Web of Secrets

by Susan Sleeman

  No. Hold off.

  This was a crime scene now and like any crime scene where a computer was an integral part, the machine had to be imaged first. She tucked the computer into a safe location in the trunk then called her office and requested a computer tech on scene ASAP.

  She heard sirens winding closer, but she wouldn’t stand around and wait. She had to act. She drew out a flashlight and climbed back into the trunk.

  Bruises would cover her body in the morning, but that was nothing compared to what Becca’s would look like after Van Gogh finished with her. Tears bit at the back of Taylor’s eyes, but she wouldn’t let them flow. If she wanted to help her fellow agent, she had to keep it together. She had computer skills and hopefully, by looking at Van Gogh’s handiwork, she’d be able to give Connor a lead by the time he arrived.

  She didn’t know a lot about cars, but she suspected the computer would be accessed through the dash. She wrapped her body around the center console and shone the light under the dash. She found wires roughly secured, obviously not part of the factory install. She trailed them to a small gadget that was connected to another blinking device. She maneuvered her cell into position and snapped a few pictures.

  Swirling lights suddenly twisted above her. Then a flashlight was shone into the window. She gave the officer a thumbs-up.

  “Agent Andrews.” The police officer’s voice came from the trunk area. “You all right in there?”

  “Fine. I’ll be right out.”

  “Want me to break a window and make it easier?”

  “No. We don’t want to contaminate the scene.”

  “Mind my asking what you were doing under the dash?”

  “Proving that Agent Lange’s car has been hacked.”

  “Hacked like you hear on the news about big company computers?”

  “Exactly,” Taylor replied as she maneuvered around until she was upright and could think without blood pounding in her head. She looked out the window and caught sight of a traffic camera angled at the scene.

  Perfect.

  She could access the camera feed on her iPad and hopefully find the lead they so desperately needed right now.

  CONNOR ROARED ACROSS town, his lights and siren running. He’d never been so afraid in his life. Van Gogh had her. Becca, his Becca, and it was all his fault. Not Taylor’s, though he’d snapped at her on the phone. No, he was the one to blame. The only one. He knew better than to let Becca go with Taylor. But he’d let Becca’s unwillingness to let him help her override his common sense.

  By the time he got to Becca’s car, two uniforms were there, cordoning off the area with crime-scene tape. Taylor sat in the front seat of a patrol car looking at her iPad.

  Had she found a lead? He approached, and she looked up.

  “Oh, good.” She climbed out, her gaze wary.

  “Before you say anything,” he said, “let me apologize for going off on you when you called. You’re not to blame, and I had no right to let you have it.”

  “I could have done things differently. Maybe if I had, Becca would still be here.”

  “It started when I let her leave the house with you.”

  “Look,” she said, “why don’t we shelve all this blame until after we get her back? Then I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.” She offered him a tight smile and her hand.

  “Deal.” He shook her hand, and at that moment, he knew she’d fit in fine with the rest of Becca’s team.

  Taylor pointed down the road. “There’s a traffic cam on the corner, and I’ve just pulled up the feed.” She held out her iPad and started the video.

  He watched as Becca’s car came careening around the corner then suddenly slowed, as if she’d slammed on her brakes.

  “This is where Van Gogh used his hack to apply her brakes.”

  Her car came to a complete stop, and another sedan pulled in well back from her. She got out and walked around her car. The man in the vehicle behind leaned out and said something. She looked at him. Then, she suddenly spun and grabbed for the driver’s door. She jerked the handle, but it didn’t budge. Then she started pounding on the window.

  “This is the point where she told me it was Van Gogh. He’d taken over the locks right after she got out.” Taylor shook her head. “I was too busy trying to figure out what was going on that I didn’t even notice until she tried to get back in and couldn’t.” Her voice shook with emotion.

  Van Gogh stepped out, lifted a rifle, and Connor’s heart refused to beat. Connor could sense the desperation in her body language. She must have felt him coming. She backed away. Her hand went for her gun, and she took a strong shooting stance. She looked into the car, then slowly set her weapon on the ground. She’d given up. Likely to protect Taylor.

  That was Becca. The person who was out to save the world, even if it meant sacrificing herself.

  Van Gogh took her to the car. Connor couldn’t make out what he was doing, but he was likely handcuffing or securing her somehow. He drove off. But before he did, he paused near her car for a moment.

  “I signaled to Becca that my phone wouldn’t work, and he waved to me. All calm and casual, like he was going on a date. I’ll admit, I panicked for a minute or two, but then I crawled out through the trunk and turned off the signal jammer.”

  “So he blocked your signal?”

  She nodded. “I found it and a computer sitting on the curb where he’d parked. I suspect it’s controlling her car’s locks and brakes. I’ve got a tech on the way to take an image of the hard drive so I can look at the data. Maybe there’ll be something else that can lead us to him.”

  “This is just crazy.” Connor shook his head. “Who knew you could hack a car?”

  “Cars are controlled by computers now, so they’re just as vulnerable as any computer would be. Different cars are susceptible to different hacks, depending on their computer systems.” She frowned. “Zwicky has proved his computer skills, and there’s no telling what else he’s planning to do.”

