LUCY: The Complete Lucy Kendall Series with Bonus Content (The Lucy Kendall Series Book 5)

by Stacy Green

  “It’s fine,” she said. “You’ll have to sleep on the couch, but it’s better than the shelter. I can’t stand the idea of you out there alone.” She took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back, wishing I’d never brought this sweet girl into my web of lies and death.

  Forty minutes later, I emerged from her tiny shower with clean hair and in the only change of clothes I’d brought. The hot water stripped away the physical and mental grime, and I’d been able to bury whatever feelings of doubt and fear I’d dredged up during the night. “You said you had something you wanted to show me?”

  She motioned for me to sit down in her makeshift office. “I’ve spent way more time than I wanted to going through these dark net sites. Some of the things people post…what they request, for kids…I can’t even describe them.” She was pale, I realized. And her face was thinner. Scouring these sites took a horrible toll on her.

  “Stop looking,” I said. “I’m not sure you’ll ever find what we’re looking for, and it’s not good for you. Didn’t you say all the double blinds and overseas server routing makes it nearly impossible to prove where a site’s really coming from?”

  “That’s why I’ve been digging deep,” she said. “Because if you go through enough pictures and posts,” she shuddered, “you get an idea of where the owners might be operating from. The problem for law enforcement is they need more technical information to get a warrant, which is where the trouble with the overseas servers come in. Plus there are so many thousands of sites they can’t really dig into them without some kind of tip. I, on the other hand, can spend countless hours obsessively surfing and looking for specific locations and requirements.”

  “You found something related to Philadelphia?” I couldn’t believe we’d be that lucky. “Surely the operators weren’t so dumb as to make their location obvious.”

  “They aren’t.” Kelly pulled up a browser window. She bit the inside of her lip. “Listen, we’re dug into the cesspool of life right now. I shouldn’t need to click on any of the graphic images, but you’ve been warned.”

  “Got it.” Although I’d heard countless depraved stories of abuse, one thing I’d learned is that there is always something worse out there.

  “So this one site, The Candy Market,” she winced at the name, “has a whole bunch of pages with kids being horribly victimized. I don’t need to show you those, but they have an actual market page, where interested parties can shop.”

  “By shop you mean looking at pictures of the available kids.”

  She nodded.

  “Christ. And it’s local? How could you possibly find that out?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first, because everything is so damned buried, but then I started looking at the names of the kids.” She started talking too fast, and I knew she’d found something good. “A lot them are old-fashioned. They just didn’t seem like something parents would name their kids nowadays. And they were weirdly familiar. As soon as I started Googling the names, I hit on the connection. They’re all Philadelphia historical figures.”

  That was the last thing I’d expected to hear. My mouth actually dropped open. “Are you kidding me?”

  “It’s kind of ballsy, but these guys are so sneaky they figure they’re deeply hidden, and unless someone is specifically looking for this area, who’s going to notice? Look.” She clicked on the Market page. At least thirty small pictures of children popped up. Likely taken with a cellphone, most of the kids sat on a bed or a couch looking tense and frightened for the camera. Some were teens, others much younger.

  “Agnes Radcliffe,” I read.

  “Agnes Irwin, first dean of Radcliffe,” Kelly supplied.

  “Cornelius Tiller.”

  “Cornelius Van Til, Theologian.”

  “Cecilia Beaux.”

  “A painter way back in the old days,” Kelly said. “You get the point. All of these are carefully chosen historical figures, nothing recent. Names run the gamut from historians to teachers to musicians. Carefully selected so as not to stand out, but the theme is there. And every one can be tied to a historical figure from this city. I’m absolutely positive we’ve found the right site.”

  I scanned the pictures, trying not to look at their eyes. Even with the forced, tight smiles, most of these children had dead eyes. Likely sexually abused before they were selected, and now suffering horrific things.

  “There’s a new arrivals link,” I said. “Have you looked at those?”

