by Rachel Caine
It's from Lanny.
I also have a voice mail from Javier, but I don't bother to listen. I stop right on the tarmac, two steps off the plane, and dial my daughter's number. I feel sick, and I get a surge of false relief when I hear her say, "Hello?"
"Sweetie, what's wrong?" I ask. I hear nothing. "Are you there? Honey? Hello?"
"You bitch," she says, and then she hangs up on me. Just like that. I think we've been disconnected, and then I start thinking worse things. She didn't sound like herself. She sounded cold. Angry. Different. And she's never called me that. Never.
Sam slows down as he descends the steps, because he's seen the look on my face. We lack the closeness we had before we went up that elevator in the Ivory Tower, but he can't seem to help being concerned. "What is it?" he asks. "The kids?"
I dial again. Lanny picks up but doesn't say anything. I hear noise, as if the phone's being handed off, and then Javier's voice says, "Gwen?"
"Oh, thank God, is everything okay there? I got a text and Lanny--"
"Yeah, look. You need to get back here." Javier doesn't sound right, either. I have a sickening idea that he's got a gun to his head, that they've all been taken prisoner, that Melvin Royal is leaning over and listening to every word we're saying. Is that possible? Yes. Horribly possible.
"Javier, if you're under duress, just say my name one time."
"I'm not," he says. It sounds clipped and angry, but not anxious. "Your kids need some answers. I need some answers. All right? When can you be here?"
"I don't understand. What happened? God, tell me, is everyone all right?"
"Yes," he says. I don't know whether or not to believe him. "Get back here."
"I--" I have no idea what's going on. "I will. Tomorrow by noon. I'm nowhere close, it'll take me some time." I wonder if Rivard will mind if I hijack his plane on the way back.
"Okay," he says. He sounds different, most certainly, from the man I left in charge of my kids. As if something's happened to change his mind about everything.
"Tomorrow," I promise, and he hangs up without a goodbye. Sam's standing by me now, frowning. I look up at him as I put the phone away. "Something's wrong. I need to get back to Javier's tomorrow."
"Are the kids all right?"
"I . . . hope so. I don't think they were being forced to call, nothing like that." I think hard about calling Connor, seeing if he'd be more willing to talk to me, but I don't. Something, some gut-level instinct, tells me that isn't a good idea. Just get this done, and you can get back to them. Stop overthinking.
The crew of the plane has seen us off with professional smiles, but they don't waste any time. As we're speaking, the stairway is pulled up behind us, the hatch shut, and now the plane is revving up to taxi off toward a hangar. Sam and I head for the small terminal. We go straight through, and I feel a strong sense, again, of deja vu. I remember being here, picking up my mother on a flight in to visit her grandkids when they were little. That was before everything changed and life became a surreal, never-ending nightmare.
The carpet in the terminal is still exactly the same.
There's a taxi rank--more or less, if one taxi constitutes a rank--and Sam gets there, leans in, and gives directions I don't hear. I pile in with him in the back of the car, and it takes off with a jerk of acceleration. The cab driver isn't chatty. That's a good thing.
Sam passes me the file that he'd taken from the manila folder on board. I hadn't asked then what was in it, because I didn't want to push him. I still don't, but I have to ask.
"Home or office first?" I ask. It's almost five o'clock; depending on work hours, Suffolk could be at either place, or en route.
"We're trying the office first. I like surprising people there. They're not as likely to try to kill you in front of the boss." Sam's dry sense of humor is forced. I feel like I'm in free fall. I try not to look out the windows as we drive, because everything we pass has a memory attached to it of my old life. The park where I used to take the kids. The store where I bought my favorite dress.
The restaurant where Melvin took me to dinner for our last anniversary.
My mouth feels dry, and my throat clicks when I try to swallow. I wish now I'd guzzled more water on the plane. Sam and I haven't talked about it, but it isn't too likely that this Suffolk will put up much of a fight; he doesn't seem the type. I just want to do whatever Rivard wants and stop anyone else from ever seeing that video; I don't know if I can trust Rivard to keep his promise to buy it and keep it from spreading, but it's the only option I have. It doesn't matter that it's faked. What matters is that it feels real, even to me, as if I've repressed the memory. People like to say that cameras don't lie, but they can.
