"Please don't say anything!" Lisa was crying. She had been crying for the past thirty minutes as she spun the narrative out.
Brad hadn't been able to sit still through Lisa's sudden confession. He had paced the floor of the master bedroom where Lisa was lying in bed, feeling his shock, fear, and anger grow as the story went from its harrowing beginnings to its desperate conclusion.
"Please don't hate me!" Lisa cried. She buried her face in her hands, bawling.
"Honey," Brad said. He went to her bedside and tried to take her in his arms as she sat hunched over. "I could never hate you."
"I killed them!" she cried.
"Lisa," Brad began. He didn't know what to say. He was at a loss for words.
killed them!" Lisa said. She pounded the mattress with her fist over and over. "I killed them and our child is dead and it's my fault!"
"It is not your fault!" Feeling a sudden burst of anger at the man who had been responsible for the near murder of his wife, Brad gripped Lisa's shoulders. "Look at me!"
Lisa raised her tear-streaked face to his. She had been crying for days, and her face was red and damp. Brad looked into her eyes, gripping her upper arms firmly. "You did not kill them. They killed them, not you. You tried to save Alicia and Mandy. Okay?"
"But I failed!" She broke down sobbing. She collapsed into his arms. "I failed and they died because of me, and I still couldn't… still couldn't save our baby!"
"I know," Brad said, holding her, just wanting to protect her and love her. "I know, honey. But the important thing is that you saved yourself. You got yourself out of there. That's all that matters now."
They remained that way for a while. Lisa sobbed and Brad held her, stroking her hair. He told her he loved her. He told her he was glad that she was safe and sound and in his arms.
In time, Lisa's sobs trickled down. She wiped her upper lip with the back of her hand. Despite the long day, Brad didn't feel the least bit tired. Their day had started at seven A.M., and it was now well past two A.M. He had taken Lisa to the hospital shortly after three P.M. and she had been discharged at eleven-thirty. The doctor had instructed them that Lisa needed three days of bed rest, and had prescribed a mild sedative to help her sleep. Lisa had taken one but had been unable to sleep. All she had been able to do was cry.
"I feel so bad," Lisa said. She looked up at Brad. Her eyes were red. "Do you understand how I feel? I feel so… so violated."
Brad nodded. "I understand."
Lisa leaned into his embrace again. "I feel worse than a rape victim," she said, her voice muffled slightly through his shirt. "Even though they didn't… didn't do anything to me…"
"I know," Brad said, holding her.
And I'm so scared," Lisa said. "And I feel so guilty. 'chat's… that's one of the reasons why 1 had to tell you. It was just… just eating me up inside."
Brad held her, just listening. As much as he wanted to help her, he knew that what she was feeling would have to be sorted out by her.
"I just don't want you to hate me for what I did " she said, her voice a low whisper. "Please don't hate me."
"1 don't hate you," Brad said. He kissed the top of her head. "I would have done the same thing.'
"You would've?" A sharp intake of breath, as if she were surprised.
"Yes." A sharp pang of guilt and shame stabbed him in the gut; would he have done the same thing? Nbuld he have done something so… so harsh? So cruel?
She sniffled. "So you don't think I'm a monster?"
"No. If anybody's a monster, it's those men.* Brad felt his anger return. And with it came fear.
"I had to get it off my chest," she said. "But I also don't want you to… to say anything. I don't want them to come after us."
*They won't"
"Please don't say anything," Lisa said. She looked up at him again, her face pleading.
"Everything will be okay." Brad kissed her. "You need to get some sleep" He glanced at the dock. It had been more than four hours since she had taken a sedative, so it would be safe for her to have another. In fact, she could take two of them, the doctor had said. "Why don't I get you your pills and some water so you can sleep." "
Lisa leaned back against the pillows. For the first time since they arrived home from the hospital, she looked tired. "I could use maybe one pill. All of a sudden, I feel so tired."
"Talking probably helped," he said. He caressed her hand. "I'll be right back."
He went into the master bathroom and drew a cup of water for her and got her a pill. He returned and handed the pill to her. She drank it down with a swallow of water. He replaced the glass on the bureau. He drew the covers up over her and turned off the bedside lamp. "Try to get some sleep," he said. "I'll be in a little later."
"You don't hate me?"
"I don't hate you."
Lisa let out another small cry. "I'm so sorry."
Brad kissed her and held her close. "It's okay," he whispered.
Lisa cried for a little bit, then quieted down. The last thing she said before she drifted off to sleep was "Please don't say anything. Please don't. "
Brad knelt beside her and held her hand, watching as she descended into a deep sleep. When he was sure she was sleeping soundly, he exited the master bedroom and went into the living room to call William Grecko.
William Grecko answered the phone on the third ring. "'Lo." His voice was groggy.
"Billy, it's Brad."
"Brad" William's voice perked up. "What's up? Christ, it's… it's after two in the morning. Is everything okay?"
"I need to talk," Brad said, resisting the urge to blurt everything out to Bill now "Can you come over?"
"I… yeah, I guess I can. What… what's going on?"
"Please, just come over. I need to talk, Billy, I really need help. You're the only person I can trust."
"Is it Lisa? Is she all right?"
"We lost the baby"
There was silence for a brief moment. "Oh, Brad." Billy's tone was sad. "I'm so sorry." -
"Ibere's more to it than that. I can't talk about it on the phone because I think I'm going to lose my mind if I do. Please come over."
"I'll be there in thirty minutes"
When he hung up, Brad went into the kitchen and found a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. He poured the whiskey into both glasses, then brought them to the living room. He turned a lamp on in the living room and sat down to wait for William Grecko to arrive.
And while he waited, he drank.
And thought.
William Grecko arrived thirty minutes later, right on schedule.
Brad ushered him inside. "Want a drink?"
William had thrown on a pair of blue jeans and a white polo shirt. His hair was uncombed. His eyes were red, his features still puffy from being woken out of a sound sleep. "Um, yeah," he said, licking his lips. "1 guess I could. Urn, you know I'm trying to quit, Brad…"
"Have a drink," Brad said, handing Billy the glass he had poured for the lawyer.
Billy took the glass. He looked nervous. "Really, Brad, um… I know I'm a fuckup, but I really am trying to quit. I'm an alcoholic, for God's sakes"
"We both know that six months from now you'll be back to drinking again," Brad said, pouring himself another glass. "One drink isn't going to hurt you. Besides, you're going to need it after hearing what I have to tell you'
William hesitated, then took the glass.
"I have something to tell you," Brad said, walking into the living room. He sat down in his favorite easy chair and motioned for William to sit down. "It's something Lisa told me this evening, when we got home from the hospital. It… it has something to do with some of the… inconsistencies of her story"
"Yes?" William leaned forward, looking both curious and afraid of the look on Brad's face. A week ago, the detectives handling the case had mentioned to Brad that there were some inconsistencies in Lisa's story that had them concerned. Brad had responded angrily, telling the cops that Lisa had been fucking kidnapped goddamnit! She was the fucking victim! Billy had been present during the brief meeting and had calmed Brad down. Later, the lawyer had met with the detectives and told Brad what had them concerned. "They think her story doesn't add up," he'd told Brad. "They say it's highly unlikely that they would have let her live. That they would have killed her."
Brad had responded angrily and the detective on the case, a guy named Paul Orr, had backed off, saying he'd be in contact again the following week. Now that Brad had had time to think about Lisa's story and what she'd told the police originally, he could see the holes in her official statement on the crime. "Lisa told me everything," he began. "It… it's very similar to what she told the original officers, but…"
He told William. And as Brad spun the story out he could see the color drain from Bill's face. The lawyer set the glass down, his mouth agape as Brad told him what her original kidnapper's purpose was. "Oh my God," he said.
'"There's more." Brad quickly told the lawyer about Debbie Martinez, the arrival of Animal, and the cinematographer, Al. He told Billy about the long night Lisa had spent with Debbie, wondering if she was going to be next. When Brad got to the part about Lisa's desperate plea for her life and her bringing up the homeless woman they had run into on the first day of their trip, Billy's hand went up to his mouth. His eyes were wide with terror. "Oh my God, please don't tell me what I think she… she…"
"She told them she'd lead them to this woman and her baby," Brad said. His voice sounded dead. He felt dead. He drained the rest of his drink. "She said they could have this woman and her baby in exchange for her own life. And she offered them money. All the money in our savings account.'
And… and they went for it?" William's face was damp with sweat.
*Yes. They took her in their van and she got the money. Then she… led them to.. "
"Oh fuck," Billy said. He hadn't taken another sip since Brad had begun, but now he drained the entire contents of the glass. "Where's the rest of that bottle?'
Brad got up to retrieve the bottle. When he brought it back, William took it and refilled his glass. Billy's hand shook as he poured the whiskey. He looked like he had just seen a horrible car accident. "Jesus Christ, Brad," William said, drinking down half of the glass's contents. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
1bey were going to renege on their deal," Brad said. "They tried to abduct her in the parking lot of that Coco's, probably to take her back to that cabin. But somehow-I don't know how she did it-she escaped. She got the hell out of there and screamed at the top of her lungs and they split."
"And they got that lady, right? And her baby?"
Brad nodded. He poured himself another glass of Jim Beam.
"Fuck!"
The two men were silent for a moment. William drank down the rest of his whiskey and quickly poured himself a refill. Despite already drinking steadily for the past forty minutes or so, Brad didn't feel the least bit drunk. He was sweating it out as rapidly as he was pouring it down.
"Billy, I need your help," Brad finally said, his voice low and shaky.
William looked at him. "What do you want to do? Go to the police?"
"1 don't know," Brad said. "I want to do something, but… I'm confused and I'm scared and…"
"Are you afraid these guys will come after you?"
Brad felt like he was going to collapse. He struggled to contain his emotions; he could feel his limbs shaking. He nodded, the tears springing to his eyes. "Yes"
William leaned forward. He set his hand on Brad's knee, looking directly into his face. "Listen, buddy, there's nothing to worry about. I'm going to help you, okay?"
Brad nodded. His throat hurt. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. "Yeah," he said, stammering. "I'm sorry, Billy," he said; choking back the tears. "It's just… I'm just so glad she's back and… and I had no idea what she went through and to… to think that… it was much worse than she let on… God, no wonder she's been acting this way!"
"I know," William said. He took Brad's hands in his own. Billy was acting more like a fatherly figure to him than a friend. Billy was twenty years Brad's senior, but he looked thirty."But now we know, and that means we can do something about it."
"I don't know what we can do, though," Brad said. He took a deep breath. He took a peek down the hall where his and Lisa's bedroom was, then looked back at Billy. "She didn't want me to tell anybody. She's scared that they'll make good on their threat. I know she is."
'Thankfully, Lisa has a good memory," William said. He had gained a lot of composure, and his stature was making Brad feel good about calling the lawyer over. "She got names. Tim Murray, Al, and Jeff. No last names on the other fellows, but I'm sure that shouldn't be too hard to get. We do have one full name of a victim, though. Debbie Martinez. That should be easy to trace. If she and her husband own a cabin in Big Bear, we can probably find the place Lisa was taken and locate the deed."
"Do you think we should go to the police?" Brad asked.
"You're goddamn right we should go to the police," William said. Now Billy was looking more angry than confused or frightened.
"I'm scared," Brad said. He looked at William, feeling suddenly flush with adrenaline. "I'm scared of what might happen if we go to the police. These guys have our address, and they have her social security card, for God's sakes!"
"Don't worry about that," William said. "I can get you and Lisa whisked away into a protection program. They won't be able to find you"
"Shit." Brad broke down and cried.
He felt hopeless.
When he gained a little bit of control over himself, he looked up at William. "I don't know what to do," he said, wiping his eyes. "I feel like… such a helpless idiot.*
"Leave it to me," William said, gripping Brad's knee with his hand. "I'll take care of everything. I'll talk to Detective On. He'll probably want to talk to Lisa again. We'll have to talk to her when she wakes up tomorrow. She might not like it, but we'll have to reassure her that the two of you will be safe and we'll catch the people who did this. We're gonna get these bastards, Brad. I'll hunt them down myself if I have to.'
Brad gripped his friend's hand. "Thanks. Thanks a lot. I don't know what I'd do without you."
William offered Brad a smile of encouragement. "I'll take care of everything."
The Seagram's Business District in the City of Industry comprised rows of industrial buildings that circled the perimeter of a large lot in a U shape.'Iwin rows of identical buildings flanked this structure. The majority of the businesses that operated in the thirty or so spaces fell on the industrial side: commercial printers, T-shirt manufacturing plants, auto-body shops, glaziers, electronics shops, computer hardware manufacturers. The office Al Pressman was visiting this evening bore the legend Mark and Sons, Printers, and it was at the end of the lot. He pulled in front of the sliding door of the garage into what would have been the print shop but which had since been turned into a makeshift film studio. Al turned the car off and sat in the front bucket seat, listening as the engine cooled. He hated this fucking car. It was a Pbrsche, and it had a great engine,but he hated it anyway. It was too goddamned tiny. Like driving a roller skate on the highway. When he got his check for the latest job he was going to get a Corvette. He'd always liked 'Vettes. They were not only strong, they were durable and wouldn't crumple if you sneezed on them.
Al sat in the car for a moment. It wasn't every day he got called to Rick Shectman's place of business. He usually dealt with Sam Bash, who gave out the orders for jobs. Most of the time it was routine blood-sport shit. The last job-the one that had turned into quite the gold mine thanks to the Miller woman selling that homeless woman and her baby down the river-had been arranged by Sam. Al had been told to shoot footage that was to include Animal and a woman that Tim Murray brought. That was it, no questions asked. Al had been surprised to see two women at the cabin, but when Tim explained what had happened he'd shrugged it off. Since they had to get rid of the other bitch anyway, might as well film the shit, right? He was paid to operate a camera and catch the right angles and provide the right amount of lighting, then edit the shit down. That was it. And Animal was paid to do what he did best: rape, torture, and then kill people. They didn't care who they did it to, as long as they were paid.
Except this job had been different. Sam Bash had been quite explicit when he told Al that the woman Tim brought was a special job, that there was double money involved in it. Fine. No big deal. So when the bitch mentioned the homeless woman and the baby, of course it attracted their attention. There were plenty of pedo freaks out there who got off on the prepubescent scene, but infants were another league altogether. You just didn't find many of them in the extreme hardcore underground. Al had known of junkies who sometimes sold their babies for crack and the kids usually wound up dead from whatever freak they'd been sold to. Al knew there was a thriving pedophile underground that got off on this shit, and he knew some of them had money falling out of their assholes. He'd seen the dollar signs immediately, so he'd gone to another part of the cabin and made an executive decision. He'd pretended to call Sam with the news, and Tim just about shit his pants when he came back and told him that the Miller bitch was out and the other woman and the baby were in. Later, while Animal was putting Lisa in the van, he'd pulled Tim aside and told him the real deal: get Lisa Miller's money, get the homeless woman and the baby, and get back to the cabin pronto. They were still going to do the Miller bitch as planned. That had made Tim feel better, but then the cunt had escaped. Tim had been fucking paranoidhell, Al had been paranoid too and had had to indulge in some blow to cope. He'd just about had a fit when Tim came back sans the Miller bitch, but he eventually calmed down. "We'll get her," he'd told Tim. "Don't worry. They want her, we'll get her, but I think right now they're going to be pretty happy with what we got now"
He'd explained that to Sam Bash the day after he made the delivery, when Bash called and asked in an icy tone why he had not carried out the job he'd been paid to do. "You paid me to shoot a scene that included Animal and whatever woman Tim Murray brought me," he'd explained. "'That's all I did, no questions asked."
It was clear that Bash had been pissed, even though he conceded that they already had two buyers willing to pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the tape with the infant. That was more than double what he'd get for a normal snuff film. They'd exchanged a few more words and Sam had rung off with a "you'll be hearing from me," then he'd hung up. Al hadn't heard from him since.
In the last week, though, he'd talked to Tim. They'd been paying close attention to the news and there'd been no media coverage of Lisa Miller's abduction. Tim had even done an Internet search and had come up with nothing. Tim told Al he'd been yelled at by Sam too, and he was nervous. You didn't fuck with these people; Al knew that, and he assured Tim they'd be fine. "You gob her address. I can hold Sam off for another week until the money for these films comes in. That'll be a nice pacifier for him. Then, say in two weeks, me and you pay a surprise visit to Ms. Miller. Get yourself a white panel van and I'll have a shot of morphine all fixed up and ready for her. It'll be a nice quick abduction, and this time we'll just do it. She'll be dead and disposed of within a few hours after we pick her up, and the next day Sam'll be happier than a pig in shit. How's that sound?"
That had sounded fine to Tim, and Al had lain low for the rest of the week. He didn't hear from Tim or Animal, and he tried to keep a low profile. He didn't even call Sam to check on where his money was. Then this afternoon he got a phone call from Rick Shectman telling him to get over to his print shop for an evening meeting regarding the next job. Rick and Sam were acquainted, and from the brief conversation he had with Rick, Al surmised that Sam had gotten over his anger regarding the last job. The money the organization had just made must've sweetened them up.
Al reached under his seat for the coke vial he kept in a compartment he had gouged into the seat. He opened it, reached a pinkie in, and scooped some blow out with his fingernail. He took a snort up his left nostril, dipped his nail back in for seconds, snorted that up his right nostril, then rubbed the residue over his gums. He replaced the vial under the seat and checked himself out in the rearview mirror. Might as well get this over with. He opened the door, swung his long legs out of the Fbrsche, and headed to the office. He felt amped up and ready to do business as he entered and paused for a moment at the threshold, letting his vision get adjusted to the darkness. "Yo," he called out. "You here, Rick?"
in the back," a voice called out.
Al made his way through the office to the rear of the establishment.
Mark and Sons Printers had originally been a commercial printer that operated a four-color press. The back room was a darkroom where paste-ups were shot and converted to plates for printing. There had once been two presses, but one had been sold and the other sat against the rear wall under a layer of dust. The remaining floor space of the shop had been cleared away from other printing machines and was now used as a makeshift studio for some of the hardcore S&M loops Al shot. Rick Shectman, the guy who had inherited the printing business from his father, only did business as a printer occasionally. Mostly he used the press to generate child pornography or other illegal underground smut. He also ran drugs and stolen jewelry through the shop. And he leased space to Al for the production of some milder hardcore S&M. "As long as they don't get blood and shit all over my floor," Rick had told Al one day a few years ago in that thick Slavic accent he'd inherited from his father. "You can use my shop. You use big-titty women, you tell me so I watch, yes?" He'd smiled a gap-toothed smile.
Rick Shectman was a man who conducted himself in a casual manner, but Al knew he was a heavy key player in the illegal hardcore community. He was one of the money people. He knew the clients. And he knew the talent. Al, Tim, and Animal had worked for Rick five times in the past three years, and Al knew Rick to be a fair man, but a hard one. Rumor had it that he'd once beaten a customer who had commissioned a torture film with a lead pipe after the customer failed to come up with the fee for the finished product. The beating had been so bad that the victim had lost both eyes. Al had heard of worse crime bosses. The guys back east in New York and New Jersey, they didn't tuck around. They usually had a goon squad get medieval on your ass if you tucked with them, and you wound up at the bottom of New York Harbor with a pair of cement boots.
When Al rounded the comer where the darkroom flanked the rear of the print shop, he saw that Tim Murray and Animal were there. They were leaning casually against the printing equipment. Rick was seated on a skid of computer paper that had been carted back there for storage. He smiled at Al. "Nice that you could join us." His teeth were very white, and Al felt his limbs go numb. There was something about the look on Rick's face, which was usually happy-go-lucky, bright and cheerful, that was sharply different. Now Rick's Slavic features were dark, with a hint of menace swimming beneath his blue eyes.
"What's up?" Al asked, trying to sound casual.
"We need to talk," Rick said.
Al glanced at Tim quickly. He couldn't tell if Tim was nervous, but he guessed the man was; he could tell that last job had been too hardcore for him, and during the drive to Los Angeles Al had soothed whatever worries Tim might have by telling him how much money they were all going to make. That seemed to work at lifting the man's mood. Now Tim wouldn't meet his gaze. Only Animal looked indifferent. He looked bored.
"Okay, let's talk," Al said.
"What did Sam tell you to do when he gave you this last job, Al?" Rick asked.
Al felt the blood drain from his face. He looked from Tim to Animal, who refused to meet his gaze. "He said that… that..
"When Sam called and said that Tim had our star, I related this news to the ddnt," Rick said, smiling calmly. "He was very pleased. Very pleased. Then, when Sam called a few days later and gave us the news about the other one and the baby and what had happened, well… I wasn't happy, but I saw the potential. I ran it by our client. Personalty, he wasn't interested in a baby. But I knew some in the group would be. I knew they would pay a lot of money for it. I made the arrangements for it not knowing… what?"
Al was mortified. He swallowed a dry lump. "I don't understand. Everything-"
"No" Rick leaned forward and smiled. He looked like a Great White Shark; his teeth were white and long, his eyes dull and emotionless, like a predator's. "You replaced the star of our film with a baby. You let her con you into giving you money and you let the bitch go."
"I gave those two fuckheads orders to bring that bitch back when she led them to the homeless chick and the baby!" Al protested, his voice rising. He was getting pissed now.
"Bullshit," Tim muttered in a low voice.
"You fucking me?" Al turned on Tim, feeling himself grow hot with anger and agitated from the cocaine he had snorted a few minutes ago. "Yau back-stabbing fuck, you fucking with me?"
"Who instructed Mr. Murray to release the star of our film?" Rick Shectman grinned casually at Al.
"his goddamn sonofabitch-" Al pointed at Tim.
"You made the call to Sam," Tim said, trying to look casual. He looked nervous, and Al knew immediately that the fat fuck had squealed the minute Sam began sniffing for holes in the story he'd told him. "You told him we'd gotten hold of that homeless chick and the kid-"
"And I told Sam that there was the potential for more money and-" Al protested.
'And Sam told me he never received a phone call from you," Rick replied.'Bad move, Mr. Pressman'
Al turned to Rick. He was instantly sober. "Now wait. TbUs-"
Tim interrupted. 'You said that it was a go. I thought you'd talked to Sam and the plans were changed. You told me to take Lisa and drive her to her bank and make her find the chick and the kid. And I did'
"And I also told you to bring that cunt back!" Al yelled.
1 bat's not what you told me," Tim said quickly.
"Bullshit!" Al felt hot with anger. Tim Murray was lying to save his own fat ass. He'd been called on the carpet by Sam and Rick, and now he was backpedaling to save himself. He knew he had fucked up by letting Lisa escape, and he was doing everything he could to shift the blame to Al.
Rick hopped off the skid casually. He looked at Ani- mal.'1 don't know" He shrugged. He looked at Tim and Al.'I don't know what to make of this shit, personally. All I know is, my client is fucking pissed. You know how much business I get from this guy?"
Al opened his mouth to respond, then dosed it. He had no idea how much money Rick made from this faceless client, whoever the fuck he was. Probably just another closet pervert like the rest of them, but what did he care? Closet perverts usually had money falling out of their assholes.'ihat's all that mattered to Al.
'You know what matters the most in all this?" Rick was addressing Tim and Al. He took a step forward. Tim automatically retreated back, his face showing the slightest registration of fear. Al forced himself to stand his ground. Let that fat-ass fuck Tim Murray cower with his tail between his legs. He was the one that fucked things up.
'You deaf?' Rick asked, taking another step toward them, leaning forward as if he were straining to listen to them. "What the fuck did I just say?"
"You asked if we know what matters most," Al said.
"Bravo!" Rick Shectman clapped his hands, applauding. Al Pressman does have acute listening skills! Let's put them to the test. What did Sam tell you three weeks ago when he gave you the job?"
"Shit," Al said. He felt his limbs grow tingly. He knew where this was leading.
"Wrong answer," Rick said, and then he hit Al so hard and so fast that Al didn't even see it coming. He caught a brief flash of the fury in Rick's face, felt the sudden whoosh and saw the flash, and then he felt a freight train crash into his face and he knew no more.
It was the pounding headache that brought Al Pressman back to consciousness.
The cool air prickled gooseflesh on Al's bare skin. He groaned. His head felt like a sledgehammer had split it open. He was almost afraid to open his eyes.
He was lying on something cool. Concrete? Steel? It was hard to tell.
The cool air against his skin told him he had been stripped of his clothes.
He opened his eyes. A wave of pain broke out across his forehead and eyeballs.
"I think our star is waking up." Rick's voice.
Fuck. Al struggled to open his eyes. Fuck no, luck no, luckno-
He got his eyes open and tried to sit up, but the rope binding his arms to his sides prevented him from doing so.
At first he couldn't see much; his vision was blurred and doubled. He blinked and the first thing that swam into his vision was Rick Shectman, leaning forward, grin ning at him. "Well, well! You're awake! Good, good! Now maybe we can proceed further, yes?"
A wave of nausea washed over Al and he felt the urge to vomit. He could hardly breathe; his nose was clogged with mucus and dried blood; it felt broken, too.
Rick turned to his right. Tim?"
Tim stepped forward and headed to Al's feet. He wouldn't look at Al. Tim reached down and picked up Al's feet by the ankles. Al saw that his legs were bound, too.
"What. " Al croaked.
"Save your voice and your energy," Rick purred. He leaned over Al's head as he gripped him under the armpits. Rick and Tim hoisted Al up and carried him to the other side of the print shop and laid him down on a sheet of black plastic.
"What…" Al started again, realization setting in. "No… what… what's going.. "
Then Al saw Animal.
While Al had lain unconscious, Jeff had slipped into the role of Animal. He had shed his casual attire and now stood in the corner, completely naked except for his black bondage mask.
And the tremendous strap-on dildo that he had fastened around his waist at the groin.
With the seven-inch steel blade affixed to the plastic phallus.
Al sucked in air and began screaming, wiggling like a fish out of water as he tried to escape. His throat was dry, so his screams came out sounding like raspy squawks. Rick and Tim held him down while Animal stepped forward. Al's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "No, please don't, please don't do this, nopleasedon't- dothis-"
"I just have two questions for you, Mr. Pressman," Rick Shectman said. He stood up and planted one booted foot on Al's chest. He pressed his weight down, pinning Al to the floor.
Al didn't hear him. All he could see was Animal standing behind Tim, who held his feet down. Animal's eyes were indifferent, without compassion. It was almost as if he didn't even know the man behind the mask anymore, as if five years of working together side by side had all been obliterated.
"'IWo things," Rick said, peering down at Al. "The woman. He pressed more of his weight down on Al's chest. "She left vital information: Social Security card, driver's license, credit card, checkbook, wallet, photos of her husband and family. Her purse, perhaps. Where is it?"
"My bag," Al said quickly, huffing for breath. "Front seat of my car."
Rick turned to Tim. "Get it."
Tim left his position and went to get Al's bag.
Al ceased struggling for a moment and tried to make eye contact with Rick. "It's there," he said. "I can get her easily. Animal and me, we'll get her."
"I'm sure you will." Rick smiled.
Al's thoughts were racing. He swore to — God that he would never fuck up again. Christ, when this was all over he was never going to work for Rick Shectman and Sam Bash again, period. All he had to do was stay calm and when Tim came back with the purse he would show Rick. The Ruskie would see that nabbing Lisa would be easy. Shit, he'd do it tonight if Rick wanted him to. He'd go down to Orange County and snag the bitch himself. He didn't care if anybody saw him or not. He didn't give a fuck if he had to face jail time-doing time was preferable than facing Animal.
"When Tim comes back, I'll go down and get her," Al said, putting a plan to action. He licked his lips. "Let Animal come with me, we'll get her. She's probably still traumatized by what happened anyway. We'll go down there, case the place out, break in this evening when her and her hubby are asleep. We'll kill the husband first thing, get him out of the way and then-"
Tim returned with the bag. "Here it is," he said, handing it over to Rick, who opened it and began rifling through the contents.
"Ah," Rick said, smiling as he lifted a yellow bulky wallet out of the bag. He flipped through it. His features beamed. "Ah! Wonderful! Driver's license, credit cards, pictures, the whole works! Wow!" He peered at Lisa's photo on her driver's license. "Pretty lady."
Tim retreated out of Al's line of vision for a moment as Rick looked at the contents of Lisa's wallet. Al didn't know what he was doing, but he could hear the fat man fiddling around with something. Animal stood in front of him, looking psyched up for bloodshed.
"Wonderful!" Rick set the wallet down on a workbench. The room grew brighter and Al felt the temperature grow slightly warmer. He immediately recognized the source of both the light and the rise in heat; Tim had turned on the lighting equipment he used during shoots.
Al craned his head around, trying to see where Tim was. His panic was rising. "Hey, come on! I told you where the wallet was-"
"One more thing," Rick said, ignoring him as he stepped into Al's line of vision again. "What were the instructions Sam gave you?"
Al felt his stomach muscles clench; his balls wanted to crawl up into his groin. He licked his lips and tried to keep eye contact with Rick. He wanted to show the man that he was beat. He had learned his lesson. "He said to film Animal doing whatever bitch Tim brought, then get rid of the body and deliver the tape."
"Exactly!" Rick said, leaning forward. "And what happened?"
"1 fucked up," Al said, admitting his mistake. Maybe if he admitted his mistake and took responsibility for it, Rick would give him another chance. "1 know I fucked up. I shouldn't have done it. What I did was stupid, but I was thinking of how much we would all benefit from it. I wasn't thinking. I should have. I'm sorry I fucked up, and I'll not only make sure it doesn't happen again, I'll do whatever it takes to fix it."
Rick nodded, seemingly satisfied with Al's confession. "Good for you. I admire a man who admits his weakness."
"It won't happen again, I swear!" Al reiterated.
"I'm sorry, Al," Rick said, kneeling on the floor in front of him, "but I can't take the chance anymore. You're lazy. You're a weak link. I can't afford laziness." "
"/ told you it won't happen again!" Al's voice rose in panic.
Rick shook his head. "How many times have you told me that, Al?"
"77iis is the only time!" Al said, feeling his panic rise. His eyes darted from Tim to Rick, then rested on Animal, who had taken a step forward. The steel blade affixed to the dildo jutted out like a cruel penis. "1 swear to God, it's the only time!"
"You are right about that," Rick said, standing up. 'Ibis is the only time. And it won't happen again."
*1 know it won't happen again," Al said, trying to sweettalk Rick again to convince him that he should be released. "I swear to God it won't happen again, so-"
"Unfortunately, one slip is all it takes for the whole scene to collapse," Rick said, now towering over Al. "Do you know what could have happened if Lisa had been able to lead the police to you? That would have led directly to me! Do you understand?"
"No!" Al protested, his heart hammering in his chest. "I swear to God, I won't say anything!" "
"Bullshit! You'd fuck your own mother over. I know you too well, Pressman.*
No, no, I swear to God, I won't say anything!" Al was frantic now. He began wriggling again and Rick stepped on his chest, driving Al down to the floor with his weight. "Please," Al begged. "Please, I swear to God I'll make it up to you! I won't-"
"Sorry, Al," Rick said. He turned and nodded to Animal. But I can't afford to have a weak link in the business. If I don't deal with it, my clients will."
Animal stepped forward and Tim loomed in front of him. He was holding a syringe. He depressed the plunger and liquid squirted out of the needle. Tim's eyes were indifferent as he bent down and sank the needle into the side of Al's left buttock. "No!" Al yelled, eyes bugged out in stark fear. "Noooo!"
"Relax," Rick said, smiling. "'This isn't going to knock you out. It'll just… how shall I say it? Immobilize you for a moment."
Al struggled, fighting madly as Tim and Rick held him down, trying to yell and scream. Animal stepped forward and rammed a piece of cloth in Al's mouth as he screamed, stifling him. A minute later, Al felt the effect of the drug slow his movements. Thirty seconds later, he was unable to move. Oh God no!
Tim and Rick grabbed Al's legs and spread them apart.
No! Al began to sob as Animal took position between Al's legs. No, please!
And as Tim stepped behind the camera, Animal began to work the blade in, partaking in the work that he liked best.
The following twenty-four hours was a whirlwind for Brad.
William Grecko spent the night on his sofa. When Brad woke up the next morning, Lisa was still asleep. Brad walked in the kitchen to the smell of perking coffee. Billy was still dressed in the clothes he had worn last night. His hair stuck out like tufts of horns behind his ears. He looked like Dilbert's boss in the Scott Adams cartoons.
"Coffee smells great," Brad said.
"Thanks" William searched through the cabinets and found two mugs. He poured them coffee and set Brad's mug on the table. They sat down at the table. "I've been doing a lot of thinking," he began.
"So have I," Brad said. He took a sip of coffee.
"I'm going to go home real quick and shower and change," William said. He took a sip of coffee and sighed. 'Tben I'm going to the office. I'm going to call Detective Orr and tell him everything you told me last night. Then I'm going to arrange to have him come here today to talk to you and Lisa."
"She's not going to like this," Brad said, clutching the mug with both hands.
"I know, but we have to do it." William's eyes were red from lack of sleep. His stubble looked rough on his cheek. "I'm going to be here when Orr comes over. I'm going to emphasize that you and Lisa are under my pro tection until the guys that did this are caught. I'm going to arrange to have you and Lisa flown out of the city by this evening."
This surprised Brad. "Bitty! Isn't that-"
"A little drastic? Maybe. But I don't want to take the chance. You have to get out of town."
"What if On has other ideas?"
"I'll handle Orr," William said. He took a hearty gulp of coffee. "In the meantime, you're going to have to get ready to be away for a while. It may take a few weeks or so to find these guys."
"It could take months, too," Brad said.
William frowned. "True."
"Suppose Orr doesn't L elieve us?" Brad asked.
"If Orr doesn't believe us, I'll enlist the services of a private detective.!
Brad sighed. He rubbed his face. "Christ, Billy, I don't have that kind of money anymore. All the money in our savings is gone!"
'Don't worry about it," Billy said gently. "I'll bear the costs myself."
