Bitter Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 4)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  Roarke looked at her, mystified. “Then why—how can you . . .” How on earth does she justify being a nun?

  She looked back at him stonily, as if she’d heard his unspoken question. “I need structure.”

  Her face was expressionless and for a moment he wondered if she might be as unhinged as he felt himself unhinging.

  Then she sighed. “You think it’s only the Church that has failed in this regard? Look at this place. Here we are, trying to repair damage that should never have happened. Not in a civilized society. Not in an even halfway moral society. Keeping children well and safe, raising them without pain and fear, should be the priority of any human being. That’s nowhere near anyone’s priority. It doesn’t make our politicians’ top-ten lists. There’s no political will to prevent children from being sexually abused?”

  Roarke thought of Bitch. “I have a group for you,” he said wryly, and then wished he hadn’t. It was too easy to picture.

  But if that’s what it takes . . .

  They stood at opposite ends of the room and looked at each other.

  “You are thinking that these are two different rapists, aren’t you,” she said, finally.

  He thought of Franzen and Lethbridge and Ortiz.

  Franzen and Lethbridge, hunting together, taking alternate years, alibiing each other? Or one of them copycatting the other? Or was Pierson responsible for the three red rapes, until Cara stopped him dead?

  “Maybe. Yes,” he said, and then thought, We have to get custody of those rape kits.

  CARA

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  From the time she wakes up in the morning, the day of Laura Huell’s funeral, she can feel it. The medication is completely gone from her body now, and there is something else there instead. Her blood is singing. She can feel it rushing in her veins. Her clothes feel too tight and too hot. The whispers buzz in the air around her, sometimes a sibilance, sometimes a guttural growling.

  She goes through the morning routine of showering, dressing, eating, packing away her homework, as if the air isn’t alive with sound.

  Ms. Sharonda watches from the doorway of her office as she walks out with the other girls. Cara keeps her back straight, her face blank.

  Normal.

  There is a chill over the day, a strong wind moving darkly ominous clouds. It whips at her hair and coat, stings her face.

  In front of the school, a bus is parked at the curb to take students to the funeral. A teacher stands guard beside the bus door, checking permission slips. Cara does not have a permission slip.

  Wait, the wind whispers.

  So she stays back on the sidewalk, watching the bus . . .

  Voices simmer around the line of students waiting to board: a hoarse gasping, a reverberating low moan.

  Suddenly one of the boys in line snatches at another’s Walkman.

  “Hey!” The other boy protests. The thief holds the device aloft, barely out of reach. The other shoves him.

  “Give it now or I beat your ass—”

  The two students face off, the teacher shoves her way through the instantly gathering crowd . . .

  Cara darts forward and slips up the stairs, onto the bus, and walks quickly down the aisle to a seat far in the back, where the teacher will not be able to see her.

  The cemetery is in the hills, not far from the Mission, where the skeleton girl sits sightless in her room.

  Students file out of the bus in the parking lot. Cara stands close behind a taller boy as she passes the supervising teacher, but no one stops her.

  Off the bus, she looks up at the yawning dark entrance of the church.

  And she follows the other students up the stairs and inside.

  At the front of the dim, wood-beamed chapel, there is a coffin on a stand, and a big blown-up school picture of Laura beside it, as if someone has severed her head from her body. She smiles flatly out at the crowd, the rows of people on hard benches: cheerleaders dressed in designer black, dripping with crocodile tears. Devlin and the jocks sitting in the back rows, silent, red-eyed—but not from crying. They are stoned. Martell is there, too, suspended from school but inexplicably present at the service of a girl he’d probably never had a thing to do with unless it was to tease, harass, or bully her.

  And in the front, the pews are filled with clumps of men in dark suits, sitting together.

