by Whitley Gray
I am my reality. He forced his eyes open, panting, heart running like a trip hammer, stomach knotted.
The Follower had his head cocked to the side, curiosity on his pretty features. “You have PTSD,” he said in a clinical tone. The same tone one might use while describing a bug.
Beck didn’t bother denying it. Just because he hadn’t had a flashback for a couple of months didn’t mean the PTSD was gone. But it could be managed. Think about getting out of here. Who is he? Beck studied the Follower’s perfect features, his falsely blue eyes, winged brows, full lips.
ICU. Not while Beck had been there, but when he’d gone to visit Van. A man carrying a phlebotomy tray. This man.
“You drew blood,” Beck said. “Denver Health.”
“Very good.” He dragged the business end of the scalpel along Beck’s left clavicle, shoulder to neck.
Beck sucked in a breath. Fuck. A line of fire arose in the wake of the blade, too close to his carotid artery. Beck moved his head away.
“Not yet, Detective. We have much bigger things ahead first.” Smiling, he traced Beck’s right clavicle with the tip of the blade.
This time there was more pressure, and it burned like a son of a bitch. Beck clamped his teeth together, fisted his hands, and pictured Zach at dinner last night, smiling. He let the memory carry him away.
There was a stinging blow to his cheek. “Eyes on me.”
Startled, Beck opened them and stared into a flat, frosty gaze like blue ice, bottomless and completely lacking in humanity. There was no quarter for mercy in the man. Beck would have to figure a way out before the Follower tired of him.
“Scream all you want, Detective. There’s no one around for miles.” The Follower ran a finger along the scalpel handle. “No one will hear you. In fact, I’d like it if you screamed.”
Flashing a smile, he plunged the scalpel into Beck’s scarred shoulder.
* * * *
On the six a.m. news, Matt Unger led with the story he and Zach put together, offering a few key details of Beck’s abduction. Unger asked for information about a 1978 Wind Runner RV, showed two pictures of that model, and offered the Iowa license plate number. Beck’s photo was shown, although Zach doubted the Follower would let Beck out of his sight.
After some debate, they’d decided to go ahead and show a photo of Black, careful to state he was a person of interest and Denver PD would like to speak with him. Behind the scenes, there was a statewide manhunt for Black.
On Channel Nine, a chyron included the Denver PD tip line, the robbery/homicide number, and the Minneapolis Behavioral Unit contact information. Unger promised to reiterate the sixty-second newscast every fifteen minutes during the local newsbreaks and to keep the chyron on the screen indefinitely.
Colorado Springs PD was dragging Black’s neighbors, friends, and family out of bed, trying to get a lead on his location.
Zach had wanted to add a reward, but Sands had squashed the request with an iron fist. Zach rubbed his eyes. Had they really been at this for only three hours? It seemed like a millennium.
“Here.” Richfield held out a bakery bag.
“What’s this?”
The young detective dropped into the chair next to the desk. “Zimmerman’s. Bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits. You need to eat.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” Zach’s stomach was a churning acid bath. Too much coffee and too much stress. And more to go.
The redhead said quietly, “If we mobilize, you won’t have any energy. When we find Beck, he’s going to need you.”
If not for Zach, Beck wouldn’t have gotten caught up in this. Zach’s heart ached. Beck would need more than him—he’d need surgery, a shrink, and sick leave. Beyond that, Zach refused to consider. Beck was resourceful; they’d find him in time.
This is the Follower, not some bonehead mugger.
Zach hated waiting for a tip, but that was better than pointless searching. They needed a break. He pulled a sandwich from the bag, raised it in salute, and took a bite.
Bzzz…
Zach jumped. Please, no more pictures. He checked the screen and breathed. Hogan. Zach hastily swallowed.
“Hello, Clay.”
“Mornin’, Zach.” Hogan’s voice sounded rusty. “Hard to get asses moving this time of day.”
No doubt.
“Find him yet?”
“Not yet.” Zach took a steadying breath. “What have you got?”
