19 Souls

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19 Souls Page 18

by J. D. Allen


  “She did manage to work her way into college, Ms. Callas.” Webb wielded the information as if it were a weapon.

  “Did she then?” She looked back from her open doorway. Jim was sure she would have to ooze through the door like the blob. “Should I be proud?” She curled up her nose and her top rotted teeth showed though the sneer. “And the FBI and some PI comes looking for college kids just to congratulate them?” She waved them off. “Whatever trouble that child is in is all on her shoulders. I ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

  “I think you had lots to do with it. But nothing I can charge you with.”

  Mary Callas flipped the bird to the federal officer and slammed the door with a rickety clunk.

  Agent Webb stomped through the weeds back to the car, grumbling under her breath the entire way.

  Jim followed. “Can’t pick your family, huh?”

  37

  Carla trotted happily around the splintered wooden picnic table. She’d pooped and peed and was now sniffing the signatures of a thousand other dogs who had ventured through this rest area.

  Sophie took a drink of her vitaminwater. She’d go herself before they got back on the road. Carla was fine moving about in the big van, but the stiff upright driver’s seat made Sophie’s human back ache. She could take something, but she wanted her nerves calm and her head clear.

  A phone in her pack rang. She opened the zipper. Three cheap prepaids lined the bottom of the pocket. Untraceable. Disposable. Then noise came from the project phone. The other two were her work phone and what she referred to at the time as the bat phone. Only a select few had the project line number. People who didn’t care what her real name was. People rendering services. Something was happening.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s um … Cat.” The little homeless girl Sophie left watching the house where the police held Danny sounded unsure she’d reached the right number. Killing the neighbor had been a momentary lapse. She should not have given into the ardor so easily. Cat had been her fallout plan. Using her own brilliant strategy, she’d acquired another dog and set Cat up with some new clothes, food, and a hotel a few blocks away. The poor girl hadn’t had a good meal in days. So it was charity as well. To earn her gifts, all she had to do was walk by the house several times a day, blend in, look like she belonged, hang out on the corner like a teenager without enough supervision.

  “I think something’s going on. They like put an old lady in an ambulance thing and moved her. I followed as best I could.”

  “You lost them?” Sophie’s grip on the phone was almost painful. Having to track them again would burn up time. Sophie was out of patience and the dead sister and dead neighbor really sped up the sand dripping through the hourglass.

  “Kinda. Made it to another corner, several blocks away. Was weird cuz they was heading like, into the neighborhood, not out of it.” She sniffed.

  “You’re not using with that cash are you, Catty?” If the little shit lost Dan …

  “Naw. I never really use. Makes you vulnerable on the streets. It’s allergies. My nose runs all the fucking time.” She sucked in again. Sneezed. “Anyway, then a truck went by. Three guys were in it, all in the front. I thought it was the one from the house. I managed to follow that for a block or so. Then I just wandered around until I saw the ambulance again.”

  So they’d moved him, but not far. The old woman must be frail. “Nice work, Cat.” Too bad she’d still have to die. Poor kid had saved her some legwork, but she was now a witness. “You think the cops noticed you were hanging around both places?”

  “I don’t think the same cop saw me at any two places. Stayed back, I tried being sneaky.” Sniff. “Put a cap on and shit.”

  Didn’t matter. Sophie was on her way. The anticipation, the excruciating waiting, had been eating away at her. She’d started biting her nails again. She needed to take extra vitamins next week. The stress was murder. That’s why she’d only stayed two nights at the house. She was itching to go, get her Danny and get back home. In a matter of hours she’d roll back into Vegas.

  “The address?”

  “375 Harper.”

  “Thanks, Cat. You stay at the hotel a few more days. It’s all covered. And I hid a bonus under the nightstand.”

  “Wow. Thanks, lady. Been nice eating regular like. I’m gonna hate hitting the streets again.”

  Sophie hung up.

