by Cat Connor
“This I found interesting, you won the senior literary prize with a piece entitled an Ode to a Tree. He came second with prose entitled Shakespeare’s Odyssey.”
That was mildly interesting. Owen continued; she didn’t seem to mind that I had no comment to make, “What was your grade point average, Ellie?”
“You know what it was, you have my records. I don’t see the relevance.”
“SAT score?”
“Again you have the records and I believe there is copy of my SAT scores in there.”
Why was she doing this?
“Yes, I do know, but I don’t know how many colleges you were accepted into. Let me hazard a guess. Every single one you applied to?”
I still don’t see any relevance. She’s right, but this is not pertinent to the murder investigation.
“Where is this going?”
“After reading your school record, I see a very driven student. I see a student who didn’t see what or who was around her, but focused on the end goal.”
“How is that a bad thing?” I did have the feeling that this was going to be a bad thing. My perfect scores that I earned provided my way out. I did well and achieving is wrong?
She continued, “Some kids are bullied. Children of all ages can be viciously cruel. For some, it’s name-calling and taunting. Others are beaten and then there are those kids who are ignored. Invisible kids, nobody sees them, no one cares. They don’t exist, it doesn’t matter how hard they work or how well they do. Someone is always beating them out of that one chance to shine, and back they go again to invisibility.”
“So?”
I never bullied anyone, ever. I never bullied anyone.
“Vanderguard was an invisible kid.”
“So?” My mind flipped. “What are you saying? That he’s a victim. I don’t fuc’n think so!” Mac’s fingers dug into my leg reminding me to pull my head in. “Sorry. I just don’t see why we should provide a multiple murderer with victim status.”
Mac’s hand relaxed, so I thought I was on the right track.
Owen looked me in the eye and asked, “Were you ever teased or bullied?”
“Yes, I was.”
Courtesy of my mother, I was one of those kids that went to school battered and bruised, often excused from sports by a note from my mother. Someone might have seen the bruises. She rarely marked my face, so I was lucky. Mac was one of those kids too.
I lowered my gaze to the table, composed myself somewhat, then dragged my eyes back up to meet Owen, “I was bullied and teased, and it wasn’t fun. But I sure as hell didn’t use my childhood as an excuse for my life.”
“It’s just a theory, Ellie. He seems to be after revenge and intent on extracting it from you. He perceives you as the enemy. How could he shine when you were always better? He couldn’t even stand in reflected light because not only did you always win, but you didn’t even see him.”
“It’s an interesting theory. But as an adult he is not a victim, he made a conscious decision to carry out a plan that involved the brutal murders of innocent people. I’m not a big fan of the ‘poor little me theory’ at the best of times. There is no excuse for what he did.”
“I’m not excusing it, Ellie. I am showing you a possible motive.”
“Thank you.”
“By the way, I wasn’t in any way implying you were to blame for this. He has issues and fixated on you as the cause, sometimes it’s easier to blame than accept responsibility for our own shortcomings.”
Issues? Imagine that!
“But I did ignore him.”
She smiled. “For what it’s worth I don’t believe for one minute you intentionally ignored him.”
She was doing it again, being nice. It was unnerving.
The niceness continued, “I think it would be best for you and your family if you rejoined them now.”
“Excuse me?”
I couldn’t decide whether her smile was serene or condescending as she elaborated on her original thought. “Ellie, you have been through a lot. You need rest.”
I must be hearing things. Things that sounded like Owen gave a shit. I must be sicker than I thought.
A door opened behind us and a large shadow fell over me followed by a voice that I knew. “Conway, you should be in bed.”
I squinted into the deep shadow. “Sam?”