And when they do, everyone believes.
It's a short ride to the address that Sam gave the taxi driver, and we glide to a halt in an industrial area that looks thriving. There are multiple-story office buildings, but Imaging Solutions seems to be a small operation located in a multistore strip mall. I pay the taxi driver from my diminishing stash of money and follow Sam to the store.
Inside, the place smells sharply of chemicals and ozone. The carpet is a basic industrial, with no padding beneath; there's a faux wood counter, a register, some colorful posters about various services for signage and printing. I can hear the grumble and chatter of machines from behind a wall; there's an open doorway to the left that leads to the work area. The wall is fitted with a row of glass blocks, and through the watery distortion, I see people moving back there.
The door has sounded a bell, and now a young man emerges from the back, wiping his hands. He's wearing a short-sleeve white shirt and black tie, and even his haircut looks conventional and straight out of the 1950s. "Hello, folks," he says. "How can I help you today?"
Sam says, "We're looking for Carl David Suffolk."
The young man smiles. "Well, sure, but he's at work right now, so we don't allow any visitors in the work area--"
"I'm not a visitor," I tell him. "I'm his sister. There's been a family emergency."
"Oh. Oh, sure. Okay. Let me go get him--"
"I'll go with you," Sam says. As the manager turns away, he whispers to me, "Go around back in case he runs."
"I hope everything's all right," the manager says. "Mr.--?"
"Suffolk," Sam lies easily. "I'm his brother. And you are . . . ?"
"David Roberts. I'm the assistant manager."
"Great. Thanks, Mr. Roberts."
Roberts flips up the counter where it's hinged, and Sam walks around the corner with him. The second they're out of sight, I exit at a run and race around to the end of the strip mall, down the alley, and around the drab back. It's lined with dumpsters and loading docks, and as I run, I count off stores. Luckily, most are labeled at the back doors. When I find Imaging Solutions, I slow down. No trucks at the loading dock at the moment.
The rolling garage door is closed, and so is the solid metal door next to it, but as I reach the foot of the steps, the door bursts open with a bang, and a hefty white man in his midforties bursts out. Like Roberts, he's wearing a short-sleeve white shirt and black tie; unlike his boss, he hasn't been as careful with it, and there are smears of black toner around his waist. He looks pale and frantic, and his eyes widen when he sees me standing there blocking the steps. He spins, but it's too late. Sam's come out of the door behind him. He closes it and says, "Carl, let's be smart about this--"
I don't even have time to yell a warning, though I see it coming; Carl lunges at him. Sam dodges with the ease of a matador, and Carl barrels past. He stumbles. Sways.
And then he falls off the dock with a howl of panic.
He hits on his back, and the impact dazes him; he's still lying there when we reach him. He seems okay, and when Sam offers him a hand up, he takes it. "Anything broken?" Sam asks. "How's your head?"
"Okay," Carl says. "I'm okay. I'm--" The shock snaps, and he realizes his situation. He stumbles back, but he's limping, and Sam and I look at each other as Suf
folk starts a lumbering, lurching run for slow-motion freedom.
I say, "Hey, Carl? Look, just give it up. Don't make me shoot a kneecap off you."
Suffolk turns. He seems ashen, and for the first time, he looks at each of us in turn, with real focus. When he gets to me, his face changes. It turns malignant, as if some demon has drifted to the surface and altered his skin. His forehead reddens. He lowers his chin, and his eyes have a cold delight in them that makes me want to step back. I don't.
"You," he says softly. "You're his bitch."
And then he lunges for me, and because I didn't step back, I'm easily in his range. I think he intends to knock me down, and I'm ready for that.
I'm not ready for a full-on killing assault.
His hands close around my throat, and without any hesitation at all, he starts a crushing pressure. This isn't a game, and it isn't tentative. He intends to kill me. My rational mind breaks into a white storm of panic. I can feel myself being lifted right off the ground by his strength, and the pain, the suffocating panic of my lungs laboring for air, robs me of any kind of real thought at all.
