by Karen Rose
Nick stood up. “Sophie, now that you’ve told us this, I remember seeing pictures in an old history book. This is a medieval custom, isn’t it? Placing an effigy on the grave?”
She nodded but she was still very pale. “Yes. Earliest known carvings date as far back as 1100 and were common practice through the Renaissance.”
“Guys.” Jen was kneeling on the edge of the grave. “We’ve got bigger problems than this guy’s sword.” She came to her feet, dusting soil from her coveralls.
Vito and Nick looked down into the grave, but Johannsen stayed back. Vito couldn’t say he blamed her. What he saw made him want to turn his face away, but he didn’t. Jen had uncovered the victim down to his groin and there was a huge hole in his abdomen. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.
“What?” Johannsen asked from five feet away.
Jen sighed. “This man had his intestines removed.”
“Disemboweled,” Johannsen said. “A torture used throughout history, but definitely used in medieval times.”
“Torture,” Nick murmured. “Holy shit, Vito. What kind of sicko would do this?”
Vito’s gaze swept the field. “And how many more did he put here?”
New York City, Sunday, January 14, 5:00
P.M.
The pop of a champagne cork brought the noise level to a low roar. From the back of the room, Derek Harrington watched Jager Van Zandt hold the fizzing bottle away from his expensive suit amid the cheers of a host of young, eager faces.
“We used to be happy with a six-pack as long as it was cold.”
Derek glanced up at Tony England, his smile rueful. “Ah, the good old days.”
But Tony wasn’t smiling. “I miss those days, Derek. I miss your old basement and working all night and… T-shirts and jeans. When it was just you and me and Jager.”
“I know. Now we’re growing so fast… I don’t know half these kids.” More than that, he missed his friend. Fame and pursuit of the dollar had changed Jager Van Zandt into a man Derek wasn’t sure he knew anymore. “I suppose success does have a price.”
Tony was quiet for a moment. “Derek, is it true we’re going IPO?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
Tony frowned. “Rumors? You’re the damn vice president, Derek. Shouldn’t you have a little better information than rumors?”
Derek should, but he didn’t. He was saved a reply by Jager, who’d climbed on a chair and held his champagne flute high. “Gentlemen. And ladies. We’re here to celebrate. I know you all are tired at the end of a long convention, but it’s over and we did well. Every bit of our production of Behind Enemy Lines is committed. We have orders for every video game we can crank out the door. We’re sold out, yet again!”
The young people cheered, but Derek stayed silent.
“He sold out, all right,” Tony muttered.
“Tony,” Derek murmured. “Not here. Not the place or time.”
“When will be the place and time, Derek?” Tony demanded. “When we’re both Jager’s yes-men? Or am I the only one that has to worry about becoming a yes-man?” Shaking his head, Tony made his way through the crowded room and out the door.
Tony had always been dramatic, Derek knew. Passion often came hand in hand with artistic genius. Derek wasn’t sure he had passion anymore. Or genius. Or art.
“Of course you’ll all see a nice hefty reward for all those sales in your bonus checks,” Jager was saying and there were more cheers. “But for now, a sweet reward.” Two waiters rolled in a long rectangular table. On it sat a cake that was easily six feet wide and three feet long and had been decorated with the oRo logo-a golden dragon with a giant R on its chest. The dragon gripped two O’s, one in each claw.
He and Jager had chosen the logo with care. Derek had created the golden dragon, and Jager chose the company name. The letters o-R-o were symbolic, tied to Jager’s native Dutch. It had never bothered Derek the R was five times bigger than either of the O’s. But it bothered him now. Many things bothered Derek now. But, pasting a smile on his face for the benefit of the employees, he accepted a flute of champagne.
“We’re entering a new phase of oRo growth,” Jager said, “and to that end, we have some changes to announce. Derek Harrington is being promoted.”
Stunned, Derek straightened, staring at the smiling Jager. Quickly he re-pasted the smile, unwilling to be seen as out of the loop.
“Derek will now be executive art director.” There were more cheers and Derek nodded, his smile frozen. He now understood what Jager had done, and his expectation was confirmed with Jager’s next words. “And to recognize his incredible contribution to Behind Enemy Lines, Frasier Lewis is promoted to art director.”
The employees applauded as Derek’s heart sank to his toes.
“Frasier couldn’t be here tonight, but he sends his personal regards and good wishes for the next venture. He asked me to make this toast for him, and I quote: ‘Enemy Lines got us into orbit. May The Inquisitor launch oRo to the moon!’” Jager lifted his glass. “To oRo and to success!”
His hand shaking, Derek slipped from the room. There was so much cheering that nobody even noticed he’d gone. In the hall he leaned one shoulder against the wall, his stomach churning. The promotion was a lie. Derek hadn’t been promoted up. He’d been pushed aside. Frasier Lewis had brought riches and success to oRo, but his dark methods left Derek afraid. He’d tried to stop Jager, to keep oRo on the high road.
But now it was too late. He’d just been replaced by Jager’s yes-man.
Philadephia, Sunday, January 14, 5:00
P.M.