  The hotel would be a great place to stage the van until she could scope out the new house. Carla jumped up on the bench and curled up next to Sophie’s leg. Her fur felt like satin under Sophie’s fingers.

  “You look tired. Ready to go nap in the car?”

  Carla raised her head and gave Sophie that ridiculously cute head tilt, eyebrow lift thing.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  At the word go, Carla was up and pointed at the van. She stayed right by Sophie’s side until Sophie herself got up and started moving.

  “Good girl.”

  The phone rang again. Irritated, Sophie punched the green button. Nothing. Another ring. It was another phone. She pulled one of the other two out.

  “The bat phone.” Her heart fluttered. This phone was connected to her real self—or as close to a real self as Sophie could get. She’d set it up under the name she’d decided would be her hidden identity years ago. She wasn’t sure what to expect. It had caller ID, but she didn’t recognize the number. Texas.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello your dammed self.”

  Sophie looked down at the electronic device with a dizzying mix of hate and curiosity.

  “Well, you gonna say anything, stupid?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “’Hello, Mother’ would be nice.” Her voice dripped with the same malice that barraged Sophie with insults and disdain in her head. The voice was Sophie’s own, but the content was all the venom that this woman could spit. Sad, seeing as they’d only spoken a few times in her life.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “I’m not your mother, you cunt.”

  Sophie spun around, as if she would find her birth mother sitting on the bench. If she had been, the bitch wouldn’t have an ounce of blood left. Teeth clenched so tight her jaw popped at the hinges. Her temples throbbed as a blood-red haze clouded her vision.

  Carla nosed Sophie’s free hand. Her mother was bitching about something related to damaging her reputation. As if she had one worthy of protection.

  “I really wish I had just gone to the clinic and been done with the three of you. Only the first of you has had the decency to die.”

  What the fuck was she so worried about this woman for? Nothing but a birth canal. She held no power over Sophie. No power.

  “Maybe you should have. What do you want?”

  “No trouble on account of you’re in trouble.”

  “That makes no sense, birth canal.”

  “What?” She coughed again. “Whatever. Cops came looking for you.”

  Holy crap. They’d traced her that far. Good thing the plan was getting close to culmination. Outsmarting the cops was not a problem. She’d done it a hundred times before.

  “And you told them what?”

  “None of your damned business, you ungrateful shit.” The birth canal started coughing again, but this was not from allergies like little Cat. That disgusting hack rang of heinous lung damage, sprawling cancer from years of chain smoking. The red eased away some more. Sophie may not have had the nerve to kill her, but fate would intervene on her part.

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  “Oh, so you do have some backbone. Imagine that. Fancy education and little baby balls.”

  “What did you tell them? When were they there?”

  Get the facts and get off the phone. Should have never left her a number in the first place. Ignorant, youthful hope. Had
she really wanted to make a connection when the birth canal had been a bitch to her?

  “A while ago. Took me forever to find that thing you wrote your number on.”

  Sophie remembered. She had to turn and pace back toward the table. “You mean the copy of my birth certificate?”

  “Oh. Whatever. Can’t read the small print no more. Been in the junk drawer. So how come the cops are looking for you?”

  “But you kept it? How sweet.”

  “Don’t go looking for a Hallmark from me, honey. Knew trouble would come from you someday. Only kept it so’s I can tell you I don’t want your shit to bring no trouble on me.”

  “Lose this number then.”

  “Lost.” The line went numbly empty.

  38

  Jim’s stomach felt like an abandoned well. Empty and dusty. He glanced around the area surrounding his hotel as they approached. Slim pickings. “Anything better around here than the Arby’s?”

  Agent Webb pulled to the curb. Didn’t put the car in gear. “I’m heading to the Grove. It’s a cop hangout. But it has a good beer menu and the burgers are as big as your ego.”

  “Good for you. Arby’s for me unless you have a better idea. Is there somewhere around here?”

  She gave him a weak smile. “I’m asking if you want to come.”