  The officer’s radio squawked, and a report of finding the car about ten miles away bolstered Connor’s spirit. Then the word “abandoned” was added, and he plummeted back into despair.

  “I’m heading over there,” he said to Taylor. “Want to ride along?”

  “I have that tech on the way, and Henry will be here soon to process the scene. Besides, I need to make sure the car is handled properly.”

  “It’s just a car.”

  “A car that Van Gogh tampered with. It will be evidence when we find Becca and bring her back home. Once we’ve imaged the laptop’s drive, I’ll spend some time analyzing it and maybe we’ll find a lead on where he took her.”

  “Call me if you find anything.”

  “You do the same.”

  Connor took off, hoping he’d have something positive to report very soon.

  BECCA FELT AS IF an elephant sat on her head, and she couldn’t focus her eyes. She blinked hard. Blinked again. Everything was still fuzzy, but she heard water running in the background. Like a bathtub. She lifted her head to look around. She was in a small bedroom. A hotel room? She was lying in a bed, her arms still bound together and strapped to the bed posts. Her muscles ached from the strain. It was just like the basement, only the bed was softer than the table had been. Her ears were fine. Her stomach fine. He hadn’t hurt her. Yet.

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  “Hello, my sweet,” he said, coming into the room. “I hope you had a nice rest. Now it’s time to bathe you and put on your gown. Then we can talk.”

  Right, talk. As if.

  “Talk about what?” she asked. Her mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton.

  “Why, what you’ve been doing all these years.”

  “What does that matter?”

  He looked at h
er, that deadness in his eyes lightening. “It’s everything, Lauren. I need to know if you’re still pure, or if you’ve let a man defile you.”

  “Why?” she asked and dreaded the answer.

  “Because my sweet, I want you with me. But if you’re not pure, you’ll need to be cleansed.”

  “Cleansed. Explain that to me.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and looked up at the ceiling. “I know, Mother,” he finally said. “I get it. No one is to know about the cleansing but us, or they’ll all clamor for it.”

  “Why foster girls?” she asked quickly before he clammed up completely.

  He looked down on her, his eyes vacant and dark again. “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought you understood. All of you. Forgotten like trash. So desperate for love. Thinking that what men offer is love.” He stroked her cheek with his index finger, and she forced herself not to react when she wanted to turn and bite his finger.

  He withdrew his hand and curled the finger into his fist. “It’s not, you know. They don’t love you. They just want to have sex with you and then you’re impure. Then you—” He shot a quick look at the ceiling. “Yes, Mother, I know. Don’t say any more.”

  “But how did you find the girls?” Becca asked, not only to know the answer, but also hoping to put off whatever plans he had in store for her.

  “I’m a whiz with the computer. Once I learned how much those poor girls needed me, it wasn’t hard to hack into DHS’s database.”

  Hack DHS? They hadn’t been able to find record of his employment, but the information in his office said he was a computer expert, so hacking made sense and it explained why he never had to leave home.

  Becca needed more information, to learn how much he’d compromised DHS computers. She had to question him without letting him know what she was doing. “So you found the names in the foster child registry?”

  “Yes, and then I researched the girls on social media.” He shook his head. “What’s with young girls today? All of them parading around half-naked and flaunting themselves in pictures. Selfies. The devil’s tool, I tell you. If this continues, I’m going to be very busy.”

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  He chuckled. “My stroll through DHS’s databases was very productive. Not only did I find the girls, I also discovered insurance information for all the children in the foster system. Did you know that insurance information is the next big thing in the identity theft world, even more than credit cards?” He tapped his chin. “I suppose you would know that, now wouldn’t you?”

  “So what do you do with this information?” she asked, now genuinely interested in his answer.

  “Sell it, of course. We have a very generous local buyer who snaps up the data like it’s cocaine.” He laughed. “Of course, I only give him a little at a time to whet his appetite. Soon though, he’ll be so addicted that I’ll be able to raise my prices.”

  “A local man, huh?” she asked casually when in reality, she was beginning to connect the dots. “What’s his name?”

  He arched a brow, anger filling his eyes. “You’re playing agent with me, and I will not have that. My secrets are mine alone. Not for the FBI to know about.”

  He let his gaze linger on her, as if he were seeing her, but not seeing her. The insanity shining through his eyes sent terror to her heart.

  “We need to get moving. Your bath is getting cold.” He withdrew his knife, and she held her breath, but he went for her hands to cut them free. She tried to flail out and catch him across the head, but the lengthy strain on her biceps kept her from moving them. She searched the area for something to use a weapon and spotted a pen. She could jab it into his neck, but she’d have to be in the perfect position to surreptitiously take it and ram it into his body.

  He helped her to her feet that were still constrained by cable ties. The urge to run nearly overpowered her, but she kept her head and snagged the pen from the table, resting it in her palm out of view. She held her breath, waiting for him to catch her. He didn’t notice.

  Thank you, God.

