FADE TO BLACK - Thrilling Romantic Suspense - Book 1 of the BLACK CATS Series (3 page)

Besides, something this distasteful had to be built up to, not just gulped down in huge bites of information.

“Start at the beginning, Cole. Who the hell is this guy, and how’d you find him?”

“I got a tip from an old friend,” Cole said. “He’s a gamer. D&D, Second Life, Zanpo. Guy lives a virtual existence; I don’t think he’s seen the sun since 2010. He heard rumors about a very secretive site, an international one, where things don’t just get realistic; they’re downright bloody.” Cole tilted back on the rear two legs of his chair, like some kid in science class. “It’s called Satan’s Playground, and from what my friend said, that’s a pretty good name for the kinds of things going on there.”

“Never heard of it,” Dean said.

“Considering it’s been around for a couple of years, you’d think there’d be more whispers about it among that circle, but the people who run the site are smart, and they’re secretive. Nobody gets in without an invitation and five ‘references.’ The whole thing’s hosted overseas, with members in probably two dozen countries. Redundant servers, constantly changing passwords, encryption, layer upon layer of security.”

Dean might officially be part of the Cyber Division now, but he had only the most basic knowledge of computers, so he didn’t even try to understand the technical details Brandon rattled off. Mulrooney, he already knew, was the same way.

That was another thing that made their CAT unique—having a good mix of experienced field agents and IT specialists. It was, of course, the only way a group formed to solve Internet-related murders could ever work. They needed both skill sets. Make that the best of both skill sets. Which was exactly what Blackstone had told Dean when he’d recruited him.

“Sounds sophisticated for a bunch of bored losers with no real lives,” Lily said.

Brandon shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what we’re looking at. Judging by the money involved, and some of the conversations I’ve seen, we’re talking about normal people with careers, families, wealth. It’s much more like a pervert’s secret worldwide club than any gaming universe for teenagers with no social skills and no jobs. Accountants by day, cyber S and M masters by night.”

“So, Brandon, how’d you break in?” Jackie Stokes asked, her tone challenging. Stokes was the unique one in the group, straddling both lines. She’d done forensic work in the field early in her career, but had started working cyber crimes several years ago when her kids were little. Now that they were older, she seemed itchy to get back out there, traveling, getting her hands dirty. Though Dean doubted she’d ever pictured them getting this dirty. “I don’t suppose you got an invite. And if you did, I have serious questions about these friends of yours.”

Brandon shrugged, a tiny smirk on his mouth. The guy was cocky. Maybe as cocky as Dean had been when he’d started with the Baltimore PD fresh out of college a lifetime ago.

“Let’s just say I came in through the unattended back gate of the Playground.” Then the young man focused his attention on Wyatt. “Satan’s Playground doesn’t exist anywhere but in cyberspace. Sounds to me like it’s exactly our type of case.”

Wyatt didn’t reply, appearing to mull it over.

Wanting more, Dean prodded, “Okay, we’ve got the backstory. Tell us what you discovered when you actually made your way inside.”

“I discovered that animated people can have all kinds of wild, nasty sex and can do the most violent, degrading things to each other.” Brandon spoke quickly, as always, expecting everyone to keep up. “Rape, pedophilia, S and M, incest, whatever your kink, there’s an area of the playground for you. Including a big hellhole under the sliding board for those who like to enact murder scenes, to the cheers and adulation of others.”

“Virtual murders,” Dean clarified.

“At first. But then, almost a year and a half ago, something changed. This new guy appeared on the scene. Calls himself the Reaper.”

How original.

“His avatar is this black-cloaked dude with a skull face; a totally off-the-rack, Grim Reaper Halloween-costume look. And he invites people to join a new club within Satan’s Playground. A club for those who want to see people really die.”

Dean would like to think such a club would have very few members. But he knew better. After twelve years in law enforcement, God, did he know better.

Still needing to work off the nervous energy that always enveloped him, Brandon began to tap his pencil on the table, keeping an underlying staccato beat—a sense of urgency in the rhythm. “His first one was a freebie, just to show he could do it.”

