by Kylie Brant
His sudden bout of truculence was like a minefield that required careful maneuvering. “I certainly realize I’m not in your league. Which makes me all the more anxious to correct the profile and get it out to the public as soon as possible.”
“I’m done talking.” Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress he rose to approach her, his intent clear.
A cold river of dread flooded through her. It was difficult to summon thought when her mind froze. Reason shut down. He reached down to yank her to her feet by her hair. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, wildly searching for logic. “I misunderstood. I thought you wanted to get the profile on the early news. Doesn’t that air at six AM?”
“Plenty of time to give you a taste of what you got coming.” He wrapped her hair around his fist painfully, pulling her head back.
“You’re right, of course. Maybe they can air it this evening instead.”
He stilled. “People need to hear the truth about me as soon as possible. It’ll go on at six.”
His fingers twisted in her in hair had tears of pain springing to her eyes. “I’ll need a few hours to write it. And then…however you plan to get it to the anchor you have in mind, I’m sure she goes to work a couple hours early to have hair and makeup done.” Sophia had no idea of a TV anchor’s schedule, but her mind was scrambling. “Will that give you enough time?”
The vicious slap he delivered then would have knocked her to the ground if the hand in her hair hadn’t held her painfully upright. “Wouldn’t even need that new profile if you hadn’t fucked me over in public to begin with.” He was screaming at her now, in an abrupt escalation of frustrated fury. “Fucking lying cunt.” The man hurled her into the stone wall, and when she fell to the floor he strode over to kick her repeatedly.
Sophia curled up, trying to make herself as small as possible, every blow sending shockwaves of pain flashing through her system. Finally, the edge of his anger spent, he halted.
“You got two hours to get that written. Hear me?”
“Yes,” she croaked. She couldn’t manage more. Drawing a breath at all was torture through her bruised and battered ribs.
The creak of the gate sounded. Then it slammed shut. She heard the key in the lock. The light receded as his moved away.
Shallow breaths helped. Cautiously, Sophia pushed herself to a sitting position, whimpering when her movements had pain stabbing through her. She’d bought herself some time, but it had come with a cost.
Not as high a price, though, as if he’d stayed.
Two hours. Because standing was beyond her at this point, she adjusted the comforter around her as well as she could manage and scooted toward the pen she’d dropped. She reached for the sack and wrapper, hissing in a breath at the resulting agony. Shifting position an inch at a time she reached it, and then wondered how she was going to write. The walls were out of the question; a pen wasn’t going to function for long on an upright surface. She’d thought to stretch out on her stomach, but doubted now she’d be able to manage…
His voice sounded from somewhere in the recesses of the structure. The blood in her veins congealed. Turned frigid.
“…not…to see me? You’re…learner. …another lesson.”
Sophia turned her head wildly, frantically searching for evidence of his return. Why was he back? Two hours he’d said. He hadn’t even left the…
He hadn’t left the building. Comprehension washed through her. There was no approaching beam of light splitting the darkness outside her cell. No sound of footsteps. But still her mind refused to grasp the only possible meaning.
Then an inhuman scream echoed through the building. It was quickly muffled, but the suffering in the sounds bombarding her brought chills to Sophia’s skin. Tears of sympathy sprang to her eyes. The noise continued, as did the unmistakable auditory of assault. “Stop it!” The visceral demand was ripped from somewhere deep inside her. Unplanned and primitive. “Stop it! Leave her alone!”
Because there was someone else held in the building with her. Another woman being attacked at this moment, who was on the receiving end of all the frustration and violence the offender had felt toward Sophia.
In all likelihood Courtney Van Wheton was being raped and beaten in Sophia’s stead.
Chapter 12
“Tell me why we’re here again?”
“I’m doing a favor for my neighbor.” Sophia wandered the walkway between the cages, stopping frequently to make cooing sounds of delight. “Livvie wants to surprise Carter with a puppy for his birthday, but he has his heart set on a beagle. She prefers a rescue dog so was going to check out the shelters today while he was at his dad’s. But plans changed and she has to pick Carter up…oh, aren’t you sweet?”
Doubtfully, Cam looked at the patchy haired feline she was referring to. It appeared as if it had been on the losing end of a feline brawl. Its tail was half gone and one ear was so scarred fur no longer grew there. “You must be talking to me.”
Ignoring the signs warning her against doing just that, Sophie stuck her fingers in the cage to stroke the tom’s side. It responded with a purr that rivaled the sound of a small jet taking off. “In your dreams.”
“You’d be surprised. My dreams are extremely vivid and you’re pleasantly attentive in all of them.” Enjoying the flush his words brought to her cheeks, he grinned.
At least they moved on to the next cage. Where they stopped again. “An active fantasy life isn’t unhealthy,” she murmured, making kissy noises to the ball of lint curled up inside the kennel, yawning hugely. “Until it borders on psychosis. Then strong medication is recommended.”
“Not the recommendation I was looking for.” Cam looked around at the size of the shelter and estimated at their current rate of progress they’d cover the place just inside six hours. “I didn’t realize you were such an animal lover.”