  Organ music plays, the sound too loud, reverberating through Cara’s body, jarring her bones. Then people get up and talk and talk. A minister. Vice-Principal Lethbridge. Their voices are like the voices in her head. Guttural grunts. Snakelike hissing. One man after another speaking, while Laura smiles mutely out of the blown-up poster, and a mile away, the skeleton girl sits in the Mission, silent.

  And knowing.

  Cara is sure. If anyone should be speaking over Laura’s body, it is the skeleton girl. She could stand up and tell everyone what had happened. She could stare out into the rows of people with sightless eyes and point to the murderer.

  Because however it happened, it was murder.

  Cara looks over the crowded pews.

  He’s here. Of course he’s going to be here.

  The thought is a shiver of fear . . . and a call to action.

  So who is he?

  ROARKE

  Chapter Forty

  Mother Doctor walked the room, looking shattered, helpless. “It’s January now. There must be something we can do.”

  She stopped in front of Roarke’s calendar, suddenly focused on the photos of the relics he had taped to the wall. “Were the things I gave you, Ivy’s things, any help?”

  “I’ve sent the palm frond and the pyrite sample to the San Francisco lab for analysis.” He was still skeptical that there was a forensic meaning to those clues. “But I think it’s more likely that the palm is a direct reference to the Palmers Club, which Ivy and Laura both belonged to. The Wayfarer ring is also most likely a direct reference. Because those guys . . .”

  “What?” Mother Doctor prodded.

  He was silent for a moment. Where to start? Do I want to?

  He finally said it. “I used to work as a psychological profiler.”

  “Huh. What a surprise.” She sat in a chair, facing him. “So tell me something as a profiler.”

  He reluctantly reached back into his training. “Profilers have identified four main classifications of serial rapists, though the lines often blur. The typology is flawed, but it’s a place to start . . .”

  She spread her hands, waiting for him to continue. So he did.

  “The Power Reassurance rapist is the least violent, the type who convinces himself that he’s in love with his target or had some relationship with her. Definitely not the type we’re looking for.”

  She nodded, so he continued. “The Anger Retaliatory type has anger against women in general and is out for revenge. He’s generally triggered by some event and lashes out with uncontrolled violence, severely beating and wounding his victims. He will tend toward short, blitz attacks and is usually armed.”

  “So again, not the type we’re looking for,” Mother Doctor said.

  “Why do you say that?” She was right, but he wanted to hear it.

  “The man who commits these crimes waits a year between attacks. And the attacks are extremely well planned. Which means no external trigger. Also, you haven’t mentioned him being armed. He uses brute force to subdue and terrorize these girls.”

  “Exactly,” he said, and realized to his chagrin that he was acting exactly like a team leader.

  Fuck it. Whatever works.

  “Now, type three, the Power Assertive, is the opposite of the passive Power Reassurance rapist. The goal is to dominate and humiliate. He has an extreme sense of superiority and entitlement. He thinks of himself as a ‘man’s man,’ and rape is a way for him to validate his masculinity. This type tends to be arrogant, athletic, loud—a flashy dresser who drives a flashy car, and generally projects a macho image. He’ll work in a male-dominated fie
ld like construction or law enforcement—”

  Roarke paused, his mind going uneasily to Ortiz. Then he continued.

  “His background will usually include multiple divorces and/or domestic violence. He generally rapes away from where he lives or works. He will force the victim into repeated sex acts, generally in a specific pattern, and he uses beating and threats of violence to force compliance. But this type doesn’t tend to kill; that’s not the goal.” Roarke glanced at Mother Doctor to see how she was taking this. She sat poised in her chair, completely focused.

  “That one is sounding more like it,” she said.

  “I agree. I should add that it’s very likely that whatever type he is, the rapist is Caucasian. The survivors Singh identified have all been white, with just one Latina. Sexual predators hunt within their own ethnic group.”

  She nodded intently with him.

