Slattery raised an eyebrow. “Which files?”
“The Medical Examiner’s files.”
“How do you know they’ve been requisitioned?”
“I tried to get them through a FOIL request,” Kyle lied to protect Tom. “Just like you said. But I was told they’d been marked sensitive and weren’t available. So I assume they’re with whoever’s investigating from the government.”
Slattery narrowed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hesitant, “I guess so.”
“Can you give me the name of someone I can contact?”
“Contact?”
“Yes. Whoever’s investigating this. Who can I talk to?”
“To say what?”
“I don’t know. Ask what they’re doing, I guess. Find out what they know.”
“And what makes you think they’ll tell you any of that? Like I said, they know what you know. They know what your buddy Murdock knows. And they’ll know what you told me today. If they want to know more, I suppose they’ll contact you.”
“I want to know if they really think there’s a killer out there.”
“Well, they are investigating it, so that should tell you something.”
“But I need to know how they think it’s being done, and why it’s happening right before Hillier pitches.”
“And you think they’ll tell you?”
“Maybe.”
Slattery stood up and said, “I’ll ask around. See what I can do.”
And that was it. Kyle’s big secret was hardly even discussed.
But now he knew someone was taking the deaths seriously, that there was an investigation going on. A real one. Someone, perhaps the FBI, agreed the pattern was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
But what did they know? What did they suspect?
He wondered if it was anything similar to what Liam was thinking, some kind of energy transfer in reverse. He also wondered if Evan Hillier was a suspect. Was the FBI following him? Had they been on the ferry?
He had no idea, but was pretty sure he’d be getting a call soon. After all, he was probably the only person alive and conscious who saw the killer. That fact alone had to draw some interest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nothing.
Not a call, not a letter, not an email … nothing. There hadn’t been one damn attempt to contact him since his visit with Slattery a few days earlier.
He couldn’t believe it. He was sure someone was going to contact him. But so far, nada.
Eddie said to leave it alone. They knew everything he already knew, so he should just let it go and be thankful there was nothing more.
Liam didn’t say anything because Kyle hadn’t told him about the conversation. He thought it’d be too much for Liam to handle, that Liam would take it too far. Besides, there hadn’t been much of an opportunity to discuss anything with Liam lately. The man had been oddly quiet. His last text of substance was from a few days ago. It was sent to Eddie as well and read, “On to something big. VERY BIG. The transfer might be more of a key than I thought. Will keep u updated.”
But there hadn’t been any updates. Not yet, anyway. Kyle’s paranoia had him suspecting Liam’s silence might really be due to the fact that he’d finally read the deleted text messages. Perhaps his ‘VERY BIG’ theory was that Kyle was the killer. But Eddie shot down that notion, saying Liam probably would’ve been up his ass every minute if that was the case, then he repeated to Kyle his continuing mantra: The authorities are investigating. They know what you know, so forget Liam, forget Hillier, settle the fucking lawsuit, and then join me at the goddam shore.
The psychologist in Kyle agreed with Eddie, and he was trying to do exactly what Eddie continued to suggest as he sat on his couch eating Chinese takeout and watching the Yankees game, repeating to himself that someone was investigating and there was nothing more he could do.
As he ate the last of the chicken fried rice and watched the Yankees post a four run inning in the sixth, he heard his cell phone ring and reached for his BlackBerry.
But when he grabbed it, he realized it wasn’t his BlackBerry ringing. It was a different ring. His iPhone. The one Bree had given him at lunch just before she left for sleepaway camp. His first thought was that she wanted to video chat, but then he looked at the cable box clock and realized how late it was, already past ten.
Something was wrong.
He jumped over to the dining room table and grabbed the slim smartphone, relieved when he saw the screen as it showed he’d actually been right with his first thought—despite the late hour, Bree was trying to video chat.
Kyle clicked on the long green oval to engage FaceTime, but instead of seeing Bree via a video stream on the other end, the screen went black.
He called Bree’s name, she didn’t answer, but a light flicked on, sparking the screen to life and showing some bushes. He listened carefully and heard the rustling of leaves.
“It’s dad, Bree,” he said, realizing she must have accidentally called him. “Your phone is on.”
But no one responded and the light switched angles, pointing at the ground now, looking as if someone had dropped it. Which probably meant the light was coming from a flashlight, he assumed. He could see dirt and rocks surrounded by the blackness of the night. He went over to the couch and muted the television, then called out her name again.
She didn’t answer, but he heard something else. The sound of heavy breathing, followed by the muffled sounds of a girl’s voice, struggling. His knees became rubbery, his head light. He still couldn’t see anything more than the small portion of dirt lit up by the motionless flashlight.
And then it came, the noise that made his blood curl, the sound he heard in his nightmares. His worst nightmares, the ones that caused him to wake up in a cold sweat, unable to fall back to sleep.
A scream.
The loud, pained scream of a terrified young girl.
He shouted Bree’s name at the top of his lungs, the veins in his neck bulging through his reddened skin, tears starting to crawl out of the corners of his eyes.