It was worse than she ever could have imagined. What had been excitement for a hunt when she’d first arrived had abruptly become cold dread when she’d looked on the face of the dead man. Her dread became colder as the afternoon waned. She continued to scan and tried to stop thinking about the markers she’d laid. Or the man they’d found. Someone had tortured and killed him. And others. How many others would there be?
Katherine had returned to examine the victim and she and Sophie had exchanged sober nods, but no words. There was an unnatural hush to the site, the small army of cops moving efficiently but quietly as they did their jobs.
Sophie tried to focus on recording the objects under the ground. But they weren’t objects. They were people, and they were dead. She tried not to think about that, taking refuge in the routine of the scan, of the precise placement of each stake.
Until she reached into her pocket and found it empty. She’d grabbed two packs from the equipment room before meeting Vito. A dozen to a pack. Twenty-four stakes. Six graves. She’d located six graves already. The grave the police had located before she got there made seven. And I’m not finished yet. My God. Seven people.
Her vision blurred and angrily she rubbed at the tears with the back of her hand. CSU would have something that she could use to mark more graves. She raised her eyes to look for Jen McFain, but a sound behind her made her body freeze. It was a zipper, amplified in the surreal hush. Slowly she met Katherine Bauer’s eyes over the body bag she’d just zipped shut, and was hurled back sixteen years. Katherine’s hair had been darker then, a little longer.
The body bag she’d zipped had been much smaller.
The hush faded. All Sophie could hear was the drum of her own pulse. Katherine’s eyes widened with horrified understanding. She’d looked just like that back then, too.
Sophie heard her name, but all she could see was the body on the gurney, as it had been that day. So very small. That day she’d been too late and could only stand in shock as they’d rolled her away. A wave of grief surged, powerful and sudden. Anger followed in its wake, bitter and cold. Elle was gone, and nothing could bring her back.
“Sophie.”
Sophie blinked at the sudden pinch on her chin. She focused on Katherine’s face, on the lines sixteen years had wrought and let out a shuddering breath. Remembering where she was, she closed her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,”
she murmured.
The pressure on her chin intensified until she opened her eyes. Katherine was frowning up at her. “Go to my car, Sophie. You’re white as a sheet.”
Sophie pulled away. “I’m all right.” She glanced up to find Vito Ciccotelli standing next to the very large body bag, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched her. He’d thought her rude and insensitive before. Now he probably thought she was unstable, or even worse, weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, meeting his watchful stare with a flash of defiance. She’d rather be considered rude.
But he didn’t look away, just kept those dark eyes fastened to hers. Unsettled, Sophie shifted her gaze away from Vito and took a step back. “I’m all right. Really.”
“No,” Katherine murmured. “You’re not all right. You’ve done enough for today. I’ll have one of the officers drive you home.”
Sophie’s jaw tightened. “I finish what I start.” She bent to retrieve the GPR’s handle which had fallen from her hands as she’d taken her little skip down memory lane. “Unlike some people.” She started to turn, but Katherine grabbed her arm.
“It was an accident,” Katherine whispered, and Sophie knew the woman honestly believed that to be the truth. “I thought after all this time you’d have accepted that.”
Sophie shook her head. Her anger lingered, bubbling inside her and when she spoke, her voice was cold. “You were always too soft on her. I’m afraid I’m not that-”
“Forgiving?” Katherine interrupted sharply.
Sophie huffed a laugh, utterly mirthless. “Blind. I’ll finish the job you asked me to do.” She pulled away from Kath-erine’s grasp and shoved her hand in her empty pocket, then remembered. Stakes. She searched for Jen only to find the small army had gone largely still, watching with blatant curiosity as the scene between her and Katherine unfolded.
She wanted to scream for them to mind their own damn business, but controlled the impulse. She looked for Jen, but it was Vito Ciccotelli’s dark eyes she met once again. He’d never looked away. “I’ve run out of stakes. Do you have any markers?”
“I’ll find something.” He gave her another long look of speculation before turning for the CSU van. When he was no longer watching her, she felt the air leave her lungs in a long sigh and realized she’d been holding her breath for a long time. As the sigh left her body, so did her temper. Now all she felt was weary regret and shame.
“I’m sorry, Katherine. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” She stopped just short of saying she’d been wrong. She’d never lied to Katherine and wasn’t about to start now.
The corners of Katherine’s mouth lifted in wry acceptance of what Sophie had left unsaid. “I know. Seeing the victim would have been bad enough, but you had a shock on top of that. I never meant for you to see any bodies. I thought you’d do the scan, then go home. I guess I didn’t think that through very well.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you asked me to help.” Sophie squeezed Katherine’s arm and knew the air was clear between them again. It’s a good thing Katherine’s more forgiving than me, she thought ruefully. Then again, it was easier to forgive when one felt the loss less keenly. Elle had not been Katherine’s child. She was mine. Sophie cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was brusque. “Now let me get to work so all the cops will stop looking at us.”
Katherine looked over her shoulder, as if realizing for the first time they had an audience. With a single lifted brow, the little woman sent everyone back to their business. “Cops are the nosiest,” she whispered. “Worse gossips than girls.”
“Now, that’s just mean.”
