A Revelation of Death

by Alexa Padgett

  He stepped back and to the side, pressing himself to the side of the door, Raynor doing the same thing on the other side.

  Sam pulled out his comms unit and said, “On three. One, two, three.”

  Raynor kept his point position while the two of them stepped forward. The front and back doors flew open, flashlights out, shining, as the group moved through the rooms, weapons drawn.

  Sam and Raynor brought up the rear. Sam steadied his weapon over his opposite forearm, flashlight on and shining outward. No one moved.

  After some heart-pumping moments, the team slowly lowered their firearms and got to the more serious work of searching the space.

  Once the residence and perimeter were secured, the forensic team came in and began their sweep.

  In the sparse living room, with a sagging gray couch and an old Pepsi packing crate for a table, the team bagged two laptops—one a PC and one a Mac, which would, no doubt, explain the multiple online Avatars. Surveillance equipment sat next to the computers.

  “Can you pull up the most recent video?” Sam asked.

  A tech came forward and plugged in one of his devices to his heavy-duty laptop that Sam had only seen used by the Feds.

  “You from the FBI facility in Denver?” he asked the tech.

  He nodded. “I was in Bernalillo, consulting on another case. Bresdeen pulled me over to this one.” He clicked through a series of commands on a gray page Sam was unfamiliar with.

  “I’m in safe mode,” he said. “With this computer, here, it’ll let me read his entire desktop.”

  After a few more keystrokes, a choppy video popped up. Thin, tan carpet was visible. Sam tensed because he knew the shade and pile of that carpet. He walked on it most days. It was in Cici’s office.

  Then Cici’s face filled the screen. She reached out with a careful hand, mouthing words about ‘good cat’ as she reached toward the camera. A fit of deep-seated anger boiled in Sam’s guts. His eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth thinned. Oh, he was going to nail this SOB.

  “Bingo,” Sam said. “He used the camera to keep tabs on potential victims.”

  Raynor shook his head. “I figured you were being paranoid,” he muttered.

  Sam ignored him. “That’s probably part of how he knew Patti and Jenny’s schedule. The cat liked women, not men. It gravitated toward the nearest woman.”

  “Jenny’s roommates didn’t mention a cat,” Raynor pointed out.

  “We didn’t ask them that question directly, either,” Sam replied. He narrowed his eyes. He’d considered it but hadn’t pushed, not—then—wanting to step on Raynor’s confidence. Lesson well-learned. Never again would he back off a line of questioning.

  “We have some photos in the bedroom, Detective…er, Agent,” one of the techs said to Sam from the hall that led toward the back of the house. Sam turned away from the computer screen, thankful Cici was with Evan right now. The guy might have Jeannette, but Cici was safe.

  There were a couple of photographs sitting on the bureau. As Sam stared at one, a prickle of unease slid over his skin, the back of his neck itching. He knew one of the men in the photo. Not only did he know him, but he’d also spoken to Evan about him earlier in the week. This was the man involved in the sale of illegal firearms. DIAS—the ones he’d told Cici about just before she’d asked to visit Cooper Urlich.

  He snapped a photo and sent Evan a text. Is that Shayne Rudder on the left?

  Sam moved down the hall to the single bathroom where a litter box sat in front of the toilet.

  Sam retraced his steps down the hall, passing a swarm of SWAT personnel and forensic technicians. This place would be cleaned out of anything that could possibly be used for evidence within a few hours.

  Evan called him as Sam headed toward the last room in the place, the kitchen.

  “What do you think, Ev?” Sam asked.

  “Definitely Shayne Rudder.”

  “Any idea who the guy is next to him?”

  “Yep. His brother, Clint.”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t know the name.”

  “Different mothers. Apparently, they met up months before Shayne got busted. He’s been living off of Shayne’s money.”

  “The money we weren’t able to seize as part of his illegal gun and ammo sales.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Where’s Cici?” Sam asked.

  “Sitting in my living room, staring at the TV. It’s off.” Evan lowered his voice. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Me, too,” Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for the information on Clint Rudder. I’m pretty sure that’s our guy.”