Thirty-One
Ten Days
Dad rested. Aidan prowled the room. Bob sat in a chair close to Dad’s bedside. I was relieved to see them all. My bed was still in the room and looked inviting. An empty chair sat near my bed. The black plastic bag sitting on the bedside cabinet beside Dad reminded me we hadn’t yet viewed this famed book. Mustering much self-control, I ignored it and sat up on my bed. Mac sat in the chair next to me. We exchanged smiles with Bob. Sam and Kurt stood outside the door talking to two other agents and the military guards. The door remained closed so we couldn’t hear their conversation, just the hum of their voices. It was early morning in a hospital.
“Any news?” Bob asked.
“They haven’t got him yet, as far as we know,” Mac replied. “It’s looking like this Boyd guy is the Unsub.”
Sam stepped into the room and beckoned to me. I slid off the bed and joined him outside the door.
“What?”
He handed me a cell phone, “It’s Lee.”
I smiled and answered the call, “What do you need?”
“I found the email account he possibly ran disposable addresses from, give me a likely password.”
Without hesitation, I replied, “Claude Rains.”
“Damn, girl, that was quick, any other choices?”
“H. G. Wells.”
I waited, listening to him type, then he said, “You sweetheart! Claude Rains it is. Thanks, Ellie.”
“No problem. Do you yet know why Midlow was first?”
“She made the initial complaint against him in high school. Seems he holds grudges. Most particularly, he held grudges against you and Karen Midlow. He didn’t want her found first in case you made a connection.”
I handed the phone back to Sam. He gave me a big grin. “How’d you get that password so quick?”
“Back in 1933, Claude Rains played The Invisible Man.”
Maybe my head isn’t full of useless information after all.
I went back into the room. Mac eyes wore an inquisitive expression. “Okay?”
“Yes. I’m just going to lie back on these pillows and wait for the news of Boyd’s capture.” I could see no reason why I shouldn’t lie down for a bit, Aidan was no longer a prime suspect. Everyone was looking for Boyd. We were all safe.
My head landed on the pillow. Mac sat on a chair next to the bed. Dad slept on. My eyes closed as I listened to the soft ping of the heart monitor and the low, hushed voices of Bob, Mac and Aidan.
Flames danced in the grate, twisting around and flickering at the last pieces of the old walnut tree. Coils of smoke rose from the orange and yellow flames, disappearing up the chimney. What’s it like to be smoke? Visible in the fireplace and yet once outside it blended into the night. It blends into the mist of the night, but the smell of wood smoke lingers in the air.
Smell is the most memorable of all sense. The fire warmed the room. Mom always liked an open fire. After the fire burned down she absolutely had to polish the next day because she said fires caused too much dust. I think she enjoyed the smell of furniture polish and the shine of gleaming wood.
Watching the flames from the comfort of the sofa I wondered why there was a fire in a hospital room, it didn’t seem smart considering there was oxygen in use. I became aware of my fingers playing with the satin edging of a red blanket. The smell of the burning walnut grew ever stronger. In the corner of the room, I glimpsed white. It materialized into a larger white object as my eyes accustomed themselves to the intrusion. A hospital bed and someone was in the bed. Fascinating, a hospital bed was in my parents’ living room. I moved the red blanket aside and stood up
cautiously. Unsure why I lay on the sofa to start with, and just in case I was ill, I decided I should move carefully. All seemed okay. When I reached the side of the bed I saw Mom, asleep.
There was a familiar scent; as I stepped closer it vanished, when I stepped back it was there. I inhaled, what was the scent? I had smelled it before, a cologne maybe. I knew that smell. Where was it from?
A new voice in the room caused my hand to reach down to where Mac sat before my eyes opened properly. I felt for his holster. My fingers made contact with a recognizable shape, released the strap and tugged his gun free. Some skills were good to have, picking-pockets was not much different from swiping a gun.
I pulled my arm back obscuring the gun with my body.
I could see the new person: a man wearing a male nurse’s uniform. He was maybe two feet from me, his back toward me as he reached for the tubing of Dad’s IV. Mac sat closer to him than I was, and judging by the angle of Mac’s head, he was asleep sitting up.