Sophie’s eyes flew up to see Vito standing behind them, clutching a handful of colored flags as if they were flowers.
Katherine smiled up at him. “No, that’s just true, and you know it.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Replace ‘nosy’ with ‘observant’ and we’re square.” His words were directed to Katherine, but he looked at Sophie, his eyes just as intent as before. He held out the flags. “Your markers,” he said. She hesitated before scooping them from his hand, the thought of touching him making her nervous. Ridiculous. She was a professional and she would do the job she’d been brought here to do.
She took the flags and shoved them in her pocket. “I hope I don’t need this many.”
Vito’s slight smile disappeared as his gaze swept the field. “That makes two of us.”
Katherine sighed. “Amen.”
Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 9:40
P.M.
Daniel Vartanian sat on his hotel bed, rubbing his brow behind which the beginnings of a migraine lurked. “That’s the situation,” he finished and waited for his boss to speak.
Chase Wharton sighed. “You have one fucked-up family. You know that, don’t you?”
“Believe me, I know. Well, can I have the leave?”
“Are you sure they’re really traveling? Why all the lies?”
“My parents keep up appearances, no matter what.” His parents had covered up many family secrets to preserve the family’s “good name.” If people only knew. “That they didn’t want anyone to know about my mother’s illness is par for the course.”
“But it’s cancer, Daniel, not some awful secret like pedophilia or something.”
Or something, Daniel thought. “Cancer would be enough to start tongues wagging. My father wouldn’t tolerate that, especially since he’d just agreed to run for Congress.”
“You never said your father was a politician.”
“My father was a politician from the day he was born,” Daniel said bitterly. “He just did it from the bench. But I didn’t know he was running. Apparently he’d just agreed to run before he went away.” This he’d heard from Tawny Howard who’d taken his and Frank’s dinner order. Tawny had heard it from the secretary of Carl Sargent, the man his father had visited the last time he’d been in town. “I’m sure he views my mother’s cancer as fodder for the opposition. My mother will go along with whatever he says.”
Chase was silent and Daniel could imagine his worried expression.
“Chase, I just want to find my folks. My mother’s sick. I…” Daniel blew out a breath. “I need to see her. I have something to tell her and I don’t want her to die before I can. We had an argument and I said some harsh things.” He’d actually said them to his father, but the feelings of anger and disgust… and shame… they’d extended to include his mother as well.
“Were you wrong?” Chase asked quietly.
“No. But… I shouldn’t have let so many years pass with this between us.”
“Take your leave then. But the minute you suspect anything other than an ordinary vacation, you back off and we’ll set up a proper investigation. I don’t want my ass fried because a retired judge is missing and I didn’t follow procedure.” Chase hesitated. “Be careful, Daniel. And I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.” Daniel wasn’t sure where to begin, but was certain clues resided in his father’s computer. Tomorrow a pal from the GBI was coming to help him sort through his father’s computer records. Daniel only hoped he could deal with what he found.
New York City, Sunday, January 14, 10:00
P.M.
From his chair in the darkness of their hotel suite’s sitting room, Derek watched Jager stumble through the door. “You’re drunk,” Derek said with disgust.
Jager jerked upright. “Goddamn it, Derek. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Then we’re even,” Derek said bitterly. “Just what the hell was that all about?”
“What?” The word was uttered with contempt and Derek felt his temper boil higher.
“You know what. Who the hell gave you the right to make Lewis the art director?”
“It’s just a title, Derek.” Jager shot him a scathing look as he yanked his tie from his collar. “If you’d been in the bar celebrating with us instead of up here in the dark, sulking like a little boy, you would have heard
the news firsthand. We got a booth at Pinnacle.”
“Pinnacle?” Pinnacle, the game convention of the year. On the planet. This was huge. Pinnacle was to game designers what Cannes was to filmmakers. The premier event to see and be seen. To have your art admired by the entire industry. Gamers would stand in line for days for a ticket. Booths were awarded by invitation only. Pinnacle was… the pinnacle. He let out a slow breath, hardly daring to believe it was true. Only in his wildest dreams… “You’re kidding.”
Jager laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “I would never kid about something like that.” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself another drink.
“Jager, you’ve had enough,” Derek started, but Jager flashed him a furious glare.
“Shut up. Just shut up. I’m so fucking tired of you and your ‘don’t do this’ and ‘don’t do that.’” He tossed back a swallow. “We’re going to Pinnacle because I took a risk. Because I had the balls to push the envelope. Because I have what it takes to succeed.”
Derek cocked his jaw, coldly furious at what had been left unsaid. “And I don’t.”
Jager spread his arms wide. “You said it.” He looked away. “Partner,” he muttered.
“I am, you know,” Derek said quietly.
“What?”
“Your partner.”
“Then start acting like one,” Jager said flatly. “And stop acting like some religious fanatic. Frasier Lewis’s art is entertainment, Derek. Period.”
Derek shook his head as Jager headed toward his room. “It’s indecent. Period.”
Jager stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “It’s what sells.”
“It’s not right, Jager.”
“I don’t see you refusing any paychecks. You act morally repulsed by the violence, but you’re in it for the money as much as I am. And if you’re not, you need to get out.”
