Otto placed the items he had come for in his knapsack, threw the bag over his shoulder, stepped over the glorified strip club doorman and walked to the front door.
Lacey would be happy. Soon she would have everything she would need to be comfortable in her new accommodations.
He would go hunting tonight. Of the ten cells he had constructed in his special place beneath the shop, only two were currently occupied. Eight were vacant, the bodies of the former occupants long since discarded in places the police had discovered, compliments of his beautifully crafted notes.
The love of his life was in the strappado. He would free her when he got back to the store, make her more comfortable. As for the others, inventory was getting low. He would need to dispose of the donor soon. She had served her purpose. In harvesting her skin, he had let the deep grafts go untreated. Of the nine excisions he had made four had become grossly infected. One appeared necrotic. This was by choice. He found the process of biological destruction and cell death fascinating to observe. He had kept impeccable notes on the progress of each victim’s mental and physical degradation.
The more he thought about it the more excited and psychologically prepared he became for the hunt. It would be an amazing night.
What he was not prepared for was the bullet that tore through the knapsack, caught him squarely in his shoulder, and nearly dropped him to the ground.
135
COURTNEY VALENTINE’S DEATH room flashed through Jordan’s mind. Construction materials lay strewn about the murder scene: sheets of drywall on wooden racks, spools of coiled electrical wire, plastic buckets filled with miscellaneous end cuts, bent nails, chunks of broken plaster and dry waste. In the middle of the room, the bloodied concrete table saw.
Sheets of plastic secured to steel studs, intended to contain the dust during the concrete cutting process, had torn away in sections. A brisk wind blew through the ground floor of the unfinished building, disturbing the area, and causing the plastic walls to rip, flap in the breeze, and snap tight like untethered sails. Energy spent, the loosed sheets fell until the next gust of wind came along and billowed them again, recharged them with life, the reanimation repeated with each new gale.
Courtney Valentine’s innate life force was one of the strongest Jordan had ever experienced. She followed the route to the building as one would follow a mist that had settled over a damp road which only she could see.
Agent Max Penner was behind the wheel of the NYPD-issued Crown Victoria sedan. “You sure you know where you’re going?” he asked Jordan. “You’re not even from New York.”
“Humor me,” Jordan replied. She stared out the passenger window. The energy was becoming stronger, the mist thicker. It swirled around a distant corner. She pointed ahead. “Take a left at the next lights.”
“What is this?” Penner asked. “Some kind of psychic GPS?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Jordan replied.
“Damn.” The agent opened his jacket pocket, fished out a cellophane packet of toothpicks, stuck one in the corner of his mouth, then passed the pack around. “Toothpick?” he asked Jordan.
Jordan smiled. “I’m not really a toothpick kind of girl.”
“They’re cinnamon.”
“Thanks, but no.”
“I have spearmint, too.”
Jordan smiled. Penner was as rough and tumble as they came. Even the simple gesture of offering her a toothpick seemed difficult for him. He passed the package over his shoulder. “Agent Hanover?”
Chris shook his head. “I’m good.”
“It’s these or cigarettes,” Penner said, “and my wife will kill me if I don’t give up the cancer sticks. Never smoked before going undercover. Never drank either. Now I could go through a forty pounder of rum and a pack of smokes for breakfast if I wanted to and still walk a straight line, no problem. Frankly, I’m surprised my liver hasn’t shriveled up and died by now. Those bikers are hard drinking bastards.”
“You said you were undercover for two years?” Chris asked.
“Two years, two months and sixteen days. That assignment took a lot out of me. How about you, Hanover? Ever work UC?”
“No,” Chris answered. “There were opportunities. Undercover just wasn’t for me.”
“I hear ya,” Penner answered. “You married?”
“Not yet,” Chris replied. “Maybe one day.”
“Anyone serious?”
“Working on it.”
Penner chewed on the toothpick. “That’s not a gig you want to take if you have a wife and family like I do. I wasn’t allowed to contact my Jenny or our kids the whole time. It would have been too dangerous for them. They heard from me through my SAC. No phone calls or visits, ever. Trust me, that will tear the crap out of your heart. I broke the rules once. Couldn’t help myself. I arranged a meet across the street from my daughters’ school and timed the drug buy when I knew she’d be outside for recess. Told my contact we were safer meeting in public, in a school zone. I did the deal - one-hundred grand in Ecstasy - in exchange for a truckload of automatic weapons, then stole a few minutes with her when my guy left. No personal contact mind you. I just watched her for a little while. The bureau pulled me out the next morning before SWAT raided the clubhouse. They called my wife, told her I was out, and to grab the go bags she’d kept packed for us and the kids. Agents picked them up and had us on a plane to Colorado within the hour. We spent the next year and a half in Telluride until they called me to testify. We got them. Took ‘em all down. Even the son of a Urabenos Columbian cartel boss. As far as I know that asshole still has a bounty on my head, except none of them really know what I look like. And that’s exactly how I plan to keep it, thank you very much.”
