Michael immediately lifted the TAC to do another sweep just as another gust of wind swept through the valley. That’s when he caught the flutter of it. A spent parachute, nearly the same bright green as the grass that surrounded it, billowing gently in the breeze.
Shit.
“Do you remember what my friend Ben looks like?” he said, his tone held low. When the boy didn’t answer he chanced a quick look, pulling his eye off the scope. “No more pretending, Alex. I know you speak English—now, do you remember what Ben looks like?”
Alex hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.” Michael eyed the .22 rifle Alex had slung over his shoulder. “Go home. You see anyone you don’t recognize, kill them,” he said, pulling his gaze away from the rifle to find the boy watching the distance, eyes aimed in the same direction he’d been looking just a moment before. “Can you do that?”
Alex lifted his gaze, settling it on his face. “What about the big one?” he asked in a dispassionate tone. “Should I kill him too?”
The big one… It took Michael a second to realize he was talking about Lark. A few seconds longer to shake his head. “No. But you can shoot him in the leg if you want.”
“Okay,” Alex said before turning away to head back the way they’d come without saying anything else.
61
Yuma, Arizona
“Alvarez?” Church craned her neck for a moment, trying to see what was inside the booth that sparked such an odd question. “No. I haven’t seen him since…” The confusion on her face cleared up, replaced by skeptical comprehension. “He left the conference room to grab a cup of coffee.” She shook her head. “Santos and I were buried so deep in research, I just assumed he’d grabbed some files off the stack and settled in at his desk.”
“But you never actually saw him do it,” Sabrina said quietly.
“No, I just…” Church shook her head. “What are you thinking, Kitten?”
Sabrina took a second look around, just to make sure, half hoping she’d spot him in some dark corner talking to an overlooked witness. No witness. No Alvarez. “Alvarez didn’t duck out for coffee.” Aside from the pair of crime scene techs, they were the only two in the building. “While we were all focused on finding him, he took the opportunity to leave the precinct.”
“Him? You mean Alvarez?” Church narrowed her eyes for a moment. “You think he did this?”
Hearing Church say it out loud, it sounded crazy. A lot of people went to U of A. If she compiled a list of people who’d attended the college during the years the killings Church and Santos found, it’d probably be as long as her leg. But how many of them moved to Yuma months before the first victim was found? How many of them are cops? How many of them has access to their investigation?
Despite the mounting evidence, Church was still having trouble buying it. “But what, that gave him a five, ten-minute jump on you? No way he had time to get the job done that quickly.”
Ten minutes at best, but once you add in her surprise visit from Phillip Song, Alvarez’s lead nearly tripled. Plenty of time to get here before her. He’d left the room before she’d announced her plan to come here and confront the priest. He’d had no way of knowing she’d be here to interrupt him.
But why now? Had he meant to kill Father Francisco? Had something triggered him or had it been an impulse. Everything she’d learned about Nulo over the past few days told her that giving into impulse wasn’t how he operated. “What was he doing before he left?” She looked at Church, could feel the desperation coursing through her. “He was sitting at the conference table—was he reading something? A journal or maybe—”
“Letters.” Church narrowed her eyes for a moment—not at her but at the memories she’d been asked to recall. “He was reading letters.”
“Are you sure?”
Church nodded. “Positive.”
Whatever was in that report had been damning enough to set Alvarez off. Scared him enough to push him over the edge. “Did you read it? What was in it?” Probably evidence that pointed directly at him.
“I didn’t,” she said, giving her a pensive look. “I was in the middle of picking it up when you texted me.” Church shook her head. “I just tossed it into the file box you had me swing by and grab from the hotel.”
Her cell phone rattled on her hip and she reached for it. “I need you to get a copy of it,” Sabrina said, punching her finger against the screen. It was a text, from a number she didn’t recognize.
375 Bahia
San Felipe, Mexico
You’re welcome.
Seeing it reminded her that Despite evidence to the contrary, Paul Vega was involved somehow. He was hiding something. What other reason would he have for shipping her off to Mexico? “Croft outside?” she said, clipping her phone back onto her waistband.
“Yeah, he’s out there.” Church shot a glance at the main doors to the sanctuary. “He got here before we did.”
Sabrina nodded. “Good,” she said, moving past the techs, couched over the spot where she’d found Father Francisco. “I’ve got a job for him.”
She was halfway up the aisle when it hit her. What it was that had been bothering her about the pair since they arrived and she turned around to look at them, just to make sure.
Neither of them was Ellie.
62
She shouldn’t be here. It was wrong—and not just because if she was caught, Paul Vega would sick his lawyer/cousin on her and probably sue the entire department for harassment. No, coming here was wrong because it was unhealthy. She knew that. She knew that her incessant return to the place where her childhood best friend had been tortured bordered on obsessive behavior. She knew that in doing so, she perpetuated the ridiculous fantasy that she could’ve done something. That she should do something to help Rachel, even if she didn’t want her to.
And yet, here she was.