He kept shouting, begging her to answer.
Suddenly, the screaming stopped. There was nothing but silence, the image remaining the same—dirt and rocks.
He shouted again for answers and watched the screen as someone picked up the flashlight, still keeping it focused on the ground, but moving it away from its spot, slowly. He saw some small skinny twigs that became larger and thicker as the light slowly panned away. Then he realized they weren’t twigs. It was liquid dribbling down across the ground. The light followed it to its source, but Kyle had already figured out what it was when the light shone directly on two bare feet.
Blood.
He shouted again as the light moved up from the bloodied feet to the ankles, then the thighs. There was blood everywhere.
He heard a click and then the light shut off.
Kyle scrambled over to his BlackBerry and scrolled down to the camp’s phone number. A woman picked up after the third ring.
“My daughter,” Kyle shouted into the phone. “She’s in the woods. She’s lying in the woods!”
“Who’s your daughter?”
Kyle’s eyes remained locked on the iPhone’s screen. The video was on, but it was still pitch black. “I’m looking at her phone,” he said, frantic, “she was screaming. Then there was blood. And now there’s nothing.”
“Sir, who is your daughter?”
He was in shock, barely able to register what was happening, his mind unable to reconcile that he’d just watched someone attack his daughter, attack Bree. “Bree Vine,” he said, staring at the iPhone through tearing eyes. “Bree Vine.”
He heard the woman say something to him, then someone else, but he couldn’t register what. Everything around him became muted white noise. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t speak … could barely remain standing. He dropped the BlackBerry onto the table.
Then the light turned on again. It was shining against bare blo
ody legs being dragged across the ground. Tears were streaming from his eyes as he yelled, “What did you do to my daughter?”
No response, no sound, and then the light clicked off again and the phone disconnected. The screen’s icons popped back up.
Kyle frantically fumbled with the phone and tried to call back. But it just kept ringing.
The only other noise he heard was the yelling of the woman on the other end of the BlackBerry sitting on his table, asking him what was going on, what was happening.
He redialed Bree’s number again on the iPhone, and then he heard it.
Her voice.
But it wasn’t coming from his iPhone.
It was coming from his BlackBerry.
He grabbed it.
“Bree?”
“Dad? What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is mom okay? Did something happen?”
“Oh my God!” he cried. “Oh my God. You’re okay. Nothing happened? You’re okay?”
“Me? I’m fine. Why would something be wrong with me?”
“Your phone. Someone called me on your phone. They attacked you,” he said, tears still rolling down his cheeks, his head still light.
“My phone?” Bree asked. “How would they get my phone? It’s locked up with the others.”
Kyle rubbed his eyes and continued to talk to her until he was calm, until he was sure she was okay. The camp director came back on the line and told him one of the lockboxes was missing, and it undoubtedly was the one with Bree’s phone in it. She said the call he received was probably a prank and she already had a call in to the police.
Kyle collapsed into a chair, still unsteady, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He told the director he didn’t want Bree sleeping in her normal bunk, he wanted her in the owner’s bunk. He also said he wanted them to count the other campers to make sure everyone was accounted for. The director said they were already on it. Then he talked to Bree some more, assuring her everything was okay, that she didn’t have to worry about anything.
After clicking off, he went to the kitchen and poured himself some bourbon, wincing at the harsh, bitter taste as it flowed down his throat. He wasn’t a hard drinker, mostly stayed with wine and highly diluted mixed drinks, but felt the need for something stronger right then to ease his nerves. He wondered if he should call Sheila, but decided against it, decided there was no need to worry her.
The ringing of his BlackBerry made him realize the camp had already called her.
He checked the screen.
It wasn’t Sheila.
His eyes went wide and his blood began to rise.
It was Bree’s phone.
“Who the hell is this?” he yelled as he clicked on.
There was silence on the other end.
“I know what’s going on,” Kyle shouted. “I know she’s fine. I know she’s safe.”
“You don’t know anything,” an intentionally deep voice answered.
“Who is this?”
“It doesn’t matter who this is. What matters is what you need to do to avoid having your daughter wind up like the girl in the woods.”
“That wasn’t real,” Kyle said. “I know it wasn’t. I know this is a prank.”
“I’m only going to say this once, Mr. Vine, so listen closely. Do not take your personal investigation any further. Do not perform any follow-up, do not speak to the police any further, do not speak to any other authorities or agencies, do not even think about it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Don’t speak to them about what?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. And you are to leave it alone. No more asking around, no more following anyone and no more going to the cops or anyone else.”
Kyle swallowed. “This is about the strokes?”
The man didn’t answer Kyle’s question. Instead, he continued with his warning. “If we even suspect that you’re continuing to look into this, we will kill her. We’ll torture your daughter in ways you can’t even imagine in your worst nightmares, and then once we’ve had our fun, we’ll kill her. And we’ll let her know why we are doing it. We’ll let her know it was because of you—because her fucking father wouldn’t do as he was told. If you go to the police and tell them about this conversation, we will kill her. If you tell your ex-wife about this conversation, we will kill her.” The man’s voice became louder and angrier as he spoke. “If you speak to your attorney about this conversation, we will fucking kill her. You are to stay away from what is going on and not breathe one goddam word about this call to anyone. Understood?”
