7
They’re all Boy Scouts—or Girl Scouts.” Mark dropped into the extra chair in Lance’s cube and waved the folder in his hand. “My topline review turned up zip. Not one name on the Ginny Reed friend/acquaintance/co-worker list is connected with anything that suggests fanaticism or criminal inclination. How’d you fare?”
“Not much better. In general, Christy’s people all sound like normal, law-abiding citizens.”
“Doesn’t mean someone couldn’t go off the deep end, though. That’s what happened in my wife’s case. In hindsight, there were signs the guy was slipping—but no one who knew him ever suspected he had murder on his mind.” He lifted the edge of the file on the desk. “What do you mean, ‘in general’?”
No surprise that Mark hadn’t missed his caveat.
He pulled out Christy’s acquaintance list, glancing at the name he’d added after his phone conversation with her last night. “The only person who set off any alarms was a Bob Harris—one of Christy’s co-workers who’s been hitting on her. After he and his wife separated, the ex got a protection order against him. It’s still in effect.”
“HRO.”
“Harassment versus abuse. Not quite as bad.”
“Bad enough to put him on the top of my list for questioning.”
“Makes sense. Anyone else on your radar?”
“No.”
“Then we might want to give the victim’s list priority. Her friends and co-workers all sound squeaky clean, but they might pass on a tip about some connection her sister doesn’t know about.”
“Agreed. Sounds like a road trip to the Potosi area is in our future—or mine, anyway.”
Mark leaned back. “Maybe not, if we want to keep this low-key. Our guy in Rolla is sharp, and if he has time, we might want to ask him to do the interviews. Agents from St. Louis showing up would be a bigger deal, and the news would have a higher probability of getting back to the subject.”
“Good point. As long as you think he’s up for the job, I can give him a call. This has to be handled with a lot of discretion.”
“He’ll be fine. I’ve worked with him on a couple of higher-profile cases.”
“I’m also going to call Quantico and try to push the DNA analysis. If we can ID the body, that will give us a definite link to the kidnapper.”
“You might get lucky. The database is a lot more comprehensive than it used to be.” Mark rose and handed over his file. “I’m available if you need another set of hands or eyes.”
“As a matter of fact . . .” Lance shifted in his seat. He had to position this carefully, since Steve had already discerned that his interest in this case was more than professional. “Christy Reed and I have fallen into a role-play of being friends. It was her idea the first time we met, in case the kidnapper was watching. She didn’t want to run the risk of him thinking she’d gone to the cops. We’ve continued that whenever we’ve gotten together. I’d prefer not to blow that cover until I have to. It might prove useful.”
Mark folded his arms. “You want me to talk to Harris.”
“If you have time.”
Mark pursed his lips. “Your ruse isn’t bad. Go ahead and give me what you have on him and I’ll drop by later today.”
Lance opened his file and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
As Mark exited, Lance swung back to his desk and picked up his phone. He might be new, and he might not have much pull, and the ME might be swamped—but it couldn’t hurt to keep pushing for fast results. Then he’d talk to the agent in Rolla.
And unless one of those efforts panned out, Christy was going to be back to waiting for the kidnapper’s next move—fretting, frustrated, frightened . . . and as much a hostage as Ginny might be.
Which could be exactly the intent.
Friday night—and he was free for the weekend.
Perfect.
Nathan smiled, dropped into the chair in front of his computer, and pressed the start button.
While he waited for the laptop to boot up, he pulled on his thick leather gloves and removed the wire mesh over the small box on the floor. Why not amuse himself for a minute or two?
The mouse tried to elude him as he chased it, but to no avail. He toyed with it, teased it, then wrapped his fingers around the quivering body. The critter squirmed, but after going through this drill dozens of times, he was used to their tricks.
Holding it in front of his face, he slowly tightened his fist until the rodent’s eyes bulged. After a few moments, he reduced the pressure and let the mouse gasp for air. He repeated the process several times, always stopping short of finishing it off.
He had a different end in mind.
Once he tired of the game, he angled sideways and dropped the mouse into a galvanized bucket of water. As its legs began pumping, he leaned back to enjoy the show.
In less than a minute, the mouse slowed.