She switched the ignition off on her car, pulling the keys from the steering column but she didn’t get out of the car. As much as she was driven to come back to this place, over and over again, she hated it.
What happened that night ate at her. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop wondering. What would’ve happened if she’d stayed at Rachel’s instead of going home? Would she have been able to talk her best friend into staying home instead of getting in that car? Would Rachel have been able to persuade her to go with her, like so many times before?
Did it even matter now that she was dead?
Keys gripped in her fist, Ellie forced herself out of the car, careful to shut the door as quietly as possible. Not that anyone was around to hear her. The surrounding fields were deserted, the sweltering heat driving Vega’s workers indoors for the last few hours of the day. They’d be back at it tomorrow, well before the sun rose—stooping and pulling. Tossing and packing. It was hard, grueling work that made you old before your time. She should know, she’d spent her fourteenth summer in those fields, working alongside her mother, sullen gaze dug into the dirt that surrounded her, arms and legs stiff with anger and resentment.
It’d started out as harmless fun. Running through the fields, stomping and smashing watermelons with her friends. She didn’t remember when it’d turned into something more. That she was no longer laughing, hate surging through her every time she brought her foot down. That’s when she realized she blamed the Vega family for her father’s death.
It’d taken her months to scrub away the grime that’d worked its way into her hands. It’d taken her only half as long to finally understand she’d never be able to destroy enough or cost the Vegas enough lost profits to make them sorry. Because they didn’t care. They didn’t even know her father existed.
She never told her mother that it’d been Paul Vega himself who suggested they go into those fields in the first place. That while everyone else had been throwing chunks of melon at one another and grinding that soft, red pulp into the ground, he’d been sitting on the tailgate of his truck, w
atching the destruction with a smug, satisfied smile. It was obvious, to anyone who cared to pay attention, how much he hated it all.
Ellie brushed off the memory, reaching for the buzzing phone she’d jammed into her back pocket. It was her sister, Val. She called every day to check on their mother, their conversation usually ending in an argument. Val wanted to move their mother to San Francisco.
Not just mom, Ellie. We want you to come, too. Devon can put in a good word for you with the police department here and you can stay with us as long—
That’s about as far as she allowed Val to take it before she hung up on her. Swiping left, Ellie dumped the call into her voice mail—she’d call her sister back later. Right now, she had other things to worry about.
It was just a few steps to the pump house and she took them quickly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the paper clip she’d tucked in their earlier. Bending it open, she worked the thin length of metal until it snapped in two. Fitting the newly separated pieces into the lock, Ellie lifted and jiggled until the tumblers gave way. Giving it a hard twist, the lock popped open.
Like any farmer, Vega rotated his crops. She’d bet the pump house and the fields that surrounded it hadn’t been used in years. Stepping inside, she shut the door behind her. A row of glass block ran the perimeter of the room, set at the top of the wall. The sunlight they let in were the pump house’s only source of light.
In the middle of the room was a water wheel, as big as a car tire, attached to a complicated series of pumps and pipes that stood so tall they nearly touched the ceiling. She headed for it, drawn to it like a magnet to the place where Rachel had spent four days of her life.
She remembered the first time she’d come here, ignoring the large, official-looking sticker that sealed the door. The police weren’t coming back. No one was investigating what happened to her friend. No one cared. The Vega family used their money and influence in the community to make sure of that. They’d silenced everyone. Even Rachel.
She decided she’d be the one to find something. Some sort of clue or proof that it’d been Paul Vega who’d hurt Rachel. When she found it, she’d take it to the police. The newspapers. Someone had to listen. There had to be someone who couldn’t be bought… but when she’d got here, she realized how ridiculous her revenge fantasy really was.
It was the water wheel that finally convinced her. One of its painted spokes was scraped clean. This was where Rachel must’ve been kept, handcuffed to the wheel. Made to do horrible things, to believe she was going to die. She looked down at the scatter of Dodger blue paint flakes in the dirt beneath her feet and felt the weight of the truth settle onto her shoulders. She was just a kid. She had no idea what she was looking for. She didn’t know the first thing about evidence collection. What’d happened to Rachel was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.
Standing in that pump house, looking at the remnants left behind by the crime scene techs, she’d envied them. They knew how to get answers. She turned around and left, promising herself she wouldn’t come back here until she knew what to do. So she could find justice for her friend.
Whether she wanted it or not.
Now, looking around, all she saw was evidence. Shoe prints. A man’s dress shoe—size 10-12. She immediately stopped walking to pull her phone from her pocket. Snapping off a few pictures, she crouched in the dirt to get a closer look. One of the shoe prints was settled deeper into the dirt, like the foot that made it had been used to push its owner forward. Standing again, she could see it, the uneven gate, the tip of the right print turned slightly inward. The man who made it had a limp.
She had a kit in her car. She’d take casts. Print the door. Call Agent Vance. She’d seemed solid. More importantly, she was a federal agent. It wasn’t likely that the Vega family could buy her like they did local law enforcement.