  “The fourth type, the most dangerous of all, is the Anger Excitation, or Sadistic rapist. If uncaught, this one will almost inevitably escalate to killing. In fact, the majority of serial killers start as sadistic serial rapists. This man derives sexual excitation from suffering. He degrades and tortures his victims before he kills. There is profound planning, and the fantasizing leading up to the attack is as important to him as the actual attack. He’s most often within the thirty- to thirty-nine-year-old age range, married with a family, and lives in a middle class, low crime area. He’s intelligent, educated, and usually has no arrest record. He’s very, very good at not getting caught.”

  The nun stood, seeming unable to stay still, herself. “So being very general . . . the Power Assertive type would appear flashier, more macho and aggressive; and the Sadistic type would present as more of an upstanding citizen, not quite such a standout.”

  “Correct. So we have a mixed type, or there are two different men—or both those things.” He indicated the red Post-its. “These red attacks are indicative of a sadist.” Then he made a gesture encompassing the orange Post-its. “But there are many elements here of a sadist, as well. His attacks are very planned out. He stalks his victims by van, and drives the victim to a remote area where he can have complete control. He tells his victim what he plans to do with her before he does it, because it’s the fear that arouses him. He’s very ritualistic, performing according to a script, even adhering to a specific month. But against type, he hasn’t progressed to killing.”

  “Unless there are others we don’t know about.”

  Roarke looked at his Post-it calendar. “That’s almost certain.”

  The light in the cottage was dimmer, as afternoon shadows crept across the valley.

  The nun turned and faced him. “So who are you looking at for this? I know that you have someone in mind.”

  “Several someones.” He paused. “This is by no means official . . .”

  “Of course. Understood.”

  “Principal Lethbridge, the principal of Las Piedras High, and Mel Franzen, the Wayfarers Club president, are both Wayfarers and were both sponsors of the Palmers group which Ivy and Laura belonged to. And, unofficially, Franzen is a perfect fit for a Power Assertive type. Both were questioned at the time of Ivy’s attack because Ivy was on her way to Palmers at the time of her abduction. And both used each other as an alibi.”

  Mother Doctor was very still. “I see . . .”

  “That alibi seems to hold up,” Roarke admitted. “But I’m not convinced. There’s also a group home counselor by the name of Pierson who may have been responsible for a rape attempt on Cara Lindstrom.” He paused, then finally said it. “I believe Cara killed him while she was here in Las Piedras.”

  “My God, Roarke . . .” The nun looked stunned. But not entirely.

  “He may have been responsible for these three red rapes.”

  Her eyes were clouded. “But the orange one is still out there.” She visibly pulled herself together. “What will you do next?”

  “Singh is requesting the rape kits of the nine other survivors to do DNA testing. The analysis of the palm frond and the pyrite sample might give us some clue to the location that Ivy was attacked. “

  “All of which takes time,” the nun suggested. Her tone was raw, worried.

  “Exactly. I’m also waiting for information about whether or not two other potential suspects have any affiliation with the Wayfarers.”

  “You have names?” the nun asked.

  “I do.”

  “I can make a few calls.”

  Roarke turned to her. “I would very much appreciate that.”

  “It’s absolutely the least I can do,” the nun said. She looked about to speak, stopped, and then apparently made up her mind. “Forgive my bluntness, but you’re doing this all on your own dime, aren’t you?”

  He hesitated, nodded acknowledgment.

  “And you’re paying for a hotel yourself? Why don’t you stay here instead?” She spread her arms, indicating the room.

  Roarke was about to decline, automatically, but the fact was, she was right. He was paying for everything himself, as well as rent on the cottage in Pismo, and it was draining his savings. He couldn’t keep on like this much longer.

  It was a little odd, no doubt . . . and he had to wonder if the nun wanted him close by for her own reasons. But there was no question it would be a huge help.

  And there was another reason that he didn’t even want to admit to himself: it just felt right. Necessary, even.

  Because I’ll feel closer to Ivy? To the time? Or to Cara?

  Whatever it was, he was willing to go with it.

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said aloud.