Soon after, it gave up the struggle—like any creature did when confronted with insurmountable odds.
Except humans.
A lot of them fought to the end.
His smile faded as the mouse went limp and sank to the bottom.
Daris would have fought longer if he’d had the chance. His brother might have been only fourteen, but he’d been tough. Even after those soldiers had ganged up on him, he’d punched and kicked and struggled with every ounce of his strength—until two quick, sharp retorts reduced him to a crumpled, lifeless heap.
The finality of those bullets hadn’t stopped his mother from rushing into the fray, though. She’d pushed through the crowd, half crazed, and flung herself at the men, beating on them, flailing at them, cursing them for what they’d done to her oldest son. But they’d only laughed and grabbed her arms. Ripped her clothes. Dragged her into the alley.
Her gut-piercing screams had followed him as he ran as hard and as fast as he could.
They still did.
Nathan sucked in a sharp breath. Crushed the memories. Wasn’t he always berating the old woman for living in the past? He needed to focus on the present.
On Christy Reed.
He turned his attention to the screen, scrolling through until he had the information he needed. Then he pocketed the ziplock bag containing the third letter and considered the mouse. He could leave it somewhere for the old woman to find, as usual. On her pillow. In the refrigerator. Inside one of her slippers. Her screeches were always amusing.
But he wouldn’t hear them tonight.
Better to save that tactic for another day.
He fished the mouse out of the water and thumbtacked its tail to the corkboard above his desk, letting it dangle next to the autographed photo of Christy. The inscription was engraved on his memory, but he read it again anyway.
“To Neven—I’m glad our paths crossed. Wishing you happiness and great success. Your friend, Christy Reed.”
He snorted.
What a joke.
She wasn’t glad their paths had crossed. How could she be, when she’d forgotten him so easily?
And she wasn’t his friend. She’d never been his friend. Friends didn’t desert each other.
Did she have any clue what havoc that deception had wrought?
Probably not.
But she would.
Soon.
One more letter to send after tonight, and the end of this game would be in sight. The final payback. A chance to make her suffer as he’d suffered.
In the meantime, he had preparations to . . .
A clatter sounded from the kitchen, and he frowned. What was the old woman up to now?
He shot to his feet and marched down the hall, stopping in the doorway. She was upright, clutching her side, but the walker had tipped over and lay on the floor. Beside it was a broken glass.
Her frightened gaze sought his, and a rush of power surged through him. This was what he was born for. To be in control. To make the decisions. To hold people’s fate in his hand. Maybe that chance had passed him by in the bigger world, but in this apartment, he was in charge.
The key to using fear to your advantage, however, was to keep people off-balance. Leave them wondering if—and when—you might strike. And he’d been hard on her at dinner the other night.
Time to turn on the charm.
“Ah, Baka, did you hurt yourself?” He gentled his voice as he walked toward her.
She peered at him warily. “No, no. I okay.”
“Are you certain?” He righted the walker and positioned it in front of her. She flinched as he reached toward her, but he just patted her shoulder. “What happened?”
“It . . . fall.” She gestured to the broken glass and clutched her rib cage, wincing as she drew in short, shallow puffs of air. “I try to . . .” She made a clenching motion with her fingers.
He got the picture. She’d tried to grab for the glass, knocking over her walker in the process.
“Did you fall against the counter?”
“Yes.” Her expression was guarded. “I . . . okay.”
That was a lie. Lines of pain scored her face. She must have bruised or broken a rib—and dealing with an injury wasn’t on his agenda for the evening.
Suppressing a surge of irritation, he patted her shoulder again. “Well, if you’re hurting tomorrow, you let me know, okay?”
She gave a slow nod, the taut line of her shoulders relaxing a fraction.
“Are you finished with dinner?”
Again, she dipped her head.
“Let me walk you back to your room, then. And I’ll get you something to help with any discomfort.”
Calling up his most solicitous manner, he took her arm and guided her down the hall. After assisting her into bed, he brought her a glass of water and two Aleve.
“Hvala . . . no, no!” Her eyes widened with fear again as she handed the glass back and switched to English. “Tank you.”
