Spider's Web (33 page)

The streets were abandoned as he strangled her in his car. There was no one to see her struggling, her fingers clawing at his arms. No one there to hear her cough and choke. And finally, she stopped moving.

That was when the real miracle had happened.

After a minute, as Jovan calmed down, he had realized Gwen was still alive. She’d simply lost consciousness, but her chest still rose and fell, her pulse was still stable. There was no doubt in Jovan’s mind that she had to die; she deserved it. But for some reason, he couldn’t finish the job at that moment. Instead he drove out of town, to a remote field, and waited.

He waited for nearly two hours, his heart beating fast all that time, his teeth grinding with suspense, his breath shallow in anticip…

…ation. Waiting for the moment when she would wake up, for that moment when he would kill her again.

When it finally happened, when her eyelids fluttered open, and she realized who was leaning above her just as his fingers closed around her throat again, he felt a surge of excitement that he had never felt before. It was the greatest moment of his life.

It had taken him years to realize that nothing came close. He’d only finally understood this when he killed his wife, after discovering she was having an affair. When he stabbed her, over and over and over, he felt a sliver of what he had felt that day when he’d killed Gwen.

He had been trying to recreate that feeling ever since. But what had made that moment so exciting? He tried simply strangling a young woman to death, and though it was thrilling it didn’t come close. No, he slowly realized over time that it was the anticipation, and the victim’s dread. When he stalked his victims for days, practicing, planning, and dreaming of the moment of the kill, letting them know ahead of time that they were about to die… Then the thrill became something else. A surge of pure emotions. His dominance over them, his complete control, was intoxicating. It became truly sublime… almost like that very first time.

And now here was another unconscious woman at his mercy, her face so similar to Gwen’s. For a moment he almost kissed her awake, a modern version of the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale. But no. Better to wait, and savor the anticipation.

He resumed pacing, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. He wondered at the future. He had clearly underestimated the abilities of the local police. Or perhaps there were higher authorities involved? FBI? Special Forces? For a second he stopped and glanced outside, half expecting to see an incoming chopper, black clad figures sliding down a rope. But no, there was no one—just the setting sun, casting its last rays of light on the nearby field. Would the police be able to follow him here? It was hard to tell. He thought he had hidden his tracks quite well, but maybe someone had seen him carry Tanessa out of her apartment building and toss her into the secondhand car he’d purchased just the day before. He knew they were getting very close. Could someone have identified him already despite the disguise, like Tanessa had done the last time they met?

Dread and anticipation, they went hand in hand.

He stopped next to the nylon-wrapped machine. The man who had sold it to him had taken care to wrap it well. After he’d left, Jovan had wanted to tear the wrapping off immediately, but he had stopped himself. Anticipation. Every time he passed by that machine his fingers tingled with the desire to unwrap his gift. Now, suddenly able to stand it no longer, he grabbed the wrapping and pulled it hard.

It came off easily, and he took a step back, inspecting his purchase. Would they be able to identify what it was? Locate the man who had sold it to him? If they did, they’d find the warehouse. The future was shrouded in uncertainty. He walked back to where Tanessa lay, her upper body propped up against the wall, and sat down on a small stool by her side.

Her breathing slowly became louder as her consciousness returned. When she woke up, she tried to scream through her gag several times, then struggled against her bonds, before finally becoming still and assessing the situation. She noticed him standing a few feet away, looking at her, and began to struggle again.

“You’ll only hurt yourself,” he told her. “I know how to tie a knot.”

She froze, breathing hard and fast through her nose. She looked at him, then around her. She moved her head left and right, taking in the empty room. Her eyes stopped momentarily when she noticed the machine.

“What do you think?” Jovan asked, his voice shaking with excitement. “You like it? It has an important part to play in your near future.”

She looked back at him, and he saw the dread in her eyes. It took him back to a day almost thirty years before. He knelt by her and raised his hand, which held a pair of scissors.

“Better do this now,” he said. “It might be messier later.”

She screamed into the gag as the scissors drew near her face. And then they snipped a lock from her hair.

Chapter Thirty-One

Though it was already midnight on Thursday, the Glenmore Park police department buzzed with activity. Almost everyone who had a desk sat behind it, poring over reports, discussing the events with each other, coming up with plans. Riley Poe had been stabbed to death on Tanessa Lonnie’s doorstep, but there was no time to mourn the loss of a comrade; Officer Lonnie had been kidnapped. This was a time to close ranks.

All departments converged, combining their resources. The traffic and patrol squads combed the streets, searching for Jovan Stokes. The FBI took over the two interrogation rooms and turned them into makeshift headquarters. Officially, they were now in charge of the investigation, with Agent Mancuso leading. Jacob and Captain Bailey walked in and out of those rooms constantly, coordinating their efforts with the Feds. Lieutenant Bob Talbot from the state police and his team of computer experts doubled their efforts, trying to trace Jovan’s online activity. The detective squad and Matt Lowery’s team went over Tanessa’s apartment, checking every surface, every item, every thread, leaving nothing unturned.

Amidst all that, Mitchell tried to be useful.

Maybe some other