Why?
It didn’t make sense. Was somebody trying to sabotage the murder investigation? Who?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I didn’t walk Jannie and Damon to school that morning. I sat out on the sunporch with the cat and played the piano – Mozart, Brahms. I had the guilty thought that I should have gotten up earlier and helped out at St Anthony’s soup kitchen. I usually pitch in a couple of mornings a week, often on Sundays. My church.
Traffic was terrible that morning and the frustrating ride down to Quantico took me a little over an hour and twenty minutes. I imagined Senior Agent Nooney standing at the front gates, waiting impatiently for me to arrive. At least the ride gave me time to think over my current situation. I decided the best course of action, for now anyway, was to go to my classes. Keep my head down. If Director Burns wanted me on White Girl, he’d get word to me. If not, then fine.
That morning the class centered on what the Bureau called a ‘practical application exercise’. We had to investigate a ‘fictitious’ bank robbery, including interviews with victims and tellers. The instructor was another very competent SSA named Marilyn May.
About half an hour into the exercise, Agent May notified the class of a fictitious automobile accident about a mile from the bank. We proceeded as a group to Hogans Alley to investigate the accident, and to see if it had any connection to the bank robbery. I was being conscientious, but I’d been involved in actual investigations like this for the past dozen years, and it was hard for me to take it too seriously, especially since some of my classmates conducted interviews according to the instructional manual. I thought maybe they’d watched cop shows on television too often. Agent May seemed amused at times herself.
As I stood around the accident scene with a new buddy who had been a captain in the army before going into the Bureau, I heard my name spoken. I turned to see Nooney’s administrative assistant. ‘Senior Agent Nooney wants to see you in his office,’ he said.
Oh Christ, what now? This guy is nuts! I was thinking as I walked quickly to Administration. I hurried upstairs to where Nooney was waiting.
‘Shut the door, please,’ he said. He was seated behind a scarred oak desk, looking as if someone close to him had died.
I was getting hot under the collar. ‘I’m in the middle of an exercise.’
‘I know what you’re doing. I wrote the program and the schedule,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about the front page of today’s Washington Post,’ he went on. ‘You see it?’
‘I saw it.’
‘I spoke to your former chief of detectives this morning. He told me that you’ve used the Post before. He said you have friends there.’
I tried hard not to roll my eyes. ‘I used to have a good friend at the Post. He was murdered. I don’t have friends there anymore. Why would I leak information about the abductions? What would I gain?’
Nooney pointed a rigid finger my way. He raised his voice. ‘I know how you work. And I know what you’re after – you don’t want to be part of a team. Or to be controlled or influenced in any way. Well, it’s not going to happen that way. We don’t believe in golden boys, or special situations. We don’t think that you’re more imaginative or creative than anyone else in your class. So get back to your exercise, Dr Cross. And wise up.’
Without saying another word I left the office fuming. I returned to the fake accident scene which Agent Marilyn May soon neatly connected to the fake robbery that had been staged in Hogans Alley. Some program that Nooney had written. I could have done a better one in my sleep. And yeah, now I was mad. I just didn’t know whom I was supposed to be mad at. I didn’t know how to play this game.
But I wanted to win.
Chapter Thirty
Another purchase had been made – a large one.
That night, the Couple entered a bar called The Halyard, on the water in Newport, Rhode Island. The Halyard was different from most of the gay clubs in Newport’s so-called Pink District. There was the occasional glimpse of a bad-ass boot or spike-studded wristband, but most of the men who frequented the place sported tousled hairdos and boating dress, and the ever-popular Croakie-attached sunglasses.
The DJ had just selected a Strokes tune and several couples were dancing the night away. The Couple fit in, which is to say that they didn’t stand out. Slava wore a baby blue T-shirt and Dockers, and had gelled his longish black hair. Zoya had on a raffish sailing cap and made herself up to look like a pretty young male. She had succeeded beyond her own expectations for she had already been hit on.