Jordan spoke to the agent. “We’re close,” she said.
Penner glanced at her. “You’re freaking me out.”
Jordan smiled. “I get that a lot.”
From the back seat, Chris said, “I take it you’ve never worked with a psychic before?”
Penner shook his head. “Nope. This is a first for me.”
“You get used it,” Chris said. “I know it seems a little strange at first. It was for me, too. Just keep an open mind and remember two things.”
“Namely?”
“One, that Jordan’s the real deal and not some street level swami.”
“Fair enough,” Penner replied. “And the second?”
Jordan answered for her partner. “I’m never wrong.”
Penner smiled as he turned the corner. “You and my wife both.”
“There,” Jordan said. “Half a block down the road. That’s the building we’re looking for.”
The agents pulled up to the entrance of the cordoned off construction site. The sign posted at the front entrance read, CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. The small print specified building code violations as the reason for the cessation of the project.
“This is where he killed Courtney Valentine,” Jordan said. “Inside, on the main floor.” In her mind, the plastic sheets billowed and fell. Blood dripped from the blade of the concrete saw.
Ahead, the ghostly countenance of the murdered woman acknowledged Jordan, then turned and drifted into the building.
Jordan stepped out of the car. “This way,” she said.
The agents entered the murder site.
136
BONNIE COLE CRIED out as she helped Lacey to her feet. The raw wounds on her body cracked, pulled open, oozed. The two women leaned on each other for support.
“You all right?” Lacey asked.
“No, but I will be,” Bonnie replied.
“What kind of pathetic excuse for a human being does this to another person?” Lacey said.
“The kind that I want to be as far away from as possible.”
“We need to treat your wounds. I’ve seen injuries like this before. You could lose your arm.”
“Better my arm than my life,” Bonnie replied. “Getting out of
here is the priority. You’re more mobile than I am. Check on the others. Get them out of their cells. He keeps a medical kit in the cabinet under the stairs. I’ve seen him use it on one of the girls.”
“All right,” Lacey said. She searched the room for the keys to the cells, found none.
Melinda and Victoria’s cells were adjoined. Lacey spoke to the women. “Do you know where he keeps the keys?”
“They’re always with him,” Melinda answered. “There’s no way for us to get out of here.”
“We have to try,” Lacey said. She examined the door, searched for a weak point. The frame of the cell was secured to the concrete floor with lag bolts and to the wooden ceiling by heavy screws. Lacey tried shaking the frame. It wouldn’t budge.
Victoria spoke as she watched the women struggle to loosen the steel door. “There’s only one option,” she said.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Lacey replied.
“You need to get out of here. Contact the police. When they find us, they’ll free us.”
Melinda agreed. She tested her cell door, shook it violently. “Victoria’s right. We don’t have a hope in hell of getting out of here. You do. But you’ll have to hurry. He’s been gone half an hour. He could be back any minute.”
“For all we know he’s upstairs right now,” Bonnie said, “listening to us on the other side of the door. Maybe he’s getting ready to pump the room full of whatever that shit was he used to knock us out in the first place. Only this time he won’t shut it off. Just keep it flowing until we’ve breathed in enough of it that our bodies can’t take it anymore and we die.”
“Anybody want to know what I think?” Lacey offered.
“I do,” Bonnie said.
“I think you’ve all been through one hell of a trauma. You’re terrified and not thinking straight. We need a plan. Let’s start with the obvious. How often does he check on you?”
“Every day,” Melinda said.
“Once a day? Twice?”
“Once,” Victoria said. “In the evening, I think. I’ve lost track of time. I don’t even know if its day or night outside right now.”
“He brings us food and water,” Melinda said. “Bread and soup. Tastes like crap.”
“You were expecting fine dining?” Lacey asked.
“He must put something in it,” Victoria said. “Every time I eat, I throw up.”
“Sounds like he’s treating the food, giving you barely enough to keep you alive. Which is weakening your body and immune system. He could be lacing the soup with an emetic. That would account for the vomiting. Your electrolytes are probably shot.”
“Are you a doctor?” Melinda asked.
Lacey shook her head. “I was pre-med at NYU. First day in the cadaver lab I realized I couldn’t handle it. Apparently, surgery wasn’t my calling. I switched over to philosophy and English literature instead.”
“That’s odd,” Melinda said.
“What? That I’d choose history and the classics over the limelight of a surgical suite?”
“No. That we’d both be history and literature majors. I’m doing my PhD at Harvard. Ancient Mythology. You?”
“I’m working towards a degree in psychology,” Lacey replied. “But the old tales have always fascinated me.”
“There’s something very familiar about you,” Melinda said. “Did you attend Harvard?”
“No,” Lacey answered. “But I recently attended a Harvard sponsored seminar.”
“Where?”
“NYU.” Lacey looked confused. “Why?”
“Dr. Jane Belay’s lecture by any chance?”