He let the language lapse pass as he adjusted her pillow. “You’re welcome. Now get some rest and we’ll see how you are in the morning.”
He shut the door of her room behind him as he left, pausing in the hall. The monthly government checks she signed over to him were nice, but sometimes she was more trouble than she was worth. Once he was finished with Christy, he might have to reconsider their arrangement. There had to be easier ways to get the power rush than by dealing with a decrepit old woman.
Maybe that promotion at work would come through. Having other people to order around might satisfy his craving for power.
In the meantime, he had places to go and things to do tonight.
Sitting in a cold car on a frigid evening wasn’t on his list of top ten ways to spend a Friday night.
Lance tugged the sheepskin collar of his jacket as high as possible and hunkered down behind the wheel. Mark had warned him that new agents often got stuck with the less desirable assignments, and doing night surveillance in the winter on a bank robbery suspect’s girlfriend definitely qualified.
He could think of a lot better uses of his time. Like sitting beside Christy on that comfy couch in front of the fireplace in her living room, sharing a bowl of popcorn while they watched some chick flick.
He shook his head.
If Mac or Finn ever got wind he was thinking along those lines, he’d be dead meat. They’d have enough ribbing material for the next ten years.
His cell began to vibrate, and he pulled it out, watching his breath cloud the chilly air as he answered. “What’s up, Mark?”
“I hear you drew the short straw.”
“Yeah.”
“Cold duty.”
“I’ve been colder.”
“If you put in time in the Middle East—and I’m assuming you did—that goes without saying. I wanted to let you know I talked to Harris today.”
Lance zeroed in on a guy ambling down the street. This wasn’t a strolling kind of neighborhood—especially in the winter. Maybe that anonymous tip they’d received was going to pay off.
He leaned sideways to keep the guy in view. “What’s your take?”
“Same as the victim’s sister. I think he’s lonely and trolling for dates. He seemed freaked by a visit from the FBI and immediately started explaining what happened with his ex-wife. According to him, she requested the protection order after he started parking across the street from the house so he could get a glimpse of his kids, who he misses. She claimed his presence was harassment. Sounds to me like he got a raw deal.”
“Divorces can be nasty.” The guy stopped across the street from the girlfriend’s apartment and flicked a lighter.
“You got that right. Once I told him my visit had nothing to do with his ex, he calmed down. He admitted he was disappointed by Christy’s rebuff but appears to have accepted her explanation that she’s met someone else.”
Had she?
If so, why wasn’t the guy on her list?
“Any idea who that might be?” Mark prompted when the silence lengthened.
“No. I’m thinking it was just an excuse.” He hoped.
“You might want to double-check with her.”
“Yeah.” In the second floor of the apartment building, a shade was lowered. Raised. Lowered halfway.
The guy crossed the street toward the front door.
Bingo.
“I need to go. I think we’re about to see some action here.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
Lance kept his eye on the guy as he called in reinforcements and pulled out his Glock. At least this cold surveillance gig would be short-lived—and hopefully the last one for this case. If all went well, they might wrap it up tonight.
Too bad they weren’t making similar headway with the kidnapper.
Instead, they were stuck in a holding pattern, waiting for his next directive—and the guy didn’t seem to be in any hurry to issue it.
Given the meager clues they’d uncovered, however, the kidnapper’s lackadaisical pace worked to their advantage in some ways. The longer this dragged on, the more time they had to dig up some leads.
One day soon, however, the situation would escalate. The kidnapper would either tire of his game or they’d uncover a worthwhile clue.
Far better for that escalation to happen on the FBI’s time frame than the kidnapper’s.
But until they got a break, this guy was in charge—like it or not.
Not.
The pain medication was wearing off.
Mevlida groaned as she shifted in bed and peered at the illuminated clock on her nightstand. Three in the morning. Eight hours since Neven had given her those blue pills after her fall.
And she needed more.
But he kept all medicine in his room, and waking him in the middle of the night could be risky.
Better to lie here awhile and see if she could fall back to sleep without the pills.
Fifteen minutes later, however, the pain was worse—and intensifying.
What should she do?
Mevlida kneaded the edge of the blanket with her fingers. He’d been so kind last night, like in the early days two years ago, after that nice therapist at the rehab center had helped her find him. Perhaps his good humor had survived the night.