“The RV is registered in Council Bluffs, Iowa. That’s just across the river from Omaha.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Olga Vabalas has been deceased for three years.”
“So it’s registered to a dead woman.”
“Pretty much. Mrs. Vabalas has no family except an ex-daughter-in-law in her fifties—a Lydia Quarto. Dr. Quarto—”
“Doctor?”
“PhD anatomist. Dr. Quarto used to work at University of Nebraska Medical School.”
A tingling began on Zach’s neck. The anatomist aspect was interesting. “What about Mrs. Vabalas’s son?”
“Dead. Died over three decades ago. The ex-daughter-in-law, Quarto, remarried and now teaches anatomy at a medical school in Colorado.”
The tingling increased. “Does Dr. Quarto have any children?”
“One son. The father was Quarto’s second husband. They’re long divorced. If Mrs. Vabalas stayed close to her ex-daughter-in-law, it’s possible the old woman might have enjoyed having a grandson, blood-related or not.”
Rampant tingling now. “Is the grandson a Quarto?”
“He was. He changed his name in the Omaha court system.”
Black. It has to be Black. That would dovetail with the rest of the clues. “What is his name now?”
“Khepri. Brian Khepri.”
“You mean Black.” Zach was sure.
“Nope. I mean Khepri. K-H-E-P-R-I. Brian Vabalas Khepri.”
Who the hell is Khepri? “You’re sure?”
“Sure as the sun will rise, Dr. Littman. When old Mrs. Vabalas died, she must’ve left him everything.”
Zach’s mouth went dry. “What did that include?”
“The home in Council Bluffs and its contents. It’s still in her name, but someone has kept up with the property taxes. Council Bluffs PD went to the house and reported it looked neglected but secure. No vehicle in the single-car garage. Neighbors haven’t seen anyone for months.”
“Was there a 1978 Wind Runner RV on the premises?”
“According to the neighbors, it hasn’t been there for years. I assume she’d already gifted it to Khepri and never realized he hadn’t changed the registration and licensing.”
“That would make sense.” Zach needed to get off the phone and swap out Black’s picture for Khepri’s on the news. “Thanks—”
“One more thing. A neighbor said there was a cabin on a lake someplace in Colorado.”
“The neighbor didn’t know where?” Zach couldn’t keep the intensity from his voice. “He could have taken Beck there.”
“No. You might have luck with Colorado property-tax records.”
Those were by county. It could take hours. “Thanks for your help.”
“Sorry I couldn’t turn up anything else.”
“You’ve been incredibly helpful. I appreciate it more than you know.”
“Bring him home, Dr. Littman,” Hogan said gruffly and was gone.
Zach lowered the phone. It was time to harness the power of the FBI.
* * * *
Beck jolted awake, gut clenched in panic. He was alone in the psycho’s mobile medical suite, still bound to the steel table, still looking up at the malignant sun of the surgical light. The instrument tray had disappeared.
Where was the bastard?
His left shoulder throbbed from the scalpel assault. The Follower had twisted the blade deep in the muscle. Beck had given in to the visceral need to yell and then passed out.
It had been hours since he’d had anything to drink. The Follower had performe
d another bloodletting; the glass cylinder reflected Beck had lost a liter of blood. Two units. Donating two units in one sitting was acceptable; he could function. He had to function. He licked parched lips. Water…
Through the rear window, night was giving way to dawn. Birds chirped. There was no traffic noise. They’d arrived somewhere secluded.
The Follower would go to ground. Zach had no doubt marshaled a massive search. He was smart, he was relentless, and he would never give up. Never. It was a matter of surviving until Zach untangled the clues and came for him.
Beck tested the restraints: everything still firmly in place. The door creaked open, whapped shut. Beck’s heart took off running as a blond stranger approached. An accomplice? Maybe someone who could be talked into helping—
Oh.
The long dark hair had been replaced by a short golden shag. The Follower’s eyes were now brown, and he wore tortoiseshell glasses. Chameleon. Always changing.
“I’m going to take you inside now. If you fight, I’ll remove one of your testicles. Clear?” The voice was conversational, clinical.
