Twisted

by Andrea Kane

  “That’s very kind of you to ask,” he responded. “Yes, she’s resting peacefully now. I had to administer additional morphine.” A pause, during which Sloane noted the tiniest flicker of sanity in his eyes. “I didn’t expect this to happen so quickly. Of course my plans are in order, but…” He shrugged, and the sanity was gone. “Nature works as she chooses. All I can do is relieve her pain, sit by her side, and let her know how precious she is. I take solace in the fact that, although her life here on earth is about to end, her life on Mount Olympus will last forever.”

  Sloane had no clue what all these references to Mount Olympus meant, but it was time to find out.

  “Gaia is fortunate to have a son who cares so deeply, and one who’s medically trained to ease her suffering,” she said aloud.

  “It’s I who am blessed. I’m proud that I could become a son who’s worthy of her. Gaia devoted her life to enlightening me. She taught others conventional knowledge, but she taught me the difference between good and evil, and stressed all the attributes that would make me deserving of my place on Mount Olympus.”

  This time the reference to Mount Olympus caused a sliver of memory to flash in Sloane’s mind. Something Luke had said just before she’d blacked out, when he was shooing away the hounds.

  You’ll miss her, he’d told them. But it won’t be for long. You’ll join us at Mount Olympus very soon. Artemis will decree it. She needs her hounds.

  Artemis. Gaia. Mount Olympus.

  The connection gave Sloane a good starting point.

  “I’m not an expert in Greek mythology,” she told Luke truthfully. “But you keep mentioning Mount Olympus. And I remember your calling me Artemis earlier in the day. Is that because I’m an archer and because I have my hounds?”

  Again, pride and pleasure. “Actually, it’s the other way around. It’s because you’re Artemis that you act as you act, and do as you do. But I’m glad you see the correlation.”

  “Is this Mount Olympus?”

  Luke looked amused. “Hardly. This is a dungeon. And I’m sorry you have to be confined to it. It won’t be for long. As soon as I’m convinced I can trust you, I’ll move you to your room.”

  “My room?”

  “The other goddesses have concrete basement rooms like this one. But you, you’re above that. As am I. Artemis and Apollo. Once we reach Olympus, you and I will sit at Gaia’s feet and the others will serve us.”

  Others? Sloane had to fight to keep the hopeful leap her heart gave under wraps.

  “Who are these others?” she asked carefully.

  “They’re the lesser goddesses. The ones who’ll be accompanying us on our journey.”

  “I see. And they’re all here now? None have gone on ahead of us?”

  “Certainly not.” He seemed astonished that she’d even ask. “No one precedes Gaia. All the goddesses, and myself, must wait for her to lead the way. Until she passes, which I expect will be in a day or two, each and every one of the lesser goddesses will wait right here with us. You, as a supreme goddess, are my last addition, the perfect complement to my role serving Gaia. Now we’ll be ready, whenever she is.”

  Thank God. That meant the kidnapped women were alive. Including Penny.

  Sloane squelched her relief. She was itching to probe deeper. But her negotiator’s instincts sensed that Luke was becoming emotional, and that he was already at the edge of his comfort zone. So she’d wait, stick with more basic, noninflammatory questions, and revisit the gray area later.

  “Apollo. Is that what I should call you?”

  “Not yet.” He visibly relaxed. “Not until our ascent. Here I’m Delphi.”

  Delphi. Sloane racked her brain. If she remembered her ancient history correctly, Delphi was a sacred Greek temple or shrine, probably dedicated to either Apollo, Artemis, or Gaia. It made sense. Luke saw himself as the central vessel through which they would ascend to Mount Olympus.

  “You’re angry.” Luke either made that assessment from her silence or her pensive expression. “And I know why. Professor Lyman. I’m truly sorry for your pain. But I’m not sorry I killed him. He deluded you. He made you believe he was your friend. He wasn’t. He was Python’s messenger, an evil serpent sent to destroy the purity of our upcoming journey. I had no choice but to kill him.”