  “Oh.” That was a genuine surprise. “With you? Sure you want to be seen with the likes of me, Agent Webb?”

  “My reputation might survive this one time. And call me Ava.”

  She put the car back in gear. They drove in silence. She was playing with her bottom lip. The mindless action was hot. And now she was Ava. Like a real girl.

  He looked out the side window. Ava Webb was the kind of woman he always figured he’d end up with. Strong. Independent. Only one thing … He’d lost his opportunity to be in the bureau back in college, so now the whole FBI thing was a deal breaker. He’d spent a good deal of time being angry at life and at women since then. And he drank too often because of it.

  The betrayal, the bitch slap to his life’s plans. It was the first thing he thought about in the morning and the last thing before slipping off to sleep. He’d gotten better, but he was still bitter. So it didn’t matter what he wanted. Or what the guys thought he needed. Ava Webb would remain Agent Webb to him. No way he was going there. Not now. Probably not ever.

  They slid into a booth. Several other men in uptight Fed suits were scattered around the bar. A couple off-duty cops as well. Irish joint, not a surprise.

  “What is it about the Irish? Even down here in Texas, the cops hang with the Irish.”

  She smiled. “I’ve wondered about that too. All over the world, it seems the same everywhere. I have no idea why. Maybe the casual feel of Irish pubs?”

  They ordered off a flip menu standing on the middle of the table. Burgers and beer.

  “Maybe because the Irish are either cops or criminals themselves.”

  She chuckled. An uncomfortable silence took over. If it wasn’t case related, what else could they talk about? Maybe dinner together had been a bad idea.

  After a moment of silence, she said, “Tell me what happened in Ohio, exactly.”

  And there it was. Dinner had been a colossally bad idea. He had been looking at the cardboard coaster advertising a local brew. His gaze slowly went to hers. She didn’t blink.

  That information was his. His history. “Rather not. You read the file. Sure it’s all in there.”

  “Couple lines. Basic facts. Reality is usually longer, and way more interesting than a blurb in a file.”

  “More interesting?” Oh god, was she right. But he was in no mood to go over the nightmare simply for her curiosity’s sake. He was still reeling from his encounter with Sophie in Fort Worth. No way he wanted to churn through pain and anger from his past to add to the growing acid reflux of his present.

  “Why do you have those facts anyway, Agent Webb? No reason for my history to be in the Evers file.”

  “We get as much information as possible before an interview. Can’t imagine your technique is much different.” Her brows rose, but she only hesitated for a moment. “You were almost in the academy when things went south, weren’t you?” She twisted a napkin without looking away from him. Might as well be a knife in his gut. She looked into his eyes as if she knew his secret without his telling her or without that file to give her hints. No judgment there either.

  He suddenly wished he’d picked Arby’s. Sliced beef and curly fries didn’t sucker punch you with questions about your past.

  Thank whatever beer gods hover around Irish bars, her phone rang. She dropped her catlike stare to grab the call. His shoulders relaxed a bit. He didn’t lean forward, but could hear a muffled male voice on the other end. Obviously Fee Bee business. Probably the partner in Vegas. All she said was yes or okay for five minutes. No hints for him. Thankfully, the beers came. Distraction number two.

  Now that the irritating subject had changed, he was hoping to get something, anything that would help them get closer to Sophie. Time was passing by like a stock car. The maniac would be back to get Dan, and it would be ugly when she showed her face.

  All day, Jim had been torn in different directions. On one hand, he wanted to leave the legwork to the Feds and get back to personally protect Dan and his mother. On the other, he didn’t trust that Agent Webb would keep him in the loop if he wasn’t by her side. Then there was the third hand: he wanted to be there. To be the one to strap Sophie’s hands behind her back. Cuffs or tie-wraps, he didn’t care which. She might not be left unmarked before her trip to the station either.

