But before she wheeled to the door, she reached into a side pouch of the chair—and checked her gun.
She opened the front door. On the porch was a woman in a navy pantsuit, with long, lustrous black hair. She stood with remarkable stillness, waiting.
“Ms. Janovy?” she inquired in a musical Anglo-Indian accent.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Special Agent Singh, FBI.”
There was a beat. And then Janovy wheeled back, opening the door.
Singh sits on a sofa in the living room in Janovy’s house, across from Janovy in her wheelchair, and flatly relates the facts she has been researching.
“I know that you have been using your family inheritance to finance the organization loosely known as Bitch. I know there are members of that organization now living in a ranch house in the Santa Ynez Valley that belonged to your family, and now to you, though you have gone to some trouble to hide your ownership. I know that you are in constant contact with the organization.”
Janovy does not react, but Singh can feel her psychic flinch.
In reality, most of what Singh is saying is guesswork on her part. There is nothing yet that she could present to a prosecutor, no actual paper trail. But the dots are there. Sooner rather than later, they will be connected.
She continues, relentlessly. “I know about the weapons you are acquiring. I know you are also at work on an underground railroad to provide women and girls access to birth control and abortion services. I do not have bank account numbers yet, but I will.”
Janovy is impassive, but Singh sees the wary flicker in her eyes. “So what—you’re here to arrest me? Because if not—”
“I am here to warn you,” Singh interrupts. “My superior officer does not yet know what I do. But he is on your trail. You do not have long before he, too, connects the dots.”
Singh must give Janovy credit: she barely reacts. It is only an increased stillness in her face that indicates she has registered Singh’s words at all.
“You’re here to help. You. An FBI agent,” Janovy says dryly.
Singh meets her gaze. “I will not see this country turned into a third-world dictatorship for women and girls. There is no alternative but to pick a side. I have chosen mine.”
She takes a data stick from her pocket.
“This is a file on a group of men who are regular posters in rape forums on the Darknet. Names. Addresses. Bank accounts. For some, criminal records. And in some cases, DNA results conclusively linking certain perpetrators to certain acts . . .”
Janovy leans slightly forward in her chair. She is moving past her initial skepticism. “So I’m supposed to trust you? Just like that?”
Singh takes a breath, and begins the story of the men’s forums, the bounty offer for Cara Lindstrom, and the attack in the garage.
When she is finished, there is utter silence in the room. Somewhere else in the house, a clock ticks. Janovy slides back and forth in her chair, an almost imperceptible movement, like rocking.
Singh speaks again. “I hope you understand. It is not the attack on me personally that is my concern. Jeopardy is an element of the job I enlisted for. But there is no doubt that if these men attacked me, they will go after others. I have seen what is coming for women. What is already here. And I will not let that happen.”
She finds Janovy’s eyes, holds them. “It is now a government of criminals. I wish you to know that I have no qualms whatsoever about doing what must be done.”
There is a deep silence, in which Singh can see all the possibilities in Janovy’s head like a blizzard of images. The same images Singh has seen herself.
“I assume that trusting me will take time. I am patient. In the meantime, no one else at the Bureau knows what I know. No one else will know. This is my action alone.”
She rises from her chair, turns to go.
“Agent Singh,” Janovy says behind her.
Singh senses what she will see just before she turns.
Janovy is holding a gun.
And she is standing.
Chapter Seventy-Three
The Women’s Center on campus was open but the corridors were hushed, deserted, the offices still locked up and dark.
Roarke and Epps waited in the silent hall. It was early in the morning, not yet eight a.m. They’d returned to the Bacara just long enough to shower off the smoke and change clothes.
They knew they were working on a ticking clock. If Foy really had been taken, and the pattern held, then the abductors would go after another of the two remaining rapists sometime today or tonight.
And Roarke didn’t think the abductors were part of Bitch.
What he really thought, what he’d told Epps and Huerte, was that the kidnappings of Stephens and Foy were inspired by the viral video rather than direct actions by the same people who released the video.
“This is an action very specific to right here. This rape. It’s personal. Which means we have to find out who the young woman in the video is.”
Epps had already been to CARE, the university’s office for providing confidential support and guidance to students dealing with sexual assault and domestic abuse, while Roarke was in San Diego. The office had confirmed there had been no complaint filed against the KAT house.
But the agents had the video now, and there was a chance that someone at the center might recognize the girl or have heard something of the attack. At this point they were all looking for any lead.
If we’re not already too late.
Roarke glanced at Epps, but the other agent was intent on his phone, so he drifted down the hallway.
The walls outside the locked front doors of the CARE office were decorated with posters of various actions: International Trafficking Awareness Day. International Anti–Street Harassment Week. A rally in protest of the “hypermasculine culture of Isla Vista.”
He stopped in front of a glass display case and stared in. Several skulls glared back at him from an altar festooned with candles, paper flowers, candy.
A printed card inside the exhibit explained the altar was a Día de los Muertos–style remembrance of those who had lost their lives to interpersonal violence.
Roarke cringed, thinking inevitably of Santa Muerte. But maybe it was a sign that they were finally, finally on the right track.