“Clear.”
The new version of the Follower seemed to have no interest in discussion. Beck lay unmoving as his feet were freed and cuffed in shackles. Maybe when my arms are free…
Brip! Duct tape bound his neck to the table, pressed hard on his throat. Not enough air. “I’ll do what you say,” Beck choked out. “Take it off. Please.”
The Follower ignored him and wrapped a chain around Beck’s waist and fastened it with a padlock. The tingling of low blood oxygen began in Beck’s fingertips and toes and moved up to his lips. Stars sparked in his peripheral vision. The fucker was suffocating him. Beck opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. I’m going to die. Right here. Next the Follower undid the bindings on Beck’s wrists and handcuffed them to the chain.
The man cut the tape with a scalpel. “Sit up.”
Beck struggled upright; his vision grayed out. The floor came up to meet him. A hard hand grabbed him around the biceps, arresting his fall.
Roughly, the Follower hoisted Beck in a fireman’s carry, transported him through the RV, out the door, and into thick shadows.
Alive meant a chance at survival. Beck began to take notes. He caught the lap of water. A lake? As he was trundled through an overgrown yard crowded with mature trees, an old-fashioned hand pump appeared, poking through the weed-infested grass, along with a chopping block with dark stains.
The house—if you could call it that—was a wood-sided box the size of a two-car garage. The porch had begun divorce proceedings from the building; the roof canted dangerously on one side; the shingles lay more in the yard than on the dwelling.
The Follower hurried them inside.
It was shadowy and cool. Wearing only briefs and a coat of sweat, Beck shivered. The Follower unceremoniously dumped him onto the couch, tugging on the sheath. Beck yelped before clamping down on the discomfort. There were more important issues. “I need water.”
The Follower stared, eyes dark and assessing behind the lenses, full lips pursed. Did he see how close Beck was to passing out? Surely the psychopath wanted an alert victim—one who would feel pain and react.
“Please. I’m thirsty. Gonna faint.”
“A swoon? How manly.” Rolling his eyes, the man left him.
Beck took stock of his surroundings.
The place smelled of dust and disuse. Sheet-covered furniture sat in front of a stone fireplace; behind him a simple wooden table and chairs were situated next to an antiquated kitchen that ran along the back wall. The Follower stood there. Three doors opened off the main room. Beck pegged the middle one as a bathroom and the others as bedrooms.
The windows were small and barred. The back exit was a Dutch door with a knob on the lower portion; the upper section appeared locked with a hasp and padlock. Okay, the only viable exit was the front door.
The faucet coughed and sputtered, and then water splashed. Half a minute later the Follower returned with a plastic cup. The brown eyes were every bit as cold as the blue. “You want this?”
“Yes.” Water. Beck licked his chapped lips and rocked vertical.
“Remember, I can make you a eunuch.”
Just give it to me. Nodding, Beck wiggled his fingers. The Follower handed over the cup. Greedily Beck chugged the cool, mineral-tainted water. It was gone too soon; the few ounces ignited a terrible thirst. “More.”
One winged brow rose. “You’ll get sick.”
“No.” Beck shook his head. “No, I won’t. I swear.”
For an eternity the Follower studied him, looked him over from head to toe. Beck felt his state of undress acutely and centered his hands in his lap. Be thankful he left the briefs.
Finally the Follower went to refill the cup.
Gratefully, Beck gulped the cool liquid, let it flow over his parched throat.
Taking the cup, the Follower said, “Stand up.”
“Not sure I can.”
“Don’t make me Taser you, Beck.” He said it as pleasantly as have a good day.
Beck managed to get to his feet. He swayed, caught his balance.
“Walk to the middle door.”
Now the fucker wanted him to pee? With the Follower directly behind him, Beck shuffled through the dust layering the floorboards until he was yanked to a stop. Watching him, the Follower gripped the knob and pulled. The door swung toward them. Dank air rolled out. Steps descended into darkness.
