Taken (Second Sight)

by Hunter, Hazel

  Sharon had been with him on the two previous cases, in charge of the command posts as he and Isabelle had pursued clues. But with the weight of the FBI in Los Angeles behind the case, and headquarters in the Federal Building, there was no reason to fly her out.

  “Mac,” she said, answering her phone. “I hope there’s good news.”

  He had to smile. Direct. To the point. Her expertise was situation management and communication and it showed.

  “No,” he said. He paused, reconsidering what he was about to ask. But he’d already made his decision. He plunged on. “I need a favor.”

  “Name it,” Sharon replied.

  “Don’t be so quick to agree,” Mac cautioned her. “You haven’t heard what I’m asking.”

  “All right,” Sharon said. “I’m waiting.”

  “We’re wading through security video here,” Mac said. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

  Details of the circumstances of Isabelle’s abduction had flown across the country in seconds when they’d realized she’d been taken under their own noses.

  “I can,” Sharon said and Mac knew that was true. She’d come up with the manpower to watch the security videos of the hospital where the last victim had been taken.

  “It’s not going to happen in time,” Mac said. “It’s physically impossible.”

  “I agree,” Sharon said, keeping her responses short, still waiting.

  “I need computer time,” Mac said.

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Okay,” she said slowly.

  “Big computer time,” he said. “Like super big. Like the joint project computer developed by the CIA and FBI for Homeland Security. You know the one.”

  The two agencies had come under intense fire for not cooperating but had found common ground in the need for a distributed, networked, super-computer that was fast enough and big enough to handle the vast amounts of data that were becoming the bread and butter of the country’s security.

  “Homeland Security,” Sharon said. “I know the one or ones. Too bad I work for the FBI.”

  Mac clenched his teeth. He knew what he was asking was huge.

  “But I know you, Sharon. You’ve got pull in places most people don’t even know exist. Everyone has been through your program. You’ve trained them all. I need time on that kind of computer. I can get the data to you on a fiberoptic line.”

  “I’m sure you know,” Sharon said slowly, “that homeland security is the point of that kind of computer.” Neither would commit to saying a specific network, aware that this very call was likely being logged and analyzed by that very agency. “I’m sure that an abduction by a serial killer wouldn’t qualify.”

  Mac stared down at his shoes and paced next to the curb.

  “I know you’re right,” he said. “I told you not to be too quick to agree.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Even so,” she finally said. “I’d be interested in seeing your data. For training purposes, of course.”

  Yes.

  “You’ll have it within the hour.”

  • • • • •

  Prentiss paced quickly in the corridor, glancing into the cell each time he passed it. Isabelle hadn’t moved. She was breathing shallowly and her heartbeat was strong but the water in the face hadn’t woken her. He looked at the puddle under the cot. He’d dumped the entire bottle and, in the end, worried he was suffocating her.

  How had something so good turned so bad?

  He reversed direction and glanced into the cell.

  Wake up!

  How had she known about his mother?

  He stopped.

  Because she’s a psychic!

  He knocked himself in the side of the head.

  Idiot! Of course!

  He felt his heartbeat slow down and he took a deep breath. Then he laughed and shook his head.

  Of course she knew about his mother. She’s a psychic.

  For a moment, he had panicked, like that dream where you realize you’re naked in the middle of a crowded room.

  He laughed again.

  A low and anguished moan came from the cell.

  Prentiss smiled and turned toward it, in control again.

  “Don’t start without me,” he chided.

  • • • • •

  Isabelle’s stomach felt like it was on fire. Her left arm and wrist ached, dangling somewhere above her. She tried to move her leaden limbs but it was too hard. Even the smallest movement was agony. She couldn’t even open her eyes, the lids much too heavy.

  Sleep, she thought. That’s what she needed.

  Suddenly, something was pressed into the palm of her right hand. Something sharp.

  “No,” she gasped as her eyes flew open and she saw the Chameleon looming over her. “No,” she whined. “No, no, no,” she repeated, as though it was the only word she knew. But it was no use. The reading had begun.

  As reality and reading blurred, the Chameleon’s face continued to loom. His eyes were fevered, excited, only inches from hers. She could smell his foul breath and realized that she was sitting in a chair. But this wasn’t the church basement with Esme. The image vanished and was replaced by something that looked like the inside of a railroad car or a moving truck. Then that vanished too as thirst overwhelmed her and she begged for her life.

  “Please don’t kill me,” she pleaded in a voice that wasn’t her own. An enormous knife blade flashed in front of her, terror stopped her breath, and pain lanced through her leg.

  “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!”

  In one corner of her mind, Isabelle tried to gain control. This wasn’t her. The pain in her leg wasn’t hers. She was in a jail cell.

  “Is this what your mother did to you?” she screamed, feeling the blade slice up from the knee. “Is this how she hurt you?”

  The reading stopped.

  Isabelle felt her back hit the metal bed, felt the burning in her throat and lungs. And as the gray of her vision turned to black, she heard the Chameleon as though he were calling to her from a great distance.

