by Whitley Gray
Fox looked down. “That’d violate HIPAA.”
“It’s critical, Didier.” Zach used his persuasive voice. “No one will know. I swear.”
The dark eyes searched Zach’s face. “He does blood sugars on Mr. Darling.”
There it was. The crucial Darling-to-the-Follower link. Now to find Beck. “Where would Brian go to be alone?”
Didier smiled, which made him seem almost pretty. “Like a retreat?”
Like if he abducted someone. “Where would he hide if he didn’t want anyone to find him?” There was a fifty-fifty chance Fox might know. So far Khepri had been secretive to the point of paranoia.
Fox sighed. “He has—had—this sort of grandma in Iowa, and she left him her house a few years ago. Candle Bluffs, or something like that.”
“Council Bluffs?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Fox nodded solemnly.
That was hundreds of miles away. Khepri wouldn’t risk driving that far. “Anything closer? Would he go to his mother’s house?”
“Dr. Quarto?” Fox snorted. “No.”
“What about Mr. Khepri’s dad?”
“He abandoned Brian when he was a little kid.” Fox’s expression turned contemptuous. “No idea where he is. Even if Brian knew, I don’t think he’d go there.”
“Does Brian have an RV?”
“Yes. It used to be plain white, but he painted a black swirl design on the sides, the sort you see on newer RVs.”
The sort that would help it blend in and become harder to find. “How did he do the painting?”
“Black spray paint. He’s a really good artist.”
Gold carpet fibers with traces of black spray paint. Bingo. “Where does he store it?”
Fox shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Anywhere else he’d go to hide?”
Fox ran his thumb across his lower lip. “There’s a lake house. Like a summer home? Brian says it’s ramshackle, not fit to live in. He called it a fishing cabin.”
Zach’s gut said they were close. The Follower either had Beck in the RV or the cabin. “Have you been to this place?”
“No. Sorry.”
Zach’s heart sank. “It’s okay. This is all very helpful. Does Brian have an address book at home? Something that might have the location of the house?”
“No.” Fox sounded dejected. “I don’t think so. He’s pretty private.”
“I’d like to send a team over to search your apartment, Didier. Is that okay?”
“I s’pose. I have to be at work at noon, though.”
“Where do you work?”
“The morgue. That’s where Brian and I met.”
* * * *
There has to be a way out.
Beck lay on an old iron bedstead, hands and feet held at the respective corners with duct tape. A lone bulb at the top of the stairs threw feeble light. The cellar had one window: fogged with dirt, small, and set high in the wall—too small for a man to wriggle through. The stone walls filled the air with the smell of wet rock and freshly turned earth. A tomb.
The initial optimism at tape restraints instead of leather ones had dissipated quickly. He’d fought with the bindings, but all that had happened was he’d worn himself out and tortured his damaged left shoulder.
At least there hadn’t been further bloodletting.
The temperature below ground level was like a refrigerator; having worked up a sweat during the duct tape struggle, Beck was cold.
The tray of surgical instruments on a nearby table had the cold sinking into his marrow.
The psycho had made several trips so far: a crate of bottles—one containing Beck’s blood and four spares—a rolled-up cloth, a cardboard box. Water ran upstairs and then gurgled down the drain, seeking new ways through old pipes. Footsteps, getting closer…
The door creaked. Footfalls descended the wooden steps; the Follower appeared and glided to the table. With a flourish he opened the cloth roll. Bone handles and glinting blades contrasted with the material like something out of the Dark Ages. Beck swallowed.
The Follower stalked around the bed, his gaze boldly exploring Beck’s anatomy. “Do you know what flensing is, Beck?”
Yes. “No.”
“Removing skin.” He selected a tool, held it up, turned it side to side. “Peeling hide.” He rested the tip of the U-shaped knife on the scar traversing Beck’s chest. “For example, I could remove this.”
Fuck. Beck struggled not to flinch. The tissue was still sensitive. He’d worked hard in physical therapy to regain full range of motion in that arm—
Another jab, this one deeper, a spike of agony. Curling his fists, Beck closed his eyes and bit his lip. One, two, three, four… The instrument was withdrawn. Beck exhaled.