He was bemused by the shock in her expression. “Oh, I’m not. I mean, of course, I like them but I’ve never had a pet. Frankly, I wouldn’t know what to do with one.”
“You’ve never had a pet?” He managed to steer her past three cages before she stopped yet again. “Not even as a kid?” At her headshake, he went on, “Not even a bird or something?” After he and his mom had been on their own they’d been dirt poor, but he’d always had a dog. Usually some scruffy stray that would come by and forget to leave, but it was hard to imagine a childhood without one.
“My parents didn’t consider a pet a necessary part of raising a well-rounded child. And now I don’t know what I’d do when I have to leave for days at a time. Maybe I’ll get a cat someday. They can be left alone for a while, can’t they?”
“So I hear.” He tried to keep his personal bias from his tone. He didn’t have a dog for much the same reason, but he wouldn’t mind having one that required a lot of exercise so he could take it running. But so far he’d put off the responsibility.
They moved on to a cage that held a litter of kittens. One corner of his mouth quirked, both at their antics and Sophie’s response to them.
His cell phone vibrated. Taking it from his pocket he looked at the caller identification. His earlier good mood evaporated. It was from his former FBI handler, the fed he’d reported to when he’d been undercover. He’d like the man well enough when he’d been part of the task force. Until later, when he’d realized how badly the agent had betrayed his trust.
This call would be another in response to his forwarding the pictures hidden in his newspaper a few days ago. Apparently the feds were jittery about what the photos meant.
Cam was still wondering the same thing himself.
“I like the idea of rescuing an animal from a shelter like this.” Sophie finally moved on, past a few more rows of cages. “Giving them a home and someone to love. It’ll be a good lesson for Carter.”
“Everyone needs rescuing now and then.” He held up his phone. “I have to return a call.”
He strode away, feeling her eyes still on him. His words came back t
o taunt him. People made choices everyday. Some good. Some bad.
Cam wasn’t at all sure there was any rescue possible from the one he’d made a couple years ago.
“Humphrey’s victim has been identified as Michael Quinn.” Cam leaned back in his desk chair and reported the conversation he’d just had with DMPD Lieutenant Treelord. “According to Marchand he was an old acquaintance of Humphrey’s. Doesn’t have a sheet, but the narcotics division is familiar with him. Been a bit player in the scene for decades. No arrests.” He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. They felt as though they were filled with grit. “That in itself is some sort of miracle.”
“Maybe he’s just a lucky guy,” observed Franks. The older agent was in need of a shave. Cam knew he probably looked as bad. “His luck ran out last night, though.”
“According to Quinn he was snatched a couple days ago, and tortured on and off the entire time. Apparently there was a big score from a drug deal right before Humphrey was sent up and he wanted his share. Quinn didn’t have it, didn’t have the means to pay it back…” He shrugged. The conflicts between known scumbags didn’t much interest him. The fact that the agents had wasted their time thinking Humphrey was going to lead them to Sophie did.
“Hopefully Fenton will call soon. Do you want me to start going through traffic camera images again, try to get a glimpse of the van?” Jenna made the offer around a big yawn.
“We’ve checked out all the ones you found.”
“I might have missed…”
Cam shook his head. Wished he could dislodge as easily the bleakness that shrouded him like a blanket. “We’ve had the owners of the vans checked out. Nothing sprang. Gotta figure the UNSUB was smart enough to look up the location of all the traffic cameras between here and Edina, then drew routes to avoid them.”
“Information’s on the web.” Franks’s voice sounded more gravelly than usual. “That’d explain why Chief Boelin isn’t having any luck finding the white van leaving Edina.”
“Or seeing it anywhere between there and the Iowa border.”
The traffic images would have been their best bet, but the lead hadn’t panned out. A lot of manpower hours had been wasted following up on images of white cargo vans, and then running the records on each. Doing background checks on the drivers. Nothing had popped at this point.
“We may take another pass at the list of those vans identified from the images.” But Cam knew it was a long shot. None of the owners had arrest records, at least for anything violent. And if owners had lent the vehicles out, the way Marchand had, it would be virtually impossible to trace.
He needed some positive movement. Depression was settling in, partially due, he knew, to lack of sleep. But mostly due to lack of progress. As much as he didn’t feel like sleeping, he’d be better for catching a few hours. Sharper. Fresher. And so would the other agents.
“Go home and get a couple hours sleep,” he ordered brusquely. “We’re spinning our wheels here. I’ll call you when I hear from Fenton and we can start again.”
The two agents didn’t protest. Cam figured they realized the truth in his words. With no more than a few more words exchanged they got up and exited his office, leaving the extra chairs behind, apparently believing his space was going to serve as the center of the investigation for the time being.
He regarded the empty chairs broodingly after they left. Investigations were comprised of following the best leads. Some panned out. Others led to brick walls. Spending hours on one that hadn’t let them to Sophie shouldn’t be regarded as a time suck since they’d eliminated Humphrey from the list of suspects.
But anything that didn’t result in her rescue at this point was like another tiny dagger under his skin. Time was of the essence. The professional thing—the objective thing—would be to stop focusing on what she might be undergoing right now and focus on getting her home alive.
