81

THE SCREEN WAS black, blank, chillingly void of content.

“Are you sure we’re on the right website?” Byrne asked.

Mateo retyped the IP address into the address line of the web browser. The screen refreshed. Still black. “Nothing yet.”

Byrne and Jessica walked from the editing bay into the studio room at the AV Unit. In the 1980s, the large, high-ceilinged room in the basement of the Roundhouse was home to the taping of a local-access show called Police Perspectives. The ceiling still held a number of large spotlights.

The lab had rushed preliminary tests on the blood found at the train station. They had typed it A negative. A call to Ian Whitestone’s physician confirmed that A negative was Whitestone’s type. Although it was unlikely that Whitestone had suffered the same fate as the victim in Witness—had his jugular been cut, there would have been pools of blood—that he was injured was almost a certainty.

“Detectives,” Mateo said.

Byrne and Jessica ran back into the editing bay. The screen now had three words on it. A title. White letters centered on black. Somehow, the image was even more unsettling than the blank screen. The screen read:

THE SKIN GODS

“What does it mean?” Jessica asked.

“I don’t know,” Mateo said. He turned to his laptop. He typed the words into the Google text box. Only a few hits. Nothing promising or revealing. Again, at imdb.com. Nothing.

“Do we know where it’s coming from?” Byrne asked.

“Working on it.”

Mateo got on the phone, trying to track down the ISP, the Internet service provider to which the website was registered.

Suddenly the image changed. Now they were looking at a blank wall. White plaster. Brightly lit. The floor was dusty, made of hardwood planks. There was no clue within the frame as to where this might be. There was no sound.

The camera then panned slightly to the right to reveal a young girl in a yellow teddy. She wore a hood. She was slight, pale, delicate. She stood close to the wall, not moving. Her posture spoke of fear. It was impossible to tell her age, but she appeared to be a young teenager.

“What is this?” Byrne asked.

“It looks like a live webcam shot,” Mateo said. “Not a high-resolution camera, though.”

A man walked onto the set, approaching the girl. He wore the costume of one of the extras of The Palace—a red monk’s robe and a full-face mask. He handed the girl something. It looked shiny, metallic. The girl held it for a few moments. The light was harsh, saturating the figures, bathing them in an eerie silver glow, so it was hard to see exactly what she was doing. She handed the item back to the man.

Within a few seconds, Kevin Byrne’s cell phone beeped. Everyone looked at him. It was the sound his phone made when he received a text message, not a phone call. His heart began to slam in his chest. Hands trembling, he took out his phone, navigated to the text message screen. Before he read it, he looked up, at the laptop. The man on the screen pulled the hood off the young girl.

“Oh my God,” Jessica said.

Byrne looked at his phone. Everything he had ever feared in life was contained in those five letters:

CBOAO.

82

SHE HAD KNOWN silence all her life. The notion, the very concept of sound, was an abstract to her, but one she imagined fully. Sound was color.

To a lot of deaf people, silence was black.

To her, silence was white. An endless sheet of cloud white, rippling toward infinity. Sound, as she imagined it, was a beautiful rainbow against a pure white background.

When she first saw him, at the bus stop near Rittenhouse Square, she had thought he was pleasant looking, a little goofy, perhaps. He was reading from the Handshape Dictionary, trying to form the alphabet. She had wondered why he was trying to learn ASL—he either had a deaf relative or was trying to romance a deaf girl—but she hadn’t asked.

When she had seen him again at Logan Circle, he had been helpful, carrying her packages toward the SEPTA station.

And then he had pushed her into the trunk of his car.

What this man had not counted on was her discipline. Without discipline, those who work with fewer than five senses would go mad. She knew that. All her deaf friends knew that. It was discipline that helped her overcome her fear of rejection from the hearing world. It was discipline that helped her live up to the high expectations her parents had for her. It was discipline that would get her through this. If this man thought she had never experienced anything as frightening as his strange and ugly game, he clearly didn’t know any deaf girls.

Her father would be coming for her. He had never let her down. Ever.

So she waited. In discipline. In hope.

In silence.

83

THE BROADCAST WAS coming from a cell phone data transfer. Mateo brought a laptop up to the duty room, jacked into the Internet. He believed the setup was a web camera linked to a laptop, then routed out through a cell phone. It made it much harder to trace, because—unlike a landline, which was tied to a permanent address—the cell phone signal needed to be triangulated between cell phone towers.

Within minutes a request for a court order to trace the cell phone was faxed to the district attorney’s office. Ordinarily, something like this would take hours. Not today. Paul DiCarlo personally ran it from his office at 1421 Arch Street to the top floor of the Criminal Justice Center, where Judge Liam McManus signed it. Ten minutes after that the Homicide Unit was on the phone with the cell phone company’s security division.