  This was the toughest moment of Sloane’s performance. She wanted to gouge out Luke’s eyes for what he’d done to Elliot. But what point would there be to lash out? It wouldn’t bring back her friend, and it would only condemn her and the rest of the women here to a certain death.

  “I see your dilemma,” she said calmly. “And I’m not angry, just confused. I believe you about Python. But these other, lesser goddesses—who are they?”

  His expression hardened, and Sloane realized she’d pushed one of his buttons. “You know who the other goddesses are. You’ve been tracking them, and me, for weeks now. Don’t toy with me, Artemis. I won’t tolerate it.”

  “I’m not toying with you,” Sloane assured him. “I just wasn’t making the connection. Are you saying that the lesser goddesses are the women we classified as kidnapped?”

  “They weren’t kidnapped. They were rescued. All except that bitch Tyche, who spurned the gods and will be condemned to a lifetime of hell. I wanted to make her pay for what she did to me. But the gods chose to handle it after I’m gone. So be it.”

  Tai Kee. They’d all assumed it had been a Mandarin or Fukienese phrase. But it was just what Tina had said it sounded like—a name.

  “Again, forgive my ignorance,” Sloane said ruefully, “but what is—Tai Kee, did you say?—the goddess of?”

  “It’s Tyche,” he corrected her pronunciation, then spelled the name for her. “And she’s the goddess of fortune, prosperity, and luck. Or rather, she was. Now she’s just a dirty slut like the rest of them.”

  It was the first time Sloane had heard or seen the brutal Luke, the man capable of being a serial killer. His gaze darkened to near black, and his features twisted with a rage so intense, it seemed to vibrate through him. The transformation was terrifying.

  “If this Tyche is really that unworthy, it’s good that she’s not joining us and the others in our ascent,” Sloane said carefully.

  “You’re right. I communed with the gods and they said the same thing.” As Luke spoke, the serial killer receded, replaced by the hollow-eyed Delphi.

  “It sounds as if the gods have treated you well.”

  “Always. It’s the demons sent by Hades who forced me to do those dirty, sickening things.” Luke pressed his hands to the sides of his head, gave it a few hard shakes. “I won’t think about that. The demons are gone now. They’ve lost this hard-fought battle.”

  Luke was talking about the prostitutes he’d raped and killed. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure that one out.

  Sloane took the opportunity to probe an area that Luke might now be receptive to, if only to supplant the dark voices in his head with something he considered light and beautiful. “Can you tell me the details of our ascent? The process sounds intriguing.”

  “The process is secondary. The destination is everything.” Luke lowered his hands, but he was still shaking from whatever emotional upheaval had just taken place inside his mind.

  “You mean Mount Olympus.”

  “It’s exquisite—pure, unscathed, perfect. I’ve heard stories about it all my life.”

  “From Gaia?”

  “Yes. She read to me every night, long stories of splendor and eternal life. If you had seen the way her face would light up when she’d read, she was totally transformed. I always swore to myself that someday I’d see that euphoria on her face again, this time for good.”

  “So you’re facilitating it.” Sloane smiled. “What a loving son you are.”

  “I try.”

  “Does Gaia know all the details of our ascent?”

  “No. I want to surprise her. Actually, no one knows, not even Hera. I usually talk things over with her. But this
time…I chose not to.”

  “Would you be willing to talk them over with me?” Sloane asked. “I’d be happy to listen.”

  He became very calm, as a soft, peculiar smile touched his lips. “You’re always a good listener. Even when I didn’t speak, you heard me. I called just to hear the sound of your soothing voice. I’d been deprived of that joy since I realized your FBI friends must have put a trace on my cell phones. That’s why I took your name off the invitation list to Gaia’s retirement party. I needed a reason to call you. To connect with my twin. And to make sure you were coming. I had to reinforce my connection with you, even though I knew we’d soon be connected for eternity. That’s why I visited your home, lay on your bed. Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes.” Sloane feigned understanding. “To strengthen our connection, would you please share your plans with me? Tell me about our upcoming ascent.”