But knowing that and following his own advice were two different things.
The ring of his cell later had Cam starting in his desk chair, rapping his knee smartly on his desk. Reaching for the phone, he noted the time. He must have dozed off for a couple hours.
The second thing he observed was the identification of the caller.
“Tell me you’ve got something.”
“I’ll let you be the judge.” Fenton’s voice was weary but jubilant. “But hell yeah, I think we found something interesting. We’ve got the type of shoe narrowed down to three possibilities, and in the morning when we can place a call to the manufacturers we can give you a definite ID.” Cam felt mild interest stirring. The results were of use only when they had a suspect in hand, for comparison purposes to shoes in his possession.
But the information wouldn’t lead them to Sophie.
“Anything else?”
“What do you know about ostriches?” came Fenton’s reply.
Cam blinked. He actually wondered if the lab manager was trying to get back at him for the times over the years when Cam had hounded him about test results. “Uh…I know they’re big. They have feathers. I also know it wasn’t an ostrich that kidnapped Soph…Dr. Channing.”
The man actually chuckled. “Of course not. But the samples of dirt we analyzed didn’t come from your soles, or from those of anyone else on the investigative team wearing shoe covers. It’s a good bet they came from the kidnapper, and in one of the samples we found a single ostrich hair.”
Surprise kept Cam silent for a long moment. “This is Iowa,” he said finally. “We’ve got cows. Pigs. Maybe sheep.”
“We’ve also got ostriches farms scattered around the state. An Internet search shows that.”
The information required some processing. “I’ve heard that hair analysis is under review as a forensic measure.” At least one conviction he’d read about had been overturned based on the questioned reliability of that evidence. He didn’t want to waste effort time and effort following another fruitless lead.
Fenton’s voice held a note of impatience. “You’re talking about a case where they convicted based on a scientist’s assertion that a hair at a scene came from a certain subject. We’re talking about matching a hair found to a species of animal. The hair isn’t human. That was easy enough to ascertain. Human hair has consistent pigmentation and color throughout its length. Animal hairs tend to be banded, with several colors in a short length. The roots and medullas are also different. The FBI has a manual with photomicrographs of common animal hairs.”
Cam sat up straighter, tamping down a measure of excitement. “So you were able to match the hair to one of those photographs?”
“Photomicrographs,” Fenton corrected him, “And no. Ostriches aren’t considered common enough to be found in crime scene evidence. But one of our criminalists, John Walsh—I don’t know if you know him, great criminalist—did an expansion of the FBI’s hair manual as his dissertation. Spent a summer at the San Diego Zoo collecting samples. I’m telling you, Walsh is almost certain this is an ostrich guard hair. Possibly from the head or leg. He can even be certain it didn’t come from an emu, although there are similarities between the two birds and they’re often raised together. There’s no way to match it to a specific ostrich, mind you, but there’s no doubting the dirt came from a place where ostriches are or were once kept.”
Cam turned to the computer and did a quick search. From past experience dealing with criminalists, he knew that he’d never get one hundred per cent certainty from any of them. Scrolling through the results on the computer screen, he discovered there were no fewer than ten such farms listed, three of them within half an hour of Des Moines. But two in particular caught his eye.
The locations were in Story and Boone. They’d found bodies in both counties.
A bolt of excitement tightening in him, it took a moment to realize the man was talking.
“…could also identify traces of manure that might have come from cattle. In this state, that’s not much of a lead, but coupled with the hair we found I’d
say you’re looking for a suspect who has spent some time on a farm around livestock.”
“Thanks, Al.” Adrenaline kick-started, Cam was already considering his next move. Some of the ostrich farms nearby were in a neighboring DCI zone. Which meant a different SAC and Major Crime agents. Maria would have to get the territorial issues ironed out.
His mind racing, he began scribbling notes on a piece of paper. “When this is over I’m going to buy you the biggest steak on the menu. Restaurant of your choice.”
“Oh, well.” The lab manager sounded pleased. “Actually I’m a vegan, but when we have cause to celebrate, count me in. And Cam…when you find her…will you let us know?”
“Definitely.”
Disconnecting the call, he immediately called Jenna. “Call Franks for me. I’m contacting the rest of the agents. Briefing in an hour and a half.”
The female agent’s voice was groggy. “We’ve got something?”
“We’ve got something.” He hung up, turning to the computer and sending out a mass email that would alert the entire team, including Truelord of the DCMD and sheriffs from involved counties. Then he called his SAC and gave her an abbreviated account of the events of the night, and the news from the lab. “We’ve got jurisdictional issues,” he ended with. “At least two adjoining districts have farms that will have to be checked out.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Briefing’s not for another hour and a half…”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” In true Maria fashion, the call was disconnected. Cam couldn’t fault her for her lack of conversational skills. Urgency was mounting. He had a feeling that the investigation was finally on the fast track.
He hoped for Sophie’s sake that this time he was right.
When his cell rang he frowned, checked the time. Five-thirty AM. And although the number was vaguely familiar, he couldn’t immediately identify it. He did, however, recognize the voice on the other end of the call when he answered.