"Shit" Brad felt powerless. He hated to have other people pay his way, and the situation he and Lisa were in now made him feel like they were in a bind. He wondered what would happen if he didn't know Billy. He and Lisa would be nowhere. They would have to pick themselves up and run, try to go underground and hide on their own. Brad wouldn't know a thing about living on the lam.
"Where are we going to go?" He asked.
"I'll think of a place," William said.
"What if you can't find these guys?"
`We'll find them!
"No, I don't think you understood me." Brad faced William, feeling desperation rise in him. "I did a lot of thinking about this whole snuff-film business, and the thing I kept thinking was that something so underground and taboo must be hard to crack. Shit, I never thought things like this existed. It has to be so far underground that the average person wouldn't even hear about it. We're average people, so how the hell are we going to catch a group of guys that, by all accounts, even the police can't catch?"
"Leave it to me," Billy said again, and Brad could tell by the look in his eyes that the.lawyer didn't know how they were going to find the men responsible for Lisa's kidnapping and near murder.
Brad drank his coffee, at a loss for words. He felt helpless. He supposed that the best thing to do was to place his and Lisa's lives in the hands of his friend, William Grecko.
When they were finished with their coffee, Billy stood up. "I've got to go. I'll call you in about an hour."
Brad refilled his mug. "I've got to get somebody over here to look after Lisa. I should probably dash out and run a few errands before Detective Orr comes in. Maybe I'll call Lisa's assistant at the office and see if she'll come in."
"Fine," William said. Brad walked him to the front door. "Try not to be too long. If you want, I could have somebody come over."
"I'll be fine," Brad said.
"Okay." William shook Brad's hand. "We'll get through this, buddy. Leave it to me."
When William Grecko left, Brad turned and headed to the bedroom to check on Lisa.
Lisa was still in a sound sleep when Brad checked on her. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. The red digital numerals read five minutes after seven. She had only been asleep for nine hours. She might sleep at least another hour, hopefully. Brad left the door to the bedroom open and went to the second bedroom, which they had converted to a study, sat down at the desk, and turned on the computer.
He sipped his coffee as the computer booted up, thinking. He hadn't been able to sleep at all last night. All he could think about was the story Lisa told him, and'the men who worked in the snuff-film business. And the question that kept popping into his head was Hour could people do this kind of thing?
He found it hard to believe that money would be the primary factor. He knew of some greedy people, but it was hard to believe that people would actually pay to watch somebody being tortured to death for sexual gratification. But then I've heard of equally weird things, he thought. Pedophiles exist. That's a fact. Some people like to fuck dogs and sheep. That's sick as all hell. I guess if that kind of sickness exists, others do, too.
When the PC was up, Brad connected to his Internet service provider, then launched his Web browser. When the browser came up, he typed "snuff films" in the search engine and hit the EWTER key.
The search engine spit out two hundred and fifty-six Web pages dealing with snuff films. The first entry was an article called "Snuff Films: Urban Myths or Grim Reality?" Brad clicked on the hyperlink and brought the page up.
The article in question was on a Web site called APB- news.com, which looked like a news service about crime and law enforcement. Brad read through the article slowly, reading each word as he digested the information. What he read was disturbing and frustrating.
According to the article, the FBI had been looking for snuff films for twenty-five years and hadn't found evi dence of a single one. It also revealed documents the FBI had been maintaining about their search, reporting that despite widespread tales of rape, torture, and murder being committed in front of the camera for monetary gain, the leads all eventually fizzled to nothing.
Brad found the article riveting. According to the story, rumors of snuff films began circulating as early as 1969 when it was suggested that the Manson Family had filmed a murder. A few years later, snuff films were mentioned by a group called "Citizens for Decency Through Law," who claimed that young women were being raped and killed for the pornography industry. The Bureau's Special Crimes Unit, which investigated violations of interstate trafficking of obscene material laws, investigated and found no truth to the story. The rumors of snuff films continued. An FBI memo from February of 1975 showed that an unnamed source tipped the Bureau to the existence of twelve or so snuff films shot on 8-millimeter film. The informant's story fell apart when he later admitted to the Bureau that he had never seen the films himself.
Rumors continued from Atlanta, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, and Cleveland. The stories were similar. The films were usually rumored to originate from California or Mexico. The victims were always described as being runaways, drifters, or smuggled immigrants.
Then, in 1976, one of the greatest hoaxes ever to be perpetrated in the film industry capitalized on the snufffilm rumors. A low-budget film that had been shelved three years previously was resurrected by its producer with ten minutes tagged on at the end of the original print. Dubbed "Snuff," its tag line on promotional posters read "Made in South America… where life is cheap!" The poster depicted a screaming woman cowering from a knife. The film premiered first in Indianapolis, then in New York. "Snuff" purported to tell the story about a sinister satanic cult roaming the country slaughtering people. The producers also claimed that it was the "bloodiest thing to ever happen in front of a camera'
In the last segment of the film, separate from the movie's plot, the supposed real murder takes place. On the screen, a male member of the film crew tells a previously un-introduced woman, "You know, that last gory scene really turned me on! Other members of the crew then restrain her while the man proceeds to slash the woman with a knife, amputate two of her fingers with bolt cutters, and, finally, reach into her body and pull out her heart. The film runs out and voice-over says: "Did you get all that?" The response is: "Yeah, let's get the hell out of here."
End of credits.
Feminists protested the original theatrical release of the film, and the media hoopla over it caught the attention of law enforcement. Pathologists viewed the film and concluded that the staged murder was a theatrical production and not real. The FBI got interested, and the actress who was killed in the last scene revealed herself to be alive and well. So much for the great snuff-film conspiracy.
Brad shook his head as he read the article. Weird, he thought, as he scrolled down. What he read next chilled him. He read it to himself aloud. -There is legislation currently pending in the California Assembly that would outlaw snuff films along with crush videos, which graphically depict small animals being crushed to death. What the fuck?"
Then he remembered something from a news item a few months before that he and Lisa had seen on television one evening after work. A woman had been tried and convicted of cruelty to animals after videos depict ing her stomping mice to death were discovered. The video had been shot by another party, a male, for a thriv- ing" crush film" industry, which were S&M porn films that depicted actresses in spiked high heels crushing small animals to death. Brad remembered watching that segment with Lisa, making a comment to her along the lines of, "Guess there's not much a pervert will find taboo, huh?" If only he could have foreseen what was to come.
Brad clicked on the back arrow button of the search engine and scrolled down the list of Web pages. He saw another link that grabbed his interest. This was a definition of the term snuff-films, from a site called "'Ihe Encyclopedia of Unusual Sex Practices." It defined a snuff film as one that portrays the actual murder and mutilation of one of the actors. Brad hit the back arrow button again and continued his search. The next item that caught his eye froze him. Cops: Snuff films found among child porn. He clicked on it.
It was a Reuters story about a recent raid in Italy. As he read the article, he quickly realized that the APBnews piece had been published a year previously, and that this piece was only a month old. As he read the article in shock and disgust, the words of an FBI agent quoted in the APBnews article kept coming back to him: "Despite 25 years of searching, I have yet to find hard evidence that snuff films exist." Wonder what this guy thinks now? Brad thought, feeling a pit of dread in his stomach.
The news item was about eight Italians who were arrested on charges that they used the Internet to traffic in child pornography, with most of the children coming from Russia. The material, ordered over the Internet, cost anywhere from $300 to $6,000, with the images being burned on CD-ROM. The more horrific the sexual acts the customer wanted, the more costly the price tag. The most gruesome products were coded "Necros Pedo," in which children were tortured and raped until they died.
"Jesus,* Brad said. He couldn't take it anymore, but he had to find more information, as disturbing as it was. He clicked on another link and read on.
The story in question was in direct relation to the Italian case, this one involving a British man belonging to the same international ring. British police reported that Italian detectives, after a lengthy investigation, raided 600 homes and had evidence against 500 people ranging from businessmen to public employees. Many of the suspects were married and had children of their own. One suspect, accused of producing child pornography, was found with a client list that included people from America, England, Germany, and Italy.
Finally tired of the research, and depressed by the subject matter, he turned off his Internet connection, then shut down the computer. He sat in front of the computer, his mind running a mile a minute, everything clicking into place.
Lisa and I are in danger no matter what we do, Brad thought. They know where we live, they'll be able to find us. We've got to get the hell out of here.
Brad rose to his feet and headed to the master bedroom to wake Lisa up.
The only thing Lisa could think of as Detective Orr sat in front of her in the living room was that Brad had betrayed her. After pleading with him not to tell anybody what she'd done, he had gone ahead and done it anyway.
Lisa clutched a tear-sodden handkerchief in her hands and refused to meet Detective Orr's gaze as the detective sat in the chair opposite her. Brad was sitting in another chair, she had shot him a menacing look when he tried to sit on the couch with her, so he'd retreated to give her space. And with Brad in the room, there was no way she could deny the truth to Detective Orr. Brad would simply say, "You didn't deny it to me last night, Lisa. Tell Detective Orr what you told me."
The bastard.
Detective On listened calmly as she told him the harrowing account of what really happened. She thought he would be incredibly angry with her. Instead he listened to her calmly, taking notes as she told her story. When she broke down briefly, he waited till she composed herself, then urged her gently to continue. He was never condescending or accusatory, even when she exclaimed that she had been responsible for the deaths of Mandy and her mother. Then she started crying again because she couldn't remember the name of Mandy's mother.
Brad's friend Billy Grecko was present during the questioning. He hovered near the doorway to the kitchen, dressed in a pair of black slacks, a white shirt, and a black tie that was loose around the collar. When she was finished, she looked up at Detective Orr briefly, then looked back down at-the floor again in shame. "I'm sorry I lied to you the first time," she said, her voice barely audible. "1 was just so scared." "
Detective On closed his notebook, then looked up at Brad and William. Then he looked back at Lisa. "I'll be frank with you, Lisa. I didn't believe your original story one bit. I've heard too many stories like that, and they're all the results of drug binges. That's why I kept hounding your husband, asking him if you had a substance-abuse problem. He kept denying it. I thought that either he was blind to it or that you really didn't have a problem and something else had happened that you were trying to cover up. I knew I would get the truth eventually."
1'm sorry," Lisa said. She wondered if the police had picked up anybody matching the descriptions she had given in her original confession.
"Lot's of times, somebody will go on a drug binge and be gone for days at a time," Detective Orr explained. "They'll turn up eventually. Either the police find them or they turn up somewhere disoriented. And to hide what they've been up to, they'll claim they were kidnapped and beaten up or that they were robbed and had been lying unconscious somewhere. It's hard to get them to admit otherwise, especially if drugs aren't found on their person or their vehicle. We do some preliminary investigation, but if nothing pans out and no serious laws were broken, we usually chalk it up to what I've just described and it isn't pursued further."
"Do you believe me?" Lisa asked.
Detective Orr looked open and frank as he thought about it. "1 guess I have to. It sounds horrible, but… it's certainly more plausible than your first story."
"Will you be charging Ms. Miller for making a false criminal statement to the police?" Billy Grecko asked.
"No" Detective Orr replaced his notebook in his coat pocket. "No need to do that. I should, I've got a perfectly legal right to arrest her for providing false information, but…
"You're going to try to catch these guys, right?" This from Brad, who had been sitting in the chair opposite Detective Orr, fidgeting nervously.
Detective Orr looked up at William and Brad. 'I'd like her to make another statement downtown," he said. "Something more in depth. 'then, yes, I'd like to start an investigation"
"What do we need to do?" William asked.
"Well, I guess we should go to the station," Detective Orr said, rising to his feet.
And with that, they left the house and went to the sta tion. Lisa didn't even have time to shower or do her hair. She simply washed her face, brushed her teeth, applied deodorant, brushed her hair a little bit, changed into fresh clothes, and they were off. She said nothing to Brad on the drive to the Orange County Sheriff's Department, still angry at him for betraying her secret, and scared more than ever for what might happen to them should Al and Tim and Animal find out she'd told the authorities.
When Lisa Miller was questioned a second time, it was with Detective Orr and his partner, Detective Hank Sanchez. William Grecko was present. Brad waited outside, in the lobby.
It all seemed so monotonous to Lisa. The detectives took her down the same path she had led them two weeks ago, starting with her and Brad leaving home jor the drive to Cambria. Only this time she told them about meeting up with the homeless woman and her baby, Amanda. She finally remembered the woman's name, too. "Her name was Alicia," she said. "She didn't tell me her last name." She gave the detectives a description, willing herself not to cry. Then she continued her narrative. When she got to the confrontation on the highway and Brad's arrest, the detectives asked her to describe Caleb Smith. "He was about five eight, big belly-pear-shaped, I guess you could say. His hair was sandy-colored and thinning, and he was wearing glasses and had a thick, bushy beard."
When she told them about the kidnapping she was expecting to break down again, but for some reason she didn't. She had relived the abduction a million times and now it only made her mad. She told them about the conversation she had with Caleb, how he told her he was going to have her killed in a snuff film."l had never heard of such things before," she said, feeling herself start to cry but forcing herself to stay calm. "I couldn't believe what was happening."
Then she told them about Debbie Martinez. Detective Sanchez asked her several poignant questions. "Debbie was beautiful," Lisa said, now starting to cry. "She was so beautiful and… what he… what he did to her!" She broke down sobbing, trying to erase the memories of the sounds Debbie had made as Animal tortured and raped her.
Detective Orr and Billy Grecko calmed her down as Sanchez left the room. When he came back, Lisa's sobs had trickled down. "I called the San Bernardino Sheriff's Department," he said. "A missing-persons report was filed on a Debbie Martinez almost two weeks ago by her husband. They're suspecting foul play."
"Is the husband a suspect?" Detective Orr asked.
"They wouldn't tell me," Detective Sanchez said, sitting down in front of Lisa. He was an intense man, with black hair and a large, bulbous nose set square in the middle of his face. He looked at Lisa. "They may want to talk with you, though."
Lisa nodded. She felt a sudden sense of relief that her story was being verified. She still felt bad about everything that had happened, but she felt a sense of vindication that the authorities were taking her seriously. They were already looking for Debbie, and she would do anything possible to speed up the investigation. "I'll talk to them," she said. "Did you tell them that Debbie's probably dead?"
"1 told her she might be the victim of a homicide and that we were talking to a potential witness," Detective Sanchez said. He traded a glance with On. "Why don't you tell us the rest?"
Lisa tried to wrap it up without crying too much. She only broke down twice-once when she told them what she had done ("I… I sold that baby and her mother for my own life!" she sobbed), the second time when she broke free and escaped. Both detectives nodded sympathetically and took notes. They asked for physical descriptions of Al, Animal, and Caleb. Lisa provided that and more. "When Debbie came in, she referred to Caleb as Tim," she said, looking at them with watery eyes. "Tim Murray. I didn't get Al's last name. And Animal, she called him Jeff."
Detective On jotted this down. "hey took you to your bank, right?"
Lisa nodded.
"Do you remember which teller you spoke to?"
Lisa shook her head. "I don't remember her name. She was little… black hair maybe."
'hat's okay," Detective On said. "I'm sure once you see her you'll remember."
When Lisa was finished, they asked her to start over and tell them the story again, right from the beginning. Lisa protested. "I've already told you twice!" she exclaimed to Orr.
"We just want to hear it one more time," Detective On urged. "You might remember something else."
Lisa didn't want to live through the nightmare again by repeating it. She looked up at William Grecko, who nodded. "It's okay," he said. "One last time."
So she relived the nightmare again. Nothing new was revealed in the narrative. Detective On nodded when she finished, then glanced at his partner. "Would you be adverse to taking a ride with us up to Big Bear?"
*Big Bear?" Lisa asked, curious. "Why Big Bear?"
"Debbie Martinez and her husband Neal have a cabin there," Detective Sanchez said. "That where this Tim Murray guy took you-Big Bear, that is. We're hoping you might be able to recognize the cabin they took you to."
Lisa felt her stomach revolve in her abdomen. "1 don't want to go back there," she said, her throat drying up.
"We'll be there with you," Detective Orr said gentry. "It'll be okay.'
"I… I don't know if I can recognize it." Lisa's heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. As much as she wanted to help the police catch these bastards, she did not want to go back to that house. "I mean, Tim had me blindfolded during the drive. And… when they carried me out to the van to… to get Alicia and Mandy-" She choked back a sob. "-they had me blindfolded. They had me blindfolded all the way to Garden Grove."
%et's just try, okay?" Detective Orr asked.
Lisa took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. She felt so nervous and scared. What if they re back there, waiting for me? — They'll find out," she said, hearing her voice crack. "They'll find out I told you and then… then they'll-:"
Detective Orr moved to her side of the table. He took her hand. His voice was soft and soothing. "You'll be under our protection. Nobody will see you. We'll ride up in an unmarked car with tinted windows. Nobody will see you in the car. You won't even have to get-out."
Lisa was looking down at the scarred table. "1 don't know," she said, her voice cracking.
"Lisa Miller is afraid that the people who did this to her will come after her and her husband," William Grecko said, clearing his throat." They stole her purse, her identification, her credit cards. She's afraid they'll track her down." "
"You'll be under our protection the whole way," Detective Orr said, his voice urging but gentle. "Just a quick trip up, we'll whisk you in to the San Bernardino Sheriff's Station to talk with some people there, then we'll drive you by the Martinez cabin. We'll cruise around the surrounding area. If anything seems remotely familiar to you, tell us."
"But I didn't see anything!" Lisa protested. Her eyes were filling with tears again.
"It could be anything," Detective Sanchez said. "Sounds you may have heard. The sound of the tires on asphalt or a dirt road maybe.'Iurns you may have made. All that can help in determining the location of the cabin."
"Debbie said that the cabin we were in… where Tim had us… prisoner… was the closest one to them," Lisa said, looking up at Detective On.
"Apparently, the San Bernardino Sheriff's Department talked to the residents nearby," Detective Orr said, looking from Lisa to William. "They didn't get anywhere." He leaned forward, the urgency clear on his face. "Please, Mrs. Miller."
Lisa saw the look on Detective Orr's face. He was serious. She looked up at William Grecko, who nodded. Trembling, Lisa turned to the detective and nodded. "Okay." She sniffled. "Okay."
"I'd like to accompany my client," William Grecko said.
"You can come," Detective Orr said, rising from his seat. He motioned to Detective Sanchez. "We're on! Let's go."
They made the drive up in two hours. Lisa sat in the backseat of a blue sedan with William Grecko. Detective Off drove, while Sanchez rode in the front passenger seat. Brad hadn't wanted her to go. He had protested as they were led down corridors to the parking lot outside. She hadn't wanted to go either, but she didn't know what else to do. Fortunately, William had calmed them both down, saying he would take care of everything. Then he had turned to Detective Orr and told him in no uncertain terms that when they arrived back in Orange County he was having Brad and Lisa whisked out of the state to a safe house for their protection. "1 don't know if you can do that; Detective Orr had said.
"Lisa is a victim," William Grecko had replied. "She is not a suspect, nor is she officially a witness to a homicide. She saw some pretty horrible things and she herself was the victim of a kidnapping, but that's all you have. In fact, you have no physical proof that Debbie Martinez is dead yet, and I hardly think that the Orange County Sheriff's Department is going to place my client in protective custody until you find the men responsible for Lisa's abduction and attempted murder."
"Don't give me any of that-" Detective On looked pissed.
But William had remained firm. He'd raised his hand, his features stern. "Will you guarantee that my clients receive twenty-four-hour-a-day protective custody, starting right now?"
"I can't commit to that and you know it And besides, I don't have the authority to-"
"'hen until you do, you deal with me and my rules" Lisa and Brad had watched the exchange with a sense of numb detachment. Lisa felt her confidence in William Grecko's abilities as an attorney blossom; previously, she hadn't had much regard for him, but now she could see why he was one of the most sought-after criminal defense lawyers in Orange County. "You need to talk to Lisa, fine. You give me twenty-four-hour notice and I will make sure that she is available to you here in Orange County. Until then, as long as the perpetrators who committed these crimes are free, Lisa and Brad are in danger. This means they will be under my protection. My protection, my rules."
"I don't have time to deal with this shit now," Detective Orr had muttered, leading the trio to his vehicle. "I'll deal with you later."
William turned to Brad before they left with Detective Orr. "I'll go with Lisa; she'll be safe. Go home and start packing some things. I'll make arrangements on the drive up to Big Bear. I'll call you" with the details. When Lisa and I get back, be ready to get on a plane."
They spent the majority of their drive to Big Bear in silence. William Grecko made several phone calls on his cellular. One was to his office to ask his secretary to check airline departures out of Irvine to Las Vegas. He gave his secretary Lisa and Brad's names. "Vegas?" Lisa asked, looking at him questionly. "Why Las Vegas?"
"Why not?" William punched the disconnect button, then flipped through his personal phone book. "It's close enough to get back here quickly if you have to, and I've got contacts there. You'll be safe."
Lisa settled back. in her seat and listened as William made the arrangements. She listened as he connected with somebody on the other line and explained, in vague terms, that he was "sending a young couple out your way who need physical protection twenty-four seven. Think you can set me up?" Lisa knew that Detective Orr was listening in on the conversation too, but what was he going to do? William hung up, called his office, jotted down flight information, then called his contact in Vegas again, relaying all this information. "They'll be getting in on Flight 817 on Southwest Airlines." He gave the contact a brief physical description of Lisa and Brad, hung up, then called Brad at home, giving him the information. "Have your bags packed and ready," he said.
"You know, this is crazy," Detective Orr said after the round of phone calls had been made. They were in San Bernardino, heading east toward the mountains. "I mean, we're on it. We'll probably have these guys in custody by tonight."
"I'm not taking any chances," William Grecko said.
"We'll get Lisa to look at surveillance video at the bank and get some blowups of the suspects," Detective Orr said. "We might come up with a match somewhere. The FBI has gotta have heard of these guys by now, from what Lisa says they're into."
"Maybe" William Grecko said. "But like I said, I don't want to take chances."
Detective Orr was silent. After a minute, he asked Lisa, "Would you be available to look at some video when we get back to Irvine?"
Lisa looked at William, who nodded. "Yeah. Her and Brad's flight isn't until ten-thirty tonight. Long as we can get them on the flight, sure."
They were silent again as they drove through San Bernardino County and made their way to the foothills and began the ascent into the mountain range. When they reached the Lake Arrowhead city limits, Detective Orr broke the long silence. "I'm going to call ahead to the San Bernardino substation at Big Bear and give them our M. If there's anything you remember, don't be afraid to tell me."
Lisa met his gaze in the rearview mirror. 'I won't; she said. The minute they had begun ascending the mountains, Lisa had tried to piece together what she could remember from her trip up with Tim, but she couldn't. She'd been blindfolded! Weren't they fucking listening to her?
William squeezed her hand. `You'll be fine"
Lisa turned to him and made a halfhearted attempt at a smile. She did feel better that William was with her and taking care of her. But the closer they got to Arrowhead, the closer they got to Big Bear. And with that realization came the sinking sense of dread she felt the last time she was up here with Tim Murray. Knowing they were on the same road was creating a sense of fear in her that was churning in the pit of her stomach.
The Big Bear substation was small, about the size of a small-town real estate office; with a closet-sized waiting room, two or three offices, and a holding cell in the back, it bore all the necessary requirements for a small-town police station. They were seated in Sheriff Dean Sweigert's office, and Lisa was beginning to feel claustrophobic.
She had begun to panic the closer they got to the station, and William had rummaged around in his briefcase for some antidepressants. Lisa gulped two of the capsules down and put her head between her knees, eyes dosed, willing herself to calm down. By the time they arrived at the station she was feeling a little better, but she was still nervous.
The first thing Dean Sweigert had done when Lisa sat down was pull up a chair in front of her. He looked into her eyes, his features grim, serious. His brush-cut hair was gray, his face weathered, tanned, features sharply chiseled. She pegged him to be in his mid-forties. "You are a very lucky lady," he said, his tone soft yet strong. "And we're going to find the people that did this, so help me God."
Lisa nodded, not wanting to meet his gaze.
"Detective Orr told me everything on the phone a few hours ago," he said. "1 can't believe that people can be ca- pabJp of such barbarity. And in such a place as Big Bear." He shook his head. He reached for a file on his desk and pulled something out, which he now held up in front of Lisa. It was a photograph. "He told me about what happened to Debbie Martinez during the time she went missing. Is this the woman you saw?"
Lisa looked at the photograph and choked back a sob. It was Debbie Martinez all right. Debbie was seated on a stone ledge with her back to a small canyon, smiling at the camera. It looked like the photo was taken at a natural park-Yosemite, perhaps. She was wearing a white cotton shirt, blue jeans, and a red scarf around her neck. Her black hair fell to her shoulders. She looked beautiful. "Yes," Lisa said, nodding as she held back the tears. "'Rat's her.'Ihat's Debbie…" '
Dean Sweigert placed the photo back in the file. Her husband filed a missing-person report on her nearly two weeks ago. We've combed the entire area looking for her." He looked up at Detective Orr and William Grecko, then back at Lisa. To you think you can help us? Do you think you can remember the cabin you were held in?"
*1 don't know," Lisa said, dabbing at her eyes. "I was blindfolded during the trip up here, and they blindfolded me when they took me out!"
"There's three cabins within a mile and a half of the Martinez place that might be where you were taken," Dean said. "We've spoken to the owners already. Two of them deny having seen her, and the third cabin is owned by a corporation that's involved in multimedia or something. They use it for weekend retreats. They claim it was being rented the weekend Debbie disappeared!
"Were any of these cabins within easy walking distance from the Martinez place?' William Grecko asked.
"One of them was," Dean said, leaning back in his chair. "She could've walked to the other two pretty easily. Debbie ran three miles every day. A mile walk or so would have been nothing to her."
Tim boarded up one of the windows," Lisa said, sud denly remembering her ordeal. She looked up at Dean, then at Detective Orr and Billy. "Right before Debbie showed up, he was boarding up the window to the bedroom I was in so I wouldn't escape. Maybe-"
Dean moved toward his desk and reached for his radio. "I'll have somebody check it out."
"Does the name Tim Murray mean anything to you?" Detective Orr asked Dean.
Dean shook his head. "His name isn't on any of the deeds to the properties we checked out."
"What about Jeff?" Lisa asked. She shuddered at the thought of calling him Animal. "No last name. I never did learn his last name."
"I'm afraid not," Dean said. He was just about to speak into the radio when a tall uniformed ranger poked his head in. Dean looked up. "Yes, Glenn?"
"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Sweigert," the ranger said, looking nervous, "but I couldn't help overhearing. Um… I think I know what cabin you may be referring to."
Dean Sweigert set the radio down. "Okay.. "
Glenn cast a nervous glance at Lisa. "You said one.of the guys that abducted you was named Tim? And another called himself Jeff?"
Lisa nodded.
"Was there a guy named Al with them?"
Lisa nodded vigorously. "Yes"
Glenn looked pale. "Tall, thin guy? 'Thinning blond hair, looked like he was in his late thirties maybe?"
Lisa nodded. 'That's him. That's AI "
"And Tim… kinds dumpy-looking guy with glasses? Bushy beard, sandy-colored hair, big beer belly?"
"Yeah," Lisa said. Her heart pounded.
Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "You saw these guys?"
"'The other guy, Jeff," Glenn said, ignoring Dean. "Nice looking guy, early thirties maybe, dark hair. Kinda yuppie-looking "
"Yes " Lisa felt her stomach sink as Glenn described the man she could only think of as Animal. A monster.
Glenn turned to Dean Sweigert." the night Neal phoned the report in on Debbie, we canvassed the area south of the Martinez cabin. V pulled up to the Golgotha cabin and came across these guys. They looked like they were leaving and they were packing camera equipment into a van. Neal knew Tim, asked him if he had seen Debbie around, and Tim said he hadn't seen her. I… I didn't think anything of it at the time-'
"You really saw these guys?" Dean sounded surprised and angry.
Glenn nodded. He licked his lips nervously. "Yeah. Like I said, Neal looked like he knew this Tim Murray character. I questioned all three of them. One of them claimed it was the first time they'd been up here. Tim said they were using the cabin for the weekend to shoot a low-budget film." He looked nervous, scared, and sick. It was obvious that word of the crime had traveled around the station. 'I… I had no idea that these " guys… that they.-.
"It's not your fault," Detective On said softly, sighing in obvious frustration.
Glenn took a deep breath and bowed his head for a moment. Lisa could tell that the ranger was having a hard time dealing with this. He took another deep breath, then looked up at them again. "Christ, I feel so sick about this. I had no idea they were the guys. I mean, at the time I questioned them we were dealing with a missing-person thing and… shit!"
'It's okay, Glenn," Dean said, looking grim.
'What's this Golgotha cabin?" Detective On asked.
"It's owned by the Golgotha Publishing Company," Dean told him. "They're some kind of multimedia corporation. Self-help books and videos, CD-ROMs, corporate training shit. 'They're apparently financed by one of the big churches in Orange County. The cabin itself is owned by the board of directors and sometimes they come up here for retreats." "
"I asked Neal about this Tim guy after we left," Glenn said, looking nervous. "He said that Tim rents the place out from somebody, but he never told him who owns it. Neal never asked."
*You questioned these guys? The Golgotha people?" Detective Orr asked Dean.
Dean moved over to the filing cabinet and began rummaging through it. "Yeah, we did. I got on the phone with one of them a few days after Debbie disappeared. One of their board members claimed the cabin was rented that weekend. That a film crew was making some kind of student film for a Christian University."
"I don't believe it," Lisa said. Hearing that the perversities that had been carried on in that cabin were being hidden by the guise of organized religion was making her sick.
"Did you get the name of the person you spoke to?" Detective On asked.
"Yeah" Dean found the paper he was looking for. "Oliver Gardenia" He looked at Lisa. "Ring a bell?"
Lisa was trying to remember. "I don't know. I… I think Al might have mentioned somebody named Sam at some point during the weekend, but.. " She didn't remember an Oliver Gardenia.
"Even though the corporate name is listed on the deed, Oliver's name and signature are on some of the other paperwork, so that's who I called."
"Make me copies of everything you got," Detective Orr said, moving to another desk and picking up the phone. "Mind if I use your phone?"
"Go ahead."
And as the investigation kicked into high gear, Lisa could only sit back and let William Grecko comfort her as she sought to retreat from the madness.
Brad was at home packing clothes for him and Lisa into a single suitcase when the doorbell rang.
He had gotten a call from William Grecko an hour and a half ago telling him to pack and to be ready to leave when he and Lisa returned. William said he had set them up at an undisclosed location in Las Vegas and that they were leaving this evening. When Brad asked how Lisa was doing, William said she was fine. "'There's more, but I'll tell you everything tonight" Billy's tone of voice told Brad that things were brewing and that he couldn't talk about it on the phone. He would find out soon enough.
Brad moved through the house to the front door, wondering who was at the door. It couldn't be Lisa's parents, who were still in town. He had talked to them already and they were waiting by the phone per his instructions. He had talked to his parents this afternoon, telling his dad, then his mother, everything. His mom had gasped in shock, then had given the phone to his father, Brad had heard her crying in the background as he told his father. Dad had been silent, his voice shaky. He'd sounded shocked. He'd asked Brad if there was anything they could do and Brad told them no, not yet, Billy was taking care of everything. He'd call later.
He looked through the peephole, couldn't see anything at first due to the brightness of the porch light, and then a face swam into view.
Brad sighed and unlocked the door, opening it. "Danielle," he said.
Danielle Kwong stood on the porch, dressed in a black conservative business suit. Danielle was Lisa's partner at the law office, and she and her boyfriend often accompanied him and Lisa to the movies or to dinner on sporadic FYiday evenings. "I'm sorry I can't talk, Danielle," Brad said. "I was just getting some stuff packed up."
"That's okay," Danielle said. Her tanned oval face was bright and inquisitive, and despite her smile Brad could read a sense of concern in her exotic features. "I was just on my way home and thought I'd stop by to see how Lisa was doing!
"She's better," Brad said, not bothering to step aside to let her in, which he normally would have done. "But she's not here now"
"Oh. "A hint of disappointment in her voice.
"I'm sorry," Brad said, feeling awkward in his treatment of her. Billy's words echoed in his mind. Pack your things and wait for me. Don't tell anybody where you're going. "It's just that I'm short on time and I'm already running late. When Lisa gets home, we're leaving straight for the airport."
"Where are you going?"
Las Vegas is a big place, he thought. It's not going to hurt to say we're going away for the week, is it? Brad decided it wouldn't hurt to tell Danielle at least that much. After all, she was a close friend and she'd been concerned and shocked at what happened to Lisa. She had volunteered to run errands for Brad and told him numer ous times that she was there if they needed help or just wanted somebody to talk to. Danielle Kwong was the definition of the word Mend. He could trust her. "We're going to Vegas for a week. We need to get away and just… relax. You know?"
Danielle smiled. "I know. And you guys need the vacation. Well, tell Lisa I stopped by and that I hope she's feeling better. Maybe you can have her call me at the office?"
'Of course," Brad said.
"Okay." Danielle stepped off the porch. "'Thanks. Bye!"
"Bye" Brad closed the door after her.
When the door was closed, Brad leaned against it. I didn't fuck up by telling her where we re going, did f? Billy's paranoia was starting to rub off on him. Whom could Danielle tell that would alert the murderous scumbags who had almost killed Lisa? Danielle and Lisa worked in Family Law, not Criminal Justice. Lisa spoke highly of her colleagues; he was certain that if William Grecko wasn't a loyal and trusted friend and ally, they could rely on a number of lawyers in Lisa's firm to help them. Danielle Kwong maybe, or Kyle Bennett. Hell, Lisa was friends with George Brooks, one of the senior partners. 'There was no end to the resources they could tap into if they hadn't been blessed with Billy's friendship. Besides, Billy Grecko was getting them out of town as a precaution. As he'd told Brad on the phone this afternoon, "I don't think these guys will be coming after you, but I want to play it safe. Most likely they're lying low right now. They won't be stupid enough to try to go after you this quickly. If we can get some solid leads in Big Bear, we'll be on their trail quickly and then we'll have them in jail where they belong'
We N be fine, he thought as he checked the lock on the front door and retreated to the bedroom to resume pack ing. By eleven we'll be on a plane to Vegas and Billy will have somebody there to meet us and take us to wherever it is we're staying. Even if somebody finds something out through Danielle-which is impossible-they'll have a hard time finding us in Las Vegas. Billy is probably going to have us in some safe house or a hotel under assumed names or something. We'll be safe.