  “Yes!” he screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mac knew he would be fired but he was way past caring. He’d worked with Special Agent Louis French at various points over the years before Lou had become Director of the FBI Laboratory in Quantico. Mac didn’t know what the hold-up was for the foreign material that had been collected from Angela’s clothes was but he wasn’t going to wait.

  “Mac,” Lou said. “It’s good to hear from you.”

  Mac stood next to his rental car, a hand on the roof as he stared down at the asphalt.

  “Lou,” Mac said, trying to smile and lighten his voice. “It must be lonely at the top if you’re glad to hear from me.”

  Lou laughed a little.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m so far down the bureaucratic food chain I’ll be cleaning toilets next.”

  Mac forced himself to laugh.

  “Look Lou,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about our situation here in L.A.”

  “The Chameleon,” Lou said. “Of course. There’s some talk about most-wanted.”

  Normally, that would have made an investigator happy but Mac had no interest. The L.A. field office might nominate the Chameleon and then a committee at the Criminal Investigative Division would review the nomination and it might eventually land in the top ten or be added as an eleventh but Mac didn’t have that kind of time.

  “That’s what I hear,” Mac said. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Lab work?” Lou asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve got some evidence that’s been there for a week. I don’t know what the hold up is but I need someone to break it loose.”

  “A week,” Lou said. “That’s pretty standard. We’ve got two bombings we’re close to nailing down–not counting yours.”

  “I need that evidence to get top priority,” Mac said, venturing into forbidden territory.

&nbs
p; “I can do that,” Lou said, his voice growing serious. “With the proper authorization.”

  “You’ve got it,” Mac lied. “Ben Olivos says to make it happen.”

  Ben had said nothing of the sort. Mac had not even asked him, knowing already what the answer would be.

  “Ben?” Lou said. “Yeah, you and Ben go back quite a ways.”

  “We do,” Mac said, and the truth made this subterfuge all the worse. There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “I’m going to follow this up with paperwork ASAP but this comes directly from Ben. We need to know what that material is, where it can be obtained, and who could have obtained it.” His voice took on the real urgency that he felt. “It can’t happen soon enough, Lou. The city is in a panic. The agents here are smarting from an abduction in their backyard. And we need to make progress; something tangible, something real, that we can use.”

  That I can use, Mac thought. That will lead me to Isabelle.

  “Right,” Lou said. “Let me see where we are and I’ll let you know.”

  That wasn’t good enough.

  “Today,” Mac said, a statement and not a question.

  Again there was a pause.

  “Today,” Lou finally said. “The toilet cleaning can wait.”

  • • • • •

  Psychic or no, Prentiss thought. This is going to end.

  “God damn it!” he swore, as he stared down at Isabelle’s still form. Then he whirled away from her, picked up the chair and threw it through the cell door. “God damn it!”

  She was utterly perfect and inconceivably horrific all at the same time.

  Prentiss held his head and paced in a tight circle in the cell.

  What to do? What to do?

  She had talked about his mother!

  He stopped in front of the metal wall and pounded the stenciled cell number with his fists.

  My mother!

  His mother’s face flashed in front of him, a face he’d managed to push away for years. A petite brunette, long hair, her features not unattractive. But her lips quickly curled into something feral, her nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed to dark slits.

  And then the knife slashed toward him.

  She’d aimed for his balls but he’d moved too quick. Prentiss banged the jail cell wall again as the memory of the knife sinking into his kneecap and slicing up his thigh hit full force.

  “Mother!” he cried out. “My leg!”

  He slid down the wall, his palms scraping over peeling paint, and landed on the floor on his knees. Breathing hard, he squeezed his eyes closed trying to will the memory away.

  But it was too late. What had begun had to be finished.

  Suddenly, the kitchen knife was his, his teenage hands easily wresting the weapon from his smaller opponent. He drove it into her chest.

  “Bitch,” he yelled, saliva dripping from his mouth. Her eyes went wide and her mouth twisted and gaped at the pain. “Bitch,” he breathed, as she fell backward and he landed on top. He watched, unable to turn away, breathing hard, as the light faded from her eyes.

  Prentiss blinked at the jail cell wall, his chest heaving, his hands on the metal the only thing keeping him upright.

  “Bitch,” he whispered, as he rubbed his knee.

  It’d taken years to learn how to walk without a limp. The scar was painful, rubbing on the inside of his pants, but he couldn’t wear shorts. He couldn’t let anyone see. It was red and thick, a jagged and mounded line of skin that never became smoother. And it had only become more painful over time. He’d taken to sleeping with a pillow next to his knee to keep the sheet from touching it. He’d never seen a doctor. Too many questions would have been raised. He’d bandaged it himself and then dumped his mother’s body in the swamp behind their shack. That was probably how it’d gotten infected.

  He rubbed it hard, through the black slacks, pressing his palm down viciously–using the pain to ground him. He’d killed that bitch. He’d killed them all.