He checked his phone screen again, as he had been doing all morning. No new notifications from Ortiz or the hunters.
Then he glanced down the hallway to Epps, who was still glued to his own phone.
Epps’ body was rigid, and even from a distance, Roarke didn’t like the look on his face. He moved back down the corridor to the other agent. “What’s wrong?” he asked, uneasy.
Epps put the phone down, turned. His face was lined with worry. “That was Lam. Tara didn’t show for an early meeting. I haven’t been able to get hold of her since yesterday.”
Now Roarke tensed. “When yesterday?”
“Early evening.”
Roarke quickly checked his phone for any email or texts from Singh, while Epps waited anxiously. “Nothing,” Roarke told him. Unless my notifications suddenly aren’t working . . .
And then a terrible suspicion overcame him.
He switched over to the dummy email account, dreading what he would find.
Nothing there, either.
But his thoughts were racing. Could Singh possibly have decided to take matters into her own hands?
It was so unlike her.
And yet . . .
“I think I know where she might be,” he said aloud.
Epps turned to stare at him in the dimness of the corridor.
“It’s Ortiz,” Roarke said.
“Ortiz? What do you mean? Who’s Ortiz?” Epps demanded.
The question hit Roarke like a punch to the gut. He spoke carefully. “Detective Ortiz. Riverside County Sheriff’s Department.” And he knew from the look on Epps’ face.
“She didn’t tell you,” Roarke said. He turned
in a circle, mortified. “I thought you knew. I assumed . . .”
Epps was having trouble containing himself. The emotional turmoil was so manifest, that for the first time since Roarke had known him, he was truly afraid for his agent.
“Epps . . .”
The other agent held up a hand until he was composed. “Not your fault,” he said, his voice taut. “It was her choice.” He looked around him vaguely, sat heavily on the bench behind them. “Tell me.”
Roarke took a breath, and talked him through everything he and Singh had done. Everything. The monitoring of the rape forums. The bounty on Cara. Singh’s tracking of the correspondence between the bounty hunters and Ortiz.
The shock, the pain in Epps’ face, in his whole body, was almost unbearable.
After Roarke was finished, the other agent sat for a long time. But finally, Roarke saw him focus, become intent on a thought.
“But why do you think she would try to confront him herself?”
Roarke understood his confusion. It wasn’t at all like Singh, and he knew he could be entirely wrong.
“She’s been monitoring Ortiz for a while. Sometimes it’s felt like . . .” He paused, trying to get at what he was feeling. “She’s changed. There’s something more personal to this for her.” He shook his head. “Honestly I don’t know her well enough to be sure. But something’s going on inside her.”
Epps’ face was ominous. “Does this—Ortiz—know who she is? Does he know she’s been keeping tabs on him?”
Roarke knew what he meant. The real question in both their minds was: Could Ortiz have come after her?
He tried to be reassuring. “No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“But you think this isn’t just posturing. You think he’s dangerous.”
Roarke thought of the man, his driving rage. “He’s dangerous—” He was about to continue, when Epps interrupted.
“And she thinks these guys, these bounty hunters, have Lindstrom.”
“She knows they’re hunting her. She—” He stopped, admitted, “We’ve been monitoring the email exchanges. There hasn’t been any word that they’ve caught up to her.”
Just saying it as a possibility made Roarke feel ill. And then he suddenly wondered if there had been another email. Further instructions that Singh had deleted before he could see them.
Could it be?
Epps was on his feet, pacing, unable to keep still. “She—talks about Lindstrom.” It was clearly hard for him to say. “I don’t know exactly how she feels. But I know there’s some connection there.”
Both agents were silent. Roarke had seen the same ambiguous, ambivalent fascination in Rachel Elliott.
They’re women. They’re exceptional women in an exceptional time . . .
“Where is this guy?” Epps said, his voice hard.
“He lives in Palm Desert.”
“That’s four hours from here.”
“Three and a half . . .”
Roarke could feel Epps’ raw fear. “Call him. Right now. Put him on notice. Say . . . say we’re coming to interview him. Make him afraid . . .”
He didn’t finish, but Roarke knew what he was saying. Put the fear of God into him. Make him afraid to do anything to Singh.
Roarke reached for his phone, but paused. Given the depth of Ortiz’s illegal activity, the depravity of it, he was more than likely to go off the grid if they made contact.
Epps started to speak, but Roarke held up a hand. Thoughts raced through his head. They could track Ortiz’s email activity, or his posting activity. If he was still posting from his own IP address, that would mean he was in Palm Desert . . .
Or they could send an email through the dummy account, requesting a meeting . . .
He could call Parker, lean on him to make him make contact with Ortiz . . .
Then it hit him. There was a much simpler way to check on him.
“Wait,” he told Epps. He tapped into the contacts in his phone, dialed, put the call on speaker for Epps to hear.
A clerk answered, “Palm Desert Sheriff’s Station, how may I direct your call?”
“Detective Ortiz, please,” Roarke answered.