She and Slava were looking for a certain physical ‘type’, and they had found a promising prospect soon after they arrived. His name, they would learn later, was Benjamin Coffey, and he was a senior at Providence College. Benjamin had first become aware that he was gay while serving as an altar boy at St Thomas in Barrington, Rhode Island. No priest ever touched or abused him while he was there, or even came on to him, but he discovered a like-minded altar server, and they became lovers when they were both fourteen. The two had continued to meet through high school, but then Benjamin moved on.
He was still keeping his sex life a secret at Providence College, but he could be himself in the Pink District. The Couple watched the very handsome boy as he chatted up a thirtysomething bartender, whose toned muscles were set off by the track lighting over his head.
‘The boy could be on the cover of GQ,’ said Slava. ‘He’s the one.’
A strapping man in his fifties approached the bar. Close behind him were four younger males and a woman. Everyone in the group was wearing white ducks and blue Lacoste shirts. The bartender turned away from Benjamin and shook hands with the older man, who then turned to introduce his companions. ‘David Skalah. Crew. Henry Galperin. Crew. Bill Lattanzi. Crew. Sam Hughes. Cook. Nora Hamerman. Crew.’
‘And this’, the bartender said, ‘is Ben.’
‘It’s Benjamin,’ the boy corrected, and smiled brilliantly.
Zoya snuck a look at Slava and the two of them couldn’t help grinning. ‘The boy is just what we want,’ she said. ‘He’s like a cleaned-up version of Brad Pitt.’
He was definitely the physical ‘type’ that the client had specified: slender, blond, boyish, still probably a teenager, luscious red lips, intelligent-looking. That was a must – intelligence. And the buyer wanted no part of ‘chicken hawks’, young boys who sold themselves on the street.
Ten minutes or so passed, then the Couple followed Benjamin to the bathroom, which was white on white and sparkling clean. Illustrations of nautical knots had been drawn on the walls. There was a table elaborately set with colognes, mouthwashes, a teak box filled with amyl nitrite poppers.
Benjamin headed into one of the stalls and the Couple pushed in after him. It was a tight squeeze.
He turned when he felt a hard shove. ‘Taken,’ he said. ‘I’m in here. Jesus, are you two stoned? Give me a break.’
‘Arm or leg?’ said Slava, and laughed at his own joke.
They forced him to his knees. ‘Hey, hey,’ he called out in alarm. ‘Somebody help me. Somebody!’
A gauzy cloth was pressed tightly against his nose and mouth, and he became unconscious. Then the Couple lifted Benjamin up and supported him on either side, carrying him from the bathroom as if they were buddies helping someone who’d passed out.
They took him out a back door to a parking lot filled with convertibles and SUVs. The Couple didn’t care if they were seen, but they were careful not to hurt the boy. No bruises. He was worth a lot of money. Somebody wanted him badly.
Another purchase.
Chapter Thirty-One
The buyer’s name was Mr Potter.
It was the code name he used when he wanted to make a purchase from Sterling, when he and the seller communicated for any reason. Potter was very happy with Benjamin and he’d told this to the Couple when they dropped the package at his farm in Webster, New Hampshire, which had a population of a little more than fourteen hundred – a plac
e where no one bothered you. Ever. The farmhouse he owned there was partially restored, with white antique wood shingling, two stories, a new roof. About a hundred yards behind it sat a red barn, the ‘guest house’. This was where Benjamin would be kept, where the others before him had been stored as well.
The house and barn were surrounded by more than sixty acres of woods and farmland, which had belonged to Potter’s family, and now were his. He didn’t live on the farm, but in Hanover, fifty-two miles away, where he toiled as an assistant professor of English at Dartmouth.
God, he couldn’t take his eyes off Benjamin. Of course, the boy couldn’t see him. Couldn’t speak. Not yet. A hood made of burlap completely covered his face. He was gagged, and his hands and legs were bound by police handcuffs.