  O was back in Vegas by now. He’d be watching Dan. No one better. And Miller and his team were on the job. Plus the Feds. No worries in Vegas, he told himself. Again.

  She disconnected the call with only a stern, “Okay.” She took a long drink.

  “And?”

  “The neighbor was drugged. Ketamine. ME says there was a mark on his shoulder that was made by one of those auto-injectors. You know, like an EpiPen?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Found the same mark on Cynthia Hodge when he went back and checked.” She spun her glass between her fingers. “Makes sense. Sophie’s a smallish woman, right?”

  Jim nodded, remembering her straddling him, whispering in his ear. He bit his tongue. He hadn’t been injected, that he remembered, but she’d had control of his drink when she was at the bar.

  Webb kept talking, unaware of what was racing through his head. She never would be either. Now that two vics had come up drugged, there really was no benefit to Dan or the case to share his experience.

  “Some ketamine would make the bigger guys much easier to manage, her kills cleaner. And the sexual assault of Max … I can only guess that was a power trip.”

  Jim’s heart was pumping again. The feeling of loss and violation churning with anger forced the acid in his gut to climb toward his throat. “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged. “Fits the profile of a serial. Sex and killing get all tangled up in their minds. Rape is just as much of a power trip as slicing that throat, maybe more. For male perpetrators, rape is more about power. Maybe it’s the same for her. Unlike the drug dealer killings, there’s no financial gain. No theft, no drugs to take. No higher moral ground for her to cling to.” She tucked an errant hair behind her ear. “I bet she’s done it more than we know. Maybe that’s what she used to placate the killing urge when she was holding down that job. If she did, it wouldn’t have satisfied her lust for killing for long. Not enough violence. She was far too into the act of killing by then. But the fact she used ketamine for both the killings and the rape is telling.”

  Every time she said that word, his stomach pitched like he just ate a dozen raw chicken livers.

  Webb hadn’t noticed. She kept on with her theory. “If she’s injecting strangers, she can’t know their weig
ht up-front. Right?”

  Jim nodded. He should contribute to the conversation, but his mouth was dry, numb. His throat thick.

  “Dosing is usually figured by weight, so the doses are not quite accurate. Bigger guys probably don’t get as fucked up. Maybe remember a little more. Max was a big guy—240, would you say?”

  Jim was very aware his own weight hovered around 230. Maybe more, not like he had scales in his place. He breathed in through his nose. Agent Webb was looking at him as if she expected him to speak. Had she asked a question?

  “You okay, Bean?”

  The burger was set in front of him. No. He wasn’t okay. The burnt meat smell convinced him he wanted nothing to do with a

  medium-rare hamburger. He wanted to crawl under the table, straight into a deep hole. He wanted a shower. A long, hot shower. Did not like feeling so weak. Out of control.

  “I think I might be a little jet lagged.” It wasn’t a good lie. He didn’t care. “I think I need to head back to the hotel, get some sleep.”

  She didn’t need keen special agent senses to see he was lying, and she was not going to let this go. “Jet lag?”

  He nodded.

  An overt sigh. Her expression was not anger, no. Disappointment maybe? Too bad. He had that effect on women more times than not.

  She looked over toward the huge bar. “Hey, Jake.” The bartender looked around. “Couple to-go boxes and the bill.”

  “No problem.”

  Jim guzzled down the beer much faster than he had intended. One beer wouldn’t cure what ailed him. But scotch might.

  39

  Jim paced the length of his hotel room. Eight strides in depth, thirteen in length. He’d made that journey fifty-seven times. Not that he was counting.

  His computer sat open on one of the two double beds, notes and pictures scattered around it. He’d hit a dead end. Everything stopped with Elizabeth Stanton. Nothing beyond that. She’d gotten another name, started over. He glanced at the copied images of the IDs Agent Webb had been able to get. He had to hand it to her, Sophie had found a fantastic source for IDs. They were perfect. To start over completely, new name, new social security number, new you—that shit wasn’t cheap.

 

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