25

We sit in the project room, staring at the board blankly. Tomorrow’s the day and we’ve got nothing. I tried to induce a vision after dinner last night, but no luck. I finally decide to go for it and that part of my mind shuts down.

“Do you want to try again?” Darren says.

“I guess. We’ve got nothing else, right?”

I move from my upright position in the office chair, trying to move down into a more relaxed body shape, but with no luck. Finally ergonomics has got it right, making it impossible to sit in this chair in anything but an upright posture. I make do with the body position, but try to relax into it more, sinking into the chair itself, as though my flesh was melding with the chair.

I take a deep breath in, then out, and with each outtake of air I focus on releasing tension from my body and clearing my mind. I find both hard to do. Nearly every muscle in my body contracts, unwilling to do my bidding. My thoughts flutter, constantly on the move. Asking me to relax and clear my mind is like asking a biker to get up on stage and dance the lead role of Sleeping Beauty…in a tutu. I push the bizarre thoughts away and go back to my breathing. I’ve just got to do this. No excuses, no distractions. Our options have run out and this is the only alternative left. I can’t wait weeks until Special Agent Gerard finds the Web site.

Back to the breath, back to the breath. In and out…in and out. Finally I gain some control over my rebellious mind.

A man’s in a tunnel, running. But he doesn’t know what he’s running from. It’s dark with only bare lightbulbs every twenty feet or so ensuring he doesn’t fall. He looks up, toward something in the corner, and that frightens him more than the dark, more than the thing behind him.

Darren’s cell phone interrupts the vision and I come to with the man’s fear still running through me. My heart pounds and my breathing is no longer steady and smooth. Darren puts his hand on my knee and leans forward. “You okay? What did you see?”

“I—” Darren’s cell phone is getting louder with each ring. “I’m fine. Take the call.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, looks at the number and then puts the phone on the table. “They can leave a message.”

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Dunno.”

A strange sensation hits me in the pit of my stomach. “Darren, I think you better take that call.”

“It can wait. This is more important.”

My spider sense is tingling. “Darren, you need to take that call.”

“Okay,” he says, but his voice is hesitant.

I’m a ball of nervous energy and my stomach is doing flips at a million miles per hour. Something terrible has happened. Who’s on the phone and what are they saying? I stand up and pace. I glance at the clock. Darren is mostly silent, taking in the caller’s information, but I can tell from his face that he’s being told some shocking news.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he hangs up. There’s silence.

“Darren?”

“Sorry.” He sounds shaken, dreamy.

“Who was it?”

“It was a uniform from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department over at Catalina Foothills.” His voice is still vague.

“Yes?”

“About an hour ago a man called Jonathan Cantor walked into their station.” Gradually, Darren seems to be coming out of his stupor. “Sophie, you won’t believe this. You won’t believe his story.”

Three hours later Special Agent Daniel Gerard arrives at Tucson by charter plane. I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for him to come in on a commercial route, not after Darren’s news. And when I filled Rivers in, he assigned Gerard to the case, full-time.

I’m full of nervous tension, energy and, I hate to admit it, excitement. If Jonathan Cantor is telling the truth, the scheme is just so…so diabolical it’s hard to comprehend. The organizer truly is brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant. And we’ll need to move quickly—there are more victims being held captive in the Mojave.

Within twenty minutes of Gerard touching down, he’s standing with us, peering into Jonathan’s interview room. Through the two-way mirror we can see Jonathan pacing, wildly clutching a laptop under his arm. He refused to hand over the laptop, refused to talk to us anymore until we had a computer expert on site. He told his story to the officer on duty at Catalina, and since then hasn’t spoken except to demand someone with IT expertise.

Jonathan’s by himself, but the adjoining room is full—Stone, Darren, Gerard, me and Harris.

Harris’s eyes fix on me. “Do you believe this story?” His voice contains shades of doubt.

