“I’m heading back to the club now. Is Mike around?”
“The limo driver? Yeah. Why?”
“I need a lift back to the club. Car trouble,” he lied. “Wallet’s locked in the car along with my credit cards and cash.”
Cindy snickered. “That was brilliant.”
“Mike?”
“Hang on.”
Mike Degario picked up the line a few seconds later. “I hear you’re in need of my services,” he teased. “You know I charge double for personal pickups.”
Anton agreed. “Sorry, Mike. It was a bonehead play on my part. Think you can swing into Brooklyn and pick me up?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“Parking garage. About a block from Lacey Chastain’s place.”
“You dog.”
“It’s not like that. I came by to check on her. No one’s seen her. She’s not here. I think she may be in…”
Anton stopped talking. From his seventh-floor vantage point behind the railing of the car park he saw his attacker in the distance.
Four streets over, the hooded man, backpack slung over his shoulder, stopped beside a silver Bentley parked on the street. Anton watched him open the door, throw the bag in the backseat, and climb into the car slowly, one hand applying pressure to his shoulder. He appeared to be injured.
“Anton?” Degario said.
Anton didn’t respond. He focused on the man, straining to get a better look at him, couldn’t.
“You still there?”
Anton answered. “Cancel the pickup, Mikey. I gotta go.”
“You sure?” Degario said. “I can be there in…”
Anton ended the call, ran to the stairwell at the end of the parking garage, threw open the door, and bounded down the steps two at a time.
If he ran fast enough, he could catch up to the Bentley, pull the man out of his car and throttle him within an inch of his life to find out what he knew about Lacey’s disappearance.
His head ached.
His body ached.
His heart ached.
He ran faster.
138
AGENT PENNER STARED at the blood-soaked concrete cutting saw standing in the middle of the plastic sheeted room.
“How in God’s name did you know this was here?” he asked.
Jordan stared at the ghost standing in the corner of the room then watched her image fade. The dead had a way of communicating that was unique unto them. It satisfied Courtney Valentine that Jordan would do what needed to be done to make her story known and turn up the heat in the search for her killer. Jordan acknowledged the specter with a nod, then turned her attention back to the crime scene.
Chris leaned over and examined the machine. “Fragments of flesh and bone,” he said. “All over the blade and into the assembly of the saw itself. Jesus, he made one hell of a mess. Hard to believe no one heard her. There were no cries for help, no 9-1-1 calls from neighboring residents… nothing.”
“She was drugged,” Jordan said. “Whatever he gave her was strong enough to incapacitate her. She wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to stop it.”
“What kind of person does this to another human being?” Penner said angrily.
“The kind who is egotistical enough to taunt the cops with handwritten notes and thinks we’ll never catch him.”
“To that, I’d say his batting average has been damn good so far,” Penner replied. “He’s making the NYPD look like rank amateurs. No wonder Haley wants this guy’s head on a stick.”
Jordan walked around the room, getting a feel for the scene. Courtney Valentine would return on her own time if she ever did. Jordan acutely knew the responsibility the dead woman had imparted to her. Her communications with the deceased were solemn and sacred. They talked to her in their own mysterious way and she listened. In the corner of the room, she found an item of interest: a length of frayed red ribbon.
“You said Scroll always leaves a calling card, right? A handwritten note?” Jordan asked.
Penner nodded. “At every scene.”
“Did they find one with the remains? In one of the plastic garbage bags?”
The agent hesitated. “Come to think of it, no. We identified her by reaching out to the hospital. Her scrubs were soaked in blood and shredded as you saw. But our guys identified ink on the fabric under the blood. We could piece together enough sections of the garment to make out her first initial, a period, and the first few letters of her last name. The hospital logo was silk-screened inside the collar of the top she was wearing. We confirmed the scrubs were theirs. Staff records showed no other employees had that combination of letters in their last and first name. We concluded it had to be Courtney.”
“Why wouldn’t he leave a note?” Chris said. “I mean, let’s face it. The guy’s ego wouldn’t permit him to let her death go without receiving credit for the kill.”
“Chris is right,” Penner agreed. “A guy like this needs that acknowledgement. It’s an adrenaline rush for him. There’s no way he wouldn’t take credit for her death.”
“He did,” Jordan said, sifting through a plastic pail full of construction scraps. She removed small sections of broken drywall, pieces of concrete, nails, and miscellaneous debris. “He wanted us to work for it.” She held up a piece of leather-like material, rolled tightly and tied with a red ribbon.
“You found a scroll?” Chris said. He and Penner walked toward Jordan as she examined the note in the dim light of the room.
Jordan nodded. “Got a flashlight?” she asked.
Penner removed a penlight from his jacket pocket. “Will this do?”
“Perfect,” Jordan said. She untied the ribbon and unraveled the note.
“The material looks different,” Penner said.
“That’s because it’s dried human flesh,” Jordan said. “He’s escalated. He’s way past homemade parchment now. He’s using their skin as a writing pad.”
The section of skin measured approximately four inches by six inches. Jordan read the note aloud. “Dear Commissioner Haley. You think your streets are safe. They’re not. You think your citizens are safe. They’re not. I took my time with this one. Sorry about the mess. I can assure you a good time was had by all. Tell your task force I said hello.”