  And he was angry, no doubt, that Sam, as the arresting officer, had worked to keep his brother in prison. Sam studied the photo for a moment longer. The brothers had the same sloping jaw and broad, blunt-featured faces. The nagging sensation Sam felt since seeing the artist sketch finally made sense. He just never realized he was looking at a relative to Shayne Rudder.

  “Cici said he’s raped and killed multiple women.”

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing case. You understand.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Evan replied, tone dry. “I hope you catch him. Soon.”

  “Working on it. I’ll be back for Cee as soon as I can.”

  “Take your time. We’ll be up.”

  Sam stepped into the kitchen, Raynor his shadow. Sam’s annoyance waned as the older man followed Sam’s orders without question or complaint.

  Sam studied the room from the doorway. A small metal bowl sat on the floor, half under one of the cabinets. Sam guessed it had served as the cat’s water dish. A thin pool of water sat in the bottom of the dish, a film of white rimming the interior. So, the cat either hadn’t been here or hadn’t had water in a few days.

  Dirty dishes spilled out of the sink’s bowl and onto the countertop. Sam opened a cabinet. A single plate remained. He opened another, but it was empty. He moved around the space, trying to get a feel for how the guy lived.

  A faint thump-thump-thump came from his left. He tilted his head. There it was again. Thump-thump. He gestured to Raynor and pulled out his pistol. After a deep breath, he shoved open the door.

  He stood in the pantry. It was about a quarter of the size of the kitchen. Barely wide enough for both men to stand in, shoulder to shoulder. Not that he let Raynor step inside. He kept his arm out, blocking the room.

  The pounding noise grew louder. He lifted his free arm, keeping his sidearm pointed at the floor, and pulled the light switch.

  “What the hell is that?” Raynor asked.

  There. On his left, the lowest level of shelves vibrated. Sam knelt in front of it, using his fingertips to feel for a seam.

  “Can you get me a screwdriver or crowbar? Something I can use to pry up these boards?” Sam asked.

  Raynor backed out of the pantry without another question. He returned a few minutes later with a couple of dirty knives. “Will these work?”

  “Guess they’ll have to,” Sam said. He shoved the rounded tips under the floorboard. It popped off with ease. The thumping turned more insistent. Sam popped off two more boards before a bare, bleeding heel nearly connected with his forearm. He dropped back, but before he asked, Raynor shone his flashlight into the hole.

  A small, white face with large dark eyes stared back, the cheeks bisected with a thick black bandana. Her wrists were bound behind her, her shoulders scratched, no doubt from wriggling around in the tiny crawl space. Her dark hair slid over a bare shoulder, the ends purple.

  “Marietta,” Sam said.

  53

  Sam

  I talk to God but the sky is empty. ― Sylvia Plath

  * * *

  “Marietta, my name is Sam Chastain. I’m...” How best to describe himself to a traumatized teen? “I’m a police officer.” Her eyes remained wide, full of shadows and pain.

  He turned to Raynor. “Get me a blanket to cover her and call an ambulance.”

  “
On it,” Raynor said. He turned away and some of the tension in Marietta’s body eased. “I’m also a friend of Reverend Cici’s. I’m going to get you out of there,” Sam said as he squatted, attempting to get closer to her position. She squinted up at him through her tears.

  “I’m getting something to cover you with and then I’m going to pull you out.”

  On cue, Raynor trotted back through the kitchen with one of the blankets they kept in the trunk of their rigs. Sam flapped it open and then let it drape over Marietta. She sighed and the rigid lines in her neck eased a bit more.

  “Okay, I’m coming down. I want to cut those binding from your wrists.”

  She nodded a vigorous yes.

  “And then I’ll take the bandana from your mouth.”

  A deep pleading sound came from her chest.