“Yes,” Lacey said. “On Folklore and Mythology. She was speaking at a rare book shop. Kessel’s Bookbinding and Restoration.”
“I was at that seminar,” Melinda said. “That’s how I know you. I saw you there.” Melinda paused. “The odds that the two of us would have attended the same seminar and wind up here are next to impossible. He targeted us,” Melinda said.
Lacey nodded. “But why?”
“Did you say Kessel’s?” Victoria asked. “I sell rare paper. Mrs. Kessel was one of my biggest customers.”
Across the room, tending to her wounds, Bonnie joined the conversation. “My family’s company is the largest provider of aged and period leather in the country. Book restoration companies are some of our oldest clients. Anyone but me seeing a connection here?”
“Yeah,” Lacey said. “Books, paper, leather, book repair. This guy is in the industry.”
“But why take us?” Melinda asked. “Lacey and I are just students.”
“Maybe for that precise reason,” Bonnie offered. “Perhaps folklore and mythology are his main areas of interest. He sees you as his peers. Your expert knowledge would make you ideal prisoners… and conversationalists.”
“Like that will ever happen,” Lacey said. “I’m not about to talk shop with that freak.”
“Our ability to do that might be the only thing that will stop him from killing us,” Bonnie said.
Victoria agreed. “He has an unusually strong connection to you, Lacey,” she said. “He said he wants you to be his wife. Which means we are expendable. We already know he’s not altogether there, probably even insane. Be careful what you say to him. Frankly, our lives are in your hands.”
“I don’t want that responsibility,” Lacey said. “I’m the one who dropped out of medical school, remember?”
“Whether you want it or not isn’t the issue,” Victoria replied. “You’ve got it. It’s yours.”
“Not if I can get us out of here,” Lacey replied.
137
OTTO SCHREIBER FELL forward as the bullet tore through his backpack, passed through his shoulder, then pinged off the steel entrance door to Lacey’s apartment. Stupid, he thought. Why had he not checked the man for a weapon when he was down?
The gun wavered in Anton’s hand. He tried pushing his body up off the floor, fell back. The blow to the back of his head had been severe and affected his balance. Vertigo had set in. The room was spinning. He dropped the gun, picked it up again, forced himself to fight the rising darkness and the overwhelming desire to pass out, raised the weapon and fired wildly. Adrenaline trumped accuracy. He could process the sound of the gunshots in his mind but not the trajectory of the rounds. Anton emptied the clip, exhausted the weapon. Darkness now gave way to light, psychological impairment to mental acuity. Having regained his senses, he suddenly realized he had been firing the weapon in the opposite direction of the doorway; he had been shooting into the apartment. He reeled around, searched for his attacker.
The door was open.
The man with the backpack was gone.
Anton rose to one knee, struggled to both feet, then shuffled down the hall toward the front entrance of the apartment.
The presence of the intruder, coupled with the assault, meant one thing. His instinct was right. Lacey was in danger.
Anton pushed open the door, grabbed the handrail for support. Outside, the bright sunlight stung his eyes. The pain at the point of impact where he had been struck flared. He touched the area, expected blood, found none. God, it hurt.
He scanned the street, saw no sign of his attacker. In the distance, the wail of sirens. Across the street, a woman screamed. Two pedestrians walking their dogs in the quiet enclave ran for cover, one behind a parked car, the other the corner of an adjoining building. The women were staring at him, cellphones in hand, talking quickly. Initially, the reason for their harried behavior and overt concern didn’t compute with Anton. Then he felt the weight of the gun in his hand.
The sirens were drawing closer. Were they on their way to Lacey’s apartment? Had he been the subject of the phone calls? Had someone called 9-1-1?
Anton shoved the gun into his waistband and slowly made his way to his car. The passersby had surely taken down his license plate number and called it into the authorities already. He would need to get off the street as soon as possible. One street over, a twen
ty-four-hour long-term parking garage offered an escape.
Speeding up the circular ramp, he found an available parking spot on the seventh level and quickly backed in his car. The authorities would eventually find the vehicle during their sweep of the area; that much was certain. But for the time being out of sight was out of mind, and out of sight also meant more time for him to continue his search for his assailant. He wouldn’t be hard to find. Though the morning was slightly cooler than it had been for the past week, the man was overdressed for the weather, wearing jeans, a dark blue hoodie, running shoes and leather driving gloves. Whether he had been driving or fled on foot was unknown. By the time Anton had recovered and pursued his attacker the man was long gone. He was sure he had gotten off at least one clean round before falling semi-conscious. He had noticed a tiny dent in the door at approximately the same height as the man and a chip of paint missing on its otherwise perfectly maintained surface. Perhaps one of the rounds had struck him.
Anton removed his cellphone and made a call.
“Odyssey Gentleman’s Club.”
“Cindy, it’s Anton.”
“Anton, where the hell are you?” Cindy Simms was personal secretary to the Odyssey’s owner, Russ Paley. “Russ has been asking for you. He’s thoroughly pissed that you’re not here.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 54