  “Nope. That’s recent as of today.” Kelly clicked the red link.

  Two more boys came up, both younger than ten. For a moment I thought I was seeing things, and then dizziness washed over me, followed by acute nausea. “William Allen.”

  Kelly did a quick search. “Mayor of Philly from 1735 to 1736.”

  “It’s the little guy.” I tasted vomit.

  “What?”

  “The little boy with Riley the other day, the one she was babysitting. He’s wearing the knit hat I gave him. Preacher must have found out she talked to me,” I said. “She was attached to the little boy, said Preacher would never get him. He’s punishing her.”

  Now I’d had it. Any thought of giving up my plan and turning myself in evaporated just like that little boy’s innocence had. I was going to kill Preacher. But first, he’d give me the information I needed. “Give me that pre-paid phone.”

  “What are you going to do?” Kelly handed me the phone, looking scared.

  “It’s time I had my test run with Preacher. He’ll talk, and then I’ll take care of him.”

  Kelly stood up and began to pace. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you going to have backup?”

  “I’ll talk to Chris.” I didn’t want to pull him into my vendetta. But I needed him, and if he wanted to help go after his mother, this experience would be good practice. “I’ll probably need help pulling it off since I’ll have to be on Preacher’s turf. But we’ll manage.”

  She steepled her hands against her lips. “Think about where this is going. It will change everything, including who you are. Are you prepared for that?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth. “All I know is that I can’t go down without a fight, and this bastard deserves to pay. And if that means doing something I never thought I would, then I’ll accept that. If the time comes.”

  “Preacher isn’t going to just share his life story with you.”

  “I’ll get the information I need.” I’d accepted my decision the minute I decided to leave the shelter with Chris and Justin. “I need to find out if he killed Sarah and who’s behind this ring. And then I’ll take care of him once and for all.”

  25

  Preacher was very happy to hear from me. Within minutes, he’d made arrangements at the Capri Motel, nestled conveniently between Strawberry Mansion and the dangerous area around Temple University. Chris nearly refused to drop me off when he saw the place, but I managed to convince him this was my best shot at clearing my name and moving on to bigger targets, namely his mother.

  A large two-story motel with a parking lot that backed up to an industrial area, Capri advertised its hourly rates with a bright, neon sign. Working girls, many of them wrecked from drug use, loitered along the sidewalks. Either the police had forgotten about this area or the girls were too far gone to care; one even had a crack pipe sticking out of her purse.

  I arrived at the motel first as requested. Preacher provided fake names for both of us, and the room was already paid for. I didn’t even have to show identification. The manager looked equal parts bored and smarmy. He smirked at me as I took the elevator to the second floor. The fire escape was at the end of the hall. Preacher had chosen well for reasons he’d never know.

  The room was like every other one-star room: barely clean with the faint scent of the previous bodies, the walls stained with dried splashes and crusty streaks of unknown liquids. I set my bag down and did a bed bug check, yanking out poorly
tucked in sheets. All clear for bed bugs. A small television with a crack in the screen sat on a scratched chest of three drawers. The blinds were closed.

  Our room faced the street. The woman with the crack pipe got into a junker of a car that quickly disappeared. An old man ambled out of the lobby of the hotel with a can of cat food. He rattled a fork against the tin, and soon a stray cat came to greedily gobble the stinking feast. The man went back inside, and I closed the blinds.

  Inside the square and dirty bathroom, I regarded myself in the mirror. Someone had written a number in the corner, and the maid hadn’t bothered to clean it off. If a maid had been through the room at all. I brushed the brand new blond wig, figuring Preacher wouldn’t notice the difference, tucking a strand behind my ear. Applied a bit more powder to cover the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose. Put on some mascara. Brushed my teeth and then applied lip gloss.

  My backpack contained the more essential items. Preacher was too smart for me to slip him the ketamine in a glass of wine, but that was fine. Ketamine could be injected into the muscle, and if I choreographed the dance right, he would be singing in a matter of minutes.