Raising herself carefully on one elbow, she eased her feet over the side of the bed, positioned her walker, and struggled to her feet.
For a full minute she stood motionless, waiting for the pain in her ribs to recede before she began her slow shuffle across the small room and down the hall.
Outside his door, she wiped her damp palms down the soft flannel of her nightdress. Dabbed a tissue at the beads of sweat above her upper lip. Clutched the walker.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe she should try to get through the night without the pain medicine.
All at once, a cough rumbled deep in her chest. She tried to suppress it, but it refused to be contained—and with each hack, searing pain sliced through her midsection.
Moisture gathered in her eyes, and a tear spilled out. Waiting until morning was impossible. She needed the pills now.
Pulse fluttering, she knocked lightly on Neven’s door.
No response.
Was he ignoring her—or sound asleep? He’d been working a lot of extra hours, helping to fill in for the injured man. He might just be very tired.
She knocked harder—and the door clicked, opening an inch.
Her jaw went slack as she stared at the slight gap. Neven never left his room unlocked. Even when he went to get a drink or use the bathroom, he locked the door. From her first day here, he’d made it clear she was never to set foot into his space. Nor had he given her any opportunity to do so, since he kept the key on a chain around his neck.
So why was the door unlocked tonight?
With a tentative push, she opened it a few more inches and peeked inside.
Neven wasn’t there.
In fact, the bed hadn’t been slept in.
Mevlida leaned on the walker, taking shallow breaths as her respiration slowed. Where could the boy have gone? Sometimes he stayed out late on weekends but never past one or two.
His absence could be a blessing, though. If he wasn’t here, she might be able to get her pills without disturbing him.
But . . . what if he came home and caught her in his room?
A parade of possible consequences passed through her mind—none of them pleasant—and a sudden, cold sweat left her shivering in the chilly apartment.
But spending the rest of the night in pain was even less palatable.
She’d have to take her chances, move quickly, and hope wherever he was, he’d stay there for a few more minutes.
Pushing the door wide, she let her eyes adjust as the dim light from the hall spilled inside, then scanned the room. Her gaze skittered past the deer rifle propped against the wall. The one he used to hunt on the property some acquaintance owned out in the country. There was a chest of drawers on her immediate left . . . a neatly made bed . . . a nightstand . . . a desk in the far corner, in shadows.
The desk might be the most likely spot for the pills.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she shuffled toward it.
Once there, she rested a hand on top as she flipped on the floor lamp beside it. Much better. Now she could see the . . .
She gasped.
Clutched her chest.
A dead mouse was pinned to the corkboard above the desk, beside a photo of an ice-skater.
Dead mice she was used to, thanks to Neven’s cruel games. But this one, hanging next to the picture of that pretty girl, felt . . . sinister.
Clutching the walker, she dropped her gaze to the empty cage on the floor . . . the water bucket . . . and another dead mouse duct-taped to a board, its paws and ears missing.
Her stomach churned.
Disposing of the nuisance rodents that were far too plentiful in the apartment was one thing.
Torturing the little creatures was another.
Out of the murky waters of her past, a memory from a summer’s day in the old country bobbed to the surface. They’d all gathered for Friday lunch after noon prayer, as usual, and Neven had wandered out to the yard to play. When she’d gone to summon him for the meal, she’d found him squatting beside a quivering baby rabbit he’d cornered in her backyard, poking at its belly with a pointed stick.
At her harsh rebuke, he’d let the animal scurry away and turned to her with an innocent expression. “I was just playing with it, Baka.”
Tormenting a helpless animal hadn’t seemed like play to her, but he’d been only . . . what? Six, seven. Maybe eight. No more than a small child. Too young to know better, perhaps.
At least that’s what she’d told herself.
But now . . .
Mevlida looked from the mutilated dead mouse to the one hanging on the bulletin board. All these years, she’d attributed his callous behavior to the trauma he’d endured. But . . . had he been prone to meanness long before that?
As she examined the photo of the skater again, a chill ran through her.