  Luke paused, considering her request. “I’m not ready to fully trust you—not yet. However, I do trust you to guard a secret. Also, you’re strong. You don’t scare easily. So, as my twin, I believe you’re the right one to share this with.” His gaze flickered over her. “But first, you need a chiton. There are several in your closet upstairs. I’ll bring one down, since you’re not ready to be transferred upstairs. I’ll also bring you some lunch. You slept through the usual hour that it’s served.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Three forty-five. Lunch is served promptly at noon, unless I’m away. In that case, provisions are made.”

  The mattress Sloane was sitting on was lumpy and uncomfortable. She wriggled a bit, then winced. “Delphi, I understand why you don’t fully trust me yet. But is there any way you can keep me confined to your satisfaction without using these shackles? They’re cutting into my flesh, especially my injured hand.”

  That bothered him. “Your injury—I didn’t think of that. Very well. When I return, I’ll bring an alternative to the shackles.” His gaze hardened again, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, emanating leashed violence. “Let me state this in advance. I know how intelligent you are. And also how skilled you are at Krav Maga. In fact, I know everything about you. So don’t try anything. Not now. Not when I return. Not at all. You won’t succeed and it will break my heart to have to kill you. But don’t doubt that I will, if you force my hand.”

  “I don’t plan to do that,” she assured him. “I’m resourceful, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Very well, I’ll be back shortly.”

  Lillian Doyle’s Apartment

  West 171st Street, New York City

  4:55 P.M.

  Derek pulled on his gloves and entered the apartment. ERT was already doing its job. There was music playing from somewhere inside. The Pachelbel Canon, Sloane’s favorite. He headed toward it, then paused as one of the ERT agents came up to him.

  “Parker, you won’t believe this,” he said, pointing. “Go take a look. I didn’t touch a thing so you could get the full impact.”

  Derek walked into the spare bedroom, where the music was coming from. Empty. Except for the desk positioned directly across from the doorway. But that desk said it all.

  Stunned, Derek came to a dead halt, his gaze glued to the images on the laptop screen.

  A slideshow of photos synchronized with the music. Images only of Sloane. Not just at work and at home, but everywhere. And not just current photos, but some that went way back, starting with her days in the D.A.’s office. Luke had obviously become obsessed with her from the very first time they met. He’d kept a month-by-month digital photo album of all her activities, all her meetings with friends, all her time in her backyard—romping with the hounds or shooting at her archery range.

  He even had pictures of her in Cleveland—both on the job and off—and at Quantico, where he’d filmed her arriving and departing. The psycho had followed her everywhere, living her life, capturing it for posterity.

  There were even a few shots of Sloane and Derek together, strolling, talking, and laughing. A big white “box” had been superimposed over Derek’s portion of the photo. Fortunately, Luke hadn’t gotten any intimate shots, but just the fact that he’d been stalking and obsessing over Sloane for all these years made Derek want to puke.

  The segment ended with a blank frame that simply said: For Artemis.

  The next segment began.

  To Derek, it looked like a Discovery Channel special on viruses and how they invade healthy cells. Then the scene appeared to dissolve to white as if someone poured liquid disinfectant to “bleach out” the contents. In its place were highlights of Luke killing and dismembering the Asian prostitutes. It ended with For Gaia, with Love.

  And finally, the home video concluded with Luke reading from a prepared script…

  “Welcome, serpents. By the time you see this, you’re too late to stop the Ascension. Gaia, Artemis, the lesser goddesses and I have gone to Mount Olympus, leaving this despicable, disease-ridden world for Python and his FBI underlings to rule. Bow to your superiors and accept your defeat.”

  With that, the final frame burst into flames, disintegrating into a pyramid of pictures. At the apex was a picture of Lillian—younger, vibrant, and obviously in good health—with a simple caption: Gaia. Below that in the hierarchy were pictures of Sloane and Luke, captioned Artemis and Apollo, respectively. At the bottom of the pyramid was a picture of each of the kidnapped women, captioned with the name of the goddess she embodied.

