Fallen Angel (21 page)

"I know everything about you, Gina. You'd be surprised what I know about you, and your brother, Rob, and your pretty, pretty mother. I know a great deal about your father as well."

"This is a mistake. You have the wrong person."

He chuckled. "They all say that. No mistake, young lady. Too bad your father is so far away taking care of others when he should be home taking care of you."

"My father is just on a business trip. That's all."

"Really. I think you're old enough now to know what your father does for a living. I'm sure he's told you."

"He's a businessman. I told you that."

"Yes, you did, and you're right, if your father's business is killing people. That's what he does, you know. He goes places he's not wanted and when he leaves, people are dead."

"That's not true." Tears returned.

"Look at the camera, sweetheart. I want everyone to see how pretty you are. Your father is Sergeant Major Eric Moyer, United States Army, leader of a Spec Ops team."

The man ran a gloved hand down Gina's hair, then caressed her jawline. He kissed the top of her head.

"Stop the mission."

It took a moment before she realized he was speaking to the camera.

Then the gloved hand took hold of her jaw and another hand gripped the back of her head. She erupted in sobs and waited for the sharp twist that would snap her neck.

CHAPTER 25

CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER TERRY
Wallace clicked off his cell phone, glanced at Jerry Zinsser, and turned to Rob Moyer. "You guys have a computer?"

"We all have computers. Well, Mom and Dad share a computer."

"I need something with fast download."

"My room." Rob rose from the sofa where he had been sitting with his mother. "The whole neighborhood has fiber optics, but my computer is a gamer. It's the fastest one in the house."

"Why do you need a computer?" Stacy inched forward on the sofa.

"I just got word someone sent a video to our office. My people are putting it up on the server so we can see it from here."

"What kind of video?" Stacy rose.

"I don't know yet, but you should let Agent Zinsser and me take a look first."

"Not if it concerns Gina, I won't."

"Ma'am, please. Let us do our jobs."

"I'm her mother; I have a job too."

Zinsser stepped close. "Let us have first look, Stacy. Okay?"

Stacy said nothing.

Rob led Zinsser and Wallace into his room. The place was a shambles, and Zinsser couldn't help comparing it to Gina's neat-everything-in-its-place bedroom. On the bed lay a dirty shirt from the burger joint where Rob worked, four pairs of sport shoes lay near the bed, two pairs of jeans hung on the back of a chair by his small desk, just three feet from the closet. On the wall were posters of grunge rock bands whose careers ended before Rob was born. An electric bass guitar sat on a stand in the corner, dust indicating that it hadn't been used in some time. On the desk, next to a keyboard so used the letters were worn from the keys, sat several college catalogs.

Good for you, buddy
.

"How long will it take to boot up?" Wallace seemed oblivious to the untidiness, but then he had a teenage son living at home. For all Zinsser knew, this might appear good and clean to what he faced each day. Zinsser could make no judgment. While he cleaned up his act, he was still working on his apartment.

"I leave it on all the time." Rob pulled the jeans from the chair and tossed them on his unmade bed. Zinsser slipped into the seat before Rob could turn around and tapped a key, waking the computer from its digital sleep.

"It wants a password."

"Oh, yeah." Rob hesitated. "Beatles. Capital
B
."

Zinsser typed:
B-e-e-t-l-e-s
.

"No, the band, not the bug."

"Really? You like the Beatles?" Zinsser tried again.

"Hate 'em. That's why I use it as a password. No one who knows me would ever think of that."

"Okay, kid, let Agent Zinsser and me take it from here."

"No."

"Look, kid, I don't want to argue—"

"Good, neither do I. So it's settled, I'm staying."

"We don't know what's on that video, Rob." Zinsser turned in his seat. He admired the boy's courage.

"You will after you play it." He motioned to the computer.

Zinsser accessed the CID's private server and found the video file. He clicked on it. A moment later the player on Rob's computer loaded and the video began to play.

They watched Gina struggle; they watched her weep; they watched her cry for her mother. They watched her turn brave and challenge the man who entered the room. Then they watched him put his hands into position to snap her neck.

"Oh God, oh God, my baby. No."

Zinsser keyed the pause button and turned to the door. Stacy stood there; Chaplain Bartley had to hold her up.

"I told you—"

"Let it go, Boss." Zinsser spoke softly but firmly. "If it was your kid, you'd be in here too."

"You know what's about to happen don't you, Zinsser?"

"I know what it looks like, but I got a feeling he's playing with us." Zinsser hit play and watched as the captor lifted Gina's head slightly, forced her chin to the left, then sharply pulled his arm to the right.

"NO!" Stacy's scream shook the windows.

"Hang on." Zinsser raised a hand. "She's okay. He didn't do it."

"She's alive?"

"Yes."

The captor looked into the camera. "End Moyer's mission now, or next time won't be pretend."

The video ended.

Zinsser heard a retching sound. Rob had just vomited on the floor; the stench of it filled the air. Zinsser ignored it and returned his gaze to the flat-screen monitor. "I'm coming for you, Gina. Hang in there, baby." His eyes shifted to the man in black. "I'll find you. I don't care if I have to look in every dark corner of hell, I will hunt you down, and then you will learn what real pain is."

SPECIAL AGENT WALLACE MARCHED
to the bedroom door and helped Bartley escort Stacy back to the sofa. He could feel her tremble in his arms and it made him furious. Once Stacy was seated, he pointed at the chaplain. "You, come with me." He turned to Gina's three friends. "Keep an eye on her."