Hand on the door, ready to push it open, she was stopped in her tracks by the blare of her car alarm. The urgent sound of it propelled her forward, out into heat of the day. A coyote trotted across the field, away from her. It turned its head to look back at her, something hanging out of its mouth. Probably a rabbit that got cornered under car.
Sighing in relief, she traded her phone for her car keys. Raising them, she aimed the fob at the car to silence it. That’s when she saw the white slip of paper secured to her windshield with her wiper blade, heavy black ink spilled across it. She stopped in her tracks, reading the note from where she stood, the words tightening her grip around the set of keys in her hand.
Ellie took a step back, reaching into her pocket for her phone. Before she could pull it from her pocket, a strong arm snaked around her waist, pinning her arms at her sides before yanking her off her feet while the other clamped over her mouth, forcing the scream she’d built up back into her mouth.
“Well, Elena? Do you?”
She grunted, whipping her backward, trying like hell to crack his nose with the back of her skull. He was ready for her, dodging the blow and she connected with his shoulder instead, her head bouncing against the crook of his neck. Not ready to give up, Ellie remembered the keys in her hand and lashed out, stabbing them into his thigh. The angle was wrong, his pants too thick. The keys fumbled out of her hand, landing at her scuffling feet.
Her eyes wheeled wildly in her head, trying to get a look at him. All she cause sight of was a smooth jawline and skin only slightly darker than her own. But it was enough.
“I know you,” she wheezed against the hand at her mouth, breath squeezed tight by the tightening of his arm around her middle. “I know—”
Her eyes took another spin before landing on the windshield of her car and the letter attached to it.
Do you believe in miracles?
63
What are the odds, darlin?
Sabrina pushed her way out of the church, scanning the gathering mob that pushed and crowded against the yellow tape that ran its perimeter. People were worried, terrified shouts breaking through the horrified whispers.
“Is Father Francisco okay?”
“What happened?”
“Who did this?”
With every unanswered question the mob pushed harder, jostling and shouting to make themselves heard, while the quartet of uniform officers did their best to keep everything under control.
“I’ll handle it.” Church pointed to a lone figure, standing off to the side. “There’s your boy,” she said before heading in the opposite direction, toward the crowd that seemed to have grown in only the few seconds they’d been standing there.
What are the odds that two sisters, a thousand miles apart, get kidnapped by two completely different serial killers within in a few years of each other?
Croft shifted from one foot the other while he watched her approach, his expression growing more apprehensive the closer she got. “I don’t like that look,” he said to her as she grabbed his arm and dragged him further away from the crowd. “I like that even less.”
“Yeah? You don’t like being grabbed?” she said, casting a quick look over her shoulder. Church was addressing the crowd and incredibly they were all listening. “Now you know how I feel.” She turned in Croft’s direction to find him watching her. “Got a passport?”
“Of course.” Her question sent Croft’s expression from apprehensive to downright suspicious. “Why?”
They’re pretty damn good. Want to know why? Want to know what the common denominator is? What makes such an incredible thing possible?
“Great.” Finally, something was working in her favor. “You’re going on a field trip.”
“A what?” He shook his head. “No,” he said, his head shaking gaining speed. “Anything you could ask me—expendable, I hope you die in a fire me—to do that requires a passport is more than likely a suicide mission. I happen to like living… so thanks, but no thanks.”
“I really don’t like that word, Croft.” The hand on his arm tightened for a second before letting go entirely. “But if that’s how you feel, ther
e’s nothing I can do about it, is there?” The last of her words were heavy, the weight of them reminding him there was plenty she could do. His gaze to drift behind her and undoubtedly settle on Church. His expression changed again—half fear, half resignation. He might not be afraid of her but he was scared shitless of Church.
You’re the reason. You. The common thread that runs through everyone’s life and ruins it. No matter what you do or where you go, you’re a sickness that invades and pollutes everyone around you.
“I’m a writer, Sabrina.” Croft shook his head. He knew he’d end up doing what she was asking him to do but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Too bad for him she was running out of patience. “I’m not some badass, super assassin like your dead-but-not-really-dead boyfriend. I’m a nerd with too much curiosity and a laptop. Notice the absence of a death wish. I’m a writer—I write.”
“No…” Sabrina shook her head. “You invade. You push. You blackmail. You stalk—and then you write. And your lack of a death wish is debatable.”
“That’s how the job is done,” he said in a sullen tone that told her he knew her description was more than a little accurate. “And I never stalked you.”
“You were a war correspondent,” Sabrina took another look over her shoulder. Church had the lotful of congregants holding hands, heads bowed while she led them in prayer. “You’ve seen plenty of action—” Even the uniforms on their side of the tape were standing quietly, faces tipped downward. “hell, you’ve been shot. Twice, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He laughed at her. “Forgive me for not being eager to repeat the experience.”
No one who loves you is safe. Our boy has little Ellie, darin’, and he can’t wait to get to work on her. He’s gonna make her bleed and scream—
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 59