“But I think I prefer…this.” A scalpel—a more pointed one. It gleamed in the low light.
Beck tried to tuck in his shoulder, but there was no protecting himself. For a second, the blade hovered over the scar, teasing like a wicked woodpecker. And then the Follower pushed it home.
Cold, hard steel. Except it wasn’t cold—it was searing with a thermonuclear heat. Beck sucked in a breath. Fuck. Fresh sweat bloomed on his skin, and his heart beat a rapid tattoo.
Gaze fastened on his work, the Follower slid the blade deeper. Against Beck’s will, hot tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. I will not scream. I will not—
“Not going to cry out this time? I must not be doing something right.” The Follower sounded like a concerned lover. The blade hit Beck’s collarbone. Again. Again. Again.
Stabbing. Agonizing. Intolerable. Beck screamed.
“There’s my Beck. So strong.” The Follower withdrew the scalpel. “So brave.”
Panting, Beck risked a glance at the fiery area. A section of scar was gone. Blood ran into his armpit, pooled at his clavicle, hot and coppery.
“Time for pictures.”
After a few snaps, the Follower slapped a piece of duct tape over Beck’s mouth and disappeared up the stairs. The lock made a distinctive ka-chunk as it turned. Footsteps crossed upstairs; the front door opened, closed.
Why had he left? Last time he’d sent the pictures from the bedside. And then it clicked: no cell service. The Follower had to go elsewhere to send the images. Beck had some time—perhaps not much, but maybe enough.
Think.
Duct tape wasn’t insurmountable—with a cutting tool. Beck explored the bedposts with his fingers. Nothing loose. The tools were too far away. Beck twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the tape. Cocked back, his right wrist scraped on something.
A bed-frame screw. Positioning his wrist, he sawed the tape until his muscles wouldn’t respond. Trembling, he rested, drinking in the cool air. Between the loss of blood, lack of water, and lacerated shoulder, his endurance was crap. That scenario was likely to continue, so he’d have to rely on adrenaline.
Zach would be mining every possible source for information. Beck had been an idiot, giving him so much crap about the RV. Would Zach trust his intuition and find it, or decide Beck was right and discard the idea?
Whatever the plan, Beck was sure Zach would pull out all the stops to find him.
* * * *
Bzzz…
Picture message. Zach’s blood turned to ice. How bad would it be this time? He opened the image, and his stomach rolled.
Beck, spread-eagled and duct-taped to an iron bed. His left shoulder, chest, and neck were covered in blood; there was a pool of it in the space between clavicle and trapezius. Beck’s fists were clenched, and his eyes had the blown-pupil look of agony.
Zach swallowed. Christ, Beck, I’m so sorry.
Bzzz…
Text message from unknown number.
He’s lovely, don’t you think?
“You fucking psycho.” Zach wanted to throw the phone.
Bzzz…
Another picture. This time a close-up of a scalpel buried in Beck’s surgically reconstructed shoulder, Beck’s head thrown back and hi
s mouth wide open. Screaming. He’s screaming in pain.
Zach’s gut threatened to return his breakfast sandwich and coffee. Khepri was crazy—maybe not in the clinical or legal sense, but certainly in the lack-of-humanity psychopath sense. Zach texted:
We know who you are. Turn yourself in, Brian Vabalas Khepri.
For a full minute there was silence. Then,
“Lack of conscience is like a birth defect: something missing that can never be replaced. Without it, the human mind operates unchecked by guilt.
A conscience is psychological handcuffs. Unfettered, the sociopath can do as he pleases. And he will never stop.”
Zach stared at the phone. Holy fuck. The lines were from a paper he’d written called “Sociopathy and Legal Determination of Sanity.”
He’d planned to put those phrases at the beginning of the book he never seemed to get around to writing.
Bzzz…
You know I’ll never turn myself in. Unfettered, I’m doing as I please, and I’m okay with it. Can you stop me, Dr. Littman, before Becky-boy bites the big one?