Brad finished packing and waited for Billy and Lisa to come home.
"So talk to me."
"Al's body'll never be found." Tim Murray grinned. The minute he entered Rick Shectman's office, he had settled his bulk down on the lime-green chair in front of the cluttered desk. He had only been awake for two hours. Last night had been an intense whirlwind. "Remember the movie Pulp Fiction?"
Rick Shectman looked indifferent. "Vaguely."
"A buddy of mine owns a scrap-metal yard in San Fernando," Tim continued. "I gotta key to his place. It's way the hell out in the middle of an industrial center. Me and Animal went out there around four in the morning. The best thing about it is that his shop is right next to an airport." Tim laughed. "There ain't no houses or anything anywhere near this place. And he runs so much shit through that yard, junked cars and shit. In fact, I've done some work for him… set him up with a few films. Anyway, he'd made it clear to me a while back that if I ever needed his services for disposal I could count on him. I called, and he agreed to meet us there bright and early at six-thirty when he opened up shop. Animal and I got there early and I found a vehicle on the premises that was set for destruction. Animal cut Al up… you know… dismembered him and shit before we threw the pieces in the trunk of the car." Tim tried to hide his revulsion as he re membered what else Animal had done before wrapping Al's headless torso in a dirty blanket and placing it in the trunk. He'd seen Animal cut holes in people's sides before and fuck them during torture sessions, but he'd never thought of a neck stump as a sexual orifice before last night. Animal's excuse had been Might as well fuck another hole before we crush him up like a pancake. Besides, who'll know? Strangely enough, Tim hadn't gotten sick watching Animal stick his dick down the gray tubing of esophagus that was sticking out of Al's bloody neck stump and pumped away. He had gotten sick, however, thinking about what Animal had done to that infant; those images came to him unbidden now, and they had come last night while watching Animal violate Al's headless corpse. It had taken all of his willpower to not throw up. "Anyway," Tim continued, looking at Rick, trying to fight back the images, "we just cut him up and put him in the trunk and waited for Mark" to show up. When he came in he didn't ask questions, just moved the car in for destruction with a bunch of others and we watched as he and the first-shift supervisor mashed those cars to little chunks of metal. The car we put him in wound up being mashed with four other cars into a metal cube about four by four feet!
"I surely hope no offending bodily fluids leaked out of this metal cube," Rick said.
"Nah!" Tim said. "Whatever leaked out looked like oil. And Mark, he don't give a shit. He owed me a favor, and something tells me he's done this kind of thing before."
Rick nodded. "What about Al's vehicle?"
"We left it in East LA," Tim said, chuckling. "Left the keys in the ignition. AI'd shit if he found out his precious Pbrsche is probably cut up into spare parts now by a bunch of wetbacks."
"Good.", Rick leaned back in his chair and appeared to be thinking. He stared at the ceiling. Tim tried to relax but couldn't. It was hard to relax in Rick Shectman's presence. After all, that could have been me last night, he thought. It could be me sooner than Id like if f fuck up again.
This train of thought was one of the reasons why he was getting out. After this next job, he was over the hills and far away. The incident at the cabin had been the last straw. It wasn't so much his own fuckup of not putting his foot down when Al had told him Sam changed his mind about the Miller bitch Sam had been pretty explicit when he gave Tim the job, and he realized now he shouldn't have let Al manipulate him. He should have questioned Al more thoroughly. Al should have just fucking done his job, no questions asked, but he was a greedy fuck. No, it wasn't that narrow escape. The real reason was that ever since watching what Animal had done to that baby, and Al and Rick's indifference to it all, he realized that he wasn't wired like they were. Those guys were fucking ruthless; they didn't give a shit about anything. Tim wasn't like them; sure, he didn't care if some homeless junkie fell under Animal's knife-they were going to die anyway from alcoholism or AIDS or pneumonia, right? But that last job had affected Tim in ways he never thought it would. At first he'd been okay with it; it had been simple. Find this Lisa Miller bitch, separate her from hubby, and get her to the cabin and have her all nice and pretty for Al and Animal. No problem. But then Debbie Martinez had come along and spoiled things, and then Lisa had manipulated them by dangling that homeless chick and the baby in front of them. The way Animal's eyes had lit up at the mention of the baby, the way Al had nonchalantly agreed… it had bothered Tim in a way none of the snuff jobs had bothered him before. And Rick… well, that bastard would have his own children slaughtered for money. Tim knew the douche bag forced his son into some of the child pornography he churned out. Shit, the fucker had tied the kid down and had him sodomized by a Doberman for a bestiality film. Kid was ten years old and was a fucking loony now because of all the shit he'd been through. The woman Rick had him with had been a crack head and was probably dead, and Rick's current girlfriend, who normally took care of the kid during the day, didn't give a shit about him. She spent most of her time drinking in bars and fucking anything with a dick. Tim wouldn't be surprised in a few years if Rick used the kid in a snuff film after the poor little bastard started spiraling into drugs and alcohol. It would be just like him.
That's why it was getting to him. Previously, Tim Murray hadn't given a shit about the people they'd used. The difference was that they'd been adults; well, most of them had been. Those who hadn't had been confused, scared, fucked-up runaways who were on their way down. That's why Tim always chose them-they were going to die anyway or wind up as some dirty, shit-smelling, pee-stainedclothes-wearing, rotten-teeth, motherfucking hom~!Iess sad excuse for a human being that you always saw nowadays cluttering up big cities. Who the fuck needed them? He'd never felt bad about using people like that, procuring the dregs of society for the torture and snuff films he, Al, and Rick produced.
But this last one… a fucking baby! That was just too much. The homeless chick they'd picked up… yeah, he could see that, although as time had gone by he had come to disagree with it. Tim Murray had done some thinking about what had gone down the past two weeks, and if he'd had to do it over again he would have shut that Lisa Miller bitch up with a good blow to the head, then waited till she woke up and let Animal have her. He wouldn't have let her whine and plead the way she had, wouldn't have let her manipulate them into turning Al and Animal's attentions on the homeless chick and her kid. That homeless chick wasn't like the others he'd gotten.
Homelessness was just a temporary displacement for her; he could tell the way she'd fought them in the van on the drive to the mountains, the way she'd been dressed when they'd picked her up, the way she'd pleaded for them not to hurt her baby. She wasn't a fuckup, her mind wasn't blasted by drugs. She'd been coherent, sane, and totally aware of what was going on.
And the only thing she'd been worried about was her baby. The look on her face as she'd cried and pleaded with them not to hurt her daughter… it had brought that long-buried memory of what his father had done to Binky rushing to the surface, and he knew that he was dealing with people who were so ruthless, so brutal and cold, that even the death of a baby wasn't enough to satiate them.
"I've decided to use somebody else in getting Ms. Miller and her husband," Rick mused, breaking Tim's thoughts.
"Oh?" He looked up, feigning normalcy. This was new to Tim. He had been gearing himself up for staking the Miller place out with Animal and making a move within the next few days. Ever since Rick had begun talking to him about finishing the job, Tim had been mentally preparing himself for it to be his last.
"Lisa will recognize you if she sees you," Rick Shectman said, glancing at Tim. "Even though you've shaved and cut your hair and everything, she'll recognize you. If anything went wrong and she got away, that would be the end of it. I can't afford to have you caught."
"I understand," Tim said. He felt a little let down about the decision. He was actually looking forward to getting back at Lisa for escaping and putting him through this shit. If she hadn't manipulated them like this, that homeless chick and the baby would still be alive and Tim wouldn't be contemplating a move that might get him killed. Then again, if this hadn't happened, Tim wouldn't have seen Rick and Al for what they were: rustless motherfucking scum who didn't give a shit about life. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"You're certain Lisa saw Animal?" Rick asked.
Tim nodded. "Yeah. He wasn't wearing his mask the afternoon we, went there to make the film. They even talked a little bit." He laughed. "Bitch wanted to know what he got out of torturing people. Lake she wanted to fucking understand how a guy like Animal works."
"Do you understand how Jeffrey works, Mr. Murray?" Rick Shectman wasn't smiling.
Tim's laughter faded. The image from last night and the last job flashed through his brainpan. "No. I'm afraid I don't. I don't understand how a guy gets off by fucking dead people's neck stumps and tearing babies apart with his bare hands."
Rick raised his eyebrows. "Fucking dead people's neck stumps? You don't say."
"Yeah" Licking his lips, Tim told Rick a simplified version of what Animal had done before Al's corpse was turned into sheet metal. Talking about it seemed to lessen the grotesque nature of it.
"Well, what do you know," Rick said, leaning back in his chair and stroking his chin. "I had no idea Jeffrey was a necrophile as well as a sadist. I've got a client who's been bugging me about getting him some necro stuff. Animal might come in handy with that, don't you think?"
"You better believe it" What was the world coming to? First snuff films, now necrophilia videos? What was next? Cannibalism films?
The image of Jeff tearing a chunk of that infant's flesh from its body and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing it as he tore it apart in front of the camera, came to mind and he shook his head. Fuck yeah, cannibalism films were next. That was a no-brainer. Shit, no wonder he had to get out of this business. It was getting sicker and sicker. It wasn't enough to have some gimp like Animal torture and slice up some homeless junkie for some faceless pervert. Now they were getting into using people who would be missed and babies, and Rick was seriously considering having Animal perform cannibalism. Fuck!
"You know as well as I do, Tim, that I don't give a fuck what my customers are into." Rick leaned forward, his pale features bored. "People are into all kinds of weird shit… fucking little kids, letting chimpanzee's fuck 'em in the ass, watching coke whores in high heels stomp on mice and kittens, watching people getting off on being tortured and shit… eating shit and drinking piss… sticking their heads up horses' asses and eating the shit while they jack off, watching somebody get cut up, getting off on somebody getting murdered by somebody like Animal. I'm not into the shit myself, but what the fuck do I care if some rich pervert wants to get off on this crap? Know what I mean? Long as they're discreet and have the money, I'm willing to… help them out. Know what I mean?"
Tim nodded. He'd been in the illegal pornography industry long enough to know that the core audience of this stuff paid a lot of money to obtain it. Show me a man or a woman who works hard at wearing a veneer of respectability and I'll show you somebody with a dirty secret.
"As much as I would trust you and Animal to do the job right in securing our loyal subject again," Rick said, leaning back in his chair, "I'm afraid I can't risk it. She's seen both of you. I do want you to be a part of the production of the film, though. In fact, the client has specifically requested Animal to be the… ah, how shall I say it? The method of execution?" Rick grinned.
"So we're going through with it, then? This guy really wants to see this particular bitch get done?"
"You bet he does."
"Fuck!" Tim couldn't believe it. What kind of sick fuck wasn't satisfied with two good-looking bitches getting done? Hell they'd delivered not one, but two snuff films with some pretty hot-looking chicks getting the shit fucked out of them by Animal, and that still wasn't enough. "What, this guy's got money falling out of his asshole or something?"
"Consider it picking up where we left off," Rick said, his features cold, predatory.
"Huh?"
"We fucked up the first time. We're going to deliver the second time."
Tim Murray looked at Rick, feeling his skin grow hot from the implications. What Rick was insinuating was that there was no additional money involved, that he and Animal were to do a job for free. "We're doin' this for free?"
"It's not for free."
"Bullshit it ain't!"
Rick flinched at the sound of Tim's voice, and Tim felt his stomach roll in his belly. He could tell by the look in Rick's eyes that he had pushed his limit. "Just shut up and listen. We're doing her, and we're doing this my way. I don't need to explain to you why we have to, but-"
"This motherfucker's got us by the balls, doesn't he?" Tim asked, trying to connect with something that would appeal to Rick's basic instinct. "We didn't deliver the bitch he wanted, and now he has us. He's trying to blackmail us, right?"
"Blackmail's the least of our problems right now," Rick said, leaning forwatd, jabbing a finger at rim. "It's personal, rim. The bitch got the best of you and she fucked me. I want her. I want to see her sflffer. My client is rightly pissed, and he's scared shitless. If the bitch tells the cops and they start chasing down trails and even get one whiff of who I am, the whole fucking operation falls apart. You got me? It's not only about covering our asses, it's about getting the bitch who fucked us and making sure we shut, her fucking trap"
In that case," Tim said, feeling the tension ease. "We'll be ready whenever you are."
"This has to be done right," Rick said, drumming his well-manicured fingers on the desktop. "Let me speak to my contact. I'll call you tomorrow. What I'll probably do is arrange to have Lisa abducted. That's already in the works, and I'll need you to assist."
"Is there any news on the Golgotha cabin?"
Rick shook his head. "It's off-limits after Al fucked up."
'Ibat's what I thought."
"I'll have a plan ready by tomorrow. I'll phone you tomorrow morning with details and hopefully a new location. I'll also have all the equipment you'll need for shooting. I should have Lisa in twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
"What about the husband?"
"What about him?"
"What if he causes trouble?"
Rick shrugged. "He'll be dealt with." "
"Oh" Tim knew not to question him further. Rick was probably going to hire one of his goons to snatch Lisa in a stealth move. There was no doubt that she was being not only extra cautious, she was probably too scared to leave her home. Rick was pretty good at employing guys that could snatch anybody-businesspeople who had cheated him, lawyers that had not gone to bat for him the way they said they would, suppliers that skimmed from the top. Rick had a way of getting to people who were cautious and always looking for danger. Whatever it was Rick did, it worked every time.
"Don't worry, Tim," Rick assured him, grinning as he leaned back behind his desk. "It'll work out fine. I've got tabs on the Millers. I'll make a few phone calls and pool!" He waved his hands like a magician. "She'll cease to exist. Next thing you know, she'll be before your very eyes screaming for mercy as you capture her final moments on film."
Tim smiled as he rose to his feet. "I'll be waiting for your call, then "Then he went home and prepared for the upcoming shoot.
Brad Miller woke up late the following morning. He knew he was sleeping in, but he allowed himself the luxury. After all, Lisa was sleeping soundly beside him and they were in a plush hotel room, twenty floors above a sprawling casino in the Luxor in Las Vegas.
Brad lay in bed, his mind tracing the events of last night. Lisa and Billy had returned late last night before nine-thirty. Brad had thrown the suitcase he had packed into Billy's car and the lawyer had driven them to John Wayne Airport, explaining to him what had happened in Big Bear. "We should have a search warrant by tomorrow morning," he'd told Brad. "Big Bear PD. and the FBI will be searching that cabin. Golgotha Multimedia has threatened to file an injunction to prevent the search from happening, but I don't foresee that happening."
The police had informed Golgotha of the intent to search based on the testimony of the victim of a kidnapping and attempted murder who alleged she had been held at the cabin and that she'd witnessed a second attempted murder there. She also hinted at the possibility that two homicides had been committed at the residence. A lawyer representing Golgotha had politely informed Big Bear that they would petition a higher circuit judge to circumvent a search warrant being issued. Meanwhile, the FBI had been contacted and was working with them on the case. Lisa had been driven to the Golgotha cabin, and despite being unable to identify the cabin by sight, she thought she could identify it as the place she'd been held captive. "She said she remembered a dip in the driveway," William had explained as they drove to the airport. "There's a noticeable pothole in the driveway. Plus we poked around and saw evidence that the windows to one of the rooms on the south side had been boarded up. There were fresh nail holes in the shutters consistent with this."
They had tried peering through the windows but had been unable to catch much of a glimpse of anything; the curtains had been drawn over all the windows. There were also spatters of fresh paint dotting the porch, indicating that the place had been fixed up rather hurriedly within the past two weeks. Sheriff Sweigert had tried the front door, but it had been locked. "There wasn't a damn thing we could do without a proper warrant," Billy had said wearily, shaking his head. "We sat there and waited for word to come down, and an hour later it did in the form of a phone call and the arrival of a representative from Golgotha, who ordered us off the property" William had glanced at Brad as he drove. "The search warrant was suspended by a higher-court circuit judge, and the appeal is being heard tomorrow"
After dropping them off at the airport, William had told him whom they would meet in Vegas. "His name is John and he used to be a professional wrestler. He's worked security for a bunch of people. You'll like him. He's already got you set up. And don't worry about the money. We'll have you temporarily set up at the Luxor until John can find some other digs for you in another part of the city."
The Luxor?"
"Yeah." William had grinned. "Hey, it's the best I could do under short notice. It was either that or some fleabag piece-of-shit hotel off the strip where there's no security. John's hooked up with the security at the Luxor, and he's gonna have them keeping an eye on things. Thist me." He'd clapped Brad on the shoulder. "You'll be under not only tight protection, but well-armed, twenty-four-hour protection. Know what I mean?"
The flight had been short. Lisa had dozed, and when they arrived in Las Vegas he had helped her out of her seat and escorted her down the walkway. Their contact, John Panozzo, was waiting for them. He'd recognized Brad, nodded, then approached them casually. "Got a car waiting outside," he'd said. John was in his mid-forties, with an olive complexion, long black hair, and a black goatee. He was about six feet tall, probably tipped the scales at two-fifty, and his fingers bore silver rings with skulls and bats on them.
John didn't talk much on the drive to the Luxor, but then Brad and Lisa hadn't been in the mood for conversation. John drove them to the strip in a Ford Explorer. When they reached the massive hotel and casino, he led them past the lobby to the elevators. Lisa temporarily snapped out of her dazed expression and looked around at the dazzling lights and explosions of activity at the casino. "Got you a room in the pyramid itself," John said as he ushered them into an elevator. "You're registered under the names of Brian and Katherine Hopkins. You're in room twenty-seven twenty-seven. Everything's all taken care of. If you want to leave your room and walk around the casino, press this button and dial star nine eight" He'd handed Brad a cellular phone." hat will get you directly to me or a member of my staff. We won't be hanging all over you, but we will be watching you quietly in the background. I'd suggest that you lay low the first day you're here, though, just to play it safe and until I hear from Billy."
They'd crashed almost immediately upon arriving at the hotel. Brad had made a quick call to his parents to tell them where they were, and had spoken to his father. "We're at the Luxor," he'd said, quickly giving him the room number. "Billy's got us hooked up here and we're safe. He's got a bodyguard looking after us, and I don't know how long we'll be here" Naturally, his father was worried, and his mother had come on the line and begun asking him a lot of questions. "I can't talk too much about it right now," he'd said. "Look, I'll try to call you tomorrow, okay?" Then he'd placed a call to Lisa's parents and given them the same brief message, giving them the same information on where they were staying before hanging up and going to bed for a mostly sleepless night.
Brad stood in front of the window, looking out at the Las Vegas morning. This was the weirdest hotel room he'd ever been in. Being in the pyramid of the Luxor meant that one side of the room slanted upward at a forty-fivedegree angle. That side of the room was composed almost entirely of windows. Such an angle made it nearly impossible for anybody outside to see their suite. The interior of the room was decorated with hieroglyphics; they ran along the walls and doorways, were imprinted on the tiled floor of the large bathroom. The bed sat along one wall in the middle of the room. The carpet was light beige and felt deep under his bare feet. In short, he and Lisa were hiding out in relative luxury.
Lisa yawned and sat up in bed. Her eyes blinked open, puffy in sleep. Brad smiled and went to the bed. "Hey, he said, sitting down beside her. "How ya feeling?"
'tired," she said, yawning. She had slipped into a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top and tumbled into bed the minute they'd entered the room.
"Want some coffee?"
"Yeah." She looked around groggily. 'First I need a shower. I probably stink."
"You go for it. Want some breakfast?"
"Yeah "'Ihe mention of the word'breakfast" perked her up. She stopped on her way to the bathroom and looked back at him. "Gimme some French toast and scrambled eggs.'
"FYench toast and scrambled eggs it is."-
Lisa went into the bathroom and Brad picked up the phone and ordered a pot of coffee, French toast and scrambled eggs for Lisa, and pancakes and eggs overeasy for him. As an afterthought, he also ordered orange juice. By the time he was finished, the shower had already started. As well as Lisa's crying.
Brad paused, listening. The shower wasn't on full-blast. He could hear Lisa sobbing quietly, as if she were trying to hide it. Brad's heart sank at the sound of it. She really wasn't doing so well, and he couldn't blame her. There wasn't a day that passed when she didn't mention Alicia and her infant daughter and how guilty she felt. For the first few days of Lisa's return home she had been quiet about it, holding it in. Then, when she'd begun to break down suddenly and without warning, Brad thought she was reacting to the ordeal she had been through-and what he still thought was her reaction to what she had originally told him and the investigating officers. Now that the truth had come out, he was realizing what a terrible burden she had placed upon herself. Holding all that guilt in for over two weeks, agonizing over it every day, thinking about it over and over.
Lisa's crying cut through the din of his thoughts. He wanted to go in and comfort her, but at the same time he felt incredibly awkward. Two nights ago, when she had broken down and confessed to what had really happened, he had been frightened by her state of mind. He had never seen her-or anybody-so depressed. I killed them, Lisa had cried. I killed them, f killed them! Those words packed such a powerful accusation that it was hard to argue with them. Oh, he knew she hadn't really killed them, hadn't really slashed them to death with a knife or pointed a gun at them and pulled the trigger. But from a subjective point of view he knew Lisa was blaming herself for the murders of Alicia and her daughter, as well as Debbie Martinez. He suspected she was really berating herself over the murder of the baby. Because let's face it, he thought. She dangled that baby up as bait. And they went for it. Oh, they still tried to back out on the deal and Lisa was lucky enough to get away. But she hadn't been lucky enough to save Alicia and her daughter. And now she's beating herself up over it.
When Brad had first heard the truth, he didn't know how to react. He'd been shocked. Then a strange numbness had set in. He began looking at Lisa in a different light, seeing her through new eyes. Thinking about what she'd done was making him question who she really was.
And one of the foremost questions was, l can't believe Lisa would stoop so lucking low!
Followed closely by Don't think that about her! She's your wife! What would you have done?
Brad didn't know the answer to that question. It was a question he thought of often.
He had no idea what he would have done.
Brad approached the door to the bathroom, hesitating. He could hear Lisa crying in the shower. "Lisa " he said, softly, knocking on the door before he opened it. "Lisa?"
Lisa didn't answer. All she did was cry.
"Lisa." Brad stepped into the bathroom and approached the shower. The curtain was drawn, but he could make her out behind it, standing under the spray of water, probably hugging her arms to her sides, head down, sobbing.
"Hey, do you want to talk?" Brad stepped up to the shower.
"No" She hitched back a sob, her voice a hiccup. "No, I'm okay, I'm just…
"Just… what?"
She didn't answer him. She cried, her sobs loud and so ferocious that for a moment she couldn't answer. Brad waited outside the shower until Lisa calmed down somewhat. "Lisa?"
"`] hat?.
Brad hesitated a moment, wondering what to say. He had never seen her so depressed. "Lisa, let's talk.'
'I don't want to talk, I just want to die!" More sobbing.
*Usa," Brad said, doing his best to remain strong, but inside he was breaking down. He felt so alone and so scared for Lisa and her sanity. For the first time he felt weak, unable to do anything to make it all better. "Lisa, don't say that"
"It's true," Lisa sobbed. Brad opened the shower curtain so he could see her. She was standing with her back to the spray. She looked up at him with haunted eyes, her face puffy and red. "I just want to die. If I could kill myself now, I'd do it. I can never forgive myself for what I did."
"Lisa.. " Brad made an awkward attempt at taking her in his arms. Lisa shuffled back.
"No, don't touch me!" she cried. "Just don't touch me! Leave me alone! I'm a murderer! I'm a monster, and I just…Ijust…
"Lisa… Brad felt helpless, unable to offer a word or gesture of support. It felt like he was watching her drown in a rough sea that he couldn't calm.
"You don't understand what it's like," Lisa said, sobbing so uncontrollably that it was sometimes hard for Brad to understand her. "You just… don't understand how I feel… to know that I… I… I helped them kill this poor innocent baby. I led them to her… I… I… fed her to that… that… monster!" She broke down completely. "I fed a defenseless baby to a man who killed her! I just can't help thinking what… what… what she probably went through… how they… how they…" Lisa couldn't finish; she broke down sobbing.
Brad wasn't even aware that he was crying, too. Lisa's accusatory tone toward herself was like having a spike penetrate his guts. "Lisa, please," Brad said. He reached out and tried to grasp her arm. She didn't resist this time. He gripped her upper arm gently. "Please come out and let's talk."
"I'm stupid!" And then Lisa drove a fist into the center of her forehead so suddenly and so ferociously that it caught Brad by surprise. The blow rocked her head back. "I'm stupid, stupid, stupid!" Each stupid was punctuated by another blow to her forehead, right above the bridge of her nose.
Brad grabbed her arm before she could hit herself again. "Lisa, stop it!"
"Let go of me!" She struggled to free her arm from his grip.
"Not until you stop hurting yourself!"
Lisa went limp and sank to the floor of the bathtub, crying. Brad turned off the shower, then knelt down beside her, trying hard to keep his own emotions under control. He held her clumsily while she sobbed into his chest.
Brad sniffed back his own tears. His throat burned. He felt a heaviness in his chest. Hearing her say that she wanted to die, watching as she hit herself, hurt him in ways he never would have imagined.
They remained that way for a while, Lisa huddled on the floor, crying, Brad holding her awkwardly. Her tears slowed to a trickle, and when they did she was able to talk a little more coherently. "You don't know how much it hurts," she said, still averting her gaze from him, keeping her face pressed against his chest. You just don't know… as a woman… putting myself in Alicia's shoes… as a mother.: "
"I know," Brad whispered.
… it just hurts to know what happened to them. And to know that I helped make it happen. That if it wasn't for my own… greed, that-"
Something burst inside Brad. "Greed had nothing to do with it, Lisa, it was survival.'
"How can you say that?" She pulled back from him, her features anguished.
'You were acting on instinct,' Brad said quickly, hoping what he said would calm her down and help her see the error in her way of thinking. "You were pregnant yourself, Lisa. You were acting on… I don't know, a maternal instinct. Your number-one concern was protecting your self so you could save our baby. You didn't know what you were saying when you-"
"But our baby died!" Lisa screamed, sobbing again.
"Yes, our baby died." Brad grasped Lisa's shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "But there's nothing we can do about that now. It's not your fault our baby died, and it's not your fault that these men killed Alicia and her baby. They killed them, Lisa, not you. They did it!"
But I led them to Alicia and Mandy! I traded my life for theirs. And that makes me just as much of a monster as… as. "Lisa couldn't continue. She started sobbing again.
It broke Brad's heart to hear the guilt in Lisa's voice. Lisa was his life, his rock. He loved her more than anything in the world and had been so happy when she was found safe. When she had told him what had really happened, he still felt the same way. He'd been shocked, yes; disgusted by what these men had done and the activities they participated in. He still had uneasy feelings about what Lisa had done. He'd been horrified at the consequences-he wouldn't be human if he hadn't been. But he didn't hate her. He loved her and he wanted to protect her, and more than ever now he wanted to find the men responsible for what had happened and kill them.
Lisa leaned into him again, totally broken in mind and spirit, Brad held her, whispering to her, trying to soothe her as best he could but knowing that anything he said was falling on deaf ears. He felt dead inside. Part of him wanted to break down and cry, too, but he couldn't. It was as if his body wouldn't let him, as if it had turned that part of himself off so he could be strong for Lisa and support her, be her rock for her to lean on.
I'm so tired," Lisa said after her sobs trickled down. 'I'm just so tired.. "
"Come on," Brad said. He helped Lisa to her feet and out of the shower. For the first time since yesterday, she looked awful. Her skin was white and pale. She was trembling, and Brad draped a towel over her shoulders. *Let's get you in and lie down. Maybe some food will-"
Lisa had been looking ahead with a fixed stare, her pupils dilated, fixed on nothing. Suddenly, she turned a whiter shade of pale, put a hand to her mouth, and bolted back into the bathroom and fell in front of the toilet. Brad turned away at the sound of her retching. God, he hated it when people threw up. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to drown out the sounds of Lisa throwing up, trying to summon the courage to be there for her. He made his way into the bathroom and knelt down beside her as she gagged and retched into the toilet. She hadn't thrown up much, just bile. A thin line of saliva drooled out of her mouth. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, gasping for breath. "1'm sorry," she said.
"It's okay."
"1 don't think I can eat anything."
"That's okay. You don't have to."
Lisa sat up, trying to catch her breath. She closed her eyes. It looked like she was fighting off another wave of nausea. "1 don't think I'm going to be able to handle the smell of food, either," she said hoarsely. "Do you think you can send the room-service stuff away?"
"Yes," Brad said. "I'll send it away."
l'hanks " Then she turned over and retched into the toilet again and Brad felt his own stomach churn at the sound. He waited by Lisa, patting her shoulder while she dry heaved, and then he helped her into the bedroom, where he eased her into bed and pulled the covers over her.
When room service knocked on the door, Brad hus tied outside quickly and dosed the door. "Listen," he said, slipping the room-service attendant a ten-dollar bill. "My wife suddenly got sick and I'm going to have to send this away. I'm sorry"
"No problem, sir." The bellhop was young, with a blond crew cut.
The door to the room opposite theirs opened and a huge black man with a shaved head peered out. He caught Brad's eye and nodded. Brad caught a brief glimpse of John Panozzo, the guy who had picked him and Lisa up last night, just beyond the door, and he nodded back. Security. The door dosed, and Brad stepped into the room and dosed his own door to the world of the Luxor.
Lisa was still huddled in bed. She had stopped crying, and she lay with her eyes dosed, the covers pulled over her. "Will you be okay fora while?"
*Where are you going?"
"Just out for a while"
"I'm sorry." Her voice broke, and for a minute Brad thought she was going to cry again.
"It's okay," Brad said quickly. "I'm just going to head out for a quick bite and I'll be back. John Panozzo is watching the room from across the hall with a partner, so you'll be safe"
"He is?"
"Yeah" Knowing that John and his men were watching over them made him feel a hundred percent better. As long as they stayed at the hotel, they would be okay. As long as somebody was around to watch Lisa, he could just slip out quickly and grab some breakfast and hightail it back. Plus, he had to call Billy and see if there was any news. "1'm going to get dressed and then I'll be gone. I'm leaving the cell phone John gave us in case you need it." "
"Okay," Lisa mumbled, dosing her eyes again.
Brad drew the shades, darkening the room. Carrying his travel bag, he went to the bathroom and quickly slipped out of the clothes he had slept in last night, washed up, brushed his teeth, applied deodorant, and dressed in a pair of shorts, a fresh polo shirt, and socks and shoes. He made sure he had his wallet and the room key, checked on Lisa one last time before he left, then slipped out of the room.
He knocked on the door to the room across from theirs and it opened. John Panozzo peered out at him. "Any trouble?"
"None, except Lisa's feeling sick," Brad said. "I'm going to go downstairs real quick for a bite to eat. You guys going to be up here?"
"Yeah. Hold on a second." He disappeared for a minute, then emerged. "You want somebody to come with you?"
"Nah, I'll be fine."
"Okay. Ill let hotel security know." John had explained to them last night on the drive over that if they wanted to walk around the casino to let him or his partner, Titan, know so they could alert security. Luxor security had been briefed on the situation yesterday afternoon, and they'd have plain-clothed security guys watching them discreetly, as well as be under the watchful eye of cameras. "Be back as quick as you can."
"I will."
Brad Miller headed down the hall to the elevators, trying to put some order to the thoughts that were running through his head. Under normal circumstances, the slot machines and card tables would have beckoned and he would have been playing roulette by now. But with a sick wife (who was also in danger of losing her sanity), Brad was worried not only about the investigation, he was worried about Lisa. If she kept beating herself up over what had happened, she might fall into a stage of such deep depression that she could become withdrawn, suicidal. He had to think of a way to help her. Therapy would obviously be the best option, but he couldn't very well look in theYellow Pages in LasVegas for a shrink, could he?'They were on the run, in protective custody. They were supposed to be hiding out from the bad guys. He had to talk to Billy pronto. The more Brad knew what was going on in the investigation, the better he would be able to make a decision on what to do.
And what to do? That was a question that deserved much pondering, which he did downstairs in one of the restaurants over a hasty breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and lots of coffee.
William Grecko was in his office putting the finishing touches on a case file so he could turn his attention back to the Miller matter, when his secretary forwarded a call to his personal line.
He picked up on the first ring. "Yeah, Becki?"
"George Brooks is on the line," Becki said. "He says he's the senior partner of Peterson and Dunn, and that he's Lisa Miller's employer."
"I'll take it." Billy knew George well.
Becki put the call through and George's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Grecko?"
"What can I do for you?"
"Well, I was wondering if you could help me" William leaned forward as he listened. He had dealt with George a few times in the past, mainly in assisting with various court cases. George knew that he and Brad were friends, and William guessed that the reason the man was calling him now had to do with Lisa. He was right. "I need to get ahold of Lisa, and I understand she's in kind of a sticky situation."
"Yes, that's right, George. I'm afraid I really can't go into it any more than that, though!
'"Rut's quite all right. I surely understand the attorneyclient relationship." Billy smiled to himself as he listened to the man on the other end ruffle through some papers on his desk. It sounded like George was talking on speaker as well. "1 do need to get in touch with her, though. It's rather important."
William opened the bottom drawer of his desk and extracted a flask; he unscrewed the lid. "I can give her a message. He took a sip; the rum burned straight through to his gut.
A short pause from George. "It's that serious, then?"
'I'm afraid so."
"Forgive me for my ignorance, Billy." George picked up the phone and William picked up the receiver of his own phone, giving them a secure line. George's voice was clear, tinged with concern. But what in God's name is going on?"
"You don't know?"