“Condescending bastard,” Penner said.
“He can be as condescending as he wants,” Chris replied. “The ball’s in his court and he just served up another ace.”
Touching the skin-scroll, Jordan felt the familiar head pain that came with the sudden rush of an intense psychic connection. She saw the woman on the table in the makeshift surgical suite, watched as her tormentor excised the section of skin from her body that would become the note, heard the screams, then realized the pleas for help were not coming from the woman to whom the skin belonged but to others in the room with her.
The connection was too intense. Jordan broke it and handed Chris the scroll. “This woman is not alone. He’s keeping others.”
“Keeping?” Chris asked.
“He has prisoners. Many of them.” Jordan felt the attacker’s energy on the scroll. “He plans to kill them.”
“Can you see where they are?” Penner asked.
Jordan closed her eyes, tried hard to reconnect with the skin donor’s surroundings, saw nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s all I’m getting right now.”
“Don’t worry, Jordan,” Chris said. “It’ll come to you. It always does.”
“For the sake of the victims it better come fast,” Penner said. The agent’s cellphone rang. He walked away and took the call.
“That guy is in serious need of an attitude adjustment,” Chris said to his partner.
“He’s just upset,” Jordan replied. “We all are.”
“You can’t work the case any faster than your ability will permit.”
“It’s nothing,” Jordan said. “Everyone’s on edge right now. All the way up to the Mayor’s office.”
/> Agent Penner returned. “That was Keon. Somebody just called in a missing person’s report. He thinks it might be a good idea if we meet with her in person. Woman’s name is Shona-Lee Cairns.”
“Sounds good,” Chris said. “Where to now?”
“Manhattan. Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club. Cairns believes one of their dancers is missing. A woman by the name of Lacey Chastain.”
Chris took out his phone. “I’ll call forensics, get them over here.”
Penner surveyed the blood-spattered room. “Better tell them to send two teams. Looks like they’re gonna be here for a while.”
139
OTTO SCHREIBER OPENED the door to his silver Bentley and fell into the driver’s seat. The pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder was made worse by his walk to the car. The gunfire had caught him completely off guard. The man he attacked in Lacey Chastain’s apartment had been down, possibly dead. He had struck a violent blow to the back of his head, heard the sickening crack of the bat as it made contact. The blow should have killed him or at the very least rendered him unconscious for the next few hours.
He sat in the seat, trying to control his labored breathing, massaging the area of penetration, evaluating the severity of the shoulder wound. The sound of the gunfire had created a post-traumatic onslaught of horrific memories of his time spent in captivity. His skin crawled. He wanted to scream. His condition, allodynia, was raging havoc on his body, physically and mentally. He grabbed hold of the steering wheel and squeezed hard, trying to control the symptoms, to displace their effect and quell the intensity of the attack. Eventually it would subside. Until then all he could do was hold on and ride the wave of pain like a surfer caught in a crashing wave, ride the rip and roll with it, unsure of what condition his body would be in when eventually he found the surface, or the undertow claimed him. The hundreds of tiny scars on his skin perpetrated by the barbed bamboo body wrap came alive, as though they were not part of his skin at all but rather an interconnected mass of malignant cells which covered his body, each refusing to surrender to apoptosis and die. Instead, they fed on his neuralgic state, pulsing, throbbing, and burning like thousands of smoldering cinders in a fire stoked deep beneath his skin. His condition seemed to be getting worse, not better, failing to improve with the drug therapy his doctors at Bellevue had assured him would dramatically reduce his pain. The sensation suggested thoughts of what it must feel like to be burned alive. The irony of the moment was not lost on him. The effects of his enormously painful condition would make a tremendous addition to his knowledge of torture if only he could learn how to replicate it.
He forced himself to move. He turned on the car, pushed the START button, and put the vehicle in gear. Several streets away he heard the sound of approaching sirens, no doubt en route to Lacey’s apartment. The police were likely responding to the report of gunshots. On arrival, they would find the man on the floor of the apartment. After receiving medical attention, he would explain his reason for discharging the weapon. Otto doubted the man had had any opportunity to see him, much less be able to identify him. He had come at him too fast, attacked him from behind before he had had the chance to turn and defend himself. He should have finished him off, split his head open with the bat. Who was he to Lacey, anyway? Surely not her boyfriend. Otto had been watching her for the past few weeks, observing her routine. He knew where she shopped, what time she left for school or the club and could recognize any of her girlfriends who visited her regularly. A trained observer, he had kept detailed notes. Lacey’s private life seemed to revolve around the Odyssey, traveling to and from NYU and her tabby cat, Prince Harry. He had observed her in the grocery store from the end of the aisle, watched as she stocked up on Fancy Feast, Harry’s preferred cuisine. She had almost caught him looking at her. He had avoided eye contact by raising his hand and rubbing his temple, shielding his face from view. Not wanting to be seen watching her, he left the store and followed her home. The hour had been late, the streets empty. He debated whether to abduct her. He was prepared. In his pocket, he carried a small aerosol canister which contained his special formula of equal parts sevoflurane, isoflurane, ether, halothane, and Fentanyl. On contact with air the potent blend of liquids created a gas which when inhaled immediately induced a state of deep sleep. It had taken him many attempts to get the combination of ingredients just right. Earlier test subjects had died inhaling the deadly mixture, their airway seizing immediately, breathing stopped. He had considered keeping their bodies in the bookstore dungeon as trophies but preferred the company of the living to the dead. Instead, he disposed of them at various locations around the city, leaving each with a note; the first in the trunk of an abandoned car on a side street in Bedford-Stuyvesant, the second in an alley frequented by drug-addled vagrants in Queens, the third in a drainage culvert on the bank of the Hudson River. Following the news and listening to the reports made by Commissioner Haley about the progress his department was making on the killings had been entertaining. In fact, they did not have a clue who or what they were dealing with. It was then Otto decided it would be amusing to direct all the notes to Haley himself. The media soon put the pompous police leader in his place, publicly chastising him for misleading them and taking advantage of the public trust. This pleased Otto to no end.
