away, where the assaults occurred. The age of the victims corresponds to Ivy’s and Laura’s. There were never any viable suspects in either case.”

  Roarke was electrified. That’s a hit. Definitely a hit. But those were both before Ivy. Nothing after?

  Singh wasn’t finished. “Then I submitted the details from each of those cases into ViCAP.” She paused slightly, and Roarke had a sudden, chilled feeling. Singh continued softly. “Starting in the year 1996 I came up with seven more instances of rapes with a similar MO and victim pool: high school girls of thirteen to fifteen years of age who were abducted into a panel van by a single assailant while walking to school early in the morning, and all of them hooded or blindfolded in some way. Each of these vans was described as clean, well-maintained, with uncovered metal flooring inside, and empty. There were several different colors described, including white, dark blue, beige, and black.”

  Roarke looked out over the rows of Joshua trees, and for a moment, saw his vision of the night before: rows and rows of burned girls, stretching out into the desert.

  “Where?” he asked, his mouth dry as dust.

  “All over. Baltimore, Chicago, Dallas, Atlanta, Orlando. There is no pattern that I can see to the states in which these attacks took place except that they are almost as far removed from each other as is possible to be. It is also notable that these are quite large cities, although of course there would be more reported rapes per capita in large cities than in smaller towns. I found other incidents, including three in which girls were abducted into vans while walking to school, whose faces were also covered during the attacks. But in those cases there were multiple assailants, likely gang members. They do not appear linked.”

  Roarke’s mind was racing. Nine more, then, plus Ivy. Ten attacks. And that’s just what Singh was able to find. Only a tiny fraction of reported rapes were indexed in the CODIS system, and the vast majority of rapes were never reported at all.

  It wasn’t the counselor, he thought. And then that realization was eclipsed by a much more urgent question.

  “When was the last one?”

  Singh’s voice was soft. “Last year.”

  “He’s still out there,” Roarke said, not realizing he’d spoken aloud until Singh answered—

  “Yes. And there is another, perhaps more interesting linking factor.” Singh paused, and Roarke stopped breathing for just a moment, waiting for what she would say. “All of these nine attacks occurred in the month of January.”

  Roarke stared out over the desert, jolted.

  That sure as hell ties the rapes together. Except . . .

  “The attack on Ivy was in June,” he said aloud.

  “Yes,” Singh said. “And there are other differences. The assault on Ivy was the most severe, the only one
that involved actual burning. It took place in a much smaller town, compared to all the others. And yet . . .”

  “You found the others with the search criteria from Ivy’s witness statement,” he finished for her.

  “Exactly so,” she agreed.

  They were both silent for a moment.

  “The DNA,” Roarke began.

  “It is not possible to compare DNA in any of these cases, or to the DNA evidence taken from Ivy Barnes, because none of the rape kits for the other victims were ever processed.”

  Roarke had to sit for a moment with that.

  None of the other rape kits had been processed?

  Comparing DNA evidence from the rape kits should have been the easiest thing in the world to do. The evidence had been collected. The technology was there. A national database existed to enter the data into, and results should have been almost instantaneous.

  Should have been.

  In reality, hundreds of thousands of rape kits sat untested in police and crime lab storage facilities across the country. An unconscionable backlog. All of that evidence that could be used to put serial rapists away, as well as exonerate innocent men—sitting on shelves, year after year, while 98 percent of rapists go free.

  He had to hold down his fury to focus on what Singh was saying.

  “At the beginning of business hours I will submit requests for the rape kits that were collected from the nine attacks I have identified in my search and inform the local police departments that we are re-opening these cases on the basis that there are juveniles in potential danger. I will have our own lab process and do the comparisons to see if these attacks are linked.”

  There’s only one problem with that, Roarke thought, with a surge of unease. It’s going to take time, and it’s late January now.

  Singh added, “We must hope that the evidence has not degraded and is still testable. However, Ivy’s rapist was a secretor, of blood type B positive.” She meant a person whose blood type antigens could be found in their body fluids. “So if the body fluid samples in the kits can be typed, we may be able to immediately eliminate or focus on suspects by blood type comparisons, without having to wait for DNA testing.”

  It was a small positive, something at least.

  “Meanwhile I have collected all the police reports for these assaults and have scanned and sent them through.”

  “Hold on . . .” Roarke clicked over to check his inbox but found he had not received emails since last night. “I’m out of range. I’ll look at them ASAP.”

  “As for the record checks on Melvin Franzen and Principal Lethbridge, both have been married only once; Lethbridge for eighteen years, Franzen for thirty-five. Franzen’s wife died four years ago, and Lethbridge is still married. Neither man has a criminal record. Both were questioned in the early stages of the investigation into the attack on Ivy, and alibied out. But it is interesting that you asked about both of them. They have the same alibi. Each other.”

  Roarke heard alarm bells in his head.

  “Both men were at the high school, attending the Palmers Club meeting that Ivy never made it to. But I do not see how either of them could have been part of the attack. At the time Ivy Barnes was abducted, they were running the club meeting. According to the police interview, there were seven students also present at the meeting. And then Lethbridge and Franzen were at their respective jobs during the day, over at least part of the time that attack took place.”

  Maybe so, Roarke thought grimly. But it seems pretty damn convenient to me.

  “In any case, Ivy reported only one assailant,” Singh said, and Roarke realized she was right.