* * * *
A woman wearing a pink-flowered shirt and jeans answered the door. A tall, thin blonde, Quarto resembled her driver’s-license picture.
“Dr. Quarto?” Van showed his badge. “Detective Gates, Denver PD. This is Special Agent Littman from the FBI. We’d like to ask you some questions about Brian.”
Her brown eyes raked over them and apparently found them lacking. “What does the FBI want with my son?”
“We’d like to talk to him, ma’am.” Zach tried a smile. It wasn’t his best effort, but with so much on the line…
“May we come in?” Van asked.
“No.” She started to close the door.
No fucking way. She wasn’t getting off that easy. Zach stopped the door. “It’d be easier to talk here, but we can—and will—go downtown.”
Quarto paused and then sighed. “Very well.”
The entry opened into a living room with pale floors and spartan furnishings. A white baby grand piano was the centerpiece. Dr. Quarto perched on the edge of an ivory sofa while Zach and Van took chairs.
“Do you know where your son is, Doctor?” Van asked.
“I assume he’s in Denver.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “He doesn’t reside with me.”
Reside? Not live? Zach pulled out a notepad and pen. “Never?”
Dr. Quarto hesitated. “Not for over ten years. He doesn’t have a room here.”
Van jumped in. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“We had our usual lunch yesterday. Friday. He seemed…fine.”
“Did you talk about anything in particular?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Such as?”
Such as his penchant for serial murder. Zach had had enough. “Have you seen the news today?”
“No.” Crisp and authoritative.
Zach leaned forward. “There’s a manhunt for your son. He’s wanted in connection with a string of murders. At two o’clock this morning, he abducted a police detective. We need to find Brian before…” Zach’s throat closed up.
“Before he kills someone else,” Van said.
The color drained from her face. “He did that? You’re sure?”
“Yes.” And more. “Where can we find him?”
“I-I don’t know.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket. “He has a cell phone.”
Zach knew that all too well. “I doubt he’ll tell us where he is. Where would he go to hide?”
“I don’t know.” She twisted the tissue. Tiny shreds came off in her lap.
“He has an RV?”
“Yes. It’s very old.”
“Where does he keep it?” Van asked.
“I don’t know.” Irritation filled her voice. “We live very separate lives.”
“Yet you meet for lunch regularly.” As far as Zach was concerned, that meant a relationship—healthy or not. “You know something about his life. Why did he change his name?”
She looked away. “He…he didn’t like it.”
“Why?”
She shook her head.
No more Mr. Nice FBI Agent. Zach put some volume into the word. “Why?”
“Because he wanted to be a Vabalas.” Both fists were white-knuckled in her lap. “He loved my ex-mother-in-law, Olga Vabalas.”
“But he didn’t take Vabalas as a surname, did he? He chose Khepri. Why?”
She pressed her lips together.
“A detective’s life is at stake, Dr. Quarto. If you don’t help us and he dies, you’ll be an accessory to murder.”
Her shoulders slumped. “In ancient Egypt, Khepri was the scarab, the god of the rising sun—another form of Ra. Legend has it that Khepri made himself out of nothing with the help of a dung beetle—a scarab. ‘Vabalas’ means ‘beetle’ in Lithuanian. Olga collected scarabs. She left her collection to Brian.” She looked away. “He’s obsessed with beetles and scarabs. He has…issues.”
That was putting it mildly. “Any other obsessions or rituals?”
“The Aztecs. Their…sacrificial ceremonies. Blood and…beating hearts. Five tries to create the world.”
Five tries—Darling had said that. Five victims? Mixing Egyptian and Aztec lore, Brian had fashioned a bloody ritual that ended in death. They needed to find Beck before time ran out. “Where is the lake house?”
“I know how these things work. You’ll shoot him. I’m not going to help you kill my son.”
“You mean you’re not going to help us save the detective.”
Her expression was defiant.
Try empathy. Zach sighed. “Look. Your son is ill. He needs treatment. We need to find him to get him the help he needs. The detective has people who depend on him, including two little boys.”