Shit. Fresh sweat slicked Beck’s skin, and he took a step back. If he was tethered in the cellar, he’d never escape. His belly churned.
“Walk.”
The PTSD would kick in with a vengeance. He’d lose his mind. Heart and lungs working double time, he gasped.
The Follower pushed the Taser against his back. “Walk.”
Instinctively, Beck dropped to a squat, igniting pain in his groin. “Can’t.”
“You can. And you will. I know how strong you are, Detective. How brave. How much you can take before I hold your heart in my hand at the end. You’ll last longer than any of them.”
Beck turned his head and vomited.
* * * *
“We’re working on locating the summer property,” Sands said. The director had gone above and beyond, rousing government officials, calling in favors, and generally pitching in. “Have they located Black?”
“Not so far.” Which didn’t bode well for Black. Zach pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was brewing behind his eyes.
“Here’s some additional intel. Khepri attended medical school but withdrew after the first month.”
To work so hard for a precious slot and then quit… Something must have happened. “Was there an incident that triggered the decision?”
“Hard to know. The official story is he decided he wasn’t cut out to be a doctor.”
“And the unofficial story?”
“In gross anatomy he cut off his cadaver’s right pinkie finger.”
A chill settled over Zach. God knows what Khepri might be doing to Beck. “Sounds”— hideous—“consistent.”
Sands continued. “After Khepri dropped out, his mother took a position in Colorado. He followed.”
“We’ll track her down.”
“A couple of other items. There’s a major insurance policy on a group of carved Egyptian scarabs. Apparently they’re worth a bundle. A collection of antique surgical instruments from Russia is also insured for a mint. Mrs. Vabalas’s name is on the policies, and the premiums are up to date.”
Shit. Who knew what kind of torturous tools were among those instruments? “We’re still looking for a current residence for Khepri. It looks like he flies under the radar.”
Sands grunted. “DH hasn’t responded to the warrant for Khepri’s personnel file and bank account?”
“Not yet.”
“Follow the money. Bank account and credit cards,” Sands said.
“He’s too smart to use credit cards.”
“Unless he’s got coffee cans of cash buried in the backyard, he still needs money. Check his ATM withdrawals.”
“Will do. Thank you, sir.”
“Find this bastard.”
They disconnected. Richfield stuck his head in the room. “There’s a man here to see you, Zach. Saw the newscast.”
Zach said, “While I talk to him, shake Denver Health on that warrant and look at Khepri’s ATM withdrawals.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Zach found the man seated beside Beck’s desk, holding a cup of coffee. He was slender with black hair flowing loose over his shoulders. His eyes were dark and watchful.
Zach introduced himself, and the man said softly, “I’m Didier Fox.”
After they shook, Zach took the desk chair. “You saw the broadcast, Mr. Fox?”
“Didier, please. Yes. I saw…the newscast about the kidnapping. And the photo. Brian Khepri is my, uh…my roommate.” A tinge of pink colored his cheeks.
Zach straightened. Holy hell. This could be huge. “Are you comfortable giving me your address, Didier?”
Fox rattled off a location within a mile of Perny’s place. “Brian would be very mad if he knew I was talking to you.”
“He’s not well, and I think it’s great you want to help him.” Zach wasn’t convinced Khepri was legally incompetent, but Fox didn’t need to know that. All that mattered was getting Beck back alive and in one piece. “Do you know where Mr. Khepri is?”
“He’s supposed to work today at Supermax.”
They’d already confirmed neither Khepri nor Black was there. “He didn’t show.”
“Oh. Um, he could’ve traded to work at Denver Health.” Fox picked at his thumbnail.
“He has two jobs?”
“Not exactly. He works for Denver Health, and DH contracts with the prisons to provide lab services. Sometimes Brian works at the prison. Sometimes he works at the DH hospital.”
Jesus. Khepri could access private information through the Denver Health system: names, addresses, phone numbers. Zach and Beck had both gotten care there.
Fox continued. “Brian’s one of the people who works the Supermax rotation.”
Zach sat forward. “Does Brian do labs on a man named Darling?”