Gripping the walker, she surveyed the items on the desk. A pistol was front and center. Beside it was a photo of a group of young people, Neven among them. Schoolmates, perhaps? The girl in the picture on the bulletin board was in it too.
She picked up the chain with the Arch on the end. It was for keys—yet it held none. And that envelope . . . why was it in plastic? She couldn’t read the name, but the letters looked the same as the signature in the signed picture.
What did it all mean?
What was her grandson up to?
She had no answers.
But she knew one thing . . . it wasn’t good. She could feel it in her bones, that same ominous sense of foreboding she’d experienced on that terrible day in the village, when the family holiday they’d anticipated with such joy had turned to tragedy.
The day reports of soldiers in the streets had reached them.
The day Mihad had disappeared.
The day Daris and Sonja had died.
The blackest day of her life.
Was she once again to be plunged into darkness?
A feeling of panic, of overwhelming helplessness, swept over her, just as it had on the day her perfect world had crumbled. Her hands began to shake. Shudders coursed through her body. The acrid taste of fear soured on her tongue.
Choking back a sob, she switched off the lamp, maneuvered her walker to face the door, and moved toward the light in the hall as fast as she could, ignoring the pain caused by her labored breathing.
Once in the hall, she shut the door tight. Neven must never discover she’d been in his room. Who knew what he would do?
Who knew what he still might do?
For years, she’d made excuses for him. Believed he was good at heart. But she could ignore the truth no longer. There was darkness in that boy. She might deserve his wrath, but why had he targeted that pretty young woman in the photo?
A car backfired in the parking lot, like Neven’s often did, and she picked up her pace. He couldn’t find her hovering in the hall.
Once back in her room, she closed the door and lowered herself to the bed, trembling in the darkness.
Waiting.
A few minutes later, she heard his key in the lock. The front door opened. Clicked shut.
She didn’t hear his tread in the hall. She never did. The boy had learned to move with stealth. But though her eyes were closed, she sensed when he opened her door to look in. Knew, also, the instant he realized his door was unlocked—because he came back to her room. Crossed to her bed. Stood over her.
A faint aroma of onions wafted her way. He must have stopped at some fast-food place on his way home.
She tried to keep her respiration steady under his scrutiny, despite the pain. In. Out. In. Out. Keep. Breathing.
After several eternal seconds, he retreated.
The door clicked softly shut.
She exhaled and opened her eyes—to find him standing above her.
Panic clawed at her throat.
“So you’re awake.”
Don’t admit anything! Pretend you were asleep!
She groaned and blinked, giving him a muddled look. “I hurt.”
He leaned closer, resting a hand on either side of her. “Have you gotten out of bed at all?”
“No. I . . . hurt.”
He studied her in the dim light while her heart hammered. At last he stood. “I’ll get you some more pills.”
She lay quivering while she waited for him to return, sheet bunched in her fingers. When he reappeared, she took the pills he offered, holding the glass with both hands as she washed them down.
“Go back to sleep now.” He left her, clicking the door shut behind him.
She stared at the dark ceiling and released a quivering breath.
Sleep?
There would be no more rest for her this night.
She had too much to think about. To process. To plan.
Neven was family. The only family she had left. And family had been everything in the old country. They had stood by one another, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, loyal and true.
But where did loyalty end? How many sins should love overlook—and forgive? When did a stranger’s welfare take precedence over that of a family member?
Such difficult questions.
Another shiver passed through her, and Mevlida pulled the covers higher under her chin. Neven meant that girl harm, she was certain of it. But how much harm? Was he playing upsetting but harmless pranks on her, as he did here? Or was he planning to hurt her—like he’d hurt that defenseless rabbit so many years ago?
She didn’t want to believe that could be true.
But ignoring reality didn’t make it go away, as she’d learned to her deep regret. In fact, closing your eyes to the truth could be deadly. You had to be ready for what life sent your way. Prepared to take action.
This time, she would be.
Maybe she couldn’t bring back the people she’d loved and lost, but perhaps she could find a way to warn that girl to be careful.
Neven must never know of her disloyalty, though. If he found out, her life would become even more intolerable.
The wind howled outside her window, rattling the glass, and she burrowed deeper under the covers, into the warmth.
But the icy chill in her heart remained.