Dean wanted to be sure he had things straight. “Was that the one we just saw, with the woman pulled apart?”

“No. That came later. From what I can tell, the first was uploaded a year ago last April, and it showed a naked woman tied to a tree and slowly sliced to death. Like I said, a free sample, just to show he was for real. New videos have followed, one every two or three months, and after that freebie he started charging people.”

Lily tsked in disgust. “For the privilege of watching?”

Brandon shook his head. “Not at first, though he’s doing that now, too.”

“So what was he charging for?” Mulrooney asked. He leaned back and crossed his big arms across his beefy chest. “Whether this vile crap’s in color or black-and-white? Murder on demand? Kill-per-view?”

“That’s closer to the mark.” Brandon stopped tapping and glanced at every person there, as if to stress that they’d reached the most important part. “He’s holding auctions so other members of the club can participate in the kill. Within seventy-two hours of every auction, another ‘feature’ title goes up on the marquee of the drive-in theater.”

“This playground has all the perks, huh?” asked Jackie.

“Right down to an ice-cream parlor where you can lure little kids.” He quickly got back to his point. “The lucky members drive up in their stupid cyber cars and park in front of the screen. They chomp their fake hot dogs and popcorn, and then see a five-minute preview. If they pay the full price for their ticket they get to stay for the full show. Only there’s nothing cyber about it. It’s all the real thing, just like you saw.”

Mulrooney almost growled. “Lousy prick’s probably getting rich as well as making himself infamous. And getting his personal kicks.”

“Given the auction amounts and the ticket prices, I’d say that’s likely.”

Immediately zoning in on what Brandon hadn’t told them, Dean asked, “So what’s the purpose of the auction? How, exactly, is this thing audience participation?” Something occurred to him, which could make catching this guy easier. “Are you telling us people are buying the services of a virtual assassin to kill their real-life enemies, or unwanted spouses?” If they could nail a single customer, they could nail the Reaper.

Brandon shook his head. “Nothing that simple.”

There wasn’t anything simple about it, in Dean’s view.

“He’s not auctioning off the right to choose a victim. In fact, the auction winner has no say about who gets killed.” Sighing heavily, disgust evident in the posture, the other man finally got to the bones of it. “He’s auctioning off the right to choose the means of death.”

A silence fell as everyone absorbed the words. Then Wyatt slowly spoke. “So, anyone with a proclivity for a certain kind of death can, for a fee, have that type of execution carried out for his personal viewing pleasure. And the pleasure of others who will pay to watch.”

“That about sums it up.”

Dean swallowed, now definitely not looking forward to watching the remaining videos. The excesses of a bunch of deviant human minds given an outlet for their violent fantasies promised to be among the most disturbing things he’d ever seen. But the videos were the starting point in stopping the killing. There was no other choice.

He suddenly realized he was no longer wondering if he was going to work this case. Something deep inside him, something that rebelled against the very concept of what this Reaper was doing, demanded the right to work it. Jurisdiction didn’t matter. The reason Blackstone’s CAT had come together didn’t matter.

More visitation time with his son still mattered. Yeah. That mattered. But right now, all he could think about was nailing the sick monster who was making this world a whole lot uglier for his child. For everybody’s children.

Somewhere out there, the friends and families of at least eight people wanted to know what had happened to their murdered loved ones. Who had done it, and why.

And soon, hopefully, Dean and his new teammates might be able to give them some answers.

I
n the small town
of Hope Valley, Virginia, time didn’t just move slowly; it sometimes seemed to meander off the rest of the world’s clock before coming to a complete standstill. And then go into reverse.

Because aside from nothing ever changing—not the landscape, or the faces, or the businesses dotting the ten blocks that made up the entire downtown—some scenes seemed to be repeated over and over, like the replaying of a dream. Not a nightmare that might terrify you into sharp wakefulness, just a jumble of images about nothing of importance, notable only for their sheer blandness.