"I should stay with—"

Wallace shot out a hand and seized Bartley's uniform shirt and pulled him out the front door. The part of his brain not awash in anger told him he just assaulted an officer. This would be hard to explain, but at the moment Wallace didn't care. He shoved Bartley off the porch, slammed the door behind him, and took hold of Bartley's arm—another bit of assault and battery. When they reached the middle of the yard, Wallace spun him.

"I didn't want Moyer's wife to see the video. I've seen stupid in my day, Chaplain, but you take the prize. How could you bring her into the room? For all we knew she might have had to watch the murder of her own daughter."

"Agent Wallace—"

"I should arrest you for interfering with an investigation. You may have scarred her for life."

"I was in the latrine when you guys went into the room. I didn't know what was going on."

Wallace could feel heat emanating from his face. "You should of checked with me."

"And where were you when I came out? You were in Rob's bedroom using his computer. What did you want me to do? Call you on the cell phone?"

For a chaplain, Bartley had a good set of lungs. "You were wrong to do that."

"What? Hit the head?"

"No, let her see the video."

"I know God made us all a little different, but why He filled your head with concrete I'll never know. I didn't
let
her do anything. She was gone when I came back to the living room. The girls said she went down the hall. I went to check on her. I got there at the last moment. What would you have done? Dragged her away by the hair?"

Wallace raised a finger and stabbed at Bartley. "I would have . . . You should have . . ." He sighed.

"Got nothing?"

"Not a thing." Wallace looked down. "Sorry. I have a daughter and that, well, it just got to me. Sorry about roughing you up."

"I don't consider that rough, but apology taken."

A woman in a dark business pantsuit approached. "Are you guys done spraying the area with testosterone?" She was five-five, with blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Suspicious blue eyes peered at the two.

"Who are you?" Wallace snapped.

She produced a badge case. "Special Agent Brianne Lazzaro, FBI."

"We have jurisdiction," Wallace said.

"You CID guys amaze me. Every time we show up to render aid, you guys go paranoid. I'm not here to take your case away from you."

Wallace eyed her. "Then why are you here?"

"When the POTUS calls the director of the FBI in Washington who calls the assistant director for my region who calls the director of my office who tells me to get my fanny over here, then I cart my fanny over here. So, are we going to have a problem?"

"Probably not." Wallace's anger subsided.

"Good. I was given the basics. What can the FBI do to make the CID look good?"

"Come with me. There's something I want you to see."

"Such as?"

"A video. Maybe your white-coat guys can give it a good look."

Brianne nodded. "You have the original here?"

They reached the porch. "No. It was sent to my office electronically. Your people can retrieve it off the server. Hang on."

Wallace stopped and looked back at Bartley. "Hey, Chap. We good?"

"When all this is over, you can buy me some lunch. Then we'll be good." Bartley smiled.

Wallace could only muster a nod.

SCOTT MASTERS WAS SURE
the dirty sheet beneath him would catch fire any moment, ignited by the fever boiling through his body. Every joint hurt. His head ached and he couldn't shake the idea that ants were crawling in the crevices of his brain. He began to wish for death.

The door to his room opened and the doctor entered. He closed the door behind him. In his hand he carried a small but deep metal tray. He set the tray at the side of Masters's bed.

"Sorry, Igor. I'm still alive."

"My name is not Igor. We've been through this." He spoke softly as if exchanging secrets. "Being alive is good."

"Is it? Doesn't seem so good from where I sit—lay—lie. Sorry, my grammar seems to have escaped me."

"It's the fever."

"How do you know I have a fever? I don't think you've done as much as a casual exam, other than to describe my wounds to Egonov."

"I can see it from here." He stepped close and touched Masters's uninjured cheek, then his forehead. "I was right."

"Doctoring at a distance. You'd be a hit in the States. What can I do for you, Doc? A drink. A light lunch. Oh, wait, I can't get up. I'm strapped down. What was I thinking? Come to think of it, don't have anything to drink or eat. I guess you're on your own."

The doctor looked sad and his already thin frame seemed smaller than the last time Masters saw him. He also looked like a man who doubled in age in just a few hours.

"You know, most doctors ask how their patients are feeling."

"Useless small talk. I know how you feel." He walked to the ever-beeping IV pump and pulled it close to the bed.

"So what's it going to be this time? A little more torture? Have some dirt or manure to rub in my wounds to speed up the arrival of gangrene?"

The thin man removed a sealed needle from the tray and peeled away the protective plastic. He attached it to the flexible line that ran from the fluid-filled bag to the business end of the IV line. He stepped to the side of the bed and examined Masters's restrained arm. Holding the IV line between the fingers of one hand, the man removed a small packet from the tray, opened it, and removed a cotton ball. Master could smell the pungent alcohol.

"What are you doing?"

"Just lie still."

The sharp prick set off an electric pain that ran up Masters's arm. The doctor taped the IV needle in place. "I told you to give the antibiotics to my man."

"Won't do him any good."

Masters didn't like the sound of that. "Why?"

"He died an hour ago."

He looked away.

The doctor continued. "I did what I could for him, but this is not the most sanitary place. The burns on his feet sent him into shock. I couldn't bring him out of it. He needed better care than I could give."