Detective Tony Park was the go-to man in the unit when it came to things digital, things cellular. One of the few Korean American detectives on the force, a family man in his late forties, Tony Park was a calming influence on all those around him. Today that aspect of his personality, as much as his electronic expertise, was crucial. The unit was about to blow.

Park spoke on a landline and conveyed the progress of the trace to the roomful of anxious detectives. “They’re running it through a tracing matrix now,” Park said.

“Have they got a lock yet?” Jessica asked.

“Not yet.”

Byrne paced the room like a caged animal. A dozen detectives lingered in or near the duty room, waiting for the word, waiting for a direction. There was no comforting or appeasing Byrne. All these men and women had families. It could just as easily be them.

“We have movement,” Mateo said, pointing to the laptop screen. The detectives crowded around him.

On screen, the man in the monk’s robe dragged another person into the frame. It was Ian Whitestone. He was wearing the blue jacket. He looked drugged. His head lolled on his shoulders. There was no visible blood on his face or hands.

Whitestone fell against the wall next to Colleen. The tableau was sickening in the harsh white light. Jessica wondered who else might be watching this, if this madman had disseminated the web address to the media, to the Internet at large.

The figure in the monk’s robe then walked toward the camera and turned the lens. The image was choppy, grained by the lack of resolution and quick movement. When the image settled, it was on a double bed, surrounded by two cheap nightstands and table lamps.

“It’s the movie,” Byrne said, his voice cracking. “He’s re-creating the movie.”

With sickening clarity, Jessica recognized the setup. It was a re-creation of the motel room in Philadelphia Skin. The Actor was going to reshoot Philadelphia Skin with Colleen Byrne in the role of Angelika Butler.

They had to find him.

“They’ve got the tower,” Park said. “It covers part of North Philly.”

“Where in North Philly?” Byrne asked. He was in the doorway, nearly vibrating with anticipation. He slammed his fist three times into the doorjamb. “Where?”

“They’re working on it,” Park said. He pointed to a map on one of the monitors. “It’s down to these two square blocks. Get on the street. I’ll guide you.”

Byrne was gone before he had finished the sentence.

84

IN ALL HER years, she had only wished once that she could hear. Just once. And it hadn’t been so long ago. Two of her hearing friends had gotten tickets to see John Mayer. John Mayer was to die. Her hearing friend Lula had played John Mayer’s album Heavier Things for her, and she had touched the speakers, felt the bass and vocals. She knew his music. She knew it in her heart.

She wished she could hear now. There were two people in the room with her, and if she could hear them, she might be able to figure a way out of this.

If she could hear …

Her father had explained to her many times what he did. She knew that what he did was dangerous, and the people he arrested were the worst people in the world.

She stood with her back to the wall. The man had taken off her hood, and that was a good thing. She was terrifyingly claustrophobic. But now the light in her eyes was blinding. If she couldn’t see, she couldn’t fight.

And she was ready to fight.

85

THE AREA OF Germantown Avenue near Indiana was a proud but long-struggling community of row houses and brick storefronts, deep in the Badlands, a five-square-mile section of North Philadelphia that ran from Erie Avenue south to Spring Garden; Ridge Avenue to Front Street.

At least a quarter of the buildings on the block were retail space, some occupied, most not; a clenched fist of three-story structures bracing each other, cavities between. The task of searching them all was going to be daunting, almost impossible. Generally, when the department chased a cell phone trace, they had some earlier intelligence with which to work: a suspect with a tie to the area, a known associate, a possible address. This time they had nothing. They had already run every check imaginable on Nigel Butler—previous addresses, rental properties he might have owned, addresses of family members. Nothing linked him to this area. They would have to search every square inch of this block, and search it blindly.

As crucial as the element of time was, they were walking a thin line, constitutionally speaking. Although there was enough leeway for them to storm a house if probable cause existed that someone was being harmed on the premises, that PC better be open and obvious.

By one o’clock, nearly twenty detectives and uniformed officers had descended on this enclave. They moved like a wall of blue through the neighborhood, holding up a photograph of Colleen Byrne, asking the same questions over and over. But this time, for the detectives, it was different. This time, they had to read the person on the other side of the threshold in an instant—kidnapper, killer, maniac, innocent.

This time, it was one of their own.

Byrne held back, behind Jessica, as she rang the doorbells, knocked on the doors. Each time, he would scan the face of the citizen, plugging in his radar, every sense on high alert. In his ear was an earpiece patched directly to an open phone line to both Tony Park and Mateo Fuentes. Jessica had tried to talk him out of the live updates, but she had failed.