Other than that, Benjamin wore nothing but a sliver of silver thong, which looked precious on him. The sight of the very handsome young man took Potter’s breath away for the third or fourth or tenth time since he’d taken possession of him. The maddening thing about teaching at Dartmouth these past five years was: you could watch, but you could not touch the boys who went there. It was frustrating beyond belief to be that close to his heart’s desire, but now – it almost seemed worth it. Benjamin was his reward. For waiting. For being good.
He moved close to the boy, inches at a time. Finally, he slid his hand through the waves of thick blond hair. Benjamin jumped! He actually shivered and shook uncontrollably. That was nice.
‘It’s all right… to be afraid,’ Potter whispered. ‘There’s a strange joy to be found in fear. Trust me on that, Benjamin. I’ve been there. I know exactly what you’re feeling now.’
Potter could barely stand it! This was just too much of a great thing, a dream come true. He had been denied this forbidden pleasure – and now here was this absolutely perfect, beautiful, stunning young man.
What was this? Benjamin was trying to speak through his gag and hood. Potter wanted to hear the boy’s sweet voice, to see his luscious mouth move, to look into his eyes. He bent forward and kissed the place where the boy’s mouth ought to be. He actually felt Benjamin’s lips underneath, their softness.
Then Mr Potter couldn’t stand it for one second more. His fingers fumbling, incoherent whispers seeping from his mouth, his body shaking as if he had palsy, he lifted off the hood and looked at Benjamin’s face.
He also let the boy see him.
‘May I call you Benjy?’ he whispered.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Another of the captives – Audrey Meek – watched this obscene deviate, possibly an insane captor, as he calmly and coolly fixed her breakfast. She was bound by rope, loosely, but she couldn’t run. She couldn’t believe any of this was happening, had happened, and presumably would continue happening. She was being held in a nicely furnished cabin – somewhere, who knew where – and she was still flashing back to the incredible moment when she had been grabbed at the King of Prussia Mall, when they yanked her away from Sarah and Warren. Dear God, were the children all right?
‘My children?’ Audrey asked again. ‘I have to know for sure they’re all right. I want to talk to them. I won’t do anything you ask until I speak to them. Not even eat.’
Another uncomfortable silent moment passed, and then the Art Director chose to speak.
‘Your children are just fine. That’s all I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘You should eat.’
‘How could you know my children are all right?’ she sniffed. ‘You can’t.’
‘Audrey, you’re in no position to make demands. Not anymore. That life is behind you.’
He was tall, maybe six feet two and well-built, with a thick, bushy black beard and flashing blue eyes that seemed intelligent to her. She guessed that he was around fifty. He’d told her to call him Art Director. No rhyme or reason for the name, not yet anyway, nor any other explanation for what had happened so far.
‘I was concerned myself, so I called your house. The children are there with your nanny and husband. I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you, Audrey. I’m different from you in that respect.’
Audrey shook her head. ‘I’m supposed to trust you? Your word?’
‘I think it would be a good idea, yes. Why not? Who else can you trust out here? Yourself of course. And me. That’s all there is. You’re miles and miles away from anybody else. It’s just us two. Please get used to it. You like your scrambled eggs a little soft, right? Fluffy? Isn’t that the word you use?’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Audrey asked, getting braver since he hadn’t actually threatened her yet. ‘What are the two of us doing here?’
He sighed. ‘All in due time, Audrey. For now, let’s just say it’s an unhealthy obsession. It’s more complicated, actually, but let’s leave it at that for now.’ She was surprised by the answer – he knew he was a freaking nutcase, didn’t he? Was that good or bad, though, that he knew exactly what he was doing?
‘I’d like to keep you free like this as much as possible. I don’t want you kept in bondage, for God’s sake. Not even the ropes. Please don’t try to run away, or it won’t be possible. Okay?’
He seemed so reasonable at times. Seemed. Christ! Wasn’t this the most insane thing? Of course it was. But insane things happened all the time to people.