Epps watched him intently. There was a long, tense pause . . . then a voice came on, the aggressive tone Roarke remembered. “Ortiz.”
Roarke nodded to Epps and punched the phone off.
“He’s at work. At his desk.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
She is awake before dawn begins to glimmer in the sky, a delicate shimmering coral and silver light over the river.
And in these early hours, she prepares.
Inside the tent, she takes her time, carefully cutting the inside of her arm to draw blood, then ripping her clothes, using mud and blood, makeup and some strawberry and chocolate syrups she bought at the convenience store to augment the real bruises and scrapes on her skin from her fight and fall from the canyon cliff.
Now she avails herself of the hunters’ equipment. The handcuffs. Chains. Leg irons.
It takes almost two hours, fiddling with lighting, with angles of the phone. But when she is done, she has several usable photos of herself, depicting her as the captive the hunters are supposed to deliver: bruised, battered, chained.
Enticement.
She looks at the photos dispassionately. They will do.
Then she types out an email on the hunter’s phone, using the same terse, coded language they have used in their own emails.
PACKAGE SECURED. BORDER CROSSED. NEED LOCATION FOR DELIVERY.
She attaches the photos of herself to the email.
And hits Send.
Chapter Seventy-Five
The agents started on the road to Palm Desert immediately. Traffic was likely to be grim.
Epps phoned in to let Huerte know they were leaving. The Isla Vista police and sheriff’s deputies would have to take over the investigation into the fraternity abductions. There was no chance the agents were not going after Singh.
There was no evidence. No clue to where she would be. The lack of contact was the only indication there was even anything wrong. But if there was even the slightest possibility that she needed help . . .
And the more Roarke turned it over in his head, the more certain he was that she had decided to do something—
“Crazy” was not the word.
But something beyond the pale.
Clearly Epps felt so, too. In fact, Roarke was driving because Epps was in such a state Roarke wasn’t sure how present he was. He could feel the other agent’s thoughts roiling, like some physical presence in the car.
“This woman,” Epps said suddenly, and stopped, staring out at the winter grass of the hills beyond the highway.
Roarke knew he didn’t mean Singh, but Cara. He remembered that Epps had once been alone with her, himself, and had been profoundly disturbed by the encounter.
“What is she?” Epps asked, sounding almost haunted.
Roarke understood what he was asking. How could Cara have this kind of uncanny power over two people Epps thought he knew, people he loved?
Epps knew Cara as the sole survivor of the massacre of her family. He knew her psychological history, the long list of foster and group homes she’d endured, her incarceration.
But last month, Roarke had learned so much more of the story.
So finally, as they drove out beyond the suburban sprawl of Los Angeles, through the windswept hills of Corona, Roarke told Epps of his dreamlike odyssey into the desert. His encounters with figures from Cara’s past: Ms. Sharonda, Mother Doctor—and Ortiz.
And about Ivy—the fourteen-year-old abandoned foster child, abducted, raped, burned alive by a monster.
How Cara, just fourteen herself, had avenged Ivy when no one else would. Had tracked down the serial rapist to an isolated cabin beside a dry creek bed, where he had tortured Ivy out in the desert.
And how Cara, that desperate, haunted teenage girl, had exacted a terrible justice—by burning the rapist ali
ve in a sandpit. The same pit where Roarke himself was nearly killed at the hands of the rapist’s still-active partner.
Epps listened in silence. His reaction to the details about Ivy was quietly visceral, a tense and helpless fury.
Roarke finished, “I know I’ve been unprofessional. I’ve crossed some lines. But my feelings—” He stopped, groped for words. “Things changed for me, out there. I know her differently now. I know her as that child. I think—she’s still that child.”
He met Epps’ eyes briefly. “I can only think of her as that child.”
It wasn’t the whole truth. But it was truth.
After a long moment, Epps nodded.
And Roarke drove, headed for the desert.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Singh paces the upstairs bedroom of Janovy’s house.
After taking Singh’s service weapon and phone, Janovy walked her upstairs at gunpoint and locked her in the guest bedroom. All with remarkable physical dexterity. Janovy has a marked limp, but clearly she has been recovered from her accident for some time. Her disability is a very clever camouflage, Singh must admit.
Singh has forced the window open—but the room is on the second floor of the house, and the house is on a hill with a sheer drop-off. Escaping through the window is not a viable option. Not without severe injury. The door is substantial, and dead-bolted.
Other women have been arriving downstairs, other members of Bitch, she presumes. Singh can hear the cadence of their voices from her room, though nothing of their words, as they talk somewhere in the house.
Discussing her fate, no doubt.
Singh knows there is a chance she will not survive this imprisonment.
But she has seen Janovy’s face. She has seen the desire there, the will to believe that Singh would choose being a woman over being an agent. Janovy is not yet convinced. But she is willing to be.
Suddenly there are footsteps on the stairs, footsteps outside in the hall, approaching the door.
Singh backs up beside the open window. She can jump. But her bet is that they will not kill her.
The dead bolt slides open . . .
Janovy comes into the room, her gun trained on Singh.
Hunger Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 5) Page 23