"I know that Lisa was kidnapped by what sounds like gang members and was sexually assaulted, but that's all I know"
1M." George Brooks wouldn't have found out what had really happened, not so soon. He had no idea what was going on. "Well, I'm afraid it's a little more delicate than that, George" Despite the stress he was going through, Billy relaxed a little. He had known George for twenty years, and he was one of the most reputable lawyers he had worked with. Although he knew George on a somewhat casual basis, he liked the man. Still… "Again, I'm sorry, but-"
No, no, no, don't apologize," George said, sounding worried and frustrated. "It's just that.. " He sighed. "Lisa was working on the Henderson vs. Colby case and was finalizing the deposition for an appearance in court this morning. She finished it shortly before she went on her leave, and there's another file that goes with it and we can't seem to find it."
"I see." William could detect the urgency in George's voice. Lisa's workload had probably been handed off to an associate and a clerk, and knowing from experience, anything could have happened to the file George was looking for.
"Danielle's looked all over for it and we've called Lisa at home twice," George continued. "In fact, Danielle went by there last night and Lisa wasn't in. We really need this file, Bill. If we could just.. "
The second line on Billy's phone console lit up. The LED readout on the screen flashed: WESLEY cowNS. Speaking of cases that needed closing, he'd been expecting this call from Wesley all morning, and the sooner he could talk to him, the sooner he could close his own affairs and get back to the Millers' personal safety issues. "Listen, George," William said, replacing the lid on the flask. "You can get ahold of Lisa at the Luxor Hotel in Vegas. They're in room 2727. And George?"
"Yes "
"Don't give that number out to anybody. Not even to Danielle." William knew that Lisa and Danielle Kwong were close friends, but he couldn't risk anything right now. He trusted George, though, and knew that the lawyer's intentions were honest.
"You have my word," George said. "I'll call you later. If there's anything I can do to help, you know where to reach me." "
"Thank you," Billy said, hanging up on George and picking up the second extension to speak to Wesley. The sooner he could finish his business for the day, the sooner he could get to the bottom of this snuff-film business. And the first order of that was the court-ordered search on the Golgotha cabin in Big Bear Lake, scheduled to take place this afternoon barring any unforeseen last-minute legal maneuvering.
"Brad?"
*Yeah?" At first Brad didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line.
"It's George Brooks. Can I talk to Lisa?"
Recognition flooded in, and Brad turned to the bed in the center of the room. He had been in the bathroom when the phone rang, and it had rung at least five times before he managed to pick it up. Lisa had been asleep, but stirred when he picked up the phone. Now she turned over and looked at him, sleepy-eyed. "Who is it?" she murmured.
"Hold on," Brad said, placing his palm over the mouthpiece. "It's George… from work…"
"George?" Lisa looked confused, but then she recognized the name. She held out her hand for the receiver and Brad passed it to her. "Yeah?"
Brad listened in on Lisa's end of the conversation. He had been surprised at the phone call and a little scared. How the hell did George find out we were here?
"Oh, that," Lisa said, her voice heavy with sleep. "Its in the center file along the wall, under the label 'D.* A pause. "Yeah" A longer pause. "You found it! Good… okay… Um… yeah… okay… bye" Lisa handed the receiver back to Brad.
"What was that all about?" Brad asked.
"chat Henderson case," Lisa said, lying back down. "Id forgotten all about it." " -
"What about it?"
— Me hearing is this morning and they couldn't find my file on the addendums and amendments to the deposition," Lisa said. Her eyes were closed. "I forgot to tell Danielle where I had filed it"
"Oh " As likely as that prospect sounded, Brad was still uneasy. He liked George Brooks just fine, but if there was some way that their security was breached, Billy had to know about it.
Brad picked up the phone and carried it with him to the bathroom. He looked back at Lisa, who appeared to be falling asleep again. Then, he dialed Billy's number at the office.
Billy picked up on the second ring. "Brad?"
"Yeah. I just got a call from George Brooks. Did you-"
"He called here and I gave him your number," Billy said; he sounded busy, under pressure. "It's okay."
"Are you sure?"
"He wanted to talk to Lisa about a file, a legal case, right?"
"Yeah."
"Listen, I know how you feel." Brad could hear Billy rummaging on his desk. "I know you're nervous about this, but I guarantee you that George is okay. I mean, shit, I've known the man for over twenty years!"
"I'm sorry," Brad said, feeling his heart pound. "It's just that.. "
"I didn't tell him what was going on," Billy said. "He knows not to let anybody at the office know where you are. He's a professional, Brad. Trust me on this, okay?"
Brad sighed and nodded. Much as he hated it, he had to put all his faith and trust in Billy right now. George Brooks was one of the first people Brad had wanted to go to for legal advice when Lisa had originally turned up safe. No doubt George already knew the original story. Besides, the man had a wife and two children; he was involved in the community, in local charities. He wouldn't jeopardize his career, his life, for violating attorney-client privileges. Surely he'd recognize and respect that Billy was representing them.
"I'm sorry, Billy. I guess I just got a little carried away."
"S'okay," Billy said. 'Paranoia is healthy in this case. You have nothing to worry about. George and I are the only ones who know where you are!
"And our parents."
"And your parents."
'And your security team."
'"Them too. You see them this morning?"
"Yeah" Brad related the episode this morning when he had to send the room-service food away. He briefly thought about mentioning Danielle Kwong to Billy, but then decided he didn't need to. He'd only told Danielle they were going to Las Vegas; he didn't tell her where they were staying. "John and his guys are parked right across from us, and we have a hotline straight to them via the cell phone he gave us. We're fine."
"Good. John's one of the best. Plus, you're in one of the biggest, busiest hotels in Las Vegas. Nothing's going to happen to you there. You're in, like, a fort in the middle of the desert."
Brad felt a little better. He sat down on the toilet, cradling the phone. Hearing that made him feel more secure. Billy was right. John was a big man, easily over six feet, and his partner, Titan, was even bigger. Both men came from public and private law-enforcement backgrounds, held black belts in various martial arts. Plus, they were in charge of the entire security force at the Luxor. Nobody was going to fuck with them. "What's the latest?"
"I'm leaving in ten minutes for an appearance at the San Bernardino Sheriff's Station," Billy said. The DAs in court now on the search warrant issue, and I expect to hear something on my way up. I'm hoping we get the search warrant so I won't have to drive all the way the fuck back."
"Do you think they'll overturn it?"
"No doubt of that. DAs got probable cause, which is all they need. The Golgotha people don't have a leg to stand on, legally."
"So what happens next?"
"We search the place and take it from there," Billy said. "If we find anything-and I mean anything-that points to foul play in that place, arrest warrants are going out to all the guys on Golgotha's board of directors. If they want to avoid going to prison, they'll talk."
Brad's mind was racing, tracking back to the story Lisa had told him. "Do you think these guys had anything to do with this?"
"I don't know. They might, but I just don't know. There's always the possibility they could have been renting it out to this Tim Murray guy and they had no idea what Tim was using it for. On the other hand, if they know something, we're going to make them talk."
"Call me first thing you find out," Brad said.
"You bet."
They hung up and Brad walked back into the room and put the phone back on the nightstand. Lisa was asleep again, curled up on her left side.
Brad watched her sleep for a moment, noting the drawn look on her sleeping countenance, the way the skin on her forehead was furrowed in worry lines. The room was dark, slivers of light escaping through the blinds that were dosed against the heat of the day. Brad checked his watch. It was only ten-thirty, with the rest of the day to follow.
Brad climbed onto the bed, sat up against the headboard. He turned the television on and thumbed the volume down. He spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon channel surfing, his mind on autopilot, most of his energy going toward taking care of his wife as she slept and tried to keep the demons at bay.
William Grecko was present at the Golgotha cabin as the search commenced.
He had received the news halfway up the mountain. One of the DAs, Bruce Davis, had made the call. Billy had given a small shout of victory at the news. The court order is being sent to San Bernardino now, so meet me at the cabin," Bruce had said.
William drove straight to the cabin, where he met four deputies and a homicide unit search team. A Golgotha representative was also present, and he didn't look too happy. He'd remained sullen as he followed the search team through the cabin; making it well-known that he wasn't pleased. Billy smirked as he caught the man glancing at him. Fucking weasel, he thought. These church people are all a bunch of fucking weasels.
There were four homicide detectives present. They made a quick inspection of the interior of the cabin. William had waited outside with one of the deputies, making small talk as the search went on. The forensics team showed up a few minutes into the search, and a trio of white haz-mat-suited figures entered the cabin. Billy turned to the deputy. 'They surely didn't waste time in bringing these guys in, did they?"
"Don't get your hopes up," the deputy replied, staring at the cabin. The deputy was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and eyes and a slim build. "We don't have much to go on in there. One of the rooms has just been repainted. If there's anything to be found, it'll be in that room, and these guys'll be the ones that find it."
Billy nodded; he had figured that the minute he saw the techs walk in with their equipment. Lisa had said the place had been barren of furniture, that Tim and that Al guy had covered the floors and walls with plastic sheets before they started torturing Debbie Martinez. They would be lucky if they found a single drop of blood in the place. And they surely weren't going to waste immediate time in digging up the grounds around the house. No telling where the bodies might have been taken. They were looking for the smallest amount of evidence they could find. Anything would do. A drop of blood, a smudge of a fingerprint, a hair. They would find it.
William was sure of it.
Six-thirty PM.
Lisa had been up for the last two hours, staring morosely at the TV as talk shows rolled on. Oprah was conversing with the author of a new political thriller. Brad had brought Lisa a glass of water and had encouraged her to eat a couple of crackers, which she'd nibbled on. She had to get some nutrition in her, but he knew that she couldn't handle food right now She was still in that state of nausea, and he didn't want to induce another round of vomiting. Slow and easy was the ticket.
At least she had allowed him to open the blinds a little. The early-evening sun spilled streaks of gold through the window, bringing in some heat. Brad had the air conditioner set at a comfortable level. He had spent the last few hours watching TV and reading the newspaper, which had been left outside their door this morning, courtesy of the hotel. Lisa's parents had called around noon, and Lisa had risen long enough to talk with them and assure them she was okay. Brad told them he would call as soon as he heard from Billy Grecko, which should be any minute. Both sets of parents were in a state of panic, and Brad could only imagine the anguish they were going through. It had been Billy's idea to keep the lines of communication between their parents open, including telling them the truth of Lisa's kidnapping. The best thing Brad could think of to keep their fears at bay was to talk to them every six hours or so, assure them they were fine and that they were holding up well under the circumstances.
At the same time, Brad knew that Lisa needed to get some serious professional help. She had spent most of the morning and early afternoon in a deep sleep, and now that she was awake she had been sitting in a vegetative state in front of the TV, talking only when he asked her something. The blows she had rent upon herself earlier that morning had left bruises along the right side of her face. Brad had fidgeted, torn between wanting to call somebody to help her-maybe get his parents or one of their friends back home to summon a good shrink over to Vegas to get Lisa into therapy or something-but he couldn't. They were trapped in one of the most popular luxury hotels in Las Vegas, under the watchful eye of the security experts Billy Grecko was connected to, until the people responsible for Lisa's abduction and near murder were apprehended. Until then, he felt powerless.
Then the phone rang.
Brad picked it up on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Billy here." Brad could detect the strain in Billy's voice. His stomach plunged down an elevator shaft.
"Yeah, Billy." Brad tried to keep his voice calm.
"We didn't find anything." At the confirmation, Brad's spirits sagged. He glanced at Lisa, who didn't appear aware that Brad was on the phone. "We tore that place apart. Looked through the house from top to bottom. The forensic guys went over every square inch of the room Lisa described and took some samples, but they didn't look too happy. They don't think they've found anything. Motherfuckers painted the goddamn room!"
"What?" Brad's mouth went dry.
"They painted it," William said again, spitting the words out in disgust. "There's a fresh coat of white paint covering the room, even the ceiling. Even the goddamn floor is painted. Motherfuckers even laid down brand-new shag carpeting!"
Brad felt himself slump. Any DNA evidence that might have been in that room was now contaminated. "What about the rest of the place?"
"Couldn't find anything. We went through the whole house. Best we could come up with were some shoe impressions left in the dirt along the driveway and the side of the house."
"the bedroom window-"
"Showed signs that suggested it might have been boarded up, but that's it." Billy sounded pissed off. Judging by the echo, it sounded like Billy was calling from his car phone. 'There were fresh nail holes in the side paneling bordering the window. No signs of the boards or the nails used. One of the detectives said there's very little we can go on."
"What about the property the house is on?" Brad was trying to think of any lead they could pursue. "Tbe surrounding area? Maybe they just haven't looked far enough."
"We searched the property and some of the surrounding area," Billy continued. "Got two sets of tire tracks and the FBI is trying to come up with a match, but that's a long shot, too. Couldn't find anything in the woods beyond the cabin. Even had a search team make the mile hike along the path Debbie Martinez normally took on her walks, but they didn't find anything."
"Shit!" Brad could feel the room dosing in on him.
"Detectives are questioning Oliver Gardenia, the man whose name appears on the deed as being an officer in the Golgotha Corporation. He appears to have an airtight alibi. He's already provided documented evidence supporting his claim that he was in New York the weekend Lisa was kidnapped. Plus, he doesn't resemble the description of the men that kidnapped her."
Brad didn't know what to say. Lisa was unresponsive, still watching TV. Oprah had given way to Jerry Springer. A pair of white-trash couples began immediately verbally assaulting each other the minute the show started.
William continued with the bad news. All the criminal checks we've run on potential suspects have turned up nothing. Tim Murray doesn't have a criminal record. A check through the DMV brings up several Tim Murrays, but they don't resemble the suspect Lisa described."
"He told her that he had gained weight and grown a beard to pull her kidnapping off so he wouldn't be recognized!" Brad hissed, now suddenly angry. Goddamn it, why were they beating around the bush on this? "He altered his appearance. Why can't you just show us some photos and-"
"We can't just pull DMV records on people without a criminal history based on lack of evidence." William sounded just as frustrated as Brad was feeling. "Besides, we got teams of detectives tracking these guys now for questioning."
"So what are we supposed to do?"
William sighed. Brad waited for him to continue. He got up and headed to the bathroom again, where the conversation could be somewhat private. "What about the other guy, this Al?"
"We found a guy in the DMV records that matches the name and description and sent a team of detectives to question him," Billy said. "They haven't been able to locate him."
"What about the surveillance tape at the Bank of America?"
"We're working on that now," Billy said, and the first strains of optimism crept into his voice. "In fact, that's our biggest lead. Huntington Beach PD reports that they were able to get a good blowup of the man who accompanied Lisa into the bank. They're putting it over the wires today."
"is there any way to check the description with the name Lisa gave?"
"All we know is that his name is Jeff." Billy sounded depressed again. "We've got no last name. That's not enough to go by."
The claustrophobic feeling tightened. There was no way these men were going to let this go. Even if they had no criminal records, they knew that law enforcement would be on their trail. That's why they had tried to kill Lisa after forcing her to withdraw her and Brad's life savings. Only Lisa had escaped with her life, barely. It had been two weeks since the nightmare began. Surely, if they were going to come after them they would have done so by now. Unless-
"You say you can't find this Al guy?" Brad asked.
"Yeah," Billy said. "LAPD detectives didn't find him at his home, and his neighbors haven't seen him for at least a week!
Brad's mind was racing. Wasn't Al one of the men who had threatened Lisa? "He's coming after us," he said. 'That's why you can't find him. He and the other two are coming after us and-"
"And you're safe," Billy soothed. "Just stay where you are. We're gonna get them. How's Lisa doing?"
Brad looked out the bathroom door, the sound of the television welling in the background. "Not so good. She's… she's all… she…" Brad's voice was shaky. "She needs help, Billy. She's so… so depressed and so… she's just so down that I'm afraid for her sanity. I think she's suicidal. She needs help."
"We're gonna get her help, buddy," Billy said. "Don't worry about that!
"No, I mean she needs help now." Brad gripped the receiver, trying to control his emotions. He described Lisa's outburst this morning, how she wished it had been her who had been killed instead of Mandy and Alicia. How the thought of what Jeff had probably done to that baby tore her up inside, how she wished she were dead because of her actions. He described the pain he felt as he watched his wife punch herself in the face repeatedly, punishing herself. "She's really, really in a deep state of depression, Billy," Brad said, and now his voice did crack. "She's been sleeping all day, and now she just sits in front of the TV like a goddamned vegetable. She looks like she's in shock or something. She won't talk and I… I'm trying to give her space to work it out, but… I'm afraid its gone beyond that. I really think she needs to be in a hospital"
%et me make some calls," William said,"and if I can get her in somewhere nearby I'll have her admitted. Okay?"
Brad nodded, fighting the tears streaming down his face. "O-kay, Billy. 'ITS-thanks"
And hang tight; Billy said. "We're doing everything we can. We're gonna find these guys.'
"Okay, Billy."
"I'll call you later if I can get Lisa into a hospital somewhere, okay? In the meantime, stay put. You need anything, you let John know."
When Brad hung up he sat on the toilet seat for a moment, still fighting back the tears. Then he stood up and carried the phone back into the room. Lisa was still sitting up in bed, staring at theTV, her eyes glazed over. He set the telephone on the nightstand, looked at his wife. "I love you, Lisa."
Lisa stared at the TV; it was as if she had never heard him.
And then Brad did break down and he sank to his knees, arms cradling his head as he slumped against the bed, and he cried heart-wrenching sobs at Lisa's feet. Lisa stared at the TV in a daze, watching as Jerry Springer encouraged familial violence to take place on his show.
Sunsets in the deserts were beautiful.
Tim Murray had just reached a crest in the hill he was hiking, and he paused to watch the sky turn red on his way back to where he had parked his SW, which he had gotten at the scrap-metal yard the night they disposed of Al, where it had been marked for destruction. A light breeze ruffled his hair, now cut closer to his scalp. He had shaved his beard off last night, revealing a face that was slightly cherubic, with pinkish skin. He had also changed eyeglass styles, wearing a pair of wire-rims that helped accent his face. He looked like a very different man from the one who had kidnapped Lisa Miller two weeks ago.
The SUV was another quarter of a mile south along a remote trail. There was still enough sunlight left in the day to get him back to the vehicle. Then it was a trip back to Las Vegas and the motel he was staying in for the night near Circus Circus, on the other end of the strip. All his equipment was back at the room, behind locked doors. He wouldn't need much for the job tomorrow. Just one camcorder and that was it. No lights, no boom mikes, not even any plastic tarp to roll away the body and catch the flying blood.
The weather forecast for tomorrow afternoon was calling for a storm.
'Iim Murray grinned. Today's late-afternoon drive had been a scouting expedition. When he had gotten the call early this morning to get his ass to Las Vegas and prepare for filming, he knew he had to do some fast thinking. Rick Shectman had warned him that if he blew this one that he would end up worse than Al. Tim believed himhell, he'd seen what Animal had done to Al, and knew the sadist wouldn't care about doing the same to himbut he wasn't afraid. He was confident in his abilities; he knew that the desert outside of Las Vegas was the perfect stage for a snuff film, and it was just a matter of doing some exploring to find the right remote spot. The weather report only boosted his confidence. Not only was rain expected, but wind as well. It could very well turn into a sandstorm. What better way to fuck up DNA evidence and scatter a body?
Tim laughed. He looked back down at the boulders, where he decided they should film tomorrow. He had found this spot twelve miles away from a secondary road; the dirt trail had led northeast, and there had been no signs of civilization. When Tim had seen the small rise he had pulled over and begun the hike, telling himself he would only go out for a mile or so. A quarter of a mile in, he had come upon the little canyon. Away from prying eyes. Tomorrow they wouldn't have to hike this far back-they could bring her here in the SUV The storm would erase tire tracks, too. Ha
Tim Murray clambered down the rocks, heading back down to the desert floor. He didn't think Rick suspected that he was planning on leaving the business. Tim had made the decision last night after his meeting with the producer and hearing his indifference to the fact that he'd produced a film in which Animal had murdered an infant and was thinking of using the sadist to indulge in similar atrocities for the pedophile underworld he'd sold the film to. Tim knew from experience it would only get worse. 1 wenty years ago, producing a snuff film was something he thought he'd never be involved in. Sure, he'd heard the rumors before. When you worked in underground pornography you heard the stories, but you never saw the actual product. Then, fifteen years ago, he'd actually seen his first one, at a private party. It had been old, an 8 MM reel shot in Mexico. Not too long after that, the party's host had asked Rick Shectman if he could make him one, and Rick had agreed and asked Tim for his assistance. And being that Tim knew so many people nobody would care about if they went missing, and because the money dangled in front of him was too good to pass up, he'd said yes.
But f never agreed to kill innocent babies, he thought as he trudged through the desert, the warm wind blowing at his back. Junkie fuckups that cause nothing but trouble to society are one thing… babies are another. That was something people like Rick Shectman didn't understand. And that was why Tim Murray wanted no part of it. Maybe I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought. Fuck, twenty years ago you couldn't find anal scenes in mainstream porn, and now it's a mainstay. Nowadays people are paying to watch videos of chicks throwing up. People are getting more bizarre in their fetishes. And the underground is getting more hardcore. That first snuff film he'd seen had merely shown a woman being raped and strangled by two men on camera, their faces hidden by masks. Violent, yes, but not perversely so. Now Rick wasn't satisfied with a snuff film unless Animal sadistically tortured the person. Now the bar was being raised even higher by using chicks that looked like models, by using babies and children, and the fact that Rick was entertaining the thought of having Animal do a necrophilia or cannibalism film. Tim wanted no part of it. After this job was over, he was finished.
The rays of the dying sun beat upon the back of Tim's neck. As he reached the desert floor, he heard the light churr of rattlesnakes rattling their tails, agitated that he was nearby. Tim stepped carefully down the path he had taken, being careful not to step near rocks or plants or gopher holes. They wouldn't have to worry about wildlife tomorrow afternoon in the heat of the day. It would just be the three of them: he, Animal, and Lisa.
He still didn't know how they were going to get Lisa out here. Rick had told him he was working on that now, but to stay by the phone in his room; there was a good possibility his services might still be needed in assisting in the actual abduction. All Rick had asked of him in his original phone call was to make sure Animal was in Las Vegas by tomorrow morning. 'Choose a location, then have Jeff picked up at the airport tomorrow morning at eight. When you've picked out the location, call me. Make sure you and Animal are ready.' Tim had assured Rick that he wouldn't let him down.
Tim was glad he wouldn't have to worry too much about abducting the bitch this time. Rick didn't elaborate, but Tim guessed he was relying on his contacts on the East Coast to fly somebody in to assist in the actual abduction. How they were going to do it Mm didn't know, but it was out of his hands. He had one job, and one job only. Running the camera.
And by tomorrow evening at this time they would have it. On film.
And if the weather held up, everything elseincluding what was left of Lisa Miller after Animal was finished with her-would be washed away. By the following day, Tim would have his money, including his share of the bonus Rick had gotten out of the pedophilia group in the Pacific Northwest who had paid for the footage of the baby, and then he would begin thinking about his next plan.
First item on the agenda: Completely disappear. Change his identity.
Then, when he felt safe and set up in a location nobody in the business would even think of looking for him, start thinking of a way to snare Rick Shectman and Animal under the cross-hairs of the federal authorities.
He could do it. He was pretty confident that if the cops could get to Rick, surprise him somehow, they would have all the evidence they needed in Shectman's records. They could find the clients who had bought the baby snuff film, and sweeping arrests would be made. Tim would make a deal-he'd spill the beans on the whole operation in exchange for total immunity from prosecution and witness protection.
But he'd only do it if he was one hundred percent confident he could get such a deal. He'd do some sniffing around first under his new identity. If it appeared that he couldn't make such a deal, he'd find another way to expose the group. Make an anonymous call or something. Maybe in the next day or so, if he was able to, he would get close enough to Rick Shectman's office to get the information he needed. He knew that was next to impossible-Shectman was extremely secretive about his clients, and rumor was he had the backing of the Russian mafia to protect him-but it was worth a try. He had to do something to stop the memories of the screaming going on in his head.
The wailing screams of pain that sounded so much like the wails of an infant…
… or a rabbit…
Tim Murray took a deep breath. He felt a little better about himself now that he had made up his mind to expose the group. He thought about this as he walked back to the SUV Tomorrow was going to be a good day; he was going to go through the job, do it good to win back Rick Shectman's confidence in him, and then he was going to return to Los Angeles to get ready for the next step. He was looking forward to it.
Morning.
Brad sat on a chair at the desk, his back to the curtained window. Lisa was asleep, a snuggled form beneath the thick blankets. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, ever vigilant in monitoring her behavior and health. Every time her breath hitched just a little Brad would jump, wondering if she was in the throes of another nightmare. She had screamed herself awake three times last night, clawing at the air, scrambling to run away as if someone was chasing her, and each time she shot out of a dead sleep Brad would grab her, shake her out of her dream-state until she finally snapped out of it, looking around the room wide-eyed, uncomprehendingly, until she saw where she really was, that she really was safe, and then she would collapse into Brad's arms, crying fitful tears.
For the past three hours, though, her sleep had been calm. Brad watched her as she slept, his own fatigue weighing heavily on him. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night at all-four hours tops maybe. Even then, what sleep he had gotten was in fits and starts. He had spent most of the evening pacing the floor of their room, watching mindless television programming with Lisa, trying to talk to her while she still sat unresponsive. He had ordered room-service dinners, had tried to get her to eat some soup, but the most she would do was look at it with disinterest. He had eaten the soup after he had finished his own food, then set the tray back outside their door.
He had tried to talk to Lisa, but she wouldn't respond. He'd told her that everything was working out, that Billy told him the authorities were closing in on this Tim Murray character and that they should know by tomorrow morning if he was in custody. He also told her that he was going to get her help, they'd get through this together, do whatever it took. And then he would wait for some kind of reaction-anything-and be greeted with that same blank, unresponsive look.
He tried to take solace in calling his parents. He gave them the latest news, expressing his anguish that Lisa wasn't getting any better. His mother informed him that they had found Lisa a good psychiatrist in California, that they had called him after talking with William Grecko, and that William was working on getting Lisa transferred to a maximum-security hospital for her own safety under this psychiatrist's care. "Billy thinks he can have her in by tomorrow evening," his mother had told him, and Brad felt a little better upon hearing that. His father was obviously still reeling from the shock of all that had happened in the past forty-eight hours and kept mostly silent, listening in on the extension, voicing his support and hopes that things concluded soon. Talking to both of them had made him feel a trifle better.
He had called Lisa's parents and informed them of the latest, making special effort to let them know that they were close to not only catching the scumbags who had done this, but getting Lisa psychological care as well. Lisa's mother, Emily, had burst into tears when Brad tried to get Lisa to talk to her mother, Brad had heard Emily break down as he sat on the bed, trying to get Lisa to talk. Lisa's father, Dean, came on the line and asked Brad to call them tomorrow morning. "Even if nothing happens, just call" he'd said. Brad had agreed, and that had been the end of the phone calls for last night.
Around eleven-thirty, Brad decided that Lisa had had enough TV and turned it off. He had skimmed down to his boxer shorts and slid into bed beside her. Lisa had still been sitting up in bed, her eyes still staring ahead of her at the blank TV Brad had gently taken her shoulders and said, "Come on, honey, let's try to get some sleep." Moving her to a lying position had been like moving a mannequin, and once he'd gotten her to lie down, Brad lay down himself. He'd faced her, noting her still-open eyes, her blank expression unmoved. Then the floodgates opened and he bawled. He cried and sobbed, reaching out blindly for Lisa, who didn't resist or react, and that made him cry harder. And as Brad cried, the frustrations and anger and sadness welling out of him, tapped from some deep well within his soul, he felt yet another pang of rage toward the men who had done this, and that had dried the well of his tears. That anger had kept him awake most of the night, lying in bed beside Lisa, both of them staring up at the ceiling; Brad feeling the twin emotions of rage and sorrow, Lisa trapped in her own private hell, battling her own demons.
At some point, Brad must have gotten some sleep. He remembered coming to awareness and glancing at the clock on the nightstand and seeing that an hour or two had passed. On the third sense of wakefulness, he'd turned to check on Lisa and saw that she had drifted off to sleep finally. He'd watched her for a while then, lying on his side until he fell asleep for another hour and a half.
He woke up again at six-thirty, then dosed his eyes, trying to fall back to sleep again. Sleep didn't come back, though, so he got up after thirty minutes. He took a peek outside; it was overcast but not yet stormy. The news report last night reported that Las Vegas was in for a torrential rainstorm that was expected to arrive this afternoon. Brad had slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, then sat in the chair by the bed, watching Lisa sleep.
He glanced at the dock again. Seven thirty-five. He yawned. He wasn't going to get any more sleep, but maybe Lisa would. He hoped so. He mentally added up the numbers of when he figured Lisa might have fallen asleep, guessed that it had been around four-thirty or five. He hoped she slept in till at least one, and with that in mind he got to his feet, walked over to the desk, picked up the phone, and called room service.
William Grecko had been in his Santa Ana office for only fifteen minutes when his private line rang. He picked up on the first ring. "Yeah?"
"William? It's Detective Orr. How are you this morning?"
"'that depends on what kind of news you've got for me," William said. He felt like shit. He'd cut himself shaving, and his head pounded from a hangover. The coffee in the percolator was still brewing, and his stomach churned. "What's up?"
"You know that the surveillance photo of the suspect known as Jeff went out over the wires yesterday evening, right?-
"Yeah. Anything yet?"
'Nothing" Detective On sounded frustrated. He was the only investigator on the case who William felt was taking it seriously. "We got no ID yet. FBI has been checking their records, and so far nothing on that end, too. We're discussing putting the photo on the FBI Web site, maybe some other places"
"And what's keeping you from doing it?" William felt his jaw clench.
Detective On sighed, and William could sense what was coming instinctively. "Listen, we're hitting dead ends everywhere on this. Golgotha personnel have been questioned extensively, including all the board of directors. They're really pissed, and the Orange County Sheriff's Department is double-pissed. The Golgotha people are talking lawsuits, and so far we have nothing on them. No DNA evidence, no material witnesses, no nothing on this thing. You were at that cabin yesterday with us, William. You know there's not much else we can go on without-"
"So what am I supposed to do?" William asked, his voice breaking. "How am I supposed to protect my client from-"
"Listen, I'm sorry. But there's not much to go on except for Lisa Miller's word that she saw the Martinez woman being kidnapped and abused. We have no suspects, at least none we can name. We've turned up nothing in all the databases. We've-"
"What about the FBI?" William said, feeling his head pound. He closed his eyes, trying to control himself and get past the pain. "I've read a lot of shit about snuff films the past few days, and everything keeps pointing to the FBI, that they've been investigating illegal pornography for years."
"They've been investigating it for years and they've turned up nothing," Detective Orr said. "There's lots of rumors about it, lots of people say they've seen them, but the sightings are all once-removed. The FBI's been on this since the mid-seventies. Their official position on it is that snuff films don't exist."
"You believe that?"
Detective Orr paused. "I don't know what to believe."
"In 1970, if I had told you that there were a group of guys that got their jollies off by trading pictures of grown men having sex with little boys and that there was an underground market for it, would you have believed me?"
An awkward pause. William had him. "No," Orr admitted, his voice wearing a tinge of defeat.
"And why not?"
"People just.. " He hesitated. "People didn't just believe that kind of shit existed back then."
"Same rules apply here," William said. He leaned over his desk, resting his elbows on the mahogany surface. "Remember that thing in the news not too long ago about that woman who was convicted of cruelty to animals? She'd been stomping on mice with high heels for a series of porno films. Remember that?"
"Yeah," Detective On said. The tone of his voice told Billy that the detective remembered the incident clearly. For all he knew, On had inside information on the case.
"A guy was busted with her," William continued. "They had been making what are known as'crush videos' for a select number of clients. People pay anywhere from fifty to a few hundred bucks to collect videotapes of women crushing small animals with their high heels. Don't you think that if there are people that get their sexual jollies off on that, there might be even sicker people out there who get off on watching people die?"
`I understand your argument, William, but-'
"I know it's hard for you to believe, but this shit is real. I believe Lisa Miller. She's not the type of person who takes to flights of fancy. I believe that what she saw, that what almost happened to her, really happened. I believe that what happened to her is odd, yeah; I admit that. By all accounts, these guys target runaways that people won't miss. They don't go after people with families, people that will leave behind loved ones. I think the reason why the FBI is saying snuff films don't exist is because they can't penetrate the subculture that deeply. I believe the real audience for this stuff is less than a few thousand worldwide. When you stack that up against those crush films or bestiality films or other hardcore S&M films, that's nothing. I think that's why the FBI says they don't exist-the market hardly registers on their pulse. Know what I mean?"
"In other words, the market's so small it's not worth pursuing."
"Exactly."
"That's bullshit, and you know it: Detective Orr said. "If people are being killed-"
"Who's being killed? Some junkie in Harlem who's been living on the streets for ten years who has no family, no place to go? 'There's thousands of people like that in this country with no family, no parents, no support system. They come from foster homes, from institutions, whatever. Nobody gives a shit about them and you know it. Whatever family support they might have had is gone when they get into the streets. Maybe some of them do have somebody out there who loves them, who wonders where their son or daughter is, the wayward child who was perhaps a little too rebellious at home and left one night after a fit of anger. Happens all the time. Not all of these people get ground up and spit out for the camera; most of them OD, or they die of hypothermia, or they get knifed in a mugging or something. Or they die of AIDS. Some of them do get cleaned up. But there's probably a small number of them, say one percent, who simply disappear, never to be seen again by anybody."
"You're talking about the kinds of people who fall prey to serial killers," Detective Orr said.