  I slipped on my latex gloves, checked the already prepared syringe, and then surveyed the used bed. How would Preacher want me?

  He likes to be the boss, so domination was likely. But this was an audition. He’d want to see if I could take control, make a man salivate for more. Wasn’t that every man’s fantasy? A woman who operated with complete confidence in the bedroom? Minutes ticked by as I envisioned the night playing out. I’d have to let him touch me, make him relax. I couldn’t seem too eager, but he’d have to believe I was into him. Maximum ego boost.

  Blocking out the cheapness of the act was easy. This was simply another role on a foreign stage. My skills were good enough to pull it off.

  I chose the hiding spot for the syringe, hid the gloves in the trash underneath a wad of tissues, and sat down to wait.

  Preacher arrived ten minutes late. I admired his effort at controlling the situation. He wasn’t an amateur. But I was better.

  I’d chosen a form fitting white sweater top over skinny jeans. I opened the door after his second knock.

  He’d dressed casual too, looking more like the kid from the street than the businessman he pretended to be. All swagger, his eyes swept over me, lingering at my chest. He made a circling motion with his index finger. I obeyed, turning a slow circle.

  “Very nice. My clients like a girl with some ass.”

  I giggled. “Thanks.” I stepped aside to let him in, twirling a lock of hair and popping my spearmint gum.

  “You nervous?”

  I ducked my chin. “A little.”

  He used his index finger to tug my head up. “That’s part of your charm. I like that. So will the boys. But you got to loosen up too.”

  He set his hat down on the desk, draped his jacket over the chair. Pulled off his bright, red hoodie and tossed it over the jacket. Down to a white t-shirt and jeans, he looked younger and even lankier than before. His jeans were loose, but they didn’t hide his enjoyment.

  The ketamine would take away Preacher’s ability to fight, and his reflexes would be greatly slowed. Still, he’d have a moment, a single moment when he felt the needle go in and realized he was no longer in control.

  My skin heated. I pulled at the collar of my top. He smiled, showing white, wolfish teeth. Taking my cue, I stepped forward until the space between us evaporated. He was shorter than Chris, the top of my head touching his cheek. His fingers trailed up my covered arms. I shivered.

  “Take this off.”

  I obeyed, tossing the garment onto the bed. In only the lacy, beige bra and my tight jeans, I waited for his next order. I felt the skin on my chest burning, the sensation sliding up my throat. Even the roots of my hair tingled. Whether the cause was embarrassment or anticipation, the results served their purpose.

  “Damn, I love you fair-skinned girls.” Preacher’s voice turned husky. He ran his hands from my collarbone down to my breasts and roughly squeezed.

  I let him touch me, his hands wandering from my breast, over my stomach, down to my behind. He moved to the front of my pants. I gritted my teeth to keep from jerking away.

  “Yeah,” he said. His voice was rough now, his breathing growing heavy. “You want it. They always do. Good girls are the best kind of whores.” He grabbed my neck, angling my face to his, and roughly kissed me. Firm lips, benign breath, altogether not a bad kisser. His other arm snaked around me and brought me flush against him.

  He was hard against my stomach, his movements faster and with purpose. He wanted me, and he was at his weakest point.

  I returned the kiss with as much passion as I could dig up, my hands flush against his chest, and then pushed him down on the bed. My aim was perfect. He landed on the right side, near the edge. Too turned on to noticed, he hit the mattress with a satisfied moan, his mouth moving down my neck and his hands slipping inside the back of my jeans.

  Arching my back, I shifted to my left, gasping as if I enjoyed his touch. He didn’t notice my hand slipping over the side of the bed, where my fingers dug underneath the mattress. His only response to my change of position was to yank down the bra cup of my right breast and latch his mouth onto the nipple.