  He searched his mind for a moment, and remembered. “I’m going to need another of those background checks, on a detective in the Riverside Sheriff’s Department: Gilbert Ortiz. Anything you can find. Criminal charges brought and dismissed, marital difficulties . . .”

  “Gilbert Ortiz,” Singh repeated, and Roarke heard the clicking of her fingernails against a keyboard. Then she spoke again, more slowly. “In reading through the reports of these attacks it struck me . . . of course with your background you would know better than I—”

  Roarke was instantly alert. “What are you thinking, Singh?”

  “These rapes do not all seem like the same assailant to me.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated. “I believe when you read the reports you will see what I mean.”

  He nodded, as if she could see him. “All right. Thank you.”

  “I will update you as things progress.”

  And she was gone.

  Roarke lowered the phone, and looked out over the Joshua trees, black silhouettes against the white glare of the sun.

  Twenty years of rapes. All over the US. Undetected. Unprosecuted.

  All in January. This month.

  The thought shot him to standing.

  No time to lose.

  He turned and started off across the sand, toward the road.

  Singh clicked off the phone and put it down thoughtfully. She left the partition that served as her office, and walked into the living area of her loft space.

  Epps was already in the kitchen, already making coffee in his beloved Nespresso machine. He stood at the counter dressed in pajama bottoms, barefoot and bare-torsoed, as lithe as a cat. She was as ever moved by the sight of his body, the physical expression of human form that he represented. Beauty, power, life.

  He looked at her inquiringly. “Was that—”

  “Yes.”

  Epps shook his head. “What the hell is he up to?”

  It was a good question, a mystery.

  “I believe it is something he must do,” she told him. “Something that must be done.”

  He handed her a cup of tea and kissed her.

  She smiled at him, then went to her meditation room and closed the door. Inside, she knelt at the altar, struck a long match . . . and lit candles for the dead girls, the violated girls, and for all the girls still in danger.

  CARA

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  She wakes with an image of a wolf in her head.

  She is in the bed in her aunt’s house . . .

  . . . and is instantly aware that there is another presence in the bed. She stiffens, jerks up . . .

  Then she realizes Erin has crawled into bed with her.

  She lies there with her young cousin beside her: small, dark, breathing steadily in sleep. Outside, the sky is just beginning to lighten to dawn. Her limbs are strangely sore. But she feels calm, calmer than she has felt in a long, long time.

  She is not sure if she has been dreaming, or if any of the night’s events have even happened at all. But a voice lingers in her head:

  “Fear the wolf, or be the wolf.”

  She rolls over onto her side, and is instantly asleep.

  When she wakes again, it is because the fine hairs on her arms are prickling . . . the feeling of danger.

  She is alone in bed, and it is long past noon. She can tell by the light filtering in through the blinds.

  She focuses on what woke her: the sound of a car running its motor in the driveway. There is the sound of the engine shutting off, and then there are heavy footsteps on the concrete drive, two sets of them. Men. The doorbell chimes below.

  She rises from the bed, crosses to the window, and looks through a crack in the blinds, down to the driveway. Outside in the drive there is a black-and-white SUV, a police vehicle. Riverside County Sheriff’s Department is stenciled on the side.

  Downstairs in the front hall she hears the sound of the front door opening, and then voices. Her aunt, and a male voice.

  She moves noiselessly to the bedroom door to listen.

  “Joan Trent?” the voice asks, implacable.

  “Yes, what—”

  “I’m Detective Miller, Riverside County Sheriff’s Department. This is Detective Ortiz. Is your niece here?”

  “My niece?” Her aunt’s voice is faltering.

  �
��Your niece, Cara Lindstrom. We were informed that she’s staying with you.”

  “Yes. Yes, she’s here. What is—”

  “Would you check for me, please.” It is not a request.

  There is a pause, and then her aunt calls, “Cara!”

  She opens the guest room door and comes out of the room, wearing the high-collared shirt and leggings that she has been sleeping in, her hair unbrushed. She goes to the end of the hall and looks down the stairwell.

  Two men stand behind her aunt. The older one is stocky, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He has bushy eyebrows, a bristly gray beard. The younger one is muscular, darker, and unsmiling. She knows he is trouble the minute she sees him. He seems to be just skin stretched tight over a boiler about to explode.

  He looks up the stairwell—and is obviously startled to see her. She gives him nothing.

  The older one, Miller, is first to speak. “Cara Lindstrom, we’re with the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

  She walks slowly down the stairs and stops some distance from them. She keeps herself very still as she looks from the detectives to her aunt and then asks, plaintively, “Is this about the Reaper?”

  Her aunt gasps. Cara sees the older detective flinch, and is glad. She wants them thinking of the child she was, the poor little girl who survived the slaughter of her family. She wants every advantage pity can buy her. She has the strong feeling she’s going to need that.

  Aunt Joan looks to the detectives. “Is it?” she asks, faintly.

  “No, it’s not,” the younger one says. Ortiz. His voice sounds too loud in the hall.

  “There’s no news,” Cara says with no inflection. Letting the words do the accusing.

  “I’m afraid not.” The older one sounds defensive. Good.

  Ortiz wants to glare at her, but is too conscious of her aunt there. Still, his anger radiates from him.

  “He’s still out there,” Cara says, and draws into herself. Not quite a shudder, but the feeling of one.

  “We . . .” the older detective starts, and then she can see him decide to take control of the conversation. “We’re here to talk to you about Mr. Pierson.”