"Serial killers and hustlers out to make a buck off their misery." William flipped through the papers on his desk, searching for something. He found it. "Listen to this. I printed this off a Web site yesterday. It's an article that details the illegal pornography industry, as well as the child porn market. And it stated here that something like seventy-five percent of the kids that wind up in low-budget porn-"
"I'm not interested in statistics, William," Detective Orr said, his voice becoming curt. "Look, I'm sorry, but there's nothing much I can go on. We've got a blowup of the suspect who kidnapped and stole Lisa Miller's money. That suspect and the Tim Murray character are being sought for kidnapping and extortion, and that's it. Same with the Al Pressman character. We can't make a case for murder until we get more evidence or if one of them confesses."
William Grecko sighed. His head was pounding. He needed coffee and he needed it bad. "Okay," he said. "What's on the agenda for today?"
"Just hang tight. We're still running a vehicle check on the van. We're also doing some checking on the homeless woman, the one Lisa identified as Alicia. We had a sketch artist work up a composite based on Lisa's description, and we're putting that over the wire. We're also working with the broadcast news media and some of the local papers in running the photo. Maybe somebody will recognize her and we can get a positive ID. If we can find her, that might answer a lot of questions"
"And what if you don't find her?" William asked. He got up and walked to the coffeepot, poured himself a cup. "What if Lisa's story checks out? What if this ex-boyfriend of Alicia's decides to grow a heart and calls and everything he tells you checks out? Then what?"
'We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Detective Orr said.
Than was resting his muscular six-foot-six frame on the king-sized bed, a cup of coffee within easy reach on the nightstand. The Jets were on, pounding the hell out of Philly, and he had three hundred bucks on the game. He was following the game, his mind mostly on the last twenty-four hours. The reports that had come back from security had been negative. There was no news of anybody resembling Tim Murray, Al Pressman, or Jeff. Their descriptions had been given out to all of hotel security, and the spooks that manned the cameras in the casinos were also instructed to keep their eyes peeled for them. So far, nothing.
That was fine with Titan. As long as the Millers stayed in their room, they were safe. Than or somebody else from the security team was always on hand, twenty-four seven, right across the hall. And somebody was always armed. Than knew that the minute anybody resembling the suspects walked into the hotel, he or John would get a call. He'd gotten five calls between yesterday morning and last night, all of them turning out to be false leads. In each case, they had dispatched one of their men down to intercept the suspect and tail them. The report always came back the same: "Guy looks like the dude in the sketch, but it isn't him. This guy looks like a tourist, and he's got a wife and five kids trailing along behind him."
So much for that.
Titan yawned and reached for his coffee just as there was a knock on his door.
He looked at the door, annoyed. John Panozzo had gone down to the kitchen to bring the Millers their roomservice breakfast three minutes ago. The knock came again, light yet persistent. Titan swung his legs over the bed and got up, ambling toward the door.
When he peered through the spyglass he saw a little old lady, looking forlorn and lost. She looked like she could be between sixty-five and ninety, and was wearing a blue plaid dress, had short, wispy white hair, her thin frame looking both grandmotherly and kind.
Titan opened the door. "Can I help you?"
The old lady turned to him, her watery blue eyes wide with confusion. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice wavering. Her hands were shaking, as if she were a victim of Parkinson's. "I got separated from my… my church group. We took separate elevators and…" She licked her lips. She looked terrified-and no wonder, for an old white lady like this one, confronting Titan-six foot six, muscular, shaved head, ebony skin-was probably giving her a heart attack.".. I'm lost. Can I… can I use your phone, please?"
Titan glanced quickly down the hall. No sign of John. The old lady trembled beneath his gaze. She clutched a small white purse in her liver-spotted hands. '!here were senior citizens' groups staying at the Luxor all the time. No doubt the group this poor old woman had been with had neglected to check to see if all of their party were together. Maybe this lady wanted to call a church member on their cell phone. If so, too fucking bad. "Sorry," he said. "'IYy the room next door."
"Please!" The woman began to cry, and Than had almost shut the door on her when he paused. You can break this woman in half by breathing on her. What the fuck is she gonna do?
Feeling like a shithead for slamming a door in the face of an old lady, he opened the door. The old woman stood in the hallway, looking lost and in tears. "Come on in, but be quick," he said, already hating himself for letting a crying little old lady get to him.
The old woman sniffled back tears and hobbled in, her gait wavering. Titan closed the door and followed her into the room and then bumped into her as she suddenly stopped and whirled around toward him. He felt her face brush his chest as he tried to stop the forward momentum of his stride, hoping he hadn't hurt her, and that was when he felt the pain in his abdomen.
He looked down at his belly, his mind trying to figure out how a knife had been thrust into his stomach. The hands holding the handle were small, birdlike, skin wrapping bones. They jerked upward, opening him up, and Titan gasped, looking in wide-eyed horror at the old lady, who now wore a different expression. Gone was the look of elderly confusion and meekness and tears; it had been replaced by a look Titan had seen before only on people much younger than she-namely, male street criminals. Her blue eyes reflected a sense of malice as she grinned. "Fooled you, didn't 1?" She pulled the knife out of his gut, and Titan felt the lower part of his body grow numb and wet. His belly exploded with sharp pain.
He staggered back, eyes still on the old woman, than looked down at the blood spattering on the carpeted floor. He could feel the blood soaking into his jeans. He looked back up at the woman, still trying to comprehend why she had stabbed him when she lashed out again with expert precision. He saw the blade flash below his field of vision in a delicate swoop, felt a line of pain blaze across his throat, and then a sudden sense of warm wetness as his shirt was soaked. He opened his mouth to scream, but his vocal cords refused to take the commands. "That's what I like best about being elderly," the old woman said, her voice still possessing that same brittle tone but now strong with conviction and purpose. "You can catch so many of your victims off guard."
Titan made an attempt to lunge at her, to try to get the knife away from her grasp, just as his body went completely numb. He collapsed to the floor on his knees, his belly a pit of fire, his throat singing with pain, the scent of his own blood filling his nostrils, chasing him into darkness.
Mabel Schneider didn't waste time. She wiped the bloody knife blade on the comforter, then approached the door, peering through the eyeglass.
She knew another man was due any minute now with the room-service tray. The plans they had made earlier this morning had been hasty, but they were working beautifully. The best part of it all was they were actually going to let her take a souvenir! "One of her eyes," she'd told Rick Shectman over the phone yesterday when he'd spoken to her about coming out to assist in the abduction of a snuff-film victim. "If that animal you use in those films doesn't pop them when he sticks his dick in her eye sockets, I want one of them. Maybe both of them if they're unruptured. I haven't had boiled eyeballs in a while."
Shectman had agreed, only on the condition she prepare her meal on this coast. "I can't risk airport security finding body parts when you board your plane on Friday," he'd said. "If I can't get you the eyes, I'll arrange somebody to get you a kid. How's that sound?"
"I can get my own children," she'd spat out at him. "That's easy. Children flock to me because I remind them of their grandmother. If I can't get her eyes, I'll think of something else. Maybe you can convince that beast of yours to fuck me in the ass or something.'
"I'll do what I can," Shectman had said.
Mabel replaced the knife in her handbag, leaving it open enough so that she could retrieve it quickly for the next one. She examined herself quickly in the mirror. She hadn't gotten any of the big man's blood on her, which was good. She glanced back at him, her eyes lighting on his chest. It was still. He was deader than shit.
With that, she turned back to the task at hand. She opened the door slowly, peered out to make sure the corridor was deserted, then slipped out, dosing the door behind her.
Then she waited.
When John Panozzo rounded the curve in the corridor he saw an old woman wandering the hall, glancing at the numbers on the doors as if she were searching for something. He dismissed her from his mind as quickly as he had taken her in, and pushed the room-service tray ahead of him, the scent of fresh pancakes and coffee creating his own pangs of hunger. I didn't realize how fucking hungry I was until I smelled this shit. Man, that smells good!
John pushed the tray to Brad and Lisa Miller's room and knocked on the door. He was wearing the official uniform of the Luxor room-service employees. John had thought it was a good idea to have his team dressed as hotel employees to avoid suspicion. If somebody was out to get Brad and Lisa Miller, they wouldn't have a due they were being watched by hotel security as well as the best private security team in Las Vegas. They would be lulled into a false sense of security. Of course, that wouldn't work if-
"Excuse me. Sir?"
It was the old woman. She had noticed him and approached him tentatively. John glanced at her. She looked lost. He turned to the door as he heard footsteps approach.
"Sir?" Her voice was more persistent, wavering on brittleness and tears,
He turned back to her just as he heard the deadbolt being thrown open. "Just a minute, okay?"
He turned back to the door as Brad Miller opened it. "Room service," John said, pushing the cart past Brad.
"Hey." he heard Brad exclaim. John pushed the tray to the center of the room, taking only quick notice that the TV was on and Lisa Miller was still in bed, lying on her right side, her back away from the door. He turned around and was surprised to see that the old woman had followed him into the room.
"Uh, can I help you, miss?" John said, stepping toward the old woman.
"I'm lost," she said, her voice sounding as brittle as dead leaves. "My church group lost me on the way to the elevator. Do you have a phone I could use?"
Brad was still standing by the open door, obviously stunned that the old woman had blundered past him into his room. John took a step toward the old lady, his training taking over. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Please!" she screeched, and then she started crying. She clutched her purse in her brittle-looking hands, and John reached her just as Brad closed the door. "Let her use the phone, John. She's not gonna hurt anything."
John was just turning to answer Brad when he felt the knife punch into his throat.
The first thing Brad saw when he came back into the room after closing the door was John was clutching his neck trying to stop the geyser of blood that was gushing out of him like a fountain. A knife with a seven-inch blade was sticking out of his throat where his Adam's apple should be. His eyes bugged in his face, his skin turned white as he grabbed for the knife unsuccessfully. The image hit Brad like a sledgehammer, shocking him with the brutal intensity of it. He felt frozen as the old woman reached for the knife handle and wrapped her brittle fingers around it. She tugged, and Brad could see the tendons along her upper arm tense as she pulled the blade out of John's throat. When the blade slid free, blood shot out of his neck with a sudden ferocity; it was like turning on a garden hose in the summer at full blast. It spattered the floor and the bed, some of it hitting Lisa.
This can't be happening, this just can't be happening, he thought. He tried to command his limbs to move, to do something, but he remained frozen in shock at the hideous scene. John Panozzo fell to his knees, his fingers clawing at his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. Brad felt his chest constrict as the room became increasingly claustrophobic, and then the old woman was standing in front of him, her features twisted in a mad grimace, the bloodstained knife in her left hand. Brad was so shocked, so frozen in horror, that his reaction was like moving through a sea of molasses. The old woman reached into her purse with her right hand and brought it out, and even when she pulled the trigger on the object Brad still didn't believe this was happening. How could this be happening? They were under protection, with an armed security team looking out for them! And as the old woman shot him with the Taser gun and Brad felt his body go numb with pain, he slumped to the floor, hitting his head on the desk. He tried to move, tried to turn over as the woman cackled, "Fooled you, didn't I?" She pressed the trigger of the Taser gun again, sending thousands of volts of electricity through his system, paralyzing him, and the last thing Brad Miller saw before he lost consciousness was the wide-eyed face of his wife on the bed, frozen in fear, and it was the first hint of emotion he had seen in her since they had gotten to Las Vegas.
When it was over, Mabel Schneider put the Taser gun and the bloodstained knife in her purse and pulled out a cellular phone. She glanced at the woman on the bed, watching to make sure she wasn't faking unconsciousness. She'd been instructed to stun the woman with the Taser gun too, but she didn't need to do that-the woman had fainted. She lay on her side limply, tongue lolling out the corner of her mouth, her hair hanging limply across her face. Her breathing appeared shallow, and Mabel had reached out cautiously prior to putting the knife away, touching the woman's face. If she had been faking it, the woman would have jerked with a scream at her touch. Mabel had caressed the woman's cheek, then lightly slapped it. No response. Mabel smiled. She wondered why Rick wanted to take such big risks in securing this woman as a snuff-film victim, but then, he was paying well for her work. What did she care for what Rick had in mind for her?
Mabel turned her attention to the cell phone. She turned it on, hitting the speed-dial button for the number already programmed. "It's done," she said when it was answered. "I'll be waiting." Then she hung up, pushed the antenna down, stepped around the bloody mess on the floor, and hovered by the door to wait.
The minute the elevator doors closed, Tim Murray hoped it didn't stop for other hotel guests.
He glanced at Mabel Schneider out of the corner of his eye as the elevator made its descent. She looked like a harmless old lady, the kind you saw at church picnics or old folks' homes, hobbling along in grocery stores and malls like turtles. Tim didn't know where Rick Shectman found her, didn't even know the old bat had existed until last night when he'd told Tim the plans for abducting the Miller woman. At first Tim couldn't believe that Rick had access to an eighty-one-year-old psychopath like this. How the fuck does he know so many fucking sadists? Rick had explained to Tim that Mabel was an old friend of his father's. "She used to run an S&M dungeon in my father's neighborhood in PL-nnsylvania in the forties," he'd ex- plained.And it was rumored that after she accidentally killed a client she developed a taste for dishing out extreme torture. That it didn't bother her to hurt people. I happened to make her acquaintance by accident ten years ago on a business trip to New York. She had requested a torture video of a child, and when I made the delivery we had a… how shall I say it?… a nice talk." The tone of Rick's voice had chilled Tim, and he quickly accepted the fact that he was to be working with an eighty-one-year-old female version of Animal. He wondered where old fucks like Mabel Schneider came from and then he dismissed the thought. If Animal lived to be eighty-one, he'd probably wind up just like Mabel. An old doddering man who appeared harmless. An old doddering man with a taste for the grotesque and inflicting extreme pain on other human beings.
Remarkable how the old bat had avoided getting any blood on her. It had been soaked into John Panozzo's clothes. After verifying that he was dead, Tim had quickly trussed up Brad Miller with the duct tape he had brought, slapping a strip over his mouth as well. Then he'd turned his attentions to Lisa, securing her tightly. Mabel had waited calmly by the door, and he had slipped into the room across the hall quickly without being seen. He had given the room a quick inspection, once again amazed at how quickly and precisely everything had gone down. Then he had quickly changed into the clothes he had brought along in the light tan canvas bag he had toted upstairs: brown slacks, brown shoes, and a beige shirt; now he resembled a hotel staffer at first glance. He had placed his own clothes in the bag, then had turned his attention to the large cardboard box he'd brought up with him, unconstructed. He had quickly assembled the box, then gone downstairs to the lobby and snagged a luggage cart. He had placed the box on the cart, then spent a significant amount of time and energy hauling Lisa's trussed-up form to the box. He had injected some morphine into her to keep her unconscious, and once she was limp she was easier to move. He stuffed her into the box, folding her arms over her head, her knees folded against her chest. Then he closed the box, sealing it with duct tape. There were enough holes in the box to provide for ventilation, but that wasn't a major worry either. She wasn't going to be alive for very much longer.
Tim Murray watched their descent to the lobby on the indicator above the door as the car plummeted downward. They had left Brad trussed up in the room with the door locked, per Rick's instructions. By the time he got himself free, wifey would be meat for Animal.
As if reading his thoughts, the old woman spoke up. "Rick said I could have an eye."
"Huh?" Tim looked at her, for the first time noting her watery blue eyes. She looked crazy. Insane.
"Her eyes," the old lady said, her voice reedy and britde.-'[like to eat eyes. Rick said I can have one
"Fine by me, lady," Tim said, turning his attention back to the door. He also had to drop this old bat off at a motel on Spring Street, on the outskirts of Vegas. He wasn't looking forward to that.
"I like eyes the best," the old lady said in a matter-offact tone, as if she were discussing the preparation of apple pie. "I've found that the eyes of children are the best, though. I also like asses. I like to boil the eyes in a broth I make from the blood, but I like to baste the asses in the oven with onions and bacon strips."
Tim looked at her, feeling a sense of revulsion. "You shittin' me?"
"Why, no," she said, in a tone of voice that seemed to say Why would / lie?
You fucking eat people?"
"When I can," she said, looking indifferent to it. She clutched her purse. "I'd eat this cunt you have in the box if Rick would let me, but he's saving her for that pig you use in those snuff films. I told him I wanted the eyes, though. I like eyes." "
"Shit!" Tim shook his head in disgust. And he thought Animal was a sick motherfucker.
*Of course, if her pussy's still intact when Animal is finished with her, maybe he'll let me have that. I do like the taste of pussy."
"Here we are" Tim announced as the elevator car stopped. Listening to this old fuck talking about eating pussy in the literal sense was making him sick. The doors opened to the lobby, where a crowd of tourists was waiting to get on the elevator. Tim mustered a smile and waited for Mabel to get off, then pushed the cart off. "Car's in the parking garage," he said, staying abreast of Mabel as he maneuvered the cart down the lobby toward the exit that led to the garage."Tird level."
°Fne," Mabel said, walking briskly for a woman her age.
As they made their way to the parking garage and threaded their way past tourists, Tim couldn't help but glance at the old woman, whom he kept in front of him. Where the hell did Rick Shectman find these freaks? It was bad enough there were weirdos out there who got their jollies by watching films of people getting raped and sliced up, but to think that there were old people who were just as sick as Animal was something Tim couldn't comprehend. What was wrong with these people? Why did they enjoy doing this shit? Tim didn't understand it; the only reason he was involved in this shitty business was that the money was pretty good and he always got free blowjobs from the whores they used in films. His mind went back to the night he'd gotten rid of Al's body at the scrap yard, and how Animal had had one more go at him, raping the lifeless body, using the neck stump as a sexual orifice. He'd seen Animal use all kinds of things as a sexual orifice-gaping knife wounds he'd made in abdomens, empty eye sockets gushing blood and optic fluid, you name it. Until the last snuff job with the baby, though, he'd never known Animal to eat anybody. That was just too fucking gross.
Tim Murray kept his eyes peeled for anything resembling cops or security people as they approached the SUV The coast appeared clear-it was obvious they weren't looking for a guy escorting his grandmother! He motioned to Mabel Schneider. "White SW's mine." Mabel acknowledged him with a nod as they approached the vehicle, and Tim disarmed it with the remote, getting the side door open quickly. Mabel waited calmly, clutching her purse demurely in her hands while Tim hauled the box into the van. When it was secure, he closed the door and pushed the cart aside. Mabel opened the driver's-side door and climbed in while Tim slid into the driver's seat and started the van.
They drove away from the Luxor, heading to the outskirts of Las Vegas.
There was a loud humming in his ears.
That was the first thing Brad Miller was aware of when he became conscious of his surroundings.
He opened his eyes. His vision was blurred and he blinked, trying to focus. He became aware that he was tied up, that the skin of his arms was itching, and when he opened his eyes again his vision focused. And what he saw was red.
The cream-colored carpet of their room was deep red.
The smell hit him next, along with the electrifying sense of numbness that was still echoing through his limbs, making his skin ultrasensitive. His mouth was dry and he felt a metallic taste in the back of his throat. He struggled, and that was when he realized he was tied up with duct tape.
He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn't; his mouth was taped shut too.
Brad rolled around on the floor frantically, his adrenaline pumping. The sight of the lifeless body of John Panozzo, his pale flesh looking like the underbelly of a dead fish, sent him into a frenzy. He struggled against his bonds, and when his thrashing caused him to lose his balance and fall on the floor, his cheek landing in the wet carpet, he went ballistic. He jerked up, rising to his knees, and managed to hobble to the side of the bed. There were blood spatters on the bed and the wall over the headboard, and his heart leaped in his chest. The rumpled bedsheets told him what he feared.
They've got Lisa, oh my God, they've fucking got Lisa!
One quick look around the room brought it all back, told him everything he needed to know. They had been outsmarted. Billy had instructed his security team to look for Tim Murray and that Animal guy, probably Al Pressman as well. They hadn't expected a crazed old woman.
How the fuck did they find us? How the hell did they know we were here?
While he tried to backtrack how their security could have been compromised, Brad hauled himself up on the bed and rolled across it to the other side where the phone was resting on the nightstand. He tried to wriggle his arms out of his bonds but could only manage to move them a quarter of an inch from his body. He wasn't going anywhere. In a desperate lunge, he fell toward the phone and managed to get his face next to it. Then he knocked the receiver off the cradle and felt elated when he heard an open dial tone. Thank God thank God. Thank God.
Now if he could only dial the operator.
Brad stared at the keypad for a moment, the dial tone echoing in the room. Then he reached out and moved his face over the buttons. He moved his nose over the 0 and felt his stomach roll as he pushed it, hoping he was pushing the right button. Hoping and praying that this would work.
And then the hotel operator came on and Brad felt such a rush of relief at the sound of her voice that he almost sobbed. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he knew that every second counted.
He did the only thing he could do. He grunted through his duct-taped gag.
The operator's voice was clear and questioning. "Can I help you?"
Brad screamed through the gag; his voice, though muffled, sounded panicked to his ears. He hoped he was loud enough to convey this over the phone.
"Is there anybody there?"
"MMMMmmmmmmm!"
A short pause. Muffled conversation in the back- ground.'ihen: "Do you need help?"
MMMMmmmmmmm!"
"I'm sending hotel security up," the operator said, all business now. 'Ibey're on their way."
And with that, Brad Miller collapsed on the bed and sobbed in relief and fear, hoping against all odds that time was on his side.
They had been on the road for only ten minutes before Mabel Schneider started getting on rim's nerves. Her presence was irritating; she smelled of dusty mothballs, sour sweat, and bad breath. Did this old bat ever take a bath?
"Have you ever eaten pussy?" Mabel asked him innocently. She had put on a pair of glasses and was looking out the passenger-side window, looking very much like a grandmother.
"Lots of times," Tim answered, reaching into his breast pocket for his cellular, not even thinking about what she meant. Then it hit him, and he shook his head. "No" he said, trying not to sound too grossed-out.
'Raw pussy can be quite good," the old lady said. "All of a lady's parts are good. So are all of a man's parts. You know, the testes… the nuts."
"Um-hm' Tim said, dialing Rick Shectman's number by memory. Listening to this old bat was driving him crazy.
"Testes are nice. They have a nice crunch to them. Especially if they're deep-fried. I like to batter them in flour and seasonings and and fry them in a vegetable oil-"
"You know, I don't want to listen to your culinary tastes right now," Tim said as the line on the other end began to ring. Come on, pick up, you fuck.
The old woman looked at him, realization dawning on her face. "Oh, don't wont', young man. I have no interest in you. I like my men young. The best age for nice crunchy man-balls is boys that are teenagers. You know, boys in their sexual prime, when their balls are full of spunk. Eighteen-year-olds are the best!"
"So are eighteen-year-old girls,"Tim said automatically, trying to be funny.
"I agree. Eighteen-year-old pussy is tender and sweet.'
Rick Shectman answered the phone, and Tim Murray got his reprieve. "Yeah?"
"Are you shittin' me that you told this old bitch that she could watch?" Now Tim was letting his anger out and he couldn't help it. He had been looking forward to dumping the old crone off at her hotel when she insisted on coming along to the shoot, informing him that Rick had told her she could watch.
"I get the eyes!" Mabel chimed in.
"Shut up!" Tim barked.
Rick laughed. "I see that you've made Mabel Schneider's acquaintance," Rick said, chuckling. "Very good. She's good at what she does, yes?"
"You won't get any argument from me about that," Tim said. 'This old bitch killed both those guys in less than two minutes."
Rick sounded pleased. "I knew she would work out. Nobody was expecting her."
"Where the fuck did you find this old cunt?'
"It's a long story, and I already told you the short version yesterday," Rick said. He sounded bored. And I don't have the time to go into great detail of how dear, sweet Mabel Schneider came to my acquaintance."
"1 know she flew out from the East Coast, so what's her story? She know the outfit in New York or what?"
"You've just answered your question," Rick said.
"She's tied in to the scene in NewYork, then?"
In a way, yes" Rick murmured. "She was around when the scene in New York was fucking invented." Beat. "Listen, I gotta go. Why don't you let Mabel Schneider illuminate you to her sordid history. Let her watch Animal work, and when he's done she can have an eyeball if Animal hasn't completely fucked any up. Make sure she eats it there, though. We can't risk her boarding a plane with body parts." "
Tim felt his stomach flop in his belly. "So she wasn't shittin' me, then? She really gets off on eatin' people's eyeballs and shit?"
*1 do like shit," Mabel said matter-of-factly. "1 like fresh shit out of a nice tight asshole."
"Shut the luck up!" Tim barked at her.
Rich Shectman laughed. "Oh, you crack me up, Tim. You act as if the grotesque acts you've participated in the past five years are morally repugnant to you now"
"Animal doesn't eat people's shit!" Tim yelled into the phone.
"No, he doesn't," Rich Shectman said. "You telling me that you'd rather watch Animal skull-fuck some bitch to death or side-fuck 'em rather than eat the shit out of her ass?"
Tim didn't know how to answer to that. The question pissed him off. "Forget it. Okay, so I take this wrinkled-up old Miss Hannibal Lector fuck with me. Then what?"
"When she's finished, take her back to her room to get some sleep. Old people need their sleep, you know. Animal has his own transportation. Put Mabel on her flight tomorrow morning at 8:30 A.M. sharp. She leaves on US Air into Philadelphia, flight 135. Your own flight leaves two hours later into LAX. I'll meet you back here at my office for the transfer of the product."
"You'll have my money for me then?" Tim had gotten Rick to advance him twenty-five grand for the next job, which was already lined up. What he didn't know was that Tim already had his bags packed at home and was leaving for parts unknown that afternoon as part of Phase One of his plan to blow the whistle on Rick and the whole scene.
"I'll have your money, you greedy fuck. Just make sure you have the tape. You fuck this one up, your ass is mine." He chuckled. "I might even feed you to Mabel Schneider."
Mabel cocked a look of revulsion at Tim. "I heard that. You don't look like you'd be very good. You'd be too fat and buttery-tasting."
"Fuck you!" Tim barked at her.
Rick Shectman laughed and hung up.
Tim Murray jabbed the oFF button on the cellular, and when he braked for a red light he replaced the phone in his breast pocket. Mabel Schneider was grinning. She looked excited. "It's been a long time since I've seen anybody get done live."
"You've done plenty yourself, right?"
"Oh yes. Of course!
Tim didn't want to talk to this old crone. Not realty. But he was dying of curiosity and he couldn't help himself. "How many people have you done?"
"I don't know," she said, looking out the window as they drove through the city to the outskirts. "Thirty maybe. I stopped keeping count around then, so it's probably been more like sixty."
"You've killed sixty fucking people?" Tim would have found it hard to believe that this old woman killed the two people at the Luxor this morning if he hadn't seen her results, let alone sixty. Still, Rick Shectman wouldn't have sent her if there wasn't some verifiable truth to her claims. "How long you been killing people? Howd you meet Rick?"
"I've known Rick for ten years," Mabel said, not looking at him. Tim stole a quick glance at her. No wonder she fooled a lot of people. She really did remind him of a grandmother-the kind that baked pies and knitted blankets and kept all the pictures of her grandchildren in nice little frames perched on a shelf in her living room.
"You in the New York scene, then? It's true what Rick said?"
Mabel Schneider turned to look at him, and now she bore a different expression. Now she was all business. All trace of the meek little old lady were gone. "I was first introduced to the pleasures of pain from my father, back in the 1920s. He used to whip me and my brothers. I grew to like it. He was a Catholic, and he felt guilty every time he beat us, so he would get us to punish him for his sins. My brothers and sisters, they were too scared to do it. I wasn't, though. I grew to like whipping my father. We had a… relationship." She smiled. Tim got the message and nodded. "By the time I was twenty, I was working a dungeon in Philadelphia. 'chat's where I met my first husband. We went into business together and did very well. He… he misused me too much and I left him in '43. 1 had saved up some money, though, and met my second husband a year later. We married, and that's when he tried to force domestic life on me!
"He forced domestic life on you?" Tim chuckled, shook his head. "What, he knocked you up or something?"
"Yes. I bore that sonofabitch three stinking kids." Mabel's tone of voice had taken on a tinge of disgust at the mention of childbirth."I never did adapt to motherhood."
"You ever whip your kids?"
"No" Her fingers closed over the clasps of her purse. "For a while there, I… I tried to be a good wife to Marlon. Even though he was a whipped dog"
"So what happened?"
"When the kids were in school and Marlon was at work, I started entertaining clients again," Mabel resumed. "It started innocently enough at first. I had a couple of affairs with people in the neighborhood. I got involved with a man who liked to be beaten. He introduced me to the scene in New York. There wasn't much of a scene in the town we were living in at the time." "
"Where was that?"
"Lititz, Pennsylvania"
"Where the fuck is that?"
"Lancaster County TWo hours west of Philly"
Tim nodded for her to continue.
"My husband didn't suspect a thing for three years. I never left Lancaster County; my lover brought people from New York with him, submissives who were into whippings. We played out scenes in my basement, or in his. I started to make some money." She paused. 'Men it happened"
*What happened?"
"I accidentally killed a client" Mabel looked at him, her features calm, serene. "A salesman had paid me to whip him and then mutilate him. He was overweight and… well, he had a heart attack. Jerry, my lover, freaked out. The guy's eyes were bugging out of their sockets and I was still wrapped up in the scene. I plopped one of his eyes out and ate it!
"You fucking ate the guy's eyeball?"
*Yes."
Jesus, luck me! Tim gripped the steering wheel tighter as they reached the outskirts of the city. "So that's how you got the taste for it." "
Mabel nodded."A few months later, I almost got caught. I lured a high school girl to my house for a scene. I'd seduced her a month or so earlier. She was sweet. And her eyes were beautiful. I… I couldn't help myself."
*You ate hers, too?"
"Yes." Mabel's fingers were clasped over her purse protectively She looked out the window, reflective. "I couldn't control myself and I just gave in to my urgings. Jerry had to come over the next day to help me get rid of the body. He was scared. He was afraid I was…"
A lucking psycho?Tim thought. "So what he do? He talk some sense into you, or what?"
"Jerry made a deal with some of the NewYork people," Mabel said. "He emphasized that I was… special. That I wasn't like other dominatrices. He made it clear that I could play out extreme hardcore scenes, that I had the stomach for them. Believe it or not, there were just as many hardcore freaks back then as there are now. They were just harder to find in those days. The ones we did find… well, they paid handsomely."
Tim nodded. "You do snuff films back then?"
"No. The technology wasn't available. We didn't even think of snuff films back then. What we had were live shows.*
"Live shows?"
"Yes" Mabel looked at him, an elderly grandmother instructing the young. 'If you wanted to watch, you paid two thousand dollars. We'd get around ten people, maybe twenty tops. And they would sit around and watch while I tortured some kid until they died. We'd do a show like that maybe once ayear."
"Fuck! Your husband know?"
"No. He never knew about the live shows. He did find out about the lighter S&M, though. At first he was furious. Then I showed him the money I made and he had a change of heart."
"How much you make?"
Mabel looked at him, grinning. "For the regular S&M? In one year I'd made ten thousand dollars."
Tim nodded. Ten grand in the fifties would be like sixty now "What was the scene like then?"
"Same as it is now," Mabel said. "Rich businessmen wanting to explore the forbidden. Pain freaks that got off on having pins being inserted in their scrotums or having their penises split in half and pierced. Same sick fucks."
Tim chuckled. "Aren't you a sick fuck?"
Mabel snorted. "And you aren't?"
Tim shrugged. "1 just do this shit for the money."
"You don't enjoy it?"
"No"
Pause. Mabel turned back to the passing scenery. They were on the outskirts of the city now. "Waste of time if you don't enjoy it. You don't know what you're missing."
"What am I missing?"
Mabel looked at him. "If you knew, you wouldn't be asking me."
Tim glanced at her, turned his attention back to the road. He had asked Animal the same question once. The sadist had remarked: "l like the feel of brains on my dick when I'm skull-fucking 'em." That had been his answer. He wondered what Mabel's answer was. "I'm asking you now," he said. 'You ain't got a dick, so I know it's not a sexual thing the way it is with Animal.'
"What makes you think it isn't? Women climax just the same as men do."
"So you get off on it?*
"Yes"
'You get off on torturing and killing people?*
"I wouldn't do it if I didn't like it."
"And you really like eatin' people?"
"Yes. I do." Mabel Schneiders eyes gleamed. She licked her wrinkled lips. "You really don't know what you're missing."
They were in the desert now, cruising the last remaining suburbs of Las Vegas. "How long you been doing this shit, then?"
"Over forty years!
'And you never been caught?' He realized it was a dumb question the minute it slipped out of his mouth.
"Na" She grinned. "Things were the same then as they are now. The people I was allowed to… to wallow in… they're the same kind of people we use now. Nobody wants them. They're throwaways. Homeless people, runaways, vagrants. Rejects of society. Nobody missed them then, nobody misses them now'
Tim thought about it as he drove. It was hard to believe that the hardcore scene had been around for so long, but then he supposed that, in a way, it always had been. The Romans used to have stadiums erected for the singular purpose of torturing and killing people in front of an audience. Man may be more civilized in social aspects, but he hadn't really changed in two thousand years. F ople still lived for blood sports. Look at boxing. And they called that a sport. Watch two men pound the crap out of each other for the sole purpose of trying to knock the other unconscious. And audiences cheered for the winner. The more mayhem, the more blood, the better.
Tim nodded. "Do your kids know you do it?"
"No." Her knuckles were bone white as she gripped the clasps of her purse.
"They never suspected?"
Mabel Schneider looked at him. "I never once let them even think I was involved in the scene. It's… it's my private thing. Do you understand? It's my private pleasure. It's something nobody can take away from me."
Tim nodded. That was the excuse patrons to the hardcore scene always gave. They participated in this in the privacy of their own homes. They didn't hurt anybody. They just liked to watch other people be tortured, raped, and murdered in the privacy of their own homes, where they weren't hurting anybody. Yeah, right.
They were ten miles from the secondary road he needed to take to get to the location. From there it was another thirty miles. They would be there in about forty minutes. "So back in the forties and fifties there was a thriving S&M scene, right? And as far as underground hardcore, there were no snuff films."
'There were no snuff films. At least as far as I know"
"You ever been in one?"
"A snuff film?"
"Yeah."
She nodded. "A few. The first one back in sixty-nine, maybe 1970."