  Shame and shock froze me for a brief second. And then I retrieved the syringe, gracefully pulled myself up and away from his mouth, before planting my lips firmly against his. Grinding my hips over his erection gave me the distraction I needed.

  I opened my eyes first. His were closed, his face sweating. He had long lashes. A dribble of acne on his nose. A tiny scar on his forehead.

  Completely clueless.

  I jammed the needle into his bicep and waited.

  His eyes shot open. “The fuck?”

  “I just want you to have extra fun,” I whispered against his mouth. “This will make it so good.”

  Ketamine acts very quickly, and the dose I gave him was strong. It would hit in two minutes or less, and I’d have at least thirty minutes with him at my command. Letting the syringe fall to the floor, I rocked my hips against his. He stared at me, fear and lust dueling in his eyes. His erection grew and then began to fade. His body stopped writhing, his breathing slowed. He went slack, his eyes still wide and staring.

  “What’d you do to me, girl?”

  I felt the first stirrings of sexual arousal. “Showing you who’s really in control, Roderick.”

  26

  With Preacher lying motionless, I took the time to discard the wig and put my shirt back on. My hair was pulled back in a tight knot, and I resisted the urge to torment him by letting it fall around my shoulders. Just more evidence to clean up.

  “Liar.” Preacher spoke slowly. After a few minutes, he was probably already experiencing the floating feeling the drug brings. Users claim it’s as if the mind and body have been pulled apart, with some likening the sensation to a near-death experience. Entering the K-Hole, as recreational users call it, makes a person compliant, but the longer the trip, the more likely he was to start having hallucinations.

  “No more than you.” I took out the scalpel. I’d prefer not to use it, but tonight had to be a success.

  “I feel big,” he slurred. “As big as the universe.”

  “You’re just an invisible speck in the mass of darkness.” Let him chew on that for a while. Sitting down next to his head, I shoved one of his heavy arms out of my way. “Tell me who you work for.”

  “Myself.”

  “No. Sarah explained this all to me. You’re the captain. Who’s really in charge?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  He might be lying. But the drug should make him compliant. Was the big boss really that secretive? I tried another tract.

  “Why did you kill Sarah Jones?”

  “I didn’t kill that bitch. Glad someone did though.”

  “Why?”

  With his body effectively paralyzed, onl
y Preacher’s eyes moved. They flickered rapidly around the room, staring at the water-stained ceiling, the walls, and finally, my face. “You’re that red-headed bitch who figured out our business.”

  I smiled. “Good job.”

  His eyes rolled back in his head before focusing on me again. “Why you doing this to me? I thought we were going to have a good time.”

  “Because someone is telling the police I killed Sarah. I don’t know his name, but I know he’s got a lot of pull over the police and the district attorney. His wife was a client at the salon. He, on the other hand, likes the little kids you guys provided. He knows I took the phone Sarah stored her information in, and he’s trying to protect himself by making sure I get the hook for murder.”

  His mouth fell open revealing two dull, silver fillings. A huffing sound rolled out of him. For a second I worried he was having a bad reaction, and then I realized he was trying to laugh. “None of our clients got balls enough to do that. They’re all scared men who want to hide behind…” he trailed off, eyes popping wider. “I think the ceiling is changing colors. What did you give me?”

  “It doesn’t matter. While you enjoy your trip, you can give me some more information. You said none of your clients would do this? Someone is, and I’m going to clear my name.”

  A moment of clarity brightened his dull gaze. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Not if you tell me what I want to know.” Did he believe me? I hoped so. It would make later all the more satisfying. “Sarah had one hell of a coding system in that phone. I didn’t find anything else. So you tell me who you think would be trying to hide information.”

  “Easy.” Drool rolled down his chin. His arm jerked with the effort to wipe it up but remained in place. “Dietz. The boyfriend.”

  “Dietz?” I racked my memory. There were a lot of D’s in the phone, but her email had been protected.

  “Big country attorney.”