‘I want to be your friend,’ he said as he served her breakfast – the eggs cooked just so, twelve-grain toast, herbal tea, boysenberry jam. ‘I’ve cooked all the things you like. I want to treat you like you deserve. You can trust me, Audrey. Start by trusting me just a little bit… Try your eggs. Fluffy. They’re delish.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
I was marking time at Quantico and I didn’t like it much. I attended my classes the next morning, then an hour of fitness training. At noon, I went to the Dining Hall Building to see what Monnie Donnelley had collected so far on White Girl. She had a small, cramped cubicle on the third floor. On one wall was a collage of photos and photocopies of bits of evidence from brutally violent crimes arranged in an eye-catching cubist’s fantasy.
I rapped my knuckles against her metal nameplate before entering the cube.
Monnie turned and smiled when she saw me standing there. I noticed glossy photos of her sons and a funny portrait of Monnie, the sons, and also one of Pierce Brosnan as debonair, sexy James Bond. ‘Hey, look who’s back for more punishment. You can tell by the size of my digs that the Bureau doesn’t yet realize that this is the Information Age, what Bill Clinton used to call The Third Way. You know the joke – the Bureau supports yesterday’s technology tomorrow.’
‘Any information for me?’
Monnie swiveled back to her computer, an IBM. ‘Let me print up a few of these choice pieces for your burgeoning collection. I know you like hard copies. Dinosaur.’
‘It’s just the way I work.’
I had asked around about Monnie and heard the same thing everywhere: she was bright, an incredibly hard worker, woefully under-appreciated by the powers at Quantico. I’d also found out that Monnie was a single mother of two, and struggling to make ends meet. The only ‘complaint’ against her was that she worked too hard, brought stuff home just about every night and weekends.
Monnie shuffled together a thick batch of pages for me. I could tell she was obsessive by the way she evened out all the pages. They had to be just so.
‘Anything pop out at you?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘I’m just a researcher, right? More corroboration. Upscale, white women who’ve been reported missing in the last year or so. The numbers are out of whack, way too high. A lot of them are attractive blondes. Blondes do not have more fun in these instances. No particular regional skew, which I want to look into more. Geographic profiling? Sometimes it can pinpoint the exact locus of criminal activity.’
‘No obvious regional discrepancies so far. That’s too bad. Anything in terms of the victims’ appearances? Any patterns at all?’
Monnie clucked her tongue, shook her head. ‘Nothing sticks out. There are women missi
ng in New England, the South, Far West. I’ll check into it more. The women are described as very attractive for the most part. And none of them have been found. They go missing, they stay missing.’
She looked at me for a few uncomfortable seconds. There was sadness in her eyes. I sensed that she wanted out of this cubicle.
I reached down for the pages. ‘We’re trying. I made a promise to the Connelly family.’
There was a flicker of humor in her light green eyes. ‘You keep your promises?’
‘Try,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the pages. Don’t work too hard. Go home and see your kids.’
‘You too, Alex. See your kids. You’re working too hard already.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nana and the kids, not to mention Rosie the cat, were lying in wait for me on the front porch when I got home that night. Their cranky body language and the sullen looks on their faces weren’t good signs. I figured I knew why everybody was so happy to see me. You always keep your promises?
‘Seven-thirty. It’s getting later and later,’ Nana said and shook her head. ‘You mentioned we might go see Drumline at the movies. Damon was excited.’
‘It’s orientation,’ I told her.
‘Exactly,’ Nana said and the frown on her face deepened. ‘Wait until the real stuff starts up. You’ll be coming home at midnight again. If at all. You have no life. You have no love life. All those women who like you, Alex – though God knows why. Let one of them catch you. Let somebody in. Before it’s too late.’
‘Maybe it’s too late already.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘You’re tough,’ I said and plopped down on the porch steps next to the kids. ‘Your Nana is tough as nails. Still light out,’ I said to them. ‘Anybody want to play hoops?’
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