"You wear a mask?"
"Yes" Mabel pulled herself up a bit. "I was playing the role of the madam dominatrix. I was in my late fifties then, and I still had my looks. I had quite a body back then. You would have wanted to fuck me."
"I'm sure I would've," Tim said, prodding her to go on. "So what happened?"
"1 played the role of a madam dominatrix. The film was commissioned by a rich businessman. A homosexual sadist. He wanted to watch a young man get raped and tortured by a woman. Strange, don't you think? Usually queers like to watch men get done by other men. Not this guy. He wanted a woman. An older woman. He had a thing for older women, even though he was queer. It was probably a mommy complex. What do they call that?'
'Oedipus complex." "
"Right. This guy, this client, obviously had one. The slave we used was some kid from New York. A hustler. He'd been kicked out of his home a few years before when his father, who was a minister, found out he was queer. He was into light S&M… nothing too daring. He started appearing in B&D loops that Rick Shectman's father produced as a bottom."
So Rick's dad was into all this then? That's how Rick knows you?"
Mabel Schneider nodded. "Yes. I've done a lot of work for Boris Shectman"
'What kind of work?"
"The usual. Hardcore S&M stuff. Fetish stuff.'
"He used you even when you were, you know…"
"So old?'
'Yeah"
Mabel chuckled. "What are you, naive, boy? Don't you know there's a big market for films showing us old folks fucking? It's huger
Tim nodded. That much was true. Rick Shectman had produced a few commissions for clients that catered to this fetish. "So you been working steadily for Boris, and now you do stuff for Rick. When was the last time you did a snuff filmr
The last one I did was in seventy-eight or nine.'
'What was that ofY
"A boy. A runaway. Maybe thirteen, fourteen years old."
"You ever do girls? Women?"
"Oh yes"
"And you still like to eat people?"
"Oh yes." Mabel grinned at him. "I haven't lost that passion"
"And you haven't been caught because nobody will believe that an old fuck like you can be a sick fuck, too."
"Look who's talking, doughboy."
They were approaching the secondary road. Tim checked his rearview mirrors, made a right, and they trundled down the road. Now it was time to start watching traffic around them. He couldn't afford to be spotted by cops now. "Doughboy. That's a good one. Nobody's ever called me that before."
"Would you prefer fat ass?"
"Fuck off, granny."
Mabel laughed. "I like you, doughboy. You're just as fucked up as I am, even though you don't want to admit it. You're going to get a good thrill out of watching her die, too."
Tim grinned and nodded. Maybe Mabel Schneider was right. He knew she was correct in that last statement: He was going to have a good time watching Lisa Miller die.
It took all of Brad Miller's willpower to not bolt for the door and undertake the search for Lisa by himself. He was sitting in a chair in the office of Head of Security at the Luxor, being grilled by two FBI agents. The cops and feds were crawling all over the place. Security was tight, and the last Brad had heard they were conducting a room-to-room search of the entire hotel and casino.
He didn't want to admit to himself that they were too late. It had taken a few minutes for hotel security to free him. and forty minutes had passed since then. The feds had just arrived, but he had to beg to get them to even show up. Once Luxor security informed the feds on what was happening, the mood changed. Now everybody was racing around the Luxor like they had fire up their asses. The clock was ticking.
"Haw old do you think the woman was?' one of the agents asked. Both agents looked to be around Brad's age. One was white, the other was black.
She looked over seventy. Close to eighty. I've told you this five times already!'
"I'm sorry," the agent said. He looked flustered. "we just… I've just never heard of…"
You've never heard of an old lady psychopath slashing people like she was Jack the Ripper. Is that what you want to say? Brad dosed his eyes, trying to stave off the headache that wanted to creep up into his brainpan. "I swear to. Christ, the woman was fucking old. She looked like an old fucking grandmother, for God's sake! Now-'
One of the security team held out a telephone receiver to Brad. 'Excuse me, sir? Guy on the other end says he's Mr. Miller's attorney. A Mr. Grecko?'
Brad leaped for the phone; he hadn't even heard it ring. "I'll take it!'
"Brad?" It was Billy, all right. He sounded on the verge of losing it.
Billy, they've got her!" Brad yelled. He had called Billy twenty minutes ago and left a message, sobbing frantically into his voice mail that they had gotten Lisa again, that they had slipped past security using an old woman as their assassin. Then he'd called his parents. His mother had been shocked; she'd started to cry. His dad had gotten on the line and didn't say much. He was probably shocked, too. His dad usually clammed up when he got too emotional. Brad was the exact opposite. "They've got her, Billy, they slipped right past the fucking security and-"
"Paul told me everything," William said. His voice was even, controlled, yet with the faintest hint of strain beneath it. "We're doing everything we can, buddy."
"How the luck did this happen?" Brad shouted. He could feel that he was on the verge of crying again and he tried to hold it in.
"I've just talked to Paul, and I told him that I just found out that there's a commercial printer in the City of Industry, a guy by the name of Rick Shectman, who might be a possible suspect. They're sending a team of agents to question him right now."
"Tey've got somebody? Is this a-"
"It's a credible lead," Billy said, overriding him. "Listen, Brad, my source says that the feds have been investigating this guy for years, but they've been unable to come up with much of anything. He runs a commercial print shop in Industry that is believed to also produce child pornography. My source also told me that there's speculation he's tied into the production of other forms of illegal pornography. No hard proof, though, just speculation. But get this: His father, Boris Shectman, was convicted in 1979 of producing child pornography and bestiality publications and served six months. Boris also ran a lucrative porn business, providing loops to porn shops across the country. He also ran coin-operated booths, prostitution rings, the whole nine yards. My contacts are still trying to dig his name up in connection with their snuff-film investigation in the seventies, but he's confident Boris was partially responsible for at least one snuff film that was made in seventy-eight or seventy-nine. That's what my contact tells me. His source claims that Boris was deep into the whole hardcore industry, and that-"
"They're going to get this guy? Is that what you're telling me?" Brad was excited; he wanted to get out of here now and help!
"They're after him now." He could tell Billy was trying to sound hopeful. "I don't want to… you know… get your hopes up, but-"
"I just want her found," Brad said, trying to control the stammer in his voice. "1 just want her found."
"I'm doing everything I can, buddy. We'll find her. Now, can you pass me back off to the agents you're with?"
Brad handed the phone to the black agent, who took the phone. "Yeah? Paul Off from the field office? Okay. Thanks" The agent gave the phone back to the Luxor security man, who hung up.
Brad leaned forward, cradling his head between his hands. He still felt weak from the Taser. Weak and sick. "Mr. Miller?"
Brad looked up. The African-American agent was looking at him with soft, brown eyes. "Mr. Miller. I have something I want you to look at.*
"What?"
Another security agent had stepped into the room while Brad had been talking to Billy. He was holding a videotape. He inserted the tape into a VCR and as he got the tape ready, the head of security at the Luxor addressed him. "We questioned some of the guests and gave them your description of the woman who attacked you. We were able to verify that a woman fitting that description was seen with a man in the lobby, and that the man was pushing a luggage cart with a large box on it. Naturally, it was assumed they were guests. When I got the description of the woman from you, I ran it through security and we checked the tapes and came up with footage of the suspects leaving the hotel. We also checked the parking lot security tapes and were able to identify their vehicle. We got a blowup of the plate and alerted the state police and the DMV. They're on it now we also gave them a description of the man seen with the woman. I'd like you to view the tape and tell me if you recognize him' He turned to the TV and VCR, pressed the Play button, and stepped aside.
Brad moved toward the TV, watching the black-andwhite images of hotel patrons in the lobby hurrying to and fro. He recognized the old woman the minute she stepped into frame. 'That's her!" he said, feeling his skin crawl.
The security agent slowed the speed of the tape down. "Take a good look at this guy," he said.
Brad watched the tape, his heart racing. When the man stepped into frame pushing a luggage cart, Brad didn't recognize him at first. The gold rungs of the luggage cart partially obscured the man's upper body, but as the tape progressed frame by frame, the man's figure moved into a more prominent view in the film. Brad felt his breath draw in as the man's face loomed closer. He wasn't wearing sunglasses and he was clean-shaven, his hair cut shorter, but there was no mistaking it. The man in the film pushing the luggage cart was the man who had had him arrested outside Ventura over two weeks ago. "That's him!" he cried, pointing at the TV. "Ibat's the guy who called himself Caleb Smith. That's the guy who had me arrested and kidnapped Lisa!"
Animal was waiting for them at the precise spot Tim Murray had told him to be.
He was also dressed and ready for action.
Tim had piloted the SUV off the secondary road over the bumpy terrain to the hilly area at the foot of the indine. He parked behind a large outcropping of rocks. A four-door Saturn with a rental-car decal affixed to the rear window was already parked there and Animal was waiting, leather bondage mask over his head, his upper torso bare. Mabel took one look at him and grinned. "I've seen two films you were in. I love your work."
Animal didn't say anything. His eyes were wide with surprise at the sight of the old lady. He looked at Tim.
"Relax," Tim said, as he opened the door to the SUV "Rick hired her to take care of getting rid of their security. You ain't gonna believe the shit I seen this lady do."
"I want the eyes," Mabel said. She walked up to Animal, looking at him as an elderly schoolteacher might look up into the face of the school bully as she chastised him. "Rick Shectman said I could have an eye!"
Animal looked at Tim. "What the fuck?"
"She's cool. I'll tell you all about her later. Now, come over and help me get Lisa out.'
Animal joined Tim, and together the men hoisted the box out of the SUV Tim produced a box cutter and sliced the tape that bound the box shut. He opened the flaps and grinned. Lisa Miller lay curled inside, still knocked out. "I'll carry her out to the site if you carry the equipment. Camera and stuff is in the back" He reached into the box and grasped Lisa beneath the armpits and hoisted her up.
Animal reached into the rear of the van and grabbed the tripod and the black leather carrying case that contained the camera.
"You bring what you need?"'ISm asked. Lisa was out of the box now, and he threw her limp, unconscious form over his shoulder.
"Yeah" Animal motioned to the Saturn. In my car."
"Go get it!
• Tim and Mabel waited while Animal retrieved a duffel bag from the backseat of the Saturn. The hooded sadist slung the strap of the carrying case over his shoulder, picked up the tripod with his left hand, and the three of them trudged up the hill.
It was slow going. They had to stop halfway up when it became obvious that Mabel was going to have a hard time making it up the incline. Tim felt a flash of irritation as he marched behind her. Rnally, he stopped and put Lisa down. "Why don't you go over the incline and set the shit down and then come back for us;" he called out to Animal. "I can't watch after this old bag and carry this bitch at the same time."
Animal nodded and trudged up the hill.
He returned ten minutes later and, with Tim's help, the three of them made it over the incline into the little valley. Animal helped Mabel step carefully down the indine, guiding her down by gripping her arm, steering her down a safe path. Mabel talked to him the whole time, relating the same background she had given 75m on the way over. Several times Animal glanced at Tim as if to say this woman ain't shittin' me, is she? And each time Tim had nodded. She ain't bullshittin'you, buddy. She is what she says she is. By the time they reached the bottom of the incline, Animal was treating the old lady as if she were his grandmother.
Tim motioned to a rock set against. a small rise. "Why don't you have a seat and enjoy the action, Mrs. Schneider`
Mabel maneuvered herself to the rock and sat down. She was perspiring, and she looked happy. "My pussy's getting wet just thinking about-this."
Tim tried not to show his distaste at the image she'd just presented to him, and helped Animal set up the camera. Lisa lay slumped on the ground, her hands and feet still bound together. Once the camera was set up on its tripod and Tim had checked to make sure he had a fresh tape, he turned to Animal. "You ready?"
Animal nodded. He opened up his bag, brought out a large hunting knife. He grinned. Tim nodded, catching the rise of the sadist's penis from the open crotch of his leather chaps. Why Animal chose to wear leather chaps at these gigs, Tim could never understand. He always got blood on them, and blood was hard to wash off of leather.
Tim moved Lisa into position, then went back and checked his camera angles. Animal stayed out of camera range, poised and ready. Tim lined up the shot, made some adjustments, then hit the Record and Pause buttons. The tape was set. Now all that was needed was to wake their star up.
Tim reached into his bag and pulled out a syringe and vial. He filled the syringe, being careful not to draw too much of the Narcan in, and then lightly tapped it with his forefinger to get the air bubbles out. "I fixed this stuff up before l set out this morning. Should wake her right up."
"What is it?" Animal asked.
"Narcan. It reverses the effects of morphine-based drugs. They use it in ERs when people OD."
Animal was watching intently. That needle doesn't look big enough. Aren't you supposed to jab her in the chest? You know, put that shit into her heart?"
"Nah,"Tim said, finding a vein in Lisa's forearm and injecting the drug. "'That's only in extreme cases, when somebody's flatlined. They use adrenaline shots for that. This'll wake her up fine." He pulled the needle out and waited for a reaction.
The three of them watched Lisa, waiting for her to wake up. After thirty seconds, Animal said, "V. ll?"
"It could take about five minutes; Tim said.
"My flight leaves in four hours," Animal said." he faster I can fuck this bitch up and kill her ass, the quicker I can clean up and get the fuck out of here"
"Okay, okay, hold on.' Tim Murray felt the time pressure, too. He fixed up another dosage of Narcan, measuring out two milligrams' worth, searched for a vein, and slid the needle in. He injected it into her system and then sat back, waiting.
"You gonna untie her?' Mabel asked, grinning.
"What the fuck for?"
"Not much fun watching her die tied up," Mabel responded. "At least loosen the knots a little. Make it more exciting. After all, isn't he going to fuck her first?"
Tim turned to Animal. "What do you think?"
"What's this shit supposed to do to her?"
"It's supposed to block out all the effects of morphinebased drugs," Tim replied. "I only gave her enough morphine to knock her out a little. The Narcan should wake her up long enough for our film. She'll be conscious, but she might still be fucked up from the smack. She won't be much of a fight. Your call!
Animal nodded. "Untie her. I can handle her."
Tim set the syringe down and leaned over to untie Lisa. He laid her arms down at her side, her legs lightly spread. "You want her clothes off?"
Animal shook his head. "No. That's what knives are for."
Lisa's eyes flew open and began blinking rapidly as she began taking rapid breaths. Tim stepped back, picking up the syringe and his bag. He moved behind the camera to get started. He wasn't even able to start the film rolling before he heard Lisa Miller's first piercing scream.
When she came awake it was with a sudden rush.
She'd been swimming in a syrupy lake of deep, clogging sludge. She didn't know how she'd gotten there, but she knew if she stayed down much longer she'd never wake up. She had been struggling to break to the surface, fighting to break free and breathe, but her arms were pinned to her sides and it had been hard to break through the current. The lake she was in was so thick, so resisting, it was like fighting quicksand.
And then she was suddenly shot out of the quicksand and her eyes were open, the sunlight glaring in her eyes. She felt the heat of the sun on her bare skin, felt the air caress her body, felt the sting along the inside of her elbow, and for a moment she didn't know where she was. Her eyes watered in reaction to the sudden light. Her heart raced madly as she tried to remember what happened. She had been sitting in front of the TV vegging out, trying to stay out of the dark place that was the memory of that awful weekend when she had been kidnapped by that perverted psycho and almost murdered. That weekend she had seen Debbie Martinez horribly violated, then she'd lost her baby. The images of that weekend flashed through her memory as her eyes adjusted to the light and she was no longer swimming in that deep pit of quicksand. She was aware, she was conscious, and she was being confronted with what had happened for the first time since she had been knocked out. And what she saw brought it all back to a screaming reality.
And then her vision swam back into focus and the first thing she saw was the man in the leather bondage hood, standing bare-chested in front of her. She recognized him immediately as the man who had raped and tortured Debbie Martinez in that cabin in a time that seemed like a thousand years ago. The same man who told her how much he liked inflicting pain on other people, and how he enjoyed killing them. The same man who had later killed Debbie, Alicia, and Mandy after shed escaped. She saw him standing there, bran dishing a large butcher knife, sporting a huge erection, and she screamed.
She screamed, scrambled back, and fell, not even aware of the rough dirt that bit into her flesh. She heard laughter and it was all coming back to her. Her escape from the snuff-film makers, how she and Brad had been lulled into a false sense of security at the Luxor, how she thought they would never find her. And then how they had been fooled when that old woman had come in looking so helpless and lost, asking to use the phone because she had been separated from her church group, that old seemingly harmless-looking woman. The same old woman she had seen slitting John Panozzo's throat…
The old woman in question was sitting on a rock, grinning in anticipation. Lisa screamed again, her heart racing. She felt suddenly hot, flushed with adrenaline. She and Brad had been fooled! They had sent an old woman, an old woman that nobody would have guessed to be a killer, and they had done it under the noses of a hotel full of expert security people.
A shadow loomed in front of her and Lisa blinked, her eyes adjusting. A clean-shaven, familiar face grinned at her. Lisa recognized him instantly, even without the beard: It was Tim Murray, the man in the red van who had kidnapped her. "Remember me?" he asked, grinning. "You didn't think we'd let you get away, did you?"
Lisa felt her panic rise as she looked around. Tim Murray was getting behind the camera. The old woman was rising to her feet, her features a mask of gleeful anticipation. Animal took a step toward her, his penis bobbing like a divining rod, the sun gleaming off the blade of his knife. She scampered backward, whimpering. "No!"
"Try to make it last, Animal," Tim said from behind the camera.
They were going to make her suffer, that much was dear from that statement. If that was the case, she was going to go down fighting.
Animal was on her swiftly, pinning her down. Lisa tried to scramble back again, but she only succeeded in scraping her knees. Animal grabbed her hair and shoved her to the ground. She pushed herself off in an attempt to make a run for it and she felt him grab her again. Thenshe was slapped across the face, the blow hard enough to send her to the ground. Her cheek stung, and the slap awakened her. Her face was in the dirt, and she pushed herself up in an attempt to run for it when Animal pinned her down from above. He grabbed her from behind, his forearm getting her in a headlock. She felt his body over hers and she could feel his erection probe against the back of her thighs. She screamed and bucked, trying to throw him off, but that only made him tighten the pressure around her throat. She saw stars, felt her body grow warm, her heart racing. Her breathing was fast, panting. He's going to kill me! He's going to rape me and kill me!
She felt Animal's fingers and hands ripping at her nightgown, tearing it off. A rough hand moved between her thighs, pushing them apart. She struggled, trying to throw him off her back and scramble away, but he had her down. She could feel his penis against her buttocks as he pushed her to the ground, his forearm releasing his grip from around her throat. She used the opportunity to scream, and then she felt the weight off her back disappear and she took advantage of it. She bolted and felt a crash at the back of her head, spilling her to the ground. She tasted a mouthful of sand and grit, her eyes watering. Rough hands ripped her panties off, cool air caressed the back of her thighs and buttocks. Then she felt his bulk over her again, pinning her to the ground. She slapped at him, her fingers clutching leather, and she pulled. She heard a grunt, felt a blow to her chest, her face, and she batted at his face, grabbing his mask again. She pulled the mask off his head just as she felt a blow land on her throat. She fell back, gagging. She dropped the bondage mask, clutching her throat, breathing heavily, and then she was pushed back to the ground on her belly. She caught a brief glimpse of the man she had met back at that cabin, that handsome man who looked like he could have been a young doctor or a lawyer in her firm, the perfect image of the young, good-looking, urban professional. That face now wore a mask of blood lust. She gulped for air and she was realizing that when she pulled his bondage mask off, her arms had probably helped deflect the blow to her throat, otherwise she'd probably have a harder time breathing. She took a deep breath, mustering up her strength for another round of struggle, when she felt the hardness of his penis seeking entry from behind, moving into the rough region of her dry vagina.
No! Fight him! A warm flush flowed into her body; she felt highly agitated, her breathing coming in harsh pants in time with her racing heart. She felt the presence of his body over hers, not as pressed down as before, still holding her on her hands and knees, her belly resting on the ground. He was straddling her, his hips over her ass, his penis working its way between her legs to her sex while he tried to force her legs apart with his hand. His face was six inches from hers, to her right, and she felt him grip her hair with his left hand, tilting her face to his. His eyes gleamed, his All-American boyish features frightening. "You like it, bitch?"
Lisa panted, meeting his gaze. She could feel her anger building as she grew more agitated; she felt like a bundle of live wires. She wasn't going to let these bastards take her down without a fight. The adrenaline pouring through her system was reawakening her; no longer did she have the luxury to cower in fear. She had to fight. She had to be ruthless. She had to survive at whatever cost.
Animal's grip on her hair tightened, the pain in her scalp exploded. He was gathering fistfuls of her hair in his hands as he moved her head close to his, his eyes narrowed slits. "I asked you a fucking question, bitch! Answer me!"
All she was aware of was that blinding pain in her scalp along the back of her head. She could barely feel the presence of his body over hers, didn't even know if he had entered her with that vile thing that hung between his legs. She wasn't aware of anything except that loathsome face in front of her, that loathsome face that probably made women swoon. It was an inch from hers, leering at her. "You fucking listening to me, cunt?"
Lisa answered him the only way she could. She reached out and grabbed ahold of his nose… with her teeth.
And she bit down as hard as she could.
Animal screamed and instantly jumped back, dislodging his position over her. She held on, pulled up by his flailings, and she could feel her teeth slice through skin and cartilage. He bellowed and swung with his fists, striking her side, her back, but she refused to let go. She felt her energy surge, felt that she could run a thousand miles with all this energy, so she used it to her advantage. She brought her hands up to his head and moved her thumbs over his eyes, pushing them in.
This time, Animal howled.
She pushed Animal's eyes as hard as she could, and now she was actually on her feet; he had pulled her into a standing position in his flight to get away from her. She concentrated on one thing: killing this sadistic sonofa bitch who had given her nightmares and made her afraid. She focused her mind on trying to hurt him, using her rage and hate to propel her past the pain from the blows he was raining down on her body. She moved into position, still clutching his nose with her- teeth, her thumbs still pressing his eyeballs in their sockets, and then she blindly brought her knee up into where she hoped his crotch was.
It connected.
Lisa felt her teeth rip the flesh of his nose as he was driven to the ground from the blow. She tasted blood and snot. She stumbled, almost fell back, but fought to catch her ground. Animal was doubled over, howling in pain, and the adrenaline was running through her, prompting her to rush him and hurt him again, when she felt strong arms grab her from behind and pin them to her sides.
She yelled and twisted her body, trying to throw her attacker to the ground. She fought so wildly, so ferociously, that she caught him off guard. She sensed his surprise and didn't even hesitate to proclaim victory. She used her weight to offset his balance, and they fell to the ground. She landed on top of him. His grip on her loosened a little, and she slithered away. A grasping hand reached out and grabbed her. She kicked back with one bare foot, the heel hitting the side of his chest. She jumped to her feet, eyes darting around, trying to collect her bearings. Tim Murray was getting to his feet, his features twisted in an angry grimace. Animal was on his side, doubled over, writhing in pain, still howling and yelling. And the old woman was hobbling toward her, a large knife in her hands, her face twisted in madness.
Lisa turned and ran, scrambling up the incline, her bare feet slapping the rocks and hard sand. The highly agitated state she was in helped propel her forward, and she ran like she had never run before, quickly leaving Tim Murray and the old woman behind her. She didn't look back even when she reached the top of the incline. She simply continued running, heading down the hill toward the SW.
"You bitch!" Tim Murray yelled behind her, and she heard his pounding footsteps as he gave chase. She pressed on, flying over rocks and foliage as she reached the desert floor. She paused, looked over her shoulder, saw that Tim was twenty yards behind her and quickly gaining, and she pressed on.
When she reached the SUV she fumbled with the door, got it open. The keys weren't in the ignition, nor anywhere she could see. Her panic rising, she slammed the door shut and checked Tim's progress. He was ten yards away and gaining. She darted around the side, keeping the vehicle between herself and Tim.
"I'm going to kill you, you fucking bitch!" Tim huffed. He was five yards from her, circling around the other side of the SUV She could hear his labored breathing dearly. Her own breathing was rapid, her heart still hammering in her chest. Her energy level was high, her senses incredibly sensitive. She felt warm. She moved to the right, trying to see where he was. She caught a glimpse of him through the windows. He glared at her. "You're going to wish you had never done that " he said. "You are going to suffer."
She quickly dropped to the ground in a sudden burst of inspiration and scooped up a handful of sand, coming back up in a flash. Tim dashed to the rear of the SUV and she ran around the front. They pinioned off each other. The incline was at her back now. Something scratched at her ankle and she glanced down: a bundle of twigs, blown by the rising winds.
Footsteps around the side of the SW.
She backed up, heart pounding. A moving cloud blocked the sun, plunging the desert in shadow. Tim appeared at the end of the SW, his features a twisted grimace. Bitch!"
And then she plunged forward, throwing her arm back and pitching the fistful of sand she clutched in her right hand the way a baseball pitcher throws a curveball..She threw the sand directly at Tim's face.
Tim flinched and howled, hands shooting up to his face, doubling over. "You bitch!" he screamed. "You threw sand in my eyes!"
She stopped, torn between rushing him again and beating him and turning to run. She glanced around. The SUV was still there, as was a four-door Saturn parked nearby. Both vehicles were useless without keys. And since she was pretty certain she had been transported in the SUV, Tim probably had the keys on his person.
She took a step forward and heard a scream. It didn't come from Tim Murray.
She looked up.
Animal was standing at the crest of the incline. He looked terrifying, larger than life, more monstrous somehow than she had ever seen him before. His left hand was covering his left eye. He was screaming and moaning in pain and anger.
His right hand clutched a huge butcher knife.
Lisa rushed forward, knocking Tim to the ground. He went sprawling, landing on his back, hands still covering his face. She fell beside him and her left hand grabbed a rock.
The sound of footsteps and falling stones to her left as Animal ran down the hill toward them. His footsteps were erratic, his voice tinged with pain.
She shifted the rock to her right hand, brought her arm up.
Tim Murray, as if sensing the blow, raised his left arm to protect himself.
Scurrying footsteps growing loser, accompanied by Animal's voice. "Fucking bitch, I'm gonna kill you… fucked up my eye.. "
She shifted her position over Tim, grappling with him.
The sand she had thrown in his face had helped her more than she had thought it would. His eyes were fluttering, tearing profusely; he was fighting disorientation and irritation.
It made it easier for her to get the upper hand and get a good aim.
And bring the rock down on his head.
Tim crumpled like a limp doll, and she hit him again for good measure. Both blows to Tim's head sounded like a watermelon being split open.
The running footsteps were growing loser, along with Animal's yell of rage.
Another burst of adrenaline exploded in Lisa's system. She rose to her feet.
And met the challenge head-on.
Despite the fact that William Grecko was completely shitfaced drunk, he was thinking very dearly.
Learning shocking news probably helped keep his mind operating in a more-or-less sober manner.
William Grecko sat behind his desk, nursing a bottle of 151. No use drinking out of the flask now. Why hide it? His staff knew he was an alcoholic. He'd been in rehabil itation centers six times for his alcoholism in the past twenty years. He'd lost two wives, three partnerships, and most of his friends to the disease. He'd been pulled over ten times for DUI, arrested once. When he began gaining notoriety as a high-profile criminal defense attorney, the cops who pulled him over usually let him off with a warning for some strange reason. But one thing he hadn't lost was his ability to reason when it came to protecting his clients. And right now he had to use his mind to the best of his ability to think and strategize this latest tragedy.
What the hell am I going to tell him? William thought, running a hand through his greasy hair. What the hell am I going to tell him?
It was two P.M. Lisa Miller had been missing for five hours. The last report he had gotten from the Las Vegas PD was a whole lot of nothing. The feds were at least doing somewhat better. A team of detectives had questioned Rick Shectman very casually, and naturally Rick Shectman had maintained his innocence. Mr. Shectman not only didn't know the Millers, he had never seen the people in the photographs the agents showed him. 'Best picture we had was the one with that guy at the bank, the good-lookin' dude who escorted Mrs. Miller inside," William's FBI contact, Phil Krider, reported. "Shectman takes one look at him, says he never saw him before."
That was the official story. Phil related that he was pretty confident that Rick Shectman had been lying when he denied knowing the men in the photographs. "l could tell by the way he looked at those photos. He didn't even give them a real look. Just glanced at them, looked back at us, and said, 'Nope, don't know these guys. The man didn't even give the pictures the time of day, like he knew what they were of. That tells me he knows something."
Besides, as Phil Krider and the feds reported, Rick Shectman had ties with the underground pornography market. One of his associates had been busted for producing bestiality films, and Rick's father had an illustrious history that stretched back to the early seventies. Old man Shectman was even rumored to have been involved in the production of a snuff film, so it stood to reason that his son was following in Dad's footsteps. After all, the print shop the younger Shectman now operated had been run by his father. And Boris Shectman had been convicted twice of producing child pornography out of that very shop. Talk among the underground porn world was that the younger Shectman had his hands in the business, despite a lack of hard evidence. "The print shop's been raided at least three times that I know of and we never found anything," Phil told William. "He hasn't been raided in five years because of lawsuits. Also, Rick Shectman has been contributing to various political figures lately and that's helped keep the heat off of him, if you know what I mean."
William Grecko knew what Phil meant, but that wasn't what was worrying him this afternoon. Not by a long shot.
He took another sip from the bottle. He had sent Marilyn, his secretary, home at lunch. He couldn't stand hearing her outside his office. It wasn't as if she was particularly annoying, it was just that hearing her perform her normal duties was distressing to him. Listening to her was reminding him of Lisa. And Lisa was reminding him of Brad, and Brad was reminding him of-
He gulped down another shot-and sighed as it spread through his system. The warmth flooded through him. He dosed his eyes. First things first. Sift through what you've just been told, then make an educated decision based on the evidence. No need in getting Brad worried and riled up now.
Shortly after noon, while Marilyn had still been in the office, William had taken a call from one of the detectives working on the Golgotha angle. They had finally questioned all of the board members of the Golgotha Multimedia Corporation and all their alibis and backgrounds had checked out.
William had been expecting that, but he still had to ask the detective a little more about the board members themselves. What had they been like?
Rich country-club executive types, the detective had said. Smug, pampered bastards. Oh, not smug in the sense that any of them were suspicious-they all really did check out fine. No criminal records, their stories and alibis checked out, the whole nine yards. But you know they've got money. ft's like they all had fucking Teflon coated to their skins, y'know?
William had nodded, feeling a little dejected at the news. Yeah, so what else is new?
The detective had given him the rundown. The cabin was used as a retreat for business functions, usually meetings. Sometimes they had weekend retreats, where they drove up for the weekend, went skiing, talked shop, the usual bullshit. The cabin was primarily a tax write-off. Did they ever go up for personal use? Billy had asked.
Oh yeah, all the time was the reply. They all had keys to the place. It's just that the weekend your clients went missing, all twelve board members were at other locations; none of them were within a hundred miles of the cabin. We checked. Their alibis are tight.
Billy had just been about to ask if the men had family members that perhaps used the cabin when the detective beat him to it. Of course we questioned friends and family members. That s only following the logical nnil, you know? And everybody's story corroborated. Each man had only one key to the place. That key was on that member's person, and since each member was away that particular weekend, far from Big Bear Lake, it makes it impossible that any of them could have been involved
The detective had been rambling, and Billy had had to steer him back to the question he wanted to ask. Did family members have their own keys? Was it possible a family member had used the cabin that weekend?
No, family members don't have their own keys to the cabin. Everybody we spoke to denied using the cabin that weekend. Some of them had used it before, of course, but-
Billy had leaped on that statement. Like when? Who?
And that's when the detective had come back with one of those revelations that in thrillers always brings a chill to the audience. It brought a chill to Billy when he first heard it, and it gave him a chill now just thinking about it.
One of the board members, guy named LanyAllen, said he had a copy of the key made for a buddy of his a krv years ago, but his Mend hadn't been at the cabin either. In fact, the board had been meaning to have renovations done to the place and Lany had mentioned it to this guy. His buddy said he d take care of it for him, he knew a general contractor who would do the work, and he set it uµ 14 sent another team of detectives to question this friend of Mr. Allen s and he checked out too. And… well, this is where it gets weird His story really does check out 'cause he was with the California Highway Ftinul in Ventura County pretty much the entire weekend your client went missing. You air t gonna believe this-
Who the fuck is it?William had hissed.
It's Brad Miller s father. Hunk Miller.
That was what had sent William Grecko over the edge.
Now William sat in his office drinking Bacardi 151 and thinking about what he was going to tell Brad.
I've known Frank Miller for ten, fifteen years, he thought. This has to be some kind of weird coincidence. I saw the guy that weekend. He looked like he was a wreck. He was going through the same amount of anguish and grief as Joan and Brad were. He was elated when we found Lisa. And he's going completely batfuck now at home, waiting for word of the whereabouts of his daughter-in-law.
Or was he?
William had been trying to play connect-the-dots with this for the past hour now. The alcohol had helped unlock a lot of the barriers he normally wouldn't have been able to get past. He wondered if the alcohol was what was now making him paranoid.
It was perfectly logical that Frank Miller and Larry Allen would know each other. Larry was an executive at Fidelity, while Frank was an executive at a competing firm. 'They'd both been with their respective firms for twenty years, so it was only natural for their-paths to cross, being that they both worked in the financial industry. 'Iheyd probably met at a business function, became friends. No problem. Larry Allen was also a Christian, and by virtue of his stock in Golgotha, one would think he'd be of the squeaky-clean type. No alcohol, no drugs, and surely no pornography, not even of the Playboy variety. Although that image surely didn't provide guarantees. Lots of religious guys were closet freaks. Rank Miller was no heathen, but then he wasn't a terribly devout religious man either. So where was the bond formed? The golf course? The country club? Fbrhaps. It made sense.
William had formulated the relationship in his mind over sips of 151, trying to make the connections. And the connections he made weren't pretty.