Normally I’d be hesitant to make any judgment call before personally speaking to Jonathan, but he’s the man from my vision, the one in the tunnels. And I did see Cindy in a tunnel in one of my visions. She was trying to lead me somewhere, to show me where she was before she died, but I couldn’t follow her then. And Jonathan’s story fits with the many anomalies in the cases. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” is all I say.

Harris turns back toward Jonathan. “Maybe he’s one of the perps. Working his way into the investigation.”

“It’s possible,” I say, because that’s what I’d say if I hadn’t seen Jonathan in my vision, if I hadn’t seen any tunnels.

Harris shakes his head. “If he is involved he’s one hell of a good actor,” he concedes. “It’s just…I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, but this…”

“I know.” I look at Jonathan through the two-way. “I know.”

Jonathan’s hair is dark and the same length all over, roughly one-inch long. It looks like a shaved head on its way out. His face and arms are a reddy brown, indicating he’s seen a lot of sun recently. His face is angular, the most striking feature his bushy dark brown eyebrows that come together across his defined brow. Normally I imagine it would give him a natural brooding look, but today he’s clearly distressed and the bushy eyebrows give him a manic, slightly mad look. But if his story’s true and he’s actually been through what he claims, then he has a reason to be slightly insane.

His skinny frame does an abrupt turn and comes toward the mirror. “Come on!” he shouts. “What are you people doing in there?” He shakes his head and moves again.

Darren turns away from the pacing figure and looks at me. “What do you think?”

I continue to look at Jonathan. “He’s suffering. Very, very anxious and frustrated.” I turn to Darren. “But who wouldn’t be?” I take out a notebook and pen from my bag. Sometimes we take a couple of huge files into the room—even if they’re filled with blank paper—to make a suspect think we’ve got a load of evidence on him. But today, for the moment, a notebook and pen is enough. I also take out my Dictaphone. The station’s recording equipment will video the interview, but I want easy and fast access to whatever Jonathan has to say.

“I’ll go in by myself initially,” I say to everyone. “I need to see how he reacts to me alone, first.” Even though I believe Jonathan, I need to treat him like I’d treat anyone else in this situation, even if it’s cruel to Jonathan given his mental state. Besides, to accept his story instantly may arouse suspicion, especially from Harris and Stone. It’s normal procedure to treat anyone who comes forward with information as if they could be a witness or a suspect. “Once he’s settled, Darren, you might want to help with the questioning. Then we’ll bring Agent Gerard in.” I look back at Jonathan. “At the moment, he’s hanging on. Let’s see what his responses are like.”

“You call that hanging on?” Harris motions to Jonathan, who’s rubbing his free hand up and down his face, almost clawing his skin.

I know how he feels. I know what it’s like to be targeted. “He’s hanging on.”

When I enter the interview room, Jonathan jerks his head my way. “Thank fucking Christ! I’ve been in here for hours. Are you the computer expert?”

I’m not surprised that I’m greeted by this barrage of anger. He’s right; it has been hours. More than three hours, to be precise. Of course he’s angry. He’s angry at the people who did this to him and he’s angry at us for making him wait. And these feelings will be amplified by the fact that he’s been effectively held prisoner twice now. But Jonathan’s the one who set the rules, who wouldn’t talk to Darren or me or anyone until the computer forensics person was on hand.

“I’m not the computer expert, but he’s here now. I’m sorry about the delay, but we wanted to get the best.”

“Well bring him in!”

“I need to ask you some questions first.”

He shakes his head. “The clock is ticking. People’s lives are at stake.” He waves his hands wildly, then looks down at the laptop in his left hand and stops. “Shit. I can’t afford to screw this up.” His voice is soft now, hushed. “Can’t afford to crash the hard drive.”

I press record on my Dictaphone and put it, my pen and my notebook on the table. I fish out my ID from my jacket pocket. “Mr. Cantor, my name’s Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI.”

His face relaxes slightly. “The FBI?”