  A moment passed, and the entire sequence started again.

  Forcing himself to keep it together, Derek crossed over and examined the desk. Beside the laptop stood only one other object—a children’s book on Greek mythology. Derek picked it up and opened it. The inscription read: To my little Apollo. Obviously, a gift from Lillian when Luke was a boy. The book was well-worn, signifying it had been read often. There was a chapter on each goddess, complete with an illustration. It was like a textbook, except presented with clear, elementary school simplicity.

  At this point, Derek had every drop of proof he needed. The lab in Quantico had called earlier and confirmed the DNA match. So they now had both fingerprint and DNA evidence. And now this sick, twisted video.

  The problem was, he had no idea where Luke Doyle was.

  The bastard was smart. There wasn’t a shred of information on him in this apartment that Derek hadn’t already obtained elsewhere—his military record, his school transcript, his employment records from Bellevue. Not a damned thing that could provide a clue as to his whereabouts.

  Ditto for the phone records they’d obtained by court order. Neither Luke’s nor Lillian’s phones had revealed anything. No calls had been made, either to or from their home or cell phones, since Sloane’s disappearance.

  A credit search on both the Doyles had proven equally useless.

  No addresses that the Bureau didn’t already know about. So if that country house really existed, it hadn’t been bought under either Luke’s or Lillian’s name. Piles of bills and credit-card statements in the kitchen—all with one word scrawled in large, red letters: PAID. No outstanding balances. None.

  Eerily, it looked as if the Doyles were paying off each and every one of their debts to society.

  Its finality made Derek’s skin crawl.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  They were out of time.

  Judging from the amount of morphine Luke was administering to his mother, and his own statement that he expected her to pass in a day or two, it was clear that Lillian had made a rapid downhill slide since the evening of her party. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that once “Gaia” had moved on, the rest of them would follow close behind.

  They would be sacrificed in an elaborate ritual, no doubt dismembered piece by piece using a combat knife. Luke had been honing his carving skills on those prostitutes he’d killed. And the fact that he’d implied that Sloane was the only “goddess” strong enough to listen to him describe the details of
their ascension didn’t bode well for his planned methodology.

  Sweat broke out on Sloane’s forehead, drenched her back, as she visualized the thick blade of a Bowie knife and what it could do. A hell of a lot more damage than a switchblade.

  Vivid recall took over. The excruciating pain of razor-sharp metal piercing her flesh, severing her nerves and blood vessels. The intolerable agony, the sickening sight of blood gushing from her palm, flowing onto the ground until she blacked out—it was a nightmare she’d carry with her forever.

  And that was only her hand. This time the ritualistic killing would involve not only a combat knife, but the puncturing of vital organs and a torturous, drawn-out death.

  Stop it. Sloane nipped her thoughts in the bud. She wasn’t letting her mind go there. It would only paralyze her and waste valuable time. None of the women in this house was going to die. She would come up with a means of escape. She had to.

  The Bureau had provided her with the finest, most sophisticated training in the world. But no handbook, no amount of education, innate ability, or years of crisis resolution experience could prepare her for a situation like this—where she was negotiating for her own life and the lives of others—with no help. And, given the circumstances, it felt as if everything was happening at warp speed, with Lillian’s impending death being an imposed, but intangible deadline—like a bomb with a lit fuse, set to go off at some imminent but imprecise hour. There was no opportunity for her to make gradual progress, foster developing trust. And there was no margin for error.

  Sloane’s mind stepped through the salient points of crisis negotiation, extracting those techniques that would work in this high-stress situation. She prayed she had the right answers.

  That brought her to the cell phone she’d slipped into the seatback bag of Lillian’s wheelchair when Luke had kidnapped her. Obviously, she’d been incapacitated and unable to access to it during their trip. But the phone still had to be in that bag. If Luke had discovered it, he would have slit her throat by now. Fine, but had he brought the wheelchair inside the house? Was it with Lillian? Sloane had to find out. She had to get into Lillian’s bedroom—or rather, convince Luke to take her there.