Suppose they became pretty good friends. Maybe lorry tried to convert fhaak at one point but Rank passed 1 can buy that. But suppose there was still something they built their friendship on. Maybe Larry told Rank about the Golgotha retreat and it intrigued Flunk enough that Zany had a key made.?told Flank that if he and his wik ever wanted to use the cabin, he could. And Flank took the key. There's no evidence that suggests he used it… 1W get to that later. But suppose… just suppose that Flank later palmed the key to somebody else who used it for the snuff film?
William shook his head. That wouldn't have worked. Frank had been a nervous wreck that weekend. He was a nervous wreck now. Billy had seen him, spoken to him. Joan was flying off the wall and Frank was…
Strangely silent.
William took another sip of rum. Admittedly, he'd never seen Frank upset or emotional before this mess started. And he knew from experience that people handled stress and traumatic experiences differently. Some people, like Joan Miller, wore their hearts on their sleeves. Others, like Frank, kept their emotions dose to the bone. That's what he'd figured was going on when Lisa Miller first turned up missing. Frank was trying to be the rock for his family, was holding his emotions in. And he was doing that now not saying much, being quiet, but still visibly shaken. But then… suppose he was shaken because he was nervous?
William didn't want to consider that. It was absurd. Completely against the character of the man he knew. Frank Miller was a good guy. He was successful, he had a good family, and Billy had never known Rank to be even a purveyor of mild SEEM pornography. There was no way that Rank would have commissioned a snuff film. And for what purpose?
What did William Grecko know about snuff films, anyway? Not much. Like most people who worked along the fringes of law enforcement, he was of the opinion that they were urban legends. In all his time as a criminal defense attorney, he knew of no case in which a snuff film had been found. There had been a case ten years ago in Anaheim in which a furniture maker had been convicted of murdering two prostitutes; it had been suggested they had been slaughtered for the purpose of producing such a film. However, no snuff film ever surfaced during the investigation. From what William remembered about the case, the killer had lured the two women out to the desert where he had stashed video-camera equipment and various items of torture. Their bodies had been found a few months later, scattered across the desert. A pair of undercover female detectives, who had been hoping to bust the man in an undercover sting, had testified that the suspect told them numerous times that he'd wanted to produce a snuff film to sell to the underground extreme hardcore market.
The underground extreme hardcore market. The very name conjured images of black leather and whips, people tied to chains in basements or empty warehouses, strung up by their wrists as they were flogged or burned with cigarettes or cut with knives or razor blades. Brad had told him that the people who were into this stuff took their S&M fetish way beyond the extreme into bizarre torture and mutilation, near death. William knew that there were people into auto-asphyxiation, where they achieved orgasm at a near-death state. What he found hard to grasp was the inflicting of extreme pain and torture for sexual gratification.
Well, didn't serial killers get their kick from killing? Wasn't it all a power trip for them? Isn't that what rape was about? It wasn't so much about sex-that was a part of it, but it wasn't the primary focus. Rape was the fantasy of the perpetrator who sought to achieve a feeling of power over his victims. Taken to the extreme, wouldn't it be safe to guess that one who got their jollies watching somebody being raped was a rapist by proxy? And weren't snuff films nothing more than rape films in which the victim was later killed?
William drained the bottle. He set it down on the desk with a clink and sighed. There was no way that Frank Miller was involved in snuff films. The man had a good life; he had a loving wife, a successful child. He had a great job. He wasn't like those assholes William defended in court, those sexual psychopaths who-
Stop it! he thought. You were going to equate Frank with the dichEd image that the public has of a rapist, the seedylooking guy with the stubbled chin, the low-wage common day laborer, the animal who can't control his sexual urges. Tat's bullshit. fbu know that a lot of these perpetrators look like the guy next door: Hell, you just defended a kid a few months ago who was accused of raping his neighbor. The defendant in question was a nineteen-year-old student at Fullerton College who had broken into his neighbor's home and raped the thirty-eight-year-old victim while the woman's infant son slept in the next room. The defendant had been convicted of first-degree sexual assault. William's client hadn't come from the wrong side of the tracks. If anything, he looked like a model citizen, the kind of kid any parent would want as a son.
In a way, he resembled the man Lisa described who had attacked and mutilated that woman Debbie Martinez. The guy she had called Animal. She'd said the guy looked like he could have been a lawyer or a young executive.
And if that was the case, then why do you find it so hard to believe that Frank Miller couldn't be involved in this shit?
Because Frank Miller isn't a fucking pervert! I know the guy! ff f had known he was into weird pom, f would have known! ff f had known he got off on watching women being raped and killed, f would have been tipped off years ago. Jesus fucking Christ, we talked about our sexual conquests enough times and leafed through those pom-shops on Harbor Boulevard enough after work for me to get an idea of what turned him on. And not once did f see him venture into the leather-andchain crap in the back of the store. Not once!
So what to do?
His private investigator was waiting for a call back. William had told him he had some thinking to do before he made his next move. The cops and the reds were looking at Rick Shectman and a few other individuals he was connected with in the illegal pornography world. His FBI contact hadn't been able to tell him much, just that they were chasing down leads, talking to people in the S&M world about the extreme hardcore element, hoping to get a lead on that. Most of their leads kept returning to Rick Shectman as a man who had a hand in producing specialty product: mutilation films, some specialized fetish stuff, usually by commission. So, naturally, the focus of the investigation was centered on him.
William knew that if Rick Shectman was involved, he'd be crafty. He'd have to be if he was involved in producing snuff films. How else could he have been involved in this underground world and not be caught? He'd be very careful now in the next few months, William was sure of it. Therefore, he wasn't going to do anything to tip the cops his way. What was the phrase Phil told him? q be guys that partake in this stuff, both the sellers and the buyers, they stay as far away from each other as possi ble." William believed that. Therefore, if Rick Shectman were involved in any way in the snuff pornography market, he'd be living a double life. He wouldn't be associating with anybody in the extreme hardcore scene, especially with any possible customers.
That decided it for him. William picked up the phone and dialed Phil's number. The detective picked up on the third ring. "Yeah." "
"Phil, it's Billy."
"What's up?"
"I'm gonna give you an address," William said, reaching for his address book and flipping through it. "I'm also gonna give you a name and a description. That's gonna be the guy I want you to tail."
"So you don't want me to look at Rick Shectman?"
"No" William found what he was looking for. "The guy I want you to tail is named Frank Miller. He lives at 3589 Snow Lane in Irvine. He's in his late fifties, five foot seven, one hundred and seventy pounds or so, dark hair turning gray, thinning a little at the top. He wears glasses, has a ruddy complexion. Favors slacks and polo shirts; conservative business attire Monday through Friday. He drives a tan BMW, late model. I don't have a license-plate number, but you should have no trouble getting that. He-"
1sn't that Brad's father?" Phil asked.
The realization of what he was asking Phil to do settled in the pit of his belly and burned a fire. "Yes," he said, closing his eyes, hoping to God he was making a big mistake in this. "Yes, it is."
Rick Shectman was pissed.
He was sitting in the living room of his sprawling ranch home, perched in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was a warm day, in the mid-eighties, typi cal weather for Southern California, especially the San Gabriel valley. The windows were open, allowing a cool breeze to blow through. Rick had been reclining in his La-Z-Boy flipping through the cable channels blindly, waiting for the confirmation that the job he had given to Tim Murray was completed.
He had gotten the call, all right. But it wasn't the call he wanted.
Rick was seething. He wanted to break something, wanted to throttle somebody, preferably that fat fuck Tim Murray. He hoped Tim was suffering right this minute, slowly dying from his head injuries.
Provided, of course, the information he got was correct.
Rick Shectman took a deep breath and closed his eyes, replaying the phone call in his mind. Admittedly, he couldn't make out much of what had been said-the connection had been really bad-but he did make out Mabel's voice and a female in the background-Yelling? Screaming? It was hard to tell. At first it had sounded like a wrong number, a woman had started screaming, "Hello? Who is this?" Rick had answered, asking if this was Timthe readout on his caller ID had identified the caller as Tim Murray, and he had been thrown off by the woman's voice. There had been static, then the woman came on the line saying that Tim Murray was dying and that Rick was fucked. "You're fucked!" she'd screamed. Then there had been the sound of wind blowing and something else in the background, as if whoever was carrying the phone was trudging through rough terrain, and then the voice came again, bellowing in the background. And what Rick thought she'd said was "Let him hear you, granny" And then he had heard the high, reedy voice-an old woman? Mabel Schneider? — wailing. "The eyes! Rick said I could have the eyes!"
Then the woman's voice came through loud and clear. "Who are you?"
And Rick had shouted. "Who the fuck are you, bitch? Where's Tim? Where's-"
Then a click. She'd hung up.
Rick sat trembling in rage. He'd recognized Mabel's voice well enough. And Tim… if Tim was dead or dying, that meant-
No, he thought. She couldn't have escaped. She fucking couldn't have! They'd fucking drugged her! It was supposed to have been quick and easy, slice and dice and a quick romp with Animal, and then the film was supposed to be in the can. He was supposed to have the product no later than six tonight. Which meant-
Rick took a deep breath and composed himself. He'd tried calling Tim on his cellular three times and he kept getting Tim's voice mail. Rick didn't have a cellular number for Animal for security reasons, and Mabel wasn't answering her cell phone, which meant Rick had no idea what the tuck was going on. It was well past two Pm.; the film should have been done by now. Tim should have at least called to tell him it was completed.
I have a feeling he lucked this one up, Rick thought, a sense of dread settling in his system. Now what?
First things first. Contact the buyer. Tell him there's a problem. Warn him. Then retrace your steps, make sure you have no paper trail that will lead to Tim Murray. The phone number Tim Murray had was listed under somebody else's name, some poor victim of identity theft. If the cops did come poking around, they'd find that Rick was calling somebody named Sergio Melendez from Canoga Park. Since he'd only called Tim at that number three times, he could easily plead that he kept forgetting he was getting the wrong number. Easy. That was a lie that would hold up easy, since all three calls were made within the past day.
The buyer was the hard part, though. Sam Bash had arranged it. Sam was an old mainstay in the scene. He knew Rick's dad from way back, and he arranged the parties, private functions, slave auctions. The buyer knew Sam through the scene. It had been Sam who had come to Rick with the job, explained what the buyer wanted. Rick had agreed. The money offered up front had been twice the normal amount due to the risk. Rick had given instructions to Sam, who'd made separate. arrangements with Al and Tim. After the fuckup, Tim had called Sam, who had called Rick immediately and told him, "You're on your own. You don't know me, but the contact does. He'll be in touch.'
A week later, the buyer had paged Rick. The number Rick dialed rang to a pay phone. The client had been pissed-he didn't give a fuck about what had been delivered. He wanted what he'd paid for. And if he didn't deliver… well, he told Rick certain information Rick didn't think anybody was privy to. That had gotten Rick royally pissed.
He'd been tempted to send somebody after the buyer, but Sam had assured him if he did that it would ricochet back. "Finish the job," Sam had advised. The buyer will contact you with more information." This had started Rick's plan in getting the Miller bitch, which had led to this.
Rick would have to leave the house and contact the buyer at a pay phone. First he had to make sure he wasn't being watched. A couple of detectives had come poking around yesterday and this morning, trying to dig up that old second-degree-rape charge. That had stemmed from an incident five years ago when Rick was brought up on charges that he had filmed the sexual assault of a drunken college student at a Prat party. Cops never found the tape-it had been quickly sold to a purveyor-but the girl, despite her inebriation, had remembered Rick and provided a description. And because Rick's father, Boris, had been involved in the extreme hardcore scene, it only stood to reason that he should get scrutinized by law enforcement. Yeah, so what if he made a few legitimate pornos for the amateur market? Big deal! Well, it was a big deal now. He'd always had to step carefully before in this business; he'd always assumed that law enforcement had heard of his involvement in the illegal porn industry, which was why he always took pride in being as careful as possible. He had been careful in this latest job as well, employing the usual methods of setting up multiple barriers between himself and his contacts. But the customer obviously knew the ropes and was a member of the scene himself, otherwise Sam wouldn't have been involved. And he'd had the money too, in cold, hard cash. What had surprised Rick had been the customer's request of the victim. He'd actually given Rick a name!
Rick leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. That had never happened before in all his years in the extreme hardcore industry. Usually when a purveyor of hardcore commissioned a film, the only criteria they had in the victims were age and race. Tim Murray had a steady supply of potential victims from the circle he ran in, kids who ran away from home and got into the hardcore scene for the money and shock value. Kids like that wouldn't be too surprised to walk onto a hardcore S&M set and see Animal in his leather bondage hood. Hell, they always thought they were just in for a little rough stuff for a few hundred bucks! What the fuck did they know about the real world, where rich perverted pricks got their rocks off watching cheap little whores get snuffed out? Tim always made sure to check into their histories before making his selection. Sometimes he even found his subjects on the streets. He'd pick them up, show them some feigned kindness, buy them drugs, food, give them some shelter. Tim had his fun with them too, no problem with that; he liked his dick sucked as much as the next guy. Once they passed the screen test, and if Rick had a client who requested a particularly bloody film, Tim was perfectly happy to pass them off. And true to form, the cops never came looking for the missing person in question. Why would they? Both Tim and Rick were two and three steps removed from the victims. They protected their tracks expertly.
But this client… he was different. Sam had explained what he wanted to Rick, and at first Rick hadn't liked it. Too risky. Chick like that, a lawyer at a big firm, even if you don't miss her the parents will go bugfuck looking for her. But Sam had assured Rick in that smooth voice of his that the buyer had been planning this for the past year now. The buyer would make sure everything would work like clockwork. He would even pay double Rick's normal fee. That had aroused Rick's interest, and he had quickly called Tim and discussed it with him. Tim had agreed to the job after discussing the plan and, in turn, Tim had contacted Al and Animal with the usual setup. The first transaction was made through Sam. A second transaction was made in the restroom of a Mexican restaurant in Whittier, after Sam was out of the picture. When Rick saw him for the first time, he'd relaxed; he'd seen the guy at a few extreme hardcore parties in the past dozen years or so. He was one of the quiet ones, one of the purveyors of pain who enjoyed sitting back in the shadows watching scenes of blood sports and torture.
So what had happened? Al had fucked up royally and the bitch had escaped. Tim had been freaked out, and even Animal had been a little nervous. But at least they had gotten the money they'd extorted out of her, and Rick had earned some extra money. The tape of Animal and the infant had fetched a nice price from a wealthy pedophile in Seattle, and that had almost made up for Al's fuckup. The client had been royally pissed, of course, and demanded they get the bitch back and do what he had fucking paid them to do. During that first phone conversation he'd had with him in a phone booth after the fuckup, Rick had told the guy to fuck off-didn't he see that they'd almost been caught? The numbfuck didn't get it, and actually threatened to expose him. "I'll bring you down, Rick. I'll fucking expose you, I've got shit on you that'll have the DA on you so fast it'll make your balls burst." Rick had responded accordingly. Oh yeah? What about you? You commissioned the fucking film, you goddamn pervert motherfucker. It takes two to tango.
And the client… that rich, smug, corporate bastard… he'd tucking laughed. "You think the police are going to believe you?You're a convicted criminal! Your father was a peddler of child pornography and bestiality films! The cops know you make hardcore S&M films, that the so-called mainstream stuff you do straddles the line. They know you've produced child pom, that you've trafficked in other shit. You're a fucking convicted sex offender! You think they're going to believe you? You out of your fucking mind?"
"Yeah? Big fucking deal! Tim will back me up, and so will Animal and-"
And you'll squeal on them to get me busted? Listen to yourself, you cheap bastard! Nobody's going to believe you. You can't pin me to this. There are no records, no witnesses, nothing! Nobody even knows we met. All of our phone calls were done at pay phones. We've had all our meetings in public places, at restaurants in the fucking men's room. As far as the cops go, we don't exist. This transaction doesn't exist. There's no way to tie us together because, by the very nature of the product you produce, you have to stay as far away from people like me as possible. Am I right?"
And Rick had nodded, wanting to reach out and wrap his fingers around the man's neck and squeeze until he couldn't see his knuckles. He'd had to restrain himself. So he'd nodded, said he'd do his best, and the guy had said, "Don't just do your best. Just do it. I'll give you a few weeks to collect your bearings and I'll call with a new plan. And don't even think about having somebody come after me, either. If I go missing, or if I get hurt, I've already made sure that the cops will find you and you'll be fucked."
"Oh, and you're willing to disgrace your family? Is that it?You gonna hurt your family's memory of you by exposing yourself for the perverted motherfucker you are?"
The client had laughed, and it was a laugh devoid of a soul. "I won't give a shit, Rick. I'll be dead. Won't I?"
Rick stood up and retrieved his keys from the table in the living room. He had to call the client. It was the least he could do… tip the client off to what was happening and lay low. Well, Rick would make a few other calls to New York, to a certain family he knew in the old neighborhood that was tapped into the scene. Fill them in on what was going on. And if the cops came nosing around, Rick would know that the client had spilled the beans. Then one phone call would be all it would take to get Eugene and Maxwell out from New York to pay a visit to the client. He'd think of a way to distance himself from the job he'd done.
He left the house, locking it behind him, and got in his car. As he drove to the liquor store on the comer of San Gabriel Boulevard and Foothill, he replayed in his mind what had happened next. Rick had agreed to follow through with the client's plan, but he had been pissed over the fuckup. Somebody had to pay, and if it wasn't the client then it would have to be somebody else. So he had called the meeting at the shop, telling Animal to ready himself up for some torture and bloodshed. Rick figured Tim or Al had fucked up, and he didn't really care which one went down-he had been growing rather tired of both of them lately. Still, Al was a cocky sonofabitch, and things had played out naturally that night when he'd immediately started denying everything. Tim had started squealing the minute he got to the shop, and Rick knew the shit had gone down exactly as Tim described. He already knew from Sam that Al had never called him. Al had had explicit instructions to deliver a product to Rick. He'd delivered, all right-and he'd lied to Rick and Tim when he told them Sam had OK'd it. Guy was a fucking weasel. That just made it easier to kill him right there, that night, on the floor of the print shop.
Well, Animal had done that part, of course. But it had been Rick's decision. And he'd felt better after having made it.
Rick pulled into the liquor store parking lot by the bank of pay phones. He turned off the ignition and climbed out of the sports car, hurrying to the phones. He'd committed the client's phone number to memory, and now he dialed it after dropping a quarter in the slot, waiting for him to pick up after two, three, four rings-
"Hello?"
Rick had been poised to hang up if somebody other than the client answered, but he recognized the voice. 'It's me.'Iheres a problem!
'Now what?'
Rick could tell that the client had an idea something was afoul. He had that tone of voice that seemed to suggest he was bothered by something.
"1 just got a call," Rick said. it didn't sound good. You never saw me, you've never met me, you've never heard of me before. Furthermore, you've never been involved in the circle. I'm going to call a few people we both know and ask them to deny they've ever seen you. Do you understand?"
The client tried to sound tough. "What the hell happened? If you-"
"She got away," Rick said, more firmly. "Remember. We've never met. My guess is that the cops will start knocking at your door. You know what to tell them, and you know what to expect if you start singing" He hung up, closed his eyes, his breath harsh in his ears.
For some reason it felt like a tremendous weight had been taken off of his shoulders. Rick sighed, picked up the receiver, and dropped another quarter in the slot. He couldn't relax now, even though he felt better about warning his client. He had to be on guard, lay low. With that in mind, he dialed the next number he had in mind from memory, beginning the process of covering his trail.
Her mouth was dry; she was thirsty.
She could feel her energy draining… her body growing light with sleep.
And each time she felt herself weakening she shook her head, reawakening herself, then trudged on ahead, concentrating on piloting the SW over the rocky terrain.
The pain in her side had dulled to a slow throb. She kept her right hand pressed to the gaping wound, trying to ignore the slickness of her flesh as she felt something slosh inside. She knew she was probably holding her intestines inside her abdomen, but she didn't look. She couldn't. If she looked she knew she would faint. And if she fainted she would lose control of the vehicle and would either crash it into a cliff or drive herself off one. The impact might not even kill her outright; she might lie pinned in the wreckage for as long as it took her to die of shock and blood loss. That was all there was to it.
So she drove.
The Nevada sky was overcast, dark with rain clouds. The wind had picked up, blowing through the open windows. It blew Lisa's hair back over her face. She licked her cracked lips, ignoring the nausea in her belly, the pain in her lower right abdomen, and concentrated on driving. Zigzagging between boulders and rocks. Steering the vehicle around cacti. Homing in on her target, her goal. The road that she could dimly see in front of her, now a good five hundred yards away. If she could make that road, she would try the cell phone again.
She should have killed Animal outright. Her mind raced over that now as she struggled along, one hand holding her guts inside herself, the other clutching the steering wheel. Animal had been weakened by her initial attack on him and he'd charged at her, swinging the knife wildly. His left hand had been covering his wounded eye, and it was obvious he was half-blinded. She'd taken advantage of his handicap by ducking and charging him, barreling into his exposed midsection, knocking him down. She'd still been clutching the rock she'd used to bash Tim Murray's skull in, and she'd swung the rock down on the sadist's head. She'd knocked him out cold first time out.
Her first instinct had been to flee, and she'd almost started running blindly, when she realized that she could probably get the keys to one of the vehicles from either Tim or Animal, who were both lying on the desert floor. She'd gone back, heart thudding in her chest, her nerves aware and jumping, anticipating the slightest twitch. She'd knelt by Tim Murray, noted the shallow rise and fall of his chest and the blood congealing out of his ears, and begun rummaging through his pockets, turning up a wallet, a cellular phone, and a set of keys, including one attached to a ring from a car-rental agency in Las Vegas.
Ecstatic, she'd started heading toward the SW, when she'd realized the cellular phone was still by Tim. She'd doubled back for the phone, got it turned on, and tried dialing 911. She'd put the phone to her ear and started screaming for help, hoping that whoever heard her was recording her frantic cries for help. She thought she could hear somebody, but she couldn't be sure if what she was hearing was a person or static from the rising wind. Frustrated, she'd hung up and tried again. And again. Each time, she got nothing.
Then she heard a voice. A thin, reedy voice, floating from over the incline, coming from the other side. "Tim? Animal? What's going on?" The old woman.
Lisa didn't know why she did it, but she started trudging up the incline, clutching the cellular phone. She hit a button that displayed a series of phone numbers and she hit the first one, not knowing whom she would get, just trying to get a connection to the outside world. She was as surprised as shit when somebody picked up on the other end and his voice came through loud and clear.
"Hello?" She thought she'd heard him reply, but the connection disintegrated into static again. She kept say- ing" hello" a few times, thought she heard the man on the other end asking for Tim, and then a sudden inspiration seized her. A flare of hatred and anger erupted from deep within her and she screamed. "You motherfucker… you want to talk to your pervert buddy. Tim? Listen to this!" And she held the phone up toward where rim's prone body lay, then brought the phone back to her ears. "Hear that? The reason you didn't hear anything is because Tim's close to being dead. I just bashed his fucking brains in, motherfucker! How do you like that?'
She didn't know how much of what she said got through, but some of it must have; the man's response was immediate. "What's going on? Tim?"
Lisa had reached the pinnacle of the incline now, and this time she saw the old woman on the other side, standing up and looking around. When the old woman saw Lisa, she let out a wail of despair. "Listen to this, asshole!" Lisa yelled into the phone, and held it out toward the old woman. Were you go granny!Let 'er rip!"
"The eyes! Rick said I could have the eyes!"
Lisa brought the receiver back to her ear as she started back down toward the SUV "Your two buddies are dead, and I'm leaving the old woman here for dead too, motherfucker. Now you're fucked! You hear me!"
This time the man heard her. "Who the fuck are you, bitch? Where's Tim? Where's"
She'd hung up on him, and when she got to the bottom of the incline she stopped, feeling a burst of triumph and pride rise within her.
I've fucking got 'em, she thought. Whoever he is, he's on the run. Lisa didn't know who the man was, but she had a gut feeling that whoever it was he had something to do with the illegal hardcore industry that Tim and Animal worked in. The cellular phone Tim was carrying was a cheap Minolta, and there were only three phone numbers programmed into it, which told Lisa it was a pickup job, procured probably for the weekend. She had heard of the practice in her law office, of people getting cellular phones for brief periods of time and then ditching them when they weren't needed anymore. Perhaps the guy who commissioned this particular snuff film was the person she'd talked to. If that was the case, she was keeping the cell phone. And once she got to a point where she received better reception from a cellular tower, she'd try 911 again.
She had approached the SW and was trying to dial 911 again when she'd seen something out of the corner of her eye. She had looked up and seen Animal's twisted visage reflected in the SW's windows a moment before she felt cold steel slide into her right side, spilling warm blood down her belly and thighs.
She didn't even know she was fighting him until she heard him scream and lean forward, clamping his jaws on her left shoulder. She screamed, trying to knee him in the groin again. She felt the knife slide into her again and she fell back against the vehicle, his bulk bearing her down. Her right fist rose and fell over his left eye, pulping it as he loosened his jaws from her shoulder to scream. The knife slid out of her and adrenaline burst through her system, propelling her fight instinct to a level that was beyond fury. She felt his grip on her weaken slightly, and she took advantage of it by driving her fist into his exposed throat. He'd fallen back, gagging, left hand clutched at his throat. He'd dropped the knife and she had pounced on it, grabbing it by the blade, feeling it slice through her hand and fingers. She'd grabbed at the blade with her right hand and lunged, driving it into Animal's midsection to the hilt. His eyes bugged out and he'd gasped suddenly, as if he'd been shocked. Then he'd fallen backward, the knife sticking out of his solar plexus, his one open eye glazing over in death.
She didn't remember how she got into the SUV, but the next thing she remembered she was backing the vehicle along the terrain. She realized what she was doing, realized she was driving backward, then stopped. The incline they had parked at was a good hundred yards away, and she could dimly make out Animal's and Tim's bodies lying there. That's when the pain reeled in, bringing the stunning reality to everything into clear, sharp focus.
Shed risked only one glance down at her midsection. That had been enough to tell her that she'd lost a lot of blood. And that she might not last long.
Somehow she'd grabbed the cell phone when she had climbed back into the SUV She had tried it again, her fingers slipping on the keypad as she dialed 911. She could feel herself panicking, and she closed her eyes, repeating to herself you will not faint, you will not faint, you will not faint. She'd taken deep, even breaths until she felt herself calm down. Then she'd placed the phone in the cup holder above the gearshift, clamped her left hand over the wound in her side in an attempt to stop the bleeding (and keep my insides in, she had reasoned. I feel something trying to slide out and I've got to keep them in…), shifted into drive with her left hand, then steered the vehicle around so that it was facing in a direction she felt safe to go in.
Now she was rolling along, not even sure how far she should go, knowing only that she had to put some miles between herself and the fiends she had left behind. And try to find a spot where she could receive decent reception for the cell phone.
She could feel the wind buffeting the side of the SW as she piloted it over the rough sand. The clouds in the distance were getting darker, and she wondered briefly if she would be swept away if it suddenly rained hard. She'd heard that sometimes desert thunderstorms were like that. One minute it would be barren and dry, the next the desert would be transformed into a rushing river. Whatever. It was best not to think of that now. Concentrate on one thing at a time. Get the fuck out of here.
She drove on, trying to keep the vehicle in a more or less straight line. She had no idea if she was going north or south, east or west. Just knowing she had to find a road, a path. Anything resembling civilization. She wondered how far off the beaten path the incline they had picked for her murder was. It had to be at least a mile off the nearest road. Maybe even more. Less chance of finding her body after they were finished. Which meant she had a few more minutes of driving, if she was lucky. She'd already been driving for… what? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
Her side throbbed and she felt nauseous again. She fought the urge to throw up and almost brought the SUV to a halt. She took a deep breath, swallowed, and released her foot off the brake. Move, she thought. Just drive. Just get the hell out of here.
She thought she could feel her blood coagulating beneath her hand. But then every time this thought entered her mind she would feel a fresh warm squirt, and her hand would feel drenched again. She tried to focus back on the task of driving, looking out the windshield at the tumbleweed blowing across the desert, watching twigs and brush blowing as the wind picked up even more, hearing the wind howl and moan as it raced across the desert floor. She didn't even bother steering now, just kept the vehicle on a steady course. The tires bounced over rocks, rolled over cactus. She felt a shock jar her system and shake her guts, and a fresh wave of pain erupted in her side. She screamed and took her foot off the accelerator. Something had slapped the underside of the vehicle; it sounded like something had broken off, and now the vehicle was making a chug-chug-chug sound. The SUV was vibrating, and she had her foot off the gas. She dosed her eyes, fighting to battle the pain down, feeling her lifeblood slip away. Haw much blood can a person bleed out and still live? she thought. A pint? She'd lost at least that much, maybe more. The seat was drenched with blood; it was pooling down on the floor of the vehicle, near the pedals. Her back was sticky with it. No telling how much she had lost outside during her fight with Animal. She pressed her hand against the wound, reawakening the pain again, and gritted her teeth. She opened her eyes, her vision blurry, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. She put her foot back on the accelerator and focused her mind back on driving.
She managed to stay focused on driving for what seemed like five minutes. But then again, it could have been five seconds. Five hours. She wasn't counting the time. The clouds were still dark, the wind was still blowing, and now it was starting to spit rain. She knew some time had passed because the scenery had changed somewhat. She glanced in the rearview mirror, and now she could hardly see the incline. It had receded to a small thing in the background. How far had she driven? A mile? Two miles?
Then suddenly the tires rolled over smooth pavement. She stopped, looked back and forth. It was a narrow road, roughly paved, but it was a road nonetheless. And where there were roads there were people.
She took her hand off her side quickly and put the vehicle in park, then reached for the cell phone again. It slipped from her grasp from the blood that had dampened her hand. She had to hold it with two hands as she dialed 911, her tongue sticking out in concentration. A lank of bloodied hair hung over her forehead and she put the receiver to her ear, hoping and praying that the call would go through. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease`
Nothing.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She fought the urge to do both. Instead, she replaced the phone back in the cup holder, put the vehicle back in drive, looked both ways, decided to turn right, and started heading down the road.
She wondered if Animal and Tim were dead now. How hard had she really hit Tim? Maybe he was only knocked out. Maybe he just had a really bad concussion. Didn't people who have concussions bleed out of their ears? Maybe he'll come out of it, and when he sees Animal's body lying there he'll realize what's happened. Maybe hell get Animal's keys and come after me. Maybe he's driving after me right now, maybe he's coming after me right this minute and-
She banished the thought completely and gritted her teeth. Her left hand went back to trying to staunch the flow of blood from the wound in her side.
And she drove.
She peeked in the rearview mirror occasionally, seeing nothing. The road ahead of her was barren, now growing dirty from the blowing wind. The clouds loomed darker, solid black where they met the horizon. A crack of thunder reverberated in the air and the sky lit up with lightning. To her right she could see that it was raining far off in the distance. Judging by the way the wind was blowing, the storm was heading her way.
She drove. And concentrated on keeping her mind off the pain of her wounds by driving. She thought about Brad, her parents. She thought about winning, about beating the bastards who had set this all up. And the more she thought about them, the angrier she got. And the angrier she got, the more determined she became to fight the drowsiness that was now threatening to envelop her. She shook her head, forcing herself to stay awake. Keep driving. Just keep driving, keep the vehicle on the road and keep dr-
And then she was on another road, this one a much larger highway. Pwo lanes, freshly paved.
She stopped the SUV, looked up and down the road, fighting drowsiness, trying to reach a decision of which way to turn.
She turned left.
When she pulled onto the road she saw a flash of light in the distance. As she pulled into the lane she squinted, fighting to stay awake. The lights loomed larger, and when she recognized them for what they were she felt such a rush of excitement that she almost collapsed over the steering wheel in joy. She fought the urge and continued on, the plan springing to mind as easily as the decision to fight for her life back in the desert. The headlights were far enough away that she could simply steer the vehicle into the opposing lane, blocking its path. Whoever was driving the vehicle would stop. Whoever it was would help her.
She turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, feeling the tires skid across the pavement. She thought the SW was going to tip over and she automatically grabbed the steering wheel with her right hand, a fresh wave of pain exploding through her abdomen. Her foot was pumping the brakes and she felt herself spinning, as if she were on an amusement park whirligig.
When the SUV stopped she was facing the headlights, which were now looming larger, she had made a complete three-sixty in the opposing lane. The headlights were blinding and now she could see the vehicle clearly. It was a tractor-trailer truck, one of those long-haul eighteen-wheelers. She could hear the hiss of its air brakes as it began slowing to a stop.
With a gasp of relief, Lisa fumbled for the driver's-side door and got it open. She spilled out onto the pavement, screaming in agony as her side exploded again. She tasted dirt in her mouth. The hiss of escaping air from the huge truck's braking system was loud in her ears, and she tried to ignore the sensation of her guts sliding out of the hole Animal had made in her side with the knife. She tried to move her arms, to position herself to move forward, but she was feeling herself fall down into a dark hole. She fought the feeling, shook her head to clear the blackness that was rapidly engulfing her from the inside out, and the last thing she was consciously aware of was a rapid plummet toward darkness, strong hands grasping her, and the sound of a male voice.
His parents had arrived at the hotel a little before four P.M., and it was now closing in on five-thirty. Brad Miller was slumped in a chair in his room, staring out the window. His mother was sitting next to him; his dad was pacing the floor, running a hand through his thinning hair, looking worried. The head of Luxor security was in the room with them, along with two Las Vegas detectives, trying to keep things calm.
Brad closed his eyes, trying to get past the sense of dread he was feeling. Thirty minutes ago Mike Hall, one of the detectives, had gotten a call from the Nevada Highway Patrol. The thunderstorm that was currently wreaking havoc on Las Vegas was hindering their search efforts. All roads going in and out of Las Vegas were closed and there were flash-flood warnings. "We won't be able to get out there until tomorrow morning at the earliest," the detective had told Brad.
It'll be too late by then, Brad thought. He closed his eyes, all the tears long since drained out of him from cry ing all day. He was staring at his future, and try as he might, he simply could not Imagine it without Lisa.