It was especially noticeable at this time of year. The blazing August sun sucked the very energy out of the air. Any occasional lapse into productivity was quickly quelled. Most folks around Hope Valley secretly wanted nothing more than a tall glass of iced tea and a nap. Too much effort was required to think of something to say to the people you’d seen every day of your life. Beyond “Good morning,” or “Have a good one,” what was there to say to the girl at the deli who made you the same turkey on wheat every day? Or the kid who delivered the paper, or the woman who brought the mail?

Sheriff Stacey Rhodes had once hated that sense of normalcy, the laid-back slowness the town wore as comfortably as an old coat. As a teenager, when she’d experienced none of the outside world and had considered anyplace better than this one, she’d imagined nothing worse than spending her life in Hope Valley.

Yet here she was.

The biggest surprise of all? She was okay with that. Compared to some of the things she’d seen, Hope Valley now seemed like the last sane place on earth. It was only on slow, hot days like this when she felt antsy. Like if something didn’t happen to break the monotony, somebody was going to make something happen. And that something might be a whole lot worse than a little heat.

“Morning, Sheriff!”

Waving at the kid who delivered her paper, she called, “Have a good one.”

Getting into her squad car and buckling up, she backed out of the driveway of her small, two-bedroom house, passing the delivery boy a few doors down. The kid gleefully steered his bike through a hopelessly outgunned lawn sprinkler that was trying to force moisture into the still, uncooperative air, and greenness into a brown, parched landscape.

Water ban. No sprinkling sunrise to sunset. She noted the address, figuring she’d pass it along to the town secretary. Playing water cop wasn’t exactly the county sheriff’s job, but hell, it wasn’t like there was much else on the agenda for today. Or any day.

Though she trusted her ancient radio about as much as she trusted car salesmen, she flipped the thing on as she headed downtown. A burst of static erupted from the speakers, then, surprisingly, a voice came through. “Sheriff? You there? Over.”

She reached for the handset, her interest rising. “Go ahead, Connie. Over.”

“Can you stop at the Donut Shack and pick up a dozen? I didn’t have time. Over.”

A doughnut emergency. Call in the reinforcements. Smothering a sigh, she muttered, “Ten-four,” and turned at the stop sign rather than going straight.

Doughnuts for deputies. If it weren’t so sadly clichéd, it’d almost be funny.

But when she pulled into the Donut Shack’s nearly empty parking lot and glanced through the window, things became a lot less funny. Because clearly visible inside was the owner’s daughter, who worked as a waitress, looking nervous and frightened.

She was surrounded by three teenage boys.

Stacey put names to the faces in an instant. One was the crowned king of thugs at the local high school, the other two his football-playing cronies. The sidekicks she didn’t worry about. In ten years, they’d be married with kids, working at the lumberyard, drinking hard on weekends as they scratched their beer guts and relived their glory days.

But their leader, Mike Flanagan, was a mean punk. He was too cocky to fear authority, and Stacey had hauled him in before. That one would end up in jail, or in the military, where he could legally injure others, which seemed to be his favorite thing to do.

What made this worse was that his older brother, Mitch, had straightened himself up, shaken off his roughneck family background, and gone in the opposite direction. He was now Stacey’s chief deputy, and the best man she had.

Why did brothers have to be such a pain in the ass? Damn, she did not want to have to call Mitch and tell him she’d busted his troublemaking younger sibling. Again.

“You wanted something to happen,” she reminded herself as she stepped out of the car, pushing her broad-brimmed tan hat onto her head.

Her boots crunching on the gravel parking lot and her fingertips resting on the short, blunt club at her hip, she walked with determination but not haste toward the entrance. Deliberate and thorough, she evaluated the situation with every stride. Through the windows running the entire width of the small building, she noted who was inside, and where. One customer sat at the counter, his back to the kids, completely oblivious to the situation. Or just a damn coward. No one else was in sight. The girl spotted her, the relief on her face saying a lot about how serious the situation was. Shoving the door open, Stacey watched the troublemakers swing around, unhappy with the interruption. Then they saw who had interrupted and paled.

“A little early to be out causing trouble, isn’t it, boys?”

“No trouble here, Sheriff, ma’am.” Flanagan. Arrogant little jerk actually shot off a crooked salute. “Just nice, wholesome teenagers. Right, guys?”