I could smell the scent. I looked over and saw Bob and Aidan in deep conversation, neither of them watching the nurse or me. I sat up. My head reeled and keeping my hand steady was difficult.
“Stop. Turn around.” At least my voice was strong. He didn’t move. “Turn around.”
Bob watched now. His gun lay in his lap. Mac woke with a start, stood up from the chair, and blocked the nurse’s exit.
The man turned and smiled. “Sorry to startle you, I was checking Mr. Conway’s fluid.”
I barked a little more than I had intended. “Step away from him.”
“I’m a nurse!”
“Just do it. I’m a bitch with a gun and a headache.”
He moved two paces left, to my right. Mac still blocked his exit. “Place both hands on the bed.”
“You’re going to search me?”
“Is there anything sharp in your pockets or on your person?”
“I’m a nurse, of course there is.”
“Remove all sharp objects and place them on the bed.” Mac and I made clear eye contact. A split second later I heard the door open and Bob’s voice as he called the military police into the room.
The scent was stronger as the man removed scissors from his top pocket. “Anything else?”
“No.”
I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t keen on searching him, but I did it anyway. I removed a roll of tape, a wallet, and a set of keys. From his trouser pocket, I gingerly removed a full syringe. It was firmly capped. “Care to explain this?”
“My next patient needs that.”
I bet.
“Is it common practice to carry a loaded syringe in your trouser pocket?”
He shook his head. “I will get into serious trouble for that.”
Mac took the wallet and removed the contents. No identification and three hundred dollars in cash.
“Where’s your identification?” Mac scrutinized the man’s face.
“I must’ve dropped it.”
Didn’t he just have all the answers? He wasn’t even perspiring.
“We haven’t seen you in here before.” I glanced at Aidan for confirmation that he hadn’t seen this man before either.
“My shift started half an hour ago.”
“Name?”
“Jack Griffin.”
A cog whirred inside my head. Jack Griffin. I knew that name. “The invisible man.”
Claude Rains played Jack Griffin.
He smiled and there he was. Now he matched the picture I had seen. I grabbed hold of his right wrist and twisted it behind his back. One of the military police officers handed a pair of disposable cuffs to me. I pulled his other arm behind him and closed the cuffs. “Charles Boyd you are being detained pending the arrival of the FBI.”
The two MPs stepped closer; one pulled Boyd out of the way and stood him by the far wall. The other assumed a position in front of the bed containing the contents of Boyd’s pockets.
Mac hit a button on his cell phone. A few seconds later he said, “Caine, we have Charles Boyd in custody.”
He looked at me. “He’s on his way.”
I smiled hoping to disguise the shakiness I felt.
“Ellie?” I didn’t turn to the voice. For whatever reason I couldn’t take my eyes off Boyd. I half expected him to evaporate into a smoky mist if I looked away.
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I heard pounding feet in the corridor coming closer and louder with every footfall. The noise halted. I imagined Caine, Kurt, Lee and Sam all straightening their suits, smoothing their ruffled feathers, as they prepared to enter the room, cool calm and collected.
Boyd’s eyes hit the door then back to me and when he spoke, even his voice was non-descript. “Can I ask how you knew?”
“The one thing you didn’t mask ... your cologne.”
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people:
Caleb, Rebekah, Patricia, Josephine, Joshua, Caoilfhionn, Brianna, for being amazingly supportive and for understanding that writing is my thing.
Chris for listening and nodding even when he has no clue what I’m raving about and for understanding that whatever it is, it’s important!
Chrissy Gordon, for being my greatest fan, and for her total impartiality at all times.
My parents, for instilling in me a belief that I could do anything I wanted to do. So I did.
Galileo, (aka Chadd Michael), for teaching me the value of never saying ‘never’ and for letting me model Mac on him. Thanks for the dance.
Simon Burnett (author) who has been incredibly generous with his time and is always willing to read and offer suggestions.