“Promise you won’t hurt my son.”
Zach didn’t bat an eye. “I swear.”
“I will give you the address.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The tape on Beck’s right hand gave. Not a ton, but enough to be encouraging. More sawing with the screw, twist, tug…
Beck’s hand came loose, and he nearly punched himself in the jaw. He ripped the tape from his mouth and wiped the sweat from his face. The instruments were maybe eighteen inches away.
He scooted as far right as the tape would allow, reaching for the tray. He strained for it, putting traction on his left shoulder until it felt like it would dislocate. Stars danced in front of his eyes.
Hurry up.
Repositioning on the bed, he tried again, got two fingers on the edge, and pulled. The tray flipped off the stand, scattering instruments. “Fuck.” Beck squeezed his eyes shut. “Give me a fucking break.”
Peering over the side of the bed, he could make out some of what had crashed onto the floor. There were a bunch of blades. Focusing on a single scalpel, he teased it closer with a clamp. Closer… Yes! Fingers trembling, Beck lifted the knife.
Careful here…
With an unsteady hand, he cut through the tape binding his left wrist and sat up. The IV line in his groin throbbed. The room spun, darkened. He bit his thumb—hard—and things came into perspective. He cut loose each ankle and swung his legs over the side of the bed. One of the instruments might work on the door lock. Otherwise he’d have to wait until the psycho got back.
Swaying on his feet, he took a tottering tour of the basement, which yielded a shelf of ancient canning jars, each holding something old and brown. Not peaches or pickles, for sure. A stack of firewood lay on the floor next to the shelf; he took a chunk. Beck opened the Follower’s cardboard box, labeled Brian.
Inside were little wrapped objects. Beck opened one. Huh. A stone scarab. The next one was also a carved beetle. And again. The whole box was full of carved beetles. Why haul these around?
Beck inspected the antique tools, selected a wicked-looking knife, and a narrow, flat instrument to try on the lock. Carrying the log and tools, he made his way up the stairs. Picking
the lock required persistence, but finally the tumblers released. Beck took a peek and stepped into the living room.
A quick check confirmed the front door was locked. The shiny new dead bolt required a key for both sides. Okay, ambush it is. He’d wait behind the front door.
But first a drink. In the kitchen he found the cup, filled it with water, and gulped it down. And another. He took a brief look through the cabinet drawers. No weapons, only plasticware and dust. The firewood and knife would have to do.
An engine sounded outside, growing louder. Beck stationed himself behind the door.
* * * *
“Can’t you fly faster?” In Zach’s opinion, it was taking far too long.
“Not if you want to arrive alive,” the helicopter pilot yelled back. “Got some wind shear and steep rock faces up here.”
“How much farther?”
“Ten miles.”
* * * *
Footsteps came up the porch. The key scraped in the lock, tumblers fell, and the knob turned.
Get ready…
The Follower came through the door; Beck slammed him over the head with the firewood. The man went down like a sack of potatoes. He lay motionless.
For the count of ten, Beck watched him. Nothing moved.
Good. Cautiously Beck retrieved his knife and then knelt over the Follower, searching for the Taser.
Pain exploded in Beck’s nose as the Follower smashed his head into Beck’s face. Beck went sprawling onto his back. The knife flew out of his hand, cartwheeling across the floor.
Eyes fever-bright, blood running down the side of his head, the psycho rolled to his knees and staggered to his feet. “Going somewhere, Beck?”
Beck scrabbled backward, grabbed the couch, and pulled himself up. Where was the knife? Beck tried to keep an eye on the other man while searching for the knife. He spied it by the door. They both dived for it.
Beck got there first, clutching the handle. The psycho landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of Beck. His lungs burned; he couldn’t breathe. The pressure on his chest wouldn’t allow air in. Beck whipped his head back into the man’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch, and the other man howled and rolled away. The front door stood open, but no way would Beck win a footrace. Gripping the knife, Beck flipped on his back and scrambled to his feet.