I hear a whisper in my ear. It's as clear as if he's standing next to me. This is how you die, Gina. Melvin's voice. It seems to have been an eternity already. I try to fight, to twist, I try to keep my neck muscles stiff against his crushing grip, but I know that's only going to prolong my agony.
Melvin's voice comes again. It takes a long time, strangling someone. Three or four minutes at least. Maybe longer.
It seems like an eternity, but it's only been seconds, I realize; I see Sam punching Suffolk, solid blows to his kidneys. Suffolk doesn't even notice. His rage has become armor.
Shoot him, I want to scream at Sam. For God's sake . . .
I scrape my toes along a hard surface. My flailing fingers catch onto something soft. I thought I was trying for his eyes, but this isn't his eyes, it's a lip, and I dig my fingernails in and pull and twist as hard as I can. I hear a bellow as loud as thunder wash over me . . . but his hands don't relax.
It's getting darker. I can hear tissues crunching, compressing. I'm listening to my body break.
And then, suddenly, I'm falling. My flailing feet hit the ground, but my knees are weak, and I tip backward as they give way. I'm pulling in a sweet, burning breath even as I fall.
Sam catches me.
I collapse against his chest, and his arms go around me to hold me upright until my knees steady, and all I can do for a moment is pull in air, push it out, even though it hurts. Once my body has its demands for breath satisfied, I start to take it all in again.
Carl Suffolk is down on the ground, bleeding from a head wound. There's a pipe next to him. Sam clocked him hard enough to finally break through that shell of rage.
"Gwen?" Sam asks me. "Can you breathe?" He sounds scared. I manage to nod, though I'm sure the bruises around my throat are going to be black in a couple of days. I swallow. Nothing feels broken. If Suffolk had managed to collapse my larynx, snap my hyoid bone, I'd be beyond anyone's help. I think he almost managed it.
The rolling back door of the business is up, and there is a crowd of white-shirted employees--men and women both--staring out at us from the loading dock. Roberts shoves his way through with a phone in his hand. "Yes, right now!" he's saying. "I need police right now. One of my employees is being assaulted--"
"Uh, sir, that's not what happened," one of his employees says. "He attacked her!"
"I always said he wasn't right in the head," one of the others says, and more nod. "Creepy asshole."
"All right, all right, settle down!" Roberts says. His face is flushed, and he's clearly out of his depth. "Let's let the police settle this--"
"Back inside, folks!" calls a deep, cheerful voice, and I look back down the alley to see Mike Lustig, of all people, striding toward us. He's wearing an FBI protective vest and windbreaker, and he's got his badge prominently displayed; it catches the low western light and flashes like real gold. Behind him, he's brought two other agents, who look stone-faced and dangerous. They're all in sunglasses against the glare of the setting sun. "Roll that door down. Go on now. Thank you for your cooperation. Nobody leaves. I've got agents on the front. Just sit tight."
He sounds so incredibly self-assured that Roberts ushers his people back inside and rolls down the door without so much as a protest. I can see him curiously peeping out the window, phone still in his hand. Probably on with the local police again.
"Jesus, son, you clocked him good," Mike says, crouching down next to Suffolk. The man's groaning and stirring. "Going to have to get him checked out before we do anything else."
"Trust me," Sam says. "Cuff him first."
"This guy?"
"He choked Gwen half to death," Sam says. "That's why I used the pipe."
Mike looks up at me, and his face goes still for a moment. Then he nods. "Okay," he says. "Cuffs it is. Closest emergency room, and then the nearest field office. Nobody say anything until we're on the record. Gentlemen, you go get everything that he touches in there. Computers, printers, desk, every goddamn thing. I want it all. If the manager fusses, call me."
I send a frantic look at Sam and manage a rough whisper. "But Rivard wanted us to--"
"I know," he says. "I gave Suffolk Rivard's message. He opened it and ran for it. Nothing else we can do."
"Have you got the envelope? What did the message say?"
Sam produces it from his pocket. It's been torn open.
There's nothing inside.
Claiming federal agent privilege skips the ER waiting list and gets us immediate attention from a doctor who pronounces me okay, except for the pain, swollen vocal cords, abrasions, and a neck that will look like I'd survived a hanging for the next couple of weeks. He thinks I'm lucky to be alive. I do, too.