  “Nonsense,” she said. And then her face trembled, and he realized that she was shaking with anger. “How can anyone do anything else? We have to stop this suffering. People have to stop sending me these children.”

  Her voice cracked, and her anger shimmered in the darkening room. She took a breath, visibly pulled herself together. “Now, those names?”

  He wrote Ortiz’s name and Pierson’s on a Post-it, but as he extended the slip of paper, he felt a prickle of unease. “Maybe you should leave this to me.”

  The nun took the slip from him, glanced at it, pocketed it. “Pierson is dead, didn’t you say? And I’m hardly this attacker’s type.”

  But Ortiz isn’t dead. Roarke thought. And he’s a type. A dangerous type.

  She met his eyes. “No one will know why I’m asking, I assure you. I have my ways. Now go get your things. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Roarke went back to the hotel. In his room he picked up his very few belongings, then used the video system to check out. As he looked around the room, he felt a disproportionate sense of relief to be leaving it, for no reason he could articulate.

  As he moved out through the expansive lobby with his roller bag, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “You’re leaving us?”

  Roarke turned to see Chris Devlin walking toward him with a slightly uneasy smile. And Roarke had the distinct impression that this was not a chance encounter, that Devlin had been alerted to his leaving.

  “I’m afraid so.” Roarke stepped forward with a hand extended. “Thanks for your help.”

  Devlin shook hands automatically, but looked momentarily panicked. “Are you done, then?”

  “With what?” Roarke asked pleasantly, determined to make Devlin spell out what he was asking, and why.

  “Your . . .” Devlin looked lost for the word. “Investigation.”

  “Oh no. Finally got a break, in fact.” Roarke took a deliberate glance at his phone, as if it had just buzzed. “I need to get moving. Thanks again.”

  He started off. Devlin’s desperate voice followed him.

  “So where are you off to?”

  Roarke didn’t turn, just responded with a lifted hand, as if he hadn’t heard or understood.

  But you’ve been noted, pal, he thought to himself.

  Just as he returned to his car in the park
ing lot, his phone buzzed for real and he checked it to find a text message from Mother Doctor:

  Made contact with Palm Desert Wayfarers Club. Pierson and Ortiz never members.

  Roarke stared down at the text. “Damn it,” he muttered.

  He had to sit and close his eyes for a moment. He was aware that he was operating on no more than fumes. The exhaustion from his desert pilgrimage was reverberating in his head, buzzing in his veins. He knew he needed sleep desperately.

  “Start again tomorrow,” he said aloud. Maybe the rape kits would start coming through . . .

  As he started the engine and left the lot, he had every intention of driving straight to the Mission. But at the intersection that would take him up the hill, he stayed stopped at the stop sign, not turning, not moving.

  Because for the first time, he noticed the sign for the opposite road: a small marker for the Las Piedras Cemetery.

  He checked the clock on the dash. It felt like midnight, but it was not yet nine. He needed to think, and he was also compelled.

  He made the turn toward the cemetery.

  The small guard house/office was a stone building like a chapel, with an antique brass bell in the tower. More mission influence.

  He parked his car in the lot and stopped in at the office to ask the manager what he wanted to know.

  What he found was not a surprise, but it gave him a shiver all the same. Both girls, Laura and Ivy, had been interred in the cemetery.

  The manager handed him a map with two graves marked with Xs and informed him the gates would be closing in twenty minutes.

  Roarke walked under the diffuse light of old-fashioned iron street lamps, along the smooth packed-dirt paths, past curved stone benches under clusters of gnarled oaks.

  The more modern part of the cemetery was well tended, the grass clipped and smooth. Most of the graves were modest; many of the headstones were simple marble rectangles set flat into the ground.

  His footsteps crunched on the gravel of the paths. The cold of the night was giving him a second wind, but there was something else waking him, too: the numbing finality of the graveyard, the subliminal awareness of hundreds of the dead beneath his feet. A city of sleeping skeletons.