Graeme Johns, (author), who knows exactly what to say when the shit hits the fan and who is an all-round good guy. I owe you a couple of bottles of wine!
Dave Bean (swear blogger) for his brilliance when it comes to mascara.
Eric Gosse, for his enthusiasm, coffee, and medical input. (Special thanks also to the Emergency Department staff at Hutt Hospital.)
Kane Griffin for being the first non-writer, non-biased reader, and exceptionally tolerant neighbor, who doesn’t mind being filmed or stalked!
My awesome editor, Jayne Southern, and my equally awesome publishers.
Much love to you all.
About the Author
Cat divides her time between her family, writing, and a retired racing greyhound, Romeo, who is her constant companion. Despite this, she has found the time to write twelve novels, including seven so far in The byte Series. She lives in New Zealand.
Also by Cat Connor
Killerbyte, Terrorbyte, Exacerbyte, Flashbyte, Soundbyte, Databyte, Eraserbyte
And for more from Cat Connor …
Please turn the page for a preview of the next exciting book in the byte series, Terrorbyte
One
If That’s What It Takes
“Are you sure this is the alleyway?” I stared down the dreary lane, hoping Lee would say no.
The whole place reeked of urine and discarded syringes. With a sense of foreboding, I pulled my badge from my pocket and hung it around my neck by the lanyard. My eyes flicked up and down the close walls of the alley, looking for cameras. I spotted a bracket that may have once held a camera. How handy.
A heavy bulletproof vest hung from my arm. Begrudgingly, I pulled it on. They were uncomfortable, and I preferred not to wear one unless absolutely necessary. Lee already had his on. They were definitely better suited to male bodies.
“This is the one she said,” he replied, and slung his badge over his head. Lee didn’t seem in any hurry to venture in.
“This is exactly how I imagined my Saturday morning would be,” I said with a wry grin.
“Yep, me too. Life is good.”
“Where’s the nearest camera?” I asked.
“The bank, beside the alleyway. They have two cameras located on an outside wall, both covering the stree
t.”
“If we don’t find anything we’ll go visit the bank. We might get lucky with their footage.”
Lee nodded. The temptation to abandon the alley in favor of the bank right off welled up in me.
Pulling the hair tie from my ponytail, then scraping my hair back off my face, I retied it higher and tighter. I felt a prickling sensation in the pit of my stomach as adrenaline surged.
“Ready to rock?”
“Right with you, Ellie.”
I stepped into the deep shade of the brick buildings that surrounded the alley, took a breath of cool air and decided it might be a pleasant place to spend an hour. A blast of strong urine odor hit the back of my throat, and I changed my mind.
Lee flipped out his notebook and scanned a few pages. “The girl, Rose Van den Berg, said she looked back and saw a blue door with chipped peeling paint.”
The door nearest me was a rusty red, so I continued walking. Lee caught up in two strides and fell into step. The next door, a faded green showing patches of pink undercoat. We glanced at each other and moved on, noting two large dumpsters against the opposite wall just past the green door. At the end of the shadow-shrouded alley stood two more dumpsters. I took an unfortunate large breath – stale, foul air caught in my throat, making me choke. I coughed into my elbow, trying to limit the noise and not hack up a lung.
I looked left: a blank brick wall rose up blocking out the sky. No windows or doors broke the monotonous wall. I kicked at discarded fast-food wrappers tangling around my boots.
“There it is.” Lee said, his notebook gone, in its place a Glock 22.
We were about ten feet from the door. Above our heads, I counted three small frosted louver windows. The door appeared to have an opaque glass panel at the top, but on closer inspection, dirt obscured the glass. I removed my gun from my hip holster: it was time to see if this was the place the girl remembered. The place where she said she’d been held, and the last place she saw her older sister.
We approached the door with caution. If the shit hit the fan, there was no cover. We’d be in the open until we reached the dumpsters.