X-rays and a head CT scan reveal that Suffolk has a mild concussion, thanks to either his original fall to the ground or Sam whacking him soundly on the head, but either way he's released, as am I, and half an hour later we're in a plain interrogation room at the FBI's Wichita field office. The old days of reinforced one-way glass are gone. These days it's cheaper to mount multiple cameras in the room that capture every angle of the conversation.
I don't get a seat at the table. Me, Sam, and our escorted-visitor badges get to park ourselves in the monitoring room with an FBI staffer who lets us watch as Lustig sits down with Carl Suffolk. There's a good half an hour of chitchat, lulling Suffolk into a sense of security, before Lustig looks up at the camera and says, "Would you please run that video we talked about for Mr. Suffolk now?"
The tech in the monitoring room, who's only glanced up long enough to see our prominent visitor badges, presses some buttons, and a flat-screen TV in the interrogation room begins to show something I can't make out, but I can see it running on a separate screen here in the studio. I've never seen what's being shown, but it's obvious on the face of it that it's . . . horrific. And familiar.
It's video taken in Melvin's garage, before the wall was broken. Before his secrets were out. I recognize everything, down to the oval braided rug on the floor.
There's a woman standing on the rug with her hands bound and a metal noose around her neck, and for a frozen second, I thank God that this time it isn't Sam's sister. I think it would break him if it was.
Lustig pauses the video on a close-up of the young woman's face. She's a pretty blonde, with big, pleading, terrified eyes. I recognize her. It's my husband's fourth victim, Anita Jo Marcher.
"Every once in a while, our teams stumble over some really dark shit," Lustig is saying to Suffolk. "We all know about the child porn--and yes, Mr. Suffolk, we've got your phones, tablets, and computers, work and home. Everything with your digital fingerprints on it is about to get autopsied. That ship has sailed all around the world. Clear?"
Suffolk doesn't say anything, but he nods. He's back to looking pallid, lost, and completely helpless. I'd feel pity for him if I hadn't seen the demon under his skin. If I
didn't still feel the scraping burn of his fingers around my neck.
"So tell me where this particular video came from," Lustig says. "Doesn't seem your usual perverted taste."
"I don't know," Suffolk mumbles. But I recognize the way his chin goes down, the way his eyes take on a hard, dark shine.
"Sure you don't. By the way, your work computers were clean, but funny thing, we found this video on a thumb drive in your desk at work. You watch it on the computer sometimes when you're on the night shift all by yourself? You just like to keep it on hand for dull moments there, Carl?"
Suffolk's chin is working up and down now, like behind those closed lips he's practicing a biting motion, again and again. He doesn't blink. And he doesn't answer.
"Maybe you haven't thought this through, but either you're going to jail today for federal charges of possession and distribution of child pornography, or you start playing let's-make-a-deal like your damn life depends on it. That time would be right now, my man. This minute. Who provided this video?"
Suffolk suddenly looks away. Up toward the camera. "Is she watching?"
"Who?"
"Her."
Lustig doesn't say anything. Suffolk stares at the camera, and it feels like I'm right in the room, feet away from him.
"You fucking bitch," he says. "He should have killed you, too. I hope he does now. I hope he films every bit of it because if he does, I'll pay to watch that shit. You hear me? I'll pay to watch!" His voice rises to a scream at the end. I have no idea why he hates me so much, but I feel it like acid burning my skin.
Mike Lustig doesn't move. Doesn't even so much as raise an eyebrow. His body language continues to be loose, open, relaxed. I don't know how he does it. Once the screaming stops, the silence stretches for a long moment before Lustig says, "You let me know when you're done with your tantrum. I can wait. 'Cause guess what? No matter who else is involved, nobody's sitting here but you. Nobody's going to be doing hard federal time but you, unless you start answering some questions. So tell me. Where'd you get this video?"
Suffolk has gotten quiet. Staring down at the table. The demon has gone back to its lair, somewhere deep inside. He fidgets, looks uncomfortable, and finally, he mumbles one word. "Absalom."