  Sam lowered his left foot into the narrow opening, then his right. He pulled out a switchblade—not standard issue, but useful and one he didn’t like to travel without—from one of the many pockets in his pants. He sliced the nylon rope around her wrists and Marietta arched her neck, sighing with relief. She held the blanket in place with her elbows and wiggled her pale, puffy fingers. Sam bagged the rope and then offered to slice the bandana. She refused, wanting to untie it herself. She calmed significantly as she worked the knot. Sam waited, his impatience to move along touched by the girl’s need to prove she could take some control of her situation. Sam knew control became very important to sexual assault victims.

  Her clumsy fingers grew more nimble as the blood pumped to them. She pried off the cloth and said in a soft, high voice, not unlike a child’s, “Thank you for finding me.”

  “Does anything hurt?”

  She nodded, her body tensing.

  “Do you want me to wait for the paramedics? I don’t want to damage your spine or—”

  “Get me out of here,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Sam slid his arms under her slight frame, careful to keep them by her shoulders and under her knees. She bit her lip hard but didn’t make another noise. Raynor gripped Sam’s elbow on one side. The room was too small for anyone else to enter, so Raynor pulled back while Sam used his legs. They managed to exit the space and Sam even stayed on his feet, much to his surprise.

  Raynor stood and dusted his rear end. Then he said to Marietta, in a soft, kind voice—one Sam would bet he’d used with his own daughters many years ago—“I’d like to adjust your blanket. Okay?”

  Marietta laid her head against Sam’s shoulder but she nodded. Raynor fussed a bit and Sam started to get antsy. He needed information about the house, what the team discovered.

  Still, he didn’t want to leave the girl. Finding Marietta alive was nothing short of a miracle.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she whispered.

  “What?” Sam bent down.

  “I woke up in that hole. I heard…I heard footsteps and yelling. Something about getting to his women. That would show him.”

  Sam tensed and Marietta clutched at him. “Do you know what he meant?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Sam replied. A gurney and two EMTs strode toward the door to the kitchen. “I’m going to set you on the gurney now.”

  Her fingers tightened in his shirt, a convulsion of fear. “My parents are going to be so mad at me,” she said, her face crumpling. “Th-they kept telling me not to talk to people on Dissonance and social media. I never thought…”

  She sniffled, wiping at her wet cheeks.

  “He…he came up behind me when I was going back into my sister’s apartment. He was so big, and I…”

  Her sobs began to wrack her narrow frame. Sam settled her on the gurney but continued to hold her pale hand. He searched for something to say—something that would be somewhat true and not a platitude. How Cici managed to walk this linguistic line each day amazed him. He’d never heard her tell her congregants that something would be easy or lessen the pain of their experience.

  “He…he shoved pills in my mouth, told me he wouldn’t hurt me if I’d take them.” Marietta’s words were choppy, hard to understand as her sobbing increased.

  “Shock,” one of the paramedics said.

  “Did you wake up anywhere else? Before?” Sam asked.

  She shook her head. “I think…” She blushed from the roots of her hair down the column of her throat. “He…he hurt me, but I don’t remember.”

  With that pronouncement, Marietta curled into a ball, letting go of Sam’s hand. He stepped back, working his jaw to keep from yelling. Rage boiled up inside him. Rage and a need to hurt the man as he’d hurt Marietta. As the perp wanted to hurt Jeannette. And Cici…

  Find the women. Get even.

  He pulled up the picture of the sketch Cici had helped the artist create that he’d snapped with his phone.

  “Is this the guy?”

  Marietta’s chin trembled as she said, “Yes.”

  “Raynor? Go with Marietta to the hospital, will you? She’s going to need someone with her. Get her full statement,” Sam said.

  Raynor nodded, his eyes filled with compassion and concern. Good. He’d make sure the process was as streamlined for her as possible. Marietta needed an ally through this.

  Sam turned on his heel planning to talk to the tactical team, but his phone rang. Evan’s voice rose higher than Sam ever heard it.

  “She’s gone.”