Then Mike Hall's cell phone rang.
He answered. "Yeah! The long pause made Brad look up at the detective, and what he saw brought a burst of hope through him. The detective's features had brightened. He was actually smiling.'Ihat's good news, sir. Yes, I'll tell him." He hung up.
Brad sprang to his feet. "Where is she?'
'They found her," Mike Hall said, beaming like a proud father. "She's at Las Vegas County, undergoing surgery. A trucker found her on Interstate 15. She-"
But Brad wasn't listening. He was scrambling out the door, his mother and father trailing after him. Joan Miller was crying in joy, calling out to her son to wait up for them. Mike Hall could only follow, trying to keep up with the mad caravan to the hospital.
William Grecko was both ecstatic and filled with dread.
He grew happy every time he glanced at Brad, who was sitting next to his mother, Joan, talking to Mike Hall or one of the other detectives. Frank Miller was always in close proximity, either sitting near them offering smiling words of encouragement and occasional laughter, or he was pacing the floor of the waiting room, pausing every now and then to glance out the window at the dark rainfilled Las Vegas cityscape amid all the glittering lights.
The dread filled him every time he laid eyes on rank Miller.
William had been trying to get a read on Frank ever since he'd pulled in to the hospital. He had received a call from Brad on his car phone when he was just outside the city limits on his way in to assist in the vigil, informing him that Lisa had been found. William hadn't asked questions right away. He'd simply told Brad he was happy she'd been found, then pulled over to the side of the road and hunted up the number to his FBI contact and given him a call. After relaying the news, he'd given the agent the number to his car phone and resumed his drive. When the agent called back thirty minutes later, William was pulling into the parking lot of the hospital. He'd sat in the car talking to the agent, getting the latest information.
A long-haul trucker had found Lisa just after three P.M. on Interstate 15. She'd been driving a white SUV and had swerved into oncoming traffic. The driver suspected something was amiss, and that was confirmed when he saw Lisa's bloodied form on the pavement. He immediately went back to his rig and raised a distress call on his CB. Fellow truckers responded by calling 911 for him and relaying vital information on their location. Between then and the time it took for emergency personnel to arrive, the trucker had covered Lisa up with a thermal blanket and tried to control the bleeding. Lisa was airlifted to Las Vegas County, where she was immediately whisked into surgery.
Because her description had been broadcast to the Nevada State Pblice, the FBI was immediately dispatched to the scene. Under fierce wind and rain, they managed to recover the cellular phone in the SUV. They immediately traced the vehicle to a rental agency where it had been rented by a man bearing a California driver's license identifying him as Carl Whitman. William's contact told him that when the DMV faxed their field office a copy of the license he was stunned. "It's him," he'd said as William sat in his car, rain pelting down on the windshield. "It's the same guy Lisa identified as Tim Murray. Beard's shaved off, but it's the same guy. He must've gotten a false ID."
An APB was out on Tim Murray, as well as the stillunidentified man seen in the bank surveillance video with Lisa. In addition, a still taken from video cameras at the Luxor was now being distributed. Brads description of the events of Lisa's abduction were fantastic but certainly credible. 'An old woman would be the perfect ruse," one of the agents told William. 'Nobody expects somebody who looks like their grandmother to be a cold-blooded killer. I mean… even criminals get old, Billy. This old lady's probably been involved in this shit for years!
The rainstorm was hindering search efforts, but the authorities were certain they would make progress by tomorrow Meanwhile, Lisa was in surgery, and once she regained consciousness and was able to talk, various law-enforcement personnel wanted to meet with her. William would be present, and he wanted to question Lisa himself on certain things. Once he got her by herself, he wanted to ask her questions about Frank.
William had received only one call from Phil, the private investigator he had hired. Phil had told William that the minute he had pulled into the neighborhood where Frank and Joan Miller lived to begin his surveillance, the couple left their home. 'I'm following them now,' he'd said. "Looks like they're heading out of town. What's up?"
That report had come in shortly after two. William had been sure Frank would leave the house, maybe meet up with Shectman. That hadn't happened. Instead, the Millers had gotten into their vehicle and driven straight to Las Vegas. Maybe Flank doesn't have anything to do with this, William thought. Maybe I'm just… being paranoid.
If he was being paranoid, he was doing a good job of it. He watched Bank out of the corner of his eyes, noted how the man was standing quietly at the window, looking out at the dazzling lights of the Las gas strip in the distance. William watched him, wondering what was going on in the man's head, trying to retrace his, steps. Then, telling himself it was now or never, he rose to his feet and approached Frank.
Flank turned around, smiled when he saw William. "Thanks for being here, Billy," Frank said.
William nodded. "It's the least I could do." He grasped Frank's elbow and motioned him away from the window. "Listen, can we talk in private?" His voice was lowered, serious. "Just the two of us?"
Frank's expression became serious. He nodded. "Sure, Bill."
The two men headed out of the waiting room. Joan called out: "Frank?"
Frank turned to his wife. "Bill and I are just taking a quick walk. We'll be right back, dear."
William waited until they were out of earshot. He motioned toward the snack bar. "I could use some coffee. How 'bout you?"
"Sure"
Coffee purchases were made from the dispensing machine, and once the cups were in hand, William nodded at Frank. "I've got… well, I've got some concerns I want to talk to you about, Frank." He started feeling nervous and he licked his lips, hating himself for it. Normally, he was fine when it came to confronting people. He did it all the time as a lawyer and he thrived on the atmosphere in the courtroom. But here? At the hospital, with Lisa Miller undergoing emergency surgery to save her life, he was going to confront her father-in-law with suspicions that he'd arranged her murder?
Was he losing his mind?
"I've been helping Brad deal with this the past few days," William began, taking a sip of coffee. "When Brad told me everything, I was… well, I was shocked. It's just-"
"It's just so unbelievable that people would be into such things," Frank Miller said, shaking his head. "I know It sickens me."
William glanced at Frank, noted his expression. Was Frank's expression of shock genuine? It was hard to tell. William pressed on. "Anyway, I… I employ the services of a lot of private detectives. I'm sure you know that. And I gave the details of the case to one of them and he went to work on it. I've also been working with law enforcement in California in helping to find the people that… you know… abducted Lisa in Ventura. Of course, we had no idea that what happened today was going to happen. I had Lisa and Brad sent out here for their safety, not knowing that-"
"How the hell did they find them?" Frank looked at William, open shock and horror in his features. "How the hell could these… these freaks find my son and Lisa and try to do what they failed to do in California?"
With rising doubt, William shook his head. "1 don't know, Frank. That's what I'm trying to find out."
"It just makes no sense," Frank continued. He took a sip of coffee. William noted that, as usual, Frank looked impeccable in his Gucci loafers, his polo shirt, his dark gray slacks. His wavy hair was slicked back, speckled with gray. A gold bracelet dangled from his wrist. He should be a criminal defense attorney, William thought, rubbing self-consciously at his own gold chain bracelet. "The only people that were supposed to know about Brad and Lisa being here were your people, us, and Lisa's parents! Who else could have found out?"
"I don't know," William said quickly."That's what we're trying to find out"
"1 know Brad hasn't talked to anybody in California since arriving here a few nights ago," Frank continued. "He asked us to start looking into getting psychiatric care for Lisa. I just don't see how anybody outside of our little circle could have-"
William tuned him out as a slow, dawning realization came to him. Lisa's boss, George Brooks. He had called just yesterday, wanting to get ahold of Lisa. Something about missing files. He'd needed to speak to Lisa desperately. And what had William done?
He'd given George their room number at the Luxor.
It can't be George, William thought. I know him. He's no more a sadist than I think Rank is. And as far as I know, he has no connection to Golgotha. The only way I can pin him to anything is that he had knowledge of where Lisa and Brad were holed up and-
"You okay, Billy?"
William started, looking at Frank. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
"Looked like you were letting your mind wander. I know this looks bad, but we're gonna,nail these bastards. Don't worry about it. I've been talking to one of the lead detectives on the case and-"
William spit it out. "I know the FBI hasn't questioned you yet, Flank, but I'm guessing they will soon because of your affiliation with Golgotha. That you know one of the board members, that he gave you a key to his place. I know all about it.'
Frank stopped talking, mouth gaping open in shock. He looked stunned.
William pressed on, feeling inspired. "Why didn't you come to me with this information before? When we found out?"
"When you found out?" Frank asked. "What do you mean, when you found out? How was I supposed to know that a man I'm friends with would be linked to a crime scene that my daughter-in-law was a victim of? My God, Billy! If I had known-"
"You would have told the authorities? If so, why didn't you?" William could feel himself getting on a roll now. He felt very much the way he did when he was in court cross-examining a witness. "You would have found out about the Golgotha cabin the same time Brad and I did, which was shortly after the FBI took Lisa up to Big Bear and she identified the place. I got her and Brad out of Orange County that evening, and here it's been over two days and you haven't said a word about it."
"Are you accusing me of setting this up? Is that what you're getting at?"
William stared at Frank. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just saying that the circumstantial evidence is-"
"What? Overwhelming?" A red flush crept up Rank's neck. He looked pissed off, but there was something about his eyes that gave off a hint of panic. Was he panicked because he had been found out or because he was scared that he was being framed?
"Yes. It's overwhelming."
"Bullshit!"
"Rank, listen to me" Flank had stood up and was walking back toward the waiting room. William caught up with him, their coffee cups left behind on the snack room table. "Just listen to me. If you aren't involved, fine. But the police are already nosing around. If they catch this Tim Murray guy and he corroborates any of the evidence they've found, there could be some serious implications-"
Frank stopped, whirled around so that he was facing William. "You are accusing me of arranging this, aren't you? You think I had something to do with it! You think / set up the murder of my daughter-in-law, that I hired a snuff pornographer to capture her rape and murder on videotape for whatever reason you've dreamed up in that sick little mind of yours. And you're coming to this conclusion because in Lisa's confusion and fear she misidentified the place she was taken to as the Golgotha cabin. That's it, right?-
"The FBI is still running tests on the evidence they found at that cabin," William said, "and you know it. If they don't find anything, great, but if they do, it might be wise for you to start thinking now about retaining the services of-"
"Of a lawyer. Right, Billy. I take it you're going to recommend your services to me, huh?"
He wasn't listening. William could see that Frank was furious. His face was beet red; his eyes were blazing pits of anger. He could feel the tension in the air, thick as butter. "You and I know that you were nowhere near that cabin that weekend," William hissed, meeting Frank's gaze. "1 saw you that weekend, Flank. I saw how Lisa's disappearance affected you. I saw how worried you were, and how worried you are now even though she's been found. I know you're not anywhere capable of-"
"77zen why are you accusing me of setting this up?" Frank shouted.
William started, the loudness of Frank's voice ringing in his ears. He looked around, saw a nurse coming down the hallway glance at them with a frown. William turned back to Flank, his heart pounding. "I'm not accusing you of anything! I'm just saying that the evidence that points to you is-"
"Overwhelming. There we go again!" Frank threw his hands up in the air, and there was something about hisdemeanor now that William would look back on later as odd. For despite Frank's obvious anger, William detected a hint of genuine fear coming off the man. It was a fear that said I've been caught. William had seen this behavior thousands of times in his career. He'd defended thousands of people in various criminal cases, and most of them were guilty-he'd known that going in. Yet he never coerced his clients into revealing their guilt or innocence; his job was to defend his clients, to ensure them a fair trial as outlined in the U.S. Constitution. And even though William had never outright asked his clients if they had committed the crime in question or not, they always volunteered their plea anyway: I didn't do it! It wasn't me! And they always made that plea with the same look and telltale body language signs that told William they were lying. Frank Miller's speech, the way he reacted to everything, told him all he needed to know. And with that epiphany came a sudden burst of revulsion.
William stared at Frank, mouth gaping open in horror, which he tried to rein in. "Oh my God," he said.
"What?" Frank barked.
As quickly as the feeling came William shook it off, hoping Frank didn't catch it. He didn't want Frank to know that he had gotten a sudden revelation.
That he was looking into the eyes of a man who was not only afraid but was lying.
He was lying to save his skin.
William stood straight, injecting a calm purpose in his voice and mannerism. "I'm sorry if I've offended you," he said, forging ahead with a new plan. "I just thought I would let you know and be honest about it. I don't want the police to see you as a suspect, Frank. But if you don't know what you're up against, how are you going to defend yourself if they come after you?"
That question spiked through the armor Frank had erected around himself. For a moment, the Teflon that Frank Miller wore slipped down briefly and William saw a scared, confused man standing in front of him. A scared, confused man who was afraid of being exposed for the monster he was.
Frank looked at him, the fear a faint hint in his eyes, and then it was quickly gone, the mask slipping back comfortably into place. "'T'hey won't come after me because you won't encourage them anymore, will you?"
"I'm not encouraging anybody, Frank, I'm trying to help your son and Lisa!"
Frank's mouth was open to say something, and he stopped. He nodded, his shoulders slumped slightly, as if he had seen his fate and was accepting it. "You're right," he said. For the first time, he looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry I made a scene. I know you're just trying to help. I just-"
William treaded carefully, choosing his words with precision. "'[hat's all I'm trying to do. Help your family. All I've done is help the police and the detectives with certain information I've been able to uncover. They're already investigating the underground S&M market, trying to get people to talk. I know they've talked to one guy already who they're considering a suspect."
Frank's head snapped up. 'They do? Who?"
"A guy named Rick Shectman." William watched closely for any sign of recognition on Flank's face; if Frank knew Shectman, he didn't show it. "He's got a record for peddling child smut, and it's rumored he'll film anything if the money is there. Including snuff films."
"Really." Frank's tone of voice was tinged with an inflection that suggested he had prior knowledge of Rick Shectman.
"Yeah," William said, trying to keep Rank calm. "And of course they're still working on identifying the guys who actually kidnapped Lisa. My guess is that they'll find them soon. Once Lisa comes out of surgery, she'll be talking. Your son's already given a good description of the woman who killed John and Titan, and we have witnesses that saw her with a guy that matched rim Murray. The pieces are failing into place. I'm sure Lisa will be able to tell us more by tomorrow. We're going to get these guys. You can trust me on this.'
Frank smiled, laid his hand on William's shoulder, his grip firm. "I know you will, buddy. That's why you're one of the best damn lawyers I know. Even if you do defend scum." He smiled.
William smiled back. As genuine as he wanted to believe Flank's smile and demeanor were, that sixth sense was telling him that there was something lurking beneath the surface. Something that had a dark soul and dark desires. "It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it"
Frank laughed.
They began walking down the hall toward the waiting room. Frank put his arm around William's shoulders. "Listen, I'm sorry about the way I reacted back there. I don't know what got over me. I guess… all the stress is just getting to me."
"It's okay," William said.
The waiting room was still another hundred yards away. Frank stopped and motioned toward the men's room door ahead of them, on the right. "Listen, why don't you go back to the waiting room and see what's up. I gotta pee and wash up. All that yelling made me sweat." He grinned. William laughed. Sweat dotted Flank's brow and was shining in his hair. He hadn't noticed how badly Flank had sweated; it was literally beading on him like water on a freshly waxed car. Dark wet patches had appeared along the underarms of his shirt.
Another sign of guilt? William nodded. "Yeah, sure, Frank. Take your time. And listen, I'm sorry if I came across as being… well, accusatory. I didn't mean it"
They shook hands, Flank's gaze meeting Williams. Flank's smile was pensive. "I know you didn't." Then he turned and headed to the men's room.
William walked to the waiting room, his heart racing. He felt the flesh along the back of his neck ripple in gooseflesh. A shudder of cold fear enveloped his system. Something about Frank's demeanor was really bothering him. He had defended a lot of bad people in his life: gang members who didn't care that they had inadvertently blown the head off a three-year-old while they had been aiming at a rival; child molesters who feigned repentance but went right back out again and committed other heinous acts upon children when they were released from prison; rapists who took delight in terrifying and abusing their victims. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it. Those accused of crimes,had the right to defend themselves in a court of law-anybody who had cruised through a course in U.S. government knew that. William had defended his share of clients who he knew in his heart were innocent of the charges brought against them. It was this motivating factor for being involved in criminal defense-to protect and defend the wrongly accused. Yes, there were times when he had to defend scum; it was part of the territory. But of all the people he had defended that he had the feeling were guilty of the crimes in which they had been charged, none had ever creeped him out as much as Frank Miller just had. Looking into Frank's eyes was like looking into the face of evil itself. He thought he had known Frank Miller; he had been proven wrong.
Halfway back to the waiting room, William got the sudden urge to head to the men's room. He didn't have to relieve himself; instead, he had the strong feeling that something was going to happen, that Frank was going to do something and that he had to somehow stop him.
William raced back down the hall and entered the men's room, and at first what he saw was so surprising his first reaction was to gasp in surprise. He felt his breath freeze as Frank Miller, who was standing with his back to the lone urinal with a gun to his head, looked up at William's sudden intrusion and, seeing him, took the gun away from his head and pointed it at William.
"Flank, no!" William cried, barely aware of the door to the restroom dosing behind him. The look on Flank Miller's face before he pointed the gun at him was one of surprise and despair. He was breathing heavily, his arms trembling as he held the gun on William.
"Get out!" Frank said, his eyes wide and scared. "Go on, get out, this has nothing to do with you!"
it has everything to do with me," William said, his mind kicking into overdrive. "Please put down the gun.. Let's talk about this."
"What is there to talk about? You've already spelled it out for me. You think I had something to do with Lisa's kidnapping and attempted murder. You think I set this up based on all your circumstantial evidence"
'That's not true, Frank, and you know it. I only want to help you"
"You've already helped me by telling me all I need to know, okay? I've learned enough to know I'm fucked"
William could tell that Frank was just as nervous as he was. When he'd entered the bathroom and saw Frank pointing the gun at his head, he could tell that Frank was trying to muster the nerve to pull the trigger. If he was that reluctant to pull the trigger on himself, maybe he could be talked into putting the weapon down. "I can help you," he said, holding up his hands. "I know it looks bad and all that stuff I said… that might not even happen. I just wanted you to be aware in case it did happen and-"
"Oh, it's going to happen, I can guarantee that," Frank said. He was sweating profusely. His eyes were wide and panicked. "'They're going to find out, and you aren't going to understand when that happens. I don't want to be around when it happens, because I don't want to see the look on Joan's face when she finds out. "
When she finds out what, Flank?"
Frank tightened his grip on the gun and leveled the weapon at William, who raised his arms higher and backed up. His back touched the bathroom door. If somebody came in now, they'd bump into him and Frank might squeeze off a shot in surprise. "Please put the gun down, Frank. Let's talk about this."
"We are talking," Frank said. He looked crazed and desperate. "You need to listen."
"Okay, I'm listening." Please, just put the gun down!
*You already told me everything 1 need to know. I'm fucked. My life is over, it's gone, it's fucked. They're going to find out everything, and I don't want to be around when that happens."
"What are they going to find out, Frank? Are they going to find out that you really were involved?"
Frank's face trembled; he looked on the verge of tears, as if he was trying to hold his emotions in. He struggled to compose himself, still pointing the gun at William. "I never wanted them to find out. You've got to believe me. I've kept it secret for so long… nobody knew. Not even you. Joan certainly never knew, and she never would have understood. She would have left me in a second if she'd found out. I knew I could never show her that side of myself… she never even indulged in light bondage with me. You know what I mean, William? The bitch never even consented to just a little light B&D, a little slap and tickle, a little role-playing. Know what she called it? She called it sick fantasies for sick perverts."
William didn't know what to say. He could only stand there silently, hands raised in surrender, hoping Frank would calm down.
"1 kept it to myself," Frank continued. "I… it hurt me to hear her say that, so…. I kept it to myself.. "
William licked his lips. "I'm listening, Frank. Go on… you can tell me everything."
Frank looked up at William again, his eyes wide, panicked. "Why should I tell you everything? You're just going to tell Joan that-"
"What's the harm in her knowing now?"
Frank's grip on the gun tightened. "If I shoot you now, nobody will know!"
'Ibat's not true, Frank. On the way over here, I talked to one of my investigators. He's the one who found out the information on you" William paused briefly, hoping this would get to him. It did; Frank's face paled."How else would you think I found out? Why else would I bring this subject up to you?"
"Oh… God.. " Frank moaned. His back was leaning against the tiled bathroom wall. He still had the gun pointed at William, but he was loosening his grip. "I'm… so… fucked…
"It doesn't have to be that way, Frank I can get you help. Please put down the gun!"
"You can't help me. They'll still find out and I'll be ruined. Everything I've worked at to keep that part of myself secret… it'll all come out and I'll be called a monster, only I never actually killed anybody! I just liked to watch! It'll be just as bad-"
As William's suspicions bore fruit, he tried to fight down his revulsion. "You liked to watch? Why? I don't understand, Frank, what led you to this. Why.. "
"I don't know," Frank moaned, tears pouring down his face. "I don't remember how it started, it just happened! I just… found myself attracted to it… found that the hardcore imagery turned me on sexually and… the more I got into the extreme hardcore scene, the more I liked it. It just… it just kind of grew from there."
William was regaining some of his confidence in controlling the situation. If he could keep Frank talking, keep talking to him in a smooth voice and get him to let down his guard, he would rush him. "Why Lisa, though? I can accept you had… that you were living this secret life as… as a voyeur of… of this stuff, but… why Lisa?"
Frank wouldn't answer at first. He kept the gun pointed at William, his features displaying the range of emotions that were battling to the surface. William could tell he was losing it. "I couldn't imagine what Joan's reaction was if she'd known I was into heavier stuff than just the light bondage, which she was so… so repulsed by. I kept it secret. I had to. I needed Joan, needed that security of a wife and a family and a job. I needed that… that respect that comes from doing well in business. But I also… needed to indulge every once in a while. I… I didn't like to… actively participate… but… I just liked to watch… and… and.."
"How long have you been into this, Frank?" William asked calmly.
Frank wasn't looking at William now, although he still kept the gun trained on him. A long time," Frank said, looking at the tiled wall in front of him. "I was fortunate enough to keep it hidden, to live that other life so nobody knew. It was like… any other thing. Some guys get turned on by normal pornography, others get turned on by fetish stuff… all that never did anything for me. What I liked was… very extreme hardcore S&M. At first it was okay that it was all an act, that… the people in the videos were all consenting adults. I could fantasize that the bottoms were being taken by force. But… after a while that wasn't enough. Can you believe I was actually asked to leave one of the bondage groups I was involved with?" He looked at William. "When they found out I wanted to watch a scene where the slave was really being taken by force, that she was an unwilling participant, I was told to leave and not come back. They looked at me like I was a freak. That's when I knew that… something was wrong."
"Why didn't you get help?"
Frank ignored the question. He was looking back at the wall in front of him, still holding the gun. "I did some more searching, was able to find out through one of my contacts about a more select group, and I got in. That… made me feel better. Knowing there were others like me, who just liked to watch… who were just as outwardly normal and were professional people on the outside in their everyday lives and contributed to society, even though it was a very small group of people. At least I knew I wasn't alone. I still contributed greatly to society, I rose up in management, I provided for my family, gave them everything they needed. But when I needed release, I knew I had an outlet. I was.. '. fortunate enough to gain the trust of this group. I was good at keeping my mouth shut, at just showing up at the gatherings and watching, paying any amount of money they asked for to watch and then go away. But then-"
"Why Lisa, Frank?"
Frank had slumped down into a sitting position on the bathroom floor, his back still against the wall. The arm that held the gun was less in control now, but William still didn't dare take a step forward to try to take it from hishands. He hoped to be able to talk Frank out of it. "The minute I saw her, I knew that she was the one."
William paused. "What do you mean?"
'When I saw her, I couldn't get her out of my mind. Every time I saw her, I… I imagined what it would be like being with her… doing to her what… what I saw in the few… snuff films I saw. I kept fantasizing over and over what it would be like to… torture her and see her suffer. Maybe that's how it works for… the people who are into this. I know that's how it was for me. I didn't pay to see some… some anonymous whore get snuffed and imagine I was the one doing it to her. I always pretended that it was somebody else and… in the last few years that somebody I visualized was Lisa."
William felt cold listening to this. To think that it wasn't malice or greed or some monetary reason that had driven Frank to arrange for Lisa's murder, but the simple desire to watch her suffer and die left William reeling.
"For a long time it was just something I could fantasize about," Frank said, panting. "I could fantasize about it and it was okay, but then… then when Brad got engaged to her and they started coming to the house more she… she became part of the family and they got married and then… then I… started becoming more… emotionally attached to her… more… I couldn't control the thoughts, they got stronger and… I didn't want her… didn't want to someday lose control and… and be alone with her one afternoon or something and lose control of myself and make an advance towards her. That would have been trouble and… Brad and Joan… they would have hated me forever. So I kept trying to suppress those feelings, but they wouldn't go away! They just wouldn't go away, no matter what I tried to do!"
"So you did it," William said, barely able to control the revulsion he felt for the man who was sitting in a crumpled heap across from him. "You didn't even try seeking psychological help, did you? Instead you raised the money and tried to have her raped and killed so you could own her, because you felt she owned you! The only way you could control your sick feelings over her was to control her, and the only way to do that was to watch her suffer and actually possess a visual documentation of that! Isn't that right, Frank?"
Flank turned to him. "So you do understand?"
No, I don't. And I'm not even going to try to pretend to!
"I knew you wouldn't.'ihat's why I have to do this.' And with one swift motion he stuck the barrel of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was loud, and the suddenness of the act made William yell and jump. His back hit the bathroom door and he felt wetness in his crotch as he peed himself. The force of the gunshot rocked Rank's head back against the wall and he slumped down, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Twin fountains of blood gushed out of his nostrils like water shooting out of a faucet. The handgun that he had shot himself with lay in the clutches of his limp right hand, now resting on the tiled bathroom floor. A puddle of blood was slowly seeping outward from the body; more blood stained the wall and mirror in erratic splatters.
Then William's stomach convulsed and he threw up, not even aware he was yelling and crying at the same time.
"How can I help you today?"
The ticket agent at the US Airways desk was young and blond. She smiled sweetly at Mabel.
"Yes," Mabel said, handing over a dog-eared US Airways envelope that held her travel information. Her hands shook, and she tried to keep the shakiness in her voice to a steady level for dramatic effect. "I was supposed to fly out yesterday morning at eight A.M., but I missed my flight. I was visiting my sister and she had an accident yesterday. I couldn't make it to the airport because I was in the hospital for most of the day, and I couldn't get my nephew to drive me out here because-"
'The agent took the ticket. "Let me see if I can help!
Mabel nodded, looking crestfallen. It wasn't hard to act her way through that; she was tired. She'd gotten some much-needed sleep last night, but her body was still bruised and sore from that long hike around the desert pass yesterday. She'd gotten so much sleep that she'd snoozed right past her originally scheduled departure time. She sniffled. "I really hope I can make it back," she said, her voice low and brittle. "I had to call a cab to take me out here because we still can't locate my nephew, and I need to get back home to get the proper papers for my sister's will if she… you know… if she…"
The ticket agent was typing information into the computer while Mabel talked, and now her smile widened. "Don't worry about anything, Mrs. Schneider. We can put you on the next US Airways flight out of Las Vegas into Philadelphia."
Mabel looked up, trying to act hopeful. "Really?"
"Really." The woman typed more keystrokes into the computer. "We have a flight leaving in thirty minutes. Flight 293. It gets in at ten thirty-six P.M. Is that all right with you?"
Mabel nodded. "Oh yes, that would be lovely. 'Thank you"
"No problem! The blond woman was all smiles as she went about preparing Mabel's ticket. Mabel smiled. If she'd made it this far, she was going to make it home. It had taken her three hours to pick her way around the low hills where they had intended to kill the Miller woman, and by the time Mabel reached the area where they had parked the cars, it was pouring rain. The SW was gone, but the Saturn had still been parked by the large rock. Mabel had taken the set of keys that Animal had left with his clothes, and she had given his body a quick inspection. He'd still been alive; he was unconscious, a knife stuck in his gut, and Mabel had seen the weak rise and fall of his chest. She'd pulled the blade out, then stuck it into his right eye, bringing slow, shuddering release. Then she'd licked the blade clean and gone to where the fat guy lay slumped on the ground, thick blood congealing out of his ears. He'd still been alive too; at least she thought he was. It had been hard to tell with the pouring rain and her own shot nerves, which were screaming at her to get the hell out of there. She'd knelt down beside him and slit his throat for good measure. Then she'd gotten into the Saturn and, after resting up for a moment, she'd started the engine and driven away.
It had taken her four hours to get back to her motel. Maneuvering through the rain had been terrifying, the only time she had been scared in a long time. She drove slowly, trying not to drive over large rocks if she could help it, and tried to remember the path Tim had taken them down. It had taken her an hour to find the road, another hour after that to find the main highway. By the time she found the first road, the rain had flooded the desert. She had felt panicked, hoping that she wouldn't be washed away in a flood. Once she'd reached the main highway, she'd felt better. The Saturn had three quarters of a tank of gas, plenty to get her back to the Strip. She'd headed back to Vegas, taking her time, and once she reached the city she tried to remember where her motel was. She remembered the name, but not the location, and one phone call to information services was enough to put her in touch with the front desk, who gave her implicit directions. She was safe in her room by eight P.M., and after a hot bath she fell into bed, exhausted.
Now it was almost twenty-four hours after they had attempted to revive Lisa Miller and begin the filming of her torture and murder. That surely hadn't happened, and Mabel didn't give a shit about it, either. She'd already been paid for her part; she'd made sure Rick Shectman had paid her in cash before she'd boarded the plane to Las Vegas a few days ago; he'd actually had it sent to her by courier from New York. The cops hadn't come nosing around her motel room, and she'd slept soundly last night. Once she had woken up she'd taken another hot bath, packed up, checked out of her room, driven to a Denny's, and ordered herself breakfast: scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages, orange juice, and coffee. Then she'd gotten back into the Saturn, double-checked to make sure her ticket was in her purse, then driven to the airport. She'd left the Saturn in the airport parking lot after wiping the steering wheel, gearshift, dashboard, and doors with a rag. If the cops found.it, they might be led to believe that there was a third accomplice in Lisa Miller's attempted murder, but with any luck they wouldn't have her description. And in case they did… well, she was just a little old lady. Whom could she possibly hurt?
The ticket agent smiled as a printout of Mabel's new flight itinerary spit out of the printer. She pulled it out, tore off a strip of paper, folded it up and scrawled the gate number in red ink. "There you go. Gate number fourteen, US Airways Flight 293. It leaves in about thirty minutes."
Mabel smiled, trying to look grateful." hank you, dear. You've been such a big help."
No problem, ma'am. Would you like to check any bagsr
'No, thank you.' Mabel picked up her carry-on bag, which was a small duffel bag she had packed with her overnight clothes and toiletries. 'Ibis is all I have. Thank you! She smiled at the ticket agent and shuffled away, down to the security checkpoint.
Mabel smiled as she hobbled down the gateway. She smiled and nodded pleasantly to the airport security checkpoint people as they ushered her through. She smiled as her carry-on bag was placed on the conveyor belt as she went through the metal detector. She picked her bag up on the other side, smiled at the young black girl who handed her bag back, then hobbled along, smiling pleasantly at those who looked at her and nodded. Those who saw Mabel Schneider on her flight home would think she reminded them of their elderly grandmother.
HUMAN BODY PARTS, BONES, AMONG HORRORS FOUND IN HOME OF RECENTLY DECEASED GRANDMOTHER
September 15, 1998
Lancaster, PA-AP
In what has to be one of the most bizarre cases in the annals of modem crime, authorities in the small Pennsylvania town of Lititz are puzzling over the discovery of the partial remains of several human beings found in the home of a recently deceased grandmother.
Sources say the woman, identified as eighty-three-yearold Mabel Schneider, lived alone on the quiet tree-lined street, often entertaining her children and grandchildren in her two-bedroom cottage. The woman was also known for contributing cakes and pies to church fund-raisers, and was known throughout the neighborhood as quiet and neighborly. When her oldest daughter Miriam, 57, discovered her dead last month from natural causes, she had no idea she and the rest of her family would be plunged in a whirlwind of media activity.
Found among Mrs. Schneider's possessions in a basement room that had been sealed off was a cardboard box containing mason jars filled with the pickled remains of various human body parts. "They aren't discarded lab specimens," remarked Detective Barney Hillman. "We did a routine check with medical centers in the area, and a DNA check on one of the remains came back with a match to an unsolved homicide from five years ago." That homicide, the murder of eighteen-yearold Doug Sawyer of Spring Valley Road, had puzzled investigators. Sawyer went missing on May 2, 1993, around eight P.M., when he was last seen by his mother when he left the house for the Weis Market on Broad Street. He never returned. Partial remains were discovered in a ditch on Route 772 outside of Brownstown, but no solid leads had yet emerged. Until Mrs. Schneider passed away last month.
"I'd hate to think that Mrs. Schneider had anything to do with Doug's death," her neighbor Claire Ellerwood said yesterday. "She was such a nice lady, always happy and cheerful. She mostly kept to herself, but she was such a nice person."
Forensics investigators say some of the remains may be as old as forty years and may have come from children. Some match other missing persons going back to at least 1955. A Lititz high school jacket from the class of 1956 was among the items found in the basement; it's been positively identified as the jacket worn by Bonnie Febray, a- teenager who went missing in November of 1955. Mabel Schneider and her husband George, who died in 1989, lived a few doors down from the Febray family in the early nineteen fifties. So far, none of the human remains discovered have been identified as those at Miss Febray.
Also found among the deceased woman's belongings were various sexual devices and pornographic material, including child pornography. "All the pornographic materials we confiscated at the Schneider residence are on the extreme side," Hillman said. "It's very sick and graphic in nature, and I will find it hard to believe that the people depicted in the stills and videos we found actually lived through the brutality."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Schneider's three adult children are reportedly shocked at the findings and allegations and are refusing to comment on the matter. All inquiries directed to them have been referred to their attorney, Joseph B. Lockerman, who also refused to comment on the case.