“Yes. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long, but I’ve flown in one of the Bureau’s top computer analysts from the Cyber Crime Division.” I sit down.

“What’s your role in this?” he asks, but his voice is open, no longer defensive. The FBI’s got a reputation, and at this moment that reputation alone has calmed Jonathan down.

“I’m a criminal profiler. I work at FBI headquarters drafting psychological profiles of different criminals. I’ve been working on profiles for the murders of Malcolm Jackson and Cindy Star.” I mention the victims’ names, even though my statement isn’t entirely accurate—I only reviewed the profile of Malcolm’s killer and I don’t have enough info to profile Cindy’s killer yet. The only profile I actually drafted is of the brunette’s killer, but I don’t know her name.

Jonathan puts the laptop gingerly on the table and sits down. He drops his head into his hands. “So they are dead?”

I can see that he’d come to this conclusion himself, yet a very small part of him had not fully accepted their deaths, had hoped that maybe he was wrong. “Yes. I’m afraid so. Malcolm Jackson was the first victim we found.”

“Yes, he was the first voted out.”

“Voted?” I ask. Even though I’ve heard the basics from Darren, I want it in Jonathan’s words.

“Oh, God. What about the others?” He no longer looks insane, just defeated.

I glance up at the two-way mirror, and feel my gaze lock with Darren’s even though I can’t see him. This is what we were afraid of. We haven’t found them all. “We found one other body that we haven’t been able to ID. It was a woman, long dark curly hair, darkish skin—”

“Brigitte.” He shakes his head. “Brigitte Raine.”

“Do you know the spelling on that?” I ask mostly for Darren and Stone. One of them will look her up while I’m questioning. Any relatives will need to be notified.

“Um…I don’t know.” He’s distracted, not thinking straight. “You haven’t found the others?”

“How many have there been?” I bite my lip, scared by what his answer might be.

“Malcolm was first. Then Cindy, then Brigitte. Then Danny and Ling went the same week, then me. How could we be so stupid? They said it would be the biggest thing to happen to reality TV.”

I concentrate on the names he mentioned. “Do you know Danny’s and Ling’s last names?”

“Yeah. Danny Jensen and Ling Gianolo. Danny moves around a lot.” He corrects himself. “Moved around. He used to be in the army. But his homestate is Texas. At least that’s what he told us. And Ling’s an Aussie, like you.” He says Aussie with an S sound rather than a Z sound—like most Americans do. “She got voted out the week before me.”

I nod. I am intrigued by the Web site, by the computer, but we need to approach the investigation in an orderly manner. Get the names of the others and confirm they are, indeed, missing. This will validate Jonathan’s story. “You said Ling’s last name was Gianolo.”

“Yes.”

“Italian,” I state. I grew up largely in Melbourne, a multicultural city with lots of Italian migrants from the fifties.

“Kind of.”

I look up at Jonathan. “Kind of?”

“Ling was adopted from China,” Jonathan continues. “She was out here for six months before she started college.” He rubs his hand across his forehead. “She was only eighteen, for God’s sake.” He puts his head in his hands and I give him the space of silence. A few seconds pass before he looks up with hope in his eyes. “Could she still be alive? I mean, if you haven’t found her…”

“I’m afraid it’s unlikely, Jonathan.” I pause. Jonathan could be right. The first three bodies could have been about getting our at tention, and weekly kills guaranteed that. Now they could slow things down a bit. But most killers don’t break their patterns. “The killers have followed a strict pattern with weekly kills—I think they’ve just changed what they do with the bodies.” It’s about control for them. Controlling the contestants and, more importantly, controlling what we find. But Jonathan’s put a spanner in the works for the club.

Despite my bad news, Jonathan is now calm and cooperative. I want to put him at ease as much as possible, and I don’t want it to occur to him that there’s any doubt in our minds that he’s the victim, rather than part of the perpetrating team. “Do you want a coffee or a cold drink? Something else to eat?” Stone had given him a sandwich and a coffee as soon as he arrived from the Catalina station, but that was a while ago.