  54

  Sam

  I never wanted but your heart—that gone, you have nothing more to give. ― Mary Wollstonecraft

  * * *

  “She was in the backyard with the dogs. They started growling and getting really aggressive. I’ve never heard them—”

  Sam’s vocal cords quivered with the need to deny. “Evan! Focus. Cici.”

  “She vanished, man.” His voice cracked. “I pulled some black fabric from Rodolfo’s mouth. It’s bloody.”

  Sam’s gaze flitted around the room, resting on nothing. Urgency spurred him outside, away from an active crime scene. He’d leave it, drop it all to make sure Cici wasn’t hurt again.

  Shit. She still wore a boot from her last epic misadventure. But this man…Sam’s heart rate escalated to the point Sam became lightheaded. Marietta’s nude, dirty, nearly broken body flashed across his mind.

  Cici had been wearing the earrings he gave her. She rarely took them out. As long as the killer didn’t remove her jewelry, Sam could track her.

  Sam’s phone beeped with an incoming call. Bresdeen.

  “My boss’s calling.” Sam put Evan on hold, ignoring his comments about trying to get to Cici, and took the call.

  “What did you find?” Bresdeen asked.

  “At the house? The girl, Marietta. Alive. Look, the guy’s abducted Cici. This is personal. That’s why he took Jeannette—”

  “I’ll get another tracker started on Cecilia’s phone,” Bresdeen cut in. “Does she have a smartwatch?”

  “No, but I bought her earrings. They have trackers in them.”

  “Talk to the tech,” Bresdeen demanded. “He’s good.”

  Sam strode to the tech and explained the situation in minimal words. The guy’s fingers flew across his keyboard, his eyes bouncing across the screen as he inputted the information Sam gave him. Bresdeen remained on the line.

  “Got him,” the tech said after too many breaths, too much worry over Cici’s safety.“Heading north on 285, a click or so past Tesuque now.”

  “He’s still driving?” Sam asked, some of his fear abating. Some, not enough. But he had to remain clear-headed. He had to focus on what he could control if he was going to help Cici.

  Tesuque was twenty minutes north of Sam’s current location, but he planned to blaze his lights and bust every speed record. And it was after dark in Santa Fe—the city shut down by eleven. He could make it there in under eight minutes.

  “It’s Shayne Rudder’s brother,” Sam said to Bresdeen. He should have led with that, but his concern for Cici blew apart his normal thought process. “He’s
the guy.”

  “Who is Shayne Rudder and what’s the brother’s involvement?”

  Sam slammed into the seat of the police unit he’d driven to Clint Rudder’s house and buckled in as he backed out of the driveway, careful to maneuver around the growing crowd of shocked homeowners.

  “I was the arresting officer on Shayne’s case. DIAS sales. We have a positive ID from Shayne’s defense attorney. He met the brother—Clint, my suspect in this case, the one holding Cee and Jeannette—when he came into Evan’s office to handle the transfer of assets from Shayne to Clint.”

  “I’ll need more information, but this is a start,” Bresdeen said. He blew out a breath. “Take backup. I’ll see about air support. I want my…I want both women brought home now.”

  “In the car, on my way.”

  Sam hung up the phone, turned on his siren and floored the gas.

  55

  Cici

  The greatest evil perpetrated is the evil committed by nobodies, that is, by human beings who refuse to be persons. ― Hannah Arendt

  * * *

  She was done with being hauled around and forced into dangerous, often deadly situations. At least the man never drugged her—he hadn’t had time because Evan strode out the back door, already charging down the steps as the guy shoved her into the trunk. How he managed to get the rope around her wrists in that time befuddled Cici.

  She tested the material and realized it wasn’t rope. It was a kind of plastic—a zip tie.

  “This is over the line, Aci,” Cici muttered. She stared up at the rough lining of the trunk where the man shoved her. She tried to maneuver her bound arms into a more comfortable situation. No such luck. Her fingers tingled as blood stopped circulating well.

  “I was minding my own business—with my dogs.”

  Her poor babies. The guy hit Rodolfo hard. He better be okay. He had to be—the poor dog kept trying to protect her.