  He urged her forward, tenderly holding her elbow. What a contradiction! A gentle killer.

  They slowly crossed the room with worn carpeting, stained bedding, and chipped walls. Of course, it was a seedy hotel. He couldn’t take her bound and gagged to a five-star establishment.

  He paused to pick up a white gown trimmed with lace, much like the gown she’d worn in the nineties. Her mouth went dry. Her legs felt as if they couldn’t hold her up, and she wobbled like a struck bowling pin. He slowed and encouraged her with soothing comments that made her want to vomit.

  In the bathroom, he lowered her onto the toilet seat. She made sure the pen remained concealed. She couldn’t use it at the moment, but she’d find a way.

  He drew his knife from a sheath at his belt. “I’m going to free you so you can bathe alone. Mother says that’s the best thing, in case you’re still pure. But I’ll be right outside the door with my gun, so please don’t try anything. Mother says I’m to shoot you if you do.”

  Mother, Mother, Mother. She was tired of hearing about Mother. He sliced through her leg restraints. She raised her hands and started to maneuver the pen into position. He suddenly sat back and looked up. She dropped her hands to her lap before he saw the pen.

  “I’m sorry about the restraints. Mother thinks you will run, but I say you want to be with me. You do, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she managed to say despite her raw throat. She’d say anything to keep him off guard.

  “I knew it.” He stood and bent over her.

  One swift slice through the cable tie and her hands were free. He stepped back and out of reach. “Take your time and use the soap I’ve left for you. You’ll remember it. Everything needs to be perfect.”

  She remembered the soap all right. The rough pumice had been like sandpaper on her skin. She didn’t want to use it, but the last time he’d sniffed her body to be sure she had. When she didn’t smell like the bar, he’d scrubbed her arms and legs himself, tearing her skin. She wouldn’t put herself through that again. All she had to do was lather it up in her hands and pat it on her skin.

  He stepped out the door, and she sat for a moment pondering her next move.

  “I don’t hear you moving around, my sweet,” he said. “Do you need help?”

  “No.” She got up. “The water’s a bit chilly. I’ll just add a little more.”

  She turned on the tap and looked around the space. When she finished bathing, she could stand behind the door and strike with her pen. It might work. Might not. She needed a fallback plan. She had a pen and the paper encasing an extra toilet paper roll. She doubted he would kill her here. He was likely just using the room for her to bathe because they’d raided his home. In the event that they did depart, she could leave a message. She unwrapped the paper and wrote,

  I’m FBI agent Rebecca Lange. I’ve been abducted. Call Detective Connor Warren at the PPB.

  She started to fold it then stopped to add the license plate number of his current car. She went to the toilet paper roll on the holder and unrolled several layers. She tucked the note inside and rolled it back up. He’d never look there. Hopefully, someone else would.

  She turned the water off and undressed, then climbed into the tub that she suspected was dirtier than she was. But she had no choice. She’d have to wash her hair or he’d bring her back in here and shove her head under the water himself.

  She finished her faux bathing, dried, and put on the gown, which felt like death sliding over and claiming her body. She shivered and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was pale, her eyes unfocused, dark circles lingering beneath them. She looked like death already.

  “No,” she whispered. “Stop this. You a
ren’t going to let him win.”

  She firmed her resolve, grabbed the pen, and stepped behind the door.

  “I’m ready,” she called out sweetly and waited for the chance to impale the man who’d haunted her dreams—and her life—for years.

  AS TAYLOR WAITED for the image to be completed of Van Gogh’s hard drive, she played the video surveillance tape over and over, hoping to find anything that might help. She was sitting in the tech’s SUV while he imaged Van Gogh’s machine on site so she didn’t waste any time in transport.

  She replayed the video, zooming in on Van Gogh. Then closer this time, focusing on the rifle. An AK-47?

  She paused the video and checked the markings. Not an AK-47. A Sturmgewehr 44.

  That’s it! The gun.

  She’d seen his gun collection at his house and had recognized quite a few of the weapons as sought-after older guns.

  Her dad had looked for a StG 44 for years. It had been developed in World War II and was considered to be the first modern assault rifle. A collector’s item, it wasn’t commonly sold in gun shops. They might find Zwicky by tracing the gun purchase. And she knew just the person to help her find it.

  She stepped out of the car and dialed. The phone made it to the fifth ring before he answered.

  “You better have a good reason for calling me at this time of day,” Jack grumbled.

  “I need your help.” She told him about Becca’s abduction.

  “Tell me what I can do,” he said.

  “Van Gogh has a gun collection almost as impressive as yours. He was carrying a StG 44.”

  “So he knows a thing or two about guns.”

  “I was hoping you might put out feelers in the gun community to see if you can track the purchase or locate his favorite place to shoot. Maybe it’ll give us an idea of where he’s gone to ground.”

  Silence filled the phone.

  “Jack?” she asked.

  “I can do what you ask, but you have to know, if I get involved, it’s not going to be by the book like you law enforcement people expect.” He paused. “Tell me now if that’s not okay or that you’re not prepared to deal with the consequences.”