  Slowly, he swung his gaze back to Isabelle.

  • • • • •

  Instead of pain, disorientation was the first thing that Isabelle felt. Something had changed. Slowly, she opened her eyes to bright light and had to squint.

  Where am I?

  As she tried to look, she realized she was raising her head. It had been tilted all the way back, felt like a million pounds and the back of her neck ached. As she tried to sit upright, her chin nearly landed on her chest and, as her entire body pitched forward, she felt herself come to a quick stop.

  “Ow,” she muttered, as the familiar pain of the handcuffs bit into her wrists.

  As she tried to ease the pain by sitting up, it finally occurred to her that she was in a chair.

  “Welcome back,” the Chameleon said.

  Isabelle slowly raised her head as her wrists, ankles, and arms protested in pain. The Chameleon stood directly in front of her, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands grasping his thick leather belt, looking comfortable. They were in the corridor. Cell A35 was to her right and Isabelle could now see that they were on the bottom floor of a two-story cell block. The windows in the wall to her left soared upward and it looked as though it might be midday.

  The Chameleon smiled pleasantly and, without taking his eyes away from hers, he opened one of the leather compartments on his belt. Isabelle cringed at the memory of the metal stick. Her bruised stomach tightened in response. But it wasn’t a stick that he removed. With a press of his gloved thumb and a flick of the wrist, a knife blade snicked into position.

  With blinding realization, Isabelle knew he was going to kill her. Esme had been tied in a chair, just like this. Even though she knew it was pointless, Isabelle couldn’t help but struggle. Her lower legs wouldn’t move at all and her hands only jerked behind the chair back.

  It had all backfired. Her breathing became labored and her blood roared in her ears. She’d tried to stall for time and all she’d done was bring the end more quickly.

  “I can read the other objects,” she said, the words tumbling out without a thought. “I can still suffer.”

  The Chameleon grinned in response.

  “Oh you will,” he said. “Believe me.”

  He took a step closer.

  “Please,” she tried. “I won’t say another word.”

  “I know,” he agreed and he took another step.

  He towered above her, the metal blade glinting as he reversed his grip on the handle.

  This is it, she thought. I’m going to die.

  Her father’s face appeared, smiling sadly at her.

  Daddy?

  But quickly his face was replaced with Mac’s, the strong jaw, the blue-green eyes, his eyebrows furrowing.

  Oh Mac. Her eyes filled with tears that made his face waver. Mac, I should have read you.

  She closed her eyes and felt the teardrops fall.

  Too late now.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mac closed the front door to Isabelle’s apartment. Without a single other clue turned up, he’d decided to go through the photos again. But as he loosened his tie, his phone rang.

  It was Lou.

  “Lou,” Mac said.

  “Spirit gum,” Lou said. “It’s spirit gum.”

  Spirit gum? Mac thought.

  “The chemists identified the components pretty quickly: alcohol, resin, and castor oil. That was easy. The problem was trying to find a substance that contained all three.”

  Spirit gum. It was what makeup people used to glue on hairpieces in the movies.

  “Mac?” Lou said. “Did you hear me?”

  Given the disguises that the Chameleon used to blend into his surroundings it made sense.

  “And where can you get it?” Mac said.

  “Well, you’re in a hot spot for it right there,” Lou said. “It ought to be all over L.A. because of the entertainment industry. Costume stores would have it. Studios would have it.”

  The hair on the back of Mac’s neck st
ood on end. Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

  “Mac?” Lou said.

  “Thanks Lou,” Mac said quickly and hung up.

  Studios would have it.

  It was used in make-up.

  Mac stared at his phone not seeing it.

  Linda Vista Hospital had been used for filming.

  So had the lifeguard station where they’d found the Chameleon’s phone.

  No, that’s not it. Mac gripped the phone hard. He’s not a Priest and he’s not a Chameleon.

  “He’s an actor,” Mac said.

  He’s an actor of a certain height, weight and age who’d been familiar with Linda Vista. Yes! His fascination with television, with fame. The elaborate costumes.

  Costumes!

  In the Federal Building, you could dress as an agent, a passport office employee, or a police officer. He’d have been a police officer, for the costume.

  Mac pumped his fist.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

  Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the elevator ride with Isabelle. A police officer had been behind them. At the time, Mac had merely been aware of another man looking at her–something that happened often. So often, he hadn’t given it another thought, just reacted without thinking, satisfied the man had looked away.

  Now Mac knew why the new composite looked familiar.

  “That was him,” Mac said, his jaw clenched.

  The audacity of the location, the need to stalk his prey, the desire to win fame.

  The phone rang and vibrated in Mac’s fist. He’d expected it to be Lou but it wasn’t. It was Sharon.

  “It was a cop,” they said simultaneously.

  “What?” Sharon said.

  “Shoot the image of that Hispanic cop to digital reconstruction and to me!” he yelled, abruptly ending the call. He quickly dialed Sergeant Dixon.