He looks at me with overwhelming gratitude and excitement. “God, I’d kill for another coffee. No, a Coke. And maybe something sweet?” He runs his hand over his short hair. “Except for a pizza during a reward challenge, they’ve had us on Spam and baked beans.”

Spam—the contents of Malcolm’s stomach makes sense now, and I guess he left before the “reward challenge.” I nod at the two-way mirror, a sign for someone to grant Jonathan’s wish. Making people feel comfortable is a common interview tactic. For victims it helps them open up and tell their whole story, and for perps it can throw them off guard. They relax and let some detail slip, say something incriminating. In this case, it has the added benefit of hopefully reducing Jonathan’s paranoia, of building trust between us. His hand still rests on the laptop in a protective manner.

While we wait for Jonathan’s food I focus on the computer. “I’ll take that if you like.” I put my hand out but don’t make a grab for it. Trust.

He hugs the laptop closer to himself, but the wildness does not return. “Like I said, people’s lives are at stake and this is the only thing that could save them. Someone who knows what they’re doing could get Internet log files from this, view the chat-room logs, hopefully track down the video-stream sources and Chester.”

“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I studied computers for two years at college. Before I dropped out.”

“I see,” I say, before backtracking. “Who’s Chester?”

“He was the one that came to the bunker. The only face we ever saw.”

“You never saw anyone else? Did that make you suspicious?”

He shakes his head. “Not at first, no. By the time I started getting suspicious it was too late. We were trapped. Not even Susie, my best friend, believed me.” His eyes widen and he stands up again. “We’re wasting time. We need to get moving.”

The door opens and Stone comes in with a Coke and a tray of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Jonathan can’t take his eyes off the food. He dives for the can of soda and pops the top, guzzling for a few seconds before taking a breath. Next he shoves a glazed doughnut into his mouth in two goes. He’s certainly eating like a man who’s been living on beans and Spam for four weeks. In fact, within seconds he’s managed to switch from demanding we take action to being focused on eating. That’s consistent with food deprivation, as is his skinny frame, even though I can tell from his shape that he’s naturally a slim build.

He shoves another doughnut into his mouth and halfway through looks up. His eyes show panic. He puts half of the doughnut back in the tray and sits down, head in his hands. “What the hell am I doing? Susie and Clair are waiting for me.”

“We’ve got a computer forensics expert here, but first, you need to tell me everything that happened. From the start.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not important. We need to get moving. To find the bunker and Susie.” He stands up and starts pacing.

I stand up too. “There is method to the madness. Some minor detail of your story could help us find them.”

He pauses, processing the info. He’s a smart guy; he knows it’s true.

He nods. “Okay.” With the acceptance of the fact that he has to retell his story, Jonathan focuses on food again and picks up his half-eaten second doughnut. He bites down consuming most of the doughnut, and then takes a deep breath.

* * *

AmericanPsycho: I wonder if BlackWidow is having as much fun with Jonathan as I had with Cindy.

NeverCaught: I bet Jonathan’s getting the ***** of his life.

AmericanPsycho: I’m glad he’s gone. I never liked him.

NeverCaught: You were just jealous of him.

AmericanPsycho: Don’t be ridiculous. He’s…a nothing, a nobody.

NeverCaught: Maybe, but not to Susie. I’ve worked it out, dude. You’re hot for Susie.

DialM: You’re right, Never. It would explain all the rough treatment you gave Jonathan.

AmericanPsycho: I admit I like Susie. But regardless, I never liked Jonathan.

DialM: Where are you going to dump his body?

AmericanPsycho: I’ll see what the U of A is like. If the police presence is too much I’ll find somewhere else.

NeverCaught: But they’re not in order!

DialM: Ling will still be killed and dumped in the same manner. There’s just a slight delay while I have her.