He had to get back to the book repair shop. Lacey would be waiting for him, probably even worried about him, as any devout wife-to-be would be. She would need the finery he had picked out for her. He would let her out of the strappado tonight, perhaps even permit her to take a good long soak in a hot bath and make her a nice meal. After dinner, before relaxing for the evening, he would excuse himself. The woman on the hospital gurney would probably be dead by now. He would need to dispose of the body.
As Otto pulled away from the curb a tremendous thud struck the back of the Bentley. He looked in his side-view mirror and saw the man from Lacey’s apartment rushing the driver’s door, gun in hand.
Otto hit the gas. The Bentley responded, tires screaming. The smell of burning rubber wafted up from the pavement.
The first bullet shattered the back window.
The second blew out his side mirror.
Otto dropped low in his seat and stayed out of the line of fire as the next three rounds ripped into the back of the luxury automobile.
The car careened around the corner, leaving the gunman behind.
Otto slammed the steering wheel with his fist. Why the hell didn’t I kill the sonofabitch when I had the chance?
Standing on the street, gun in hand, sirens approaching, Anton Moore repeated the license plate number of the Bentley aloud: “ABN 2431… ABN 2431… ABN 2431…”
Then he ran.
140
LACEY SEARCHED THE dungeon for a secondary exit, found none. The door at the top of the stairs was locked. She kicked it. “Damn it!” she yelled.
“It’s no use, Lacey,” Melinda said. “The only way in and out of here is through that door. And we hear him lock it every time he leaves.”
“Maybe we should wait until he comes back,” Bonnie said. “Then surprise him.”
“How do you propose we do that?” Lacey asked. “You can barely walk, and Melinda and Victoria are locked in their cells.”
“Then you need to get us out of here,” Melinda said. “Between the three of us we could take him. He’s weak, I can tell. He moves slowly, like he’s in pain. He wouldn’t be a match for us. Try the cells doors again.”
“They’re bolted into the floor and it’s solid concrete,” Victoria said. “They won’t budge.”
“But the ceiling isn’t,” Melinda said. “It’s made of wood, old wood. Look.” She pointed to several planks into which the metal top rail of her cell was affixed using heavy screws. “If we can work those loose, we might be able to pull the cell wall free from the ceiling. Even if the gap is small, I might be able to squeeze through. I’m small. I could do it.”
“Check the closet where he keeps the medical supplies,” Victori
a suggested. “He used tools to build this place. Maybe he still keeps a few around.”
Lacey walked to the closet, opened the door, rummaged around. She removed a small metal box hidden behind cardboard boxes of medical supplies and rummaged through its contents. The box contained a hammer, two screwdrivers, four wood chisels, two containers of aluminum solder paste, a can of penetrating oil, a miniature butane torch, matches, a hacksaw and an assortment of metal filing rasps. “Bingo,” Lacey said. She held up a hammer and chisel, showed them to Melinda. “Think you can reach the ceiling?”
“I can try. Why?”
“Use these to break the screws,” Lacey asked. “Jam the chisel under the top rail where it meets the ceiling. Slam it with the hammer. Give it everything you’ve got. With luck, you’ll snap the screw. Break them all and the top of the cell wall should give way.”
“I can try,” Melinda said. Lacey handed her the tools. Melinda stood on the tips of her toes. Even with her arms fully extended the ceiling was still out of reach. “I can’t do it. I’m not tall enough.”
“Then we’ll make you taller,” Lacey said. She looked around the room. “I have an idea.”
Lacey brought the metal toolbox over to Melinda’s cell and pushed it through the bars. “Try standing on that,” she asked.
Melinda kicked the box into position and stood on it, testing its ability to hold her weight. The old box, made from heavy steel, provided exactly the extra height she needed to reach the ceiling.
“Got it,” Melinda said.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Lacey said, “hit that screw as hard as you can.”
Bonnie and Victoria watched as Melinda found the location of the screw hole, positioned the chisel in front, then found her balance on the toolbox. “Here goes,” Melinda said.
She slammed the end of the chisel handle with the hammer. The tool cut cleanly through the screw and jutted out on the other side of the cell wall at the ceiling.
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 55