Kyle wanted to lash out at the man, wanted to shout at him, threaten him.
“Do you understand?”
Bree was a few hundred miles away.
“Yes,” he said, biting his lip. “Yes, I understand. I won’t say a thing. I promise. Just leave her alone.”
The phone clicked off. Kyle quickly slipped on his shoes and hurried out the apartment, his heart pounding, knowing it wouldn’t stop until he reached his destination.
Until he reached Bree.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
She wasn’t talking to him. Wouldn’t even look at him.
Not that it was unexpected. He knew he was taking her away from her best friends, away from her little oasis, and doing so without entertaining any of her counterarguments. After hanging up with the camp, he’d borrowed Sheila’s car and drove up to the Berkshires in the middle of the night, snatched Bree out and said they had to go.
She didn’t understand why he wouldn’t even listen to her, why he couldn’t see it was just a prank and she was fine. And he couldn’t explain. He just continued to repeat he wanted her home. The director said she understood his concern, but she was sure it had just been a prank and the children were completely safe. But she didn’t know what he knew. And he didn’t tell her. He didn’t tell anyone. He simply went to Sheila’s garage, where he was still on the permissible user list, and drove the five hours up to camp to take his confused, frustrated, and angry thirteen-year-old daughter home. Her antics on the ride back ranged from pleading with him to take her back, to crying about how unfair he was being, to questioning why he was acting so strange. But he wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t tell her the truth, so he just said the prank scared him and he wanted her home rather than hundreds of miles away in the woods.
What he didn’t say was he had to prove to whoever was prying into his life that he was abiding by their demands, he wasn’t giving the deaths a second thought. And he wouldn’t. Not outwardly, anyway. He wouldn’t talk to Slattery anymore, he wouldn’t speak to the Feds, and he wouldn’t meet with Liam or call Tom. He wouldn’t even speak to Eddie about it.
He was done. He had to be. He wouldn’t risk it, wouldn’t risk Bree being harmed.
But inside he couldn’t stop churning the information around. Liam was right. More right than he could ever know. There was a killer out there. Someone was causing these deaths. And whatever pattern or connection Liam was making was scaring whoever was behind the murders enough to threaten Kyle with his daughter’s life.
Was it Hillier? An energy transfer? Siphoning?
It was still hard to fathom something like that could be happening, but there had to be something there because that was really all Kyle knew. And someone was afraid of either something he already knew, or something he was about to find out, or maybe both, and wanted to stop him from saying or doing anything further about the deaths in the worst way. That message couldn’t have been clearer.
But just because he wasn’t going to say or do anything about it, didn’t mean he couldn’t think about it. In fact, he couldn’t not think about it, and kept drumming the thoughts around in his mind during the entire ride back to the city, mostly focusing on who was behind the call. There weren’t many people who knew what he was doing. Not specifics. And it was obvious the caller knew intimate details about his personal life, like where Bree went to camp and that their usually strict policy against cell phones had been relaxed for the
first time. But who could know that information? How would Hillier know? The only people who knew those details, and at the same time also knew about the hemorrhage deaths, were Eddie and maybe Liam. Kyle couldn’t remember how much he’d told Liam about Bree.
But that didn’t foreclose the list of possible parties who could have gotten that information. If someone wanted to, they could have easily found out the information by just asking a few questions, or probably surfing the camp’s website.
Which meant the list was far more expansive than just those in his inner-circle. But how would they know he was even looking into the hemorrhage deaths?
The question remained unanswered as he looked over at Bree. She had fallen asleep the second hour into the drive. She looked so peaceful, so relaxed. A few stray hairs covered her face, a camp sweatshirt pulled over the pajamas she hadn’t yet changed. She looked like his little girl again. The one who would fall asleep during every car ride, no matter how short. He remembered having to scoop her up out of her car seat and carry her to their building. She usually woke right before they got to the elevator and would look around with her tired eyes, trying to orient herself. And when she did, when she knew where she was, she’d simply reposition her tiny hands around his neck and give him a tight squeeze. Nothing in the world made him feel better. He was her protector. He made her safe. He was her father.
And whoever called, whoever made that threat, knew there was absolutely no way in the world he was going to do a damn thing to put her anywhere close to harm’s way. And they were a hundred percent right about that. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t care anymore.
It was no longer an option.
The only thing he cared about now was sitting right next to him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He felt like he was falling apart.
Literally.
It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the withdrawal to be worse this time. He knew it would be, knew it’d be more intense. He knew the pattern by now. Each time was a little worse. But he didn’t think it’d be this drastic. It had only been days since his last hit, and not only had the high completely vanished, but he’d deteriorated to the point his entire body trembled. And it wasn’t just his body anymore. It was his mind too. And it wasn’t just cloudy anymore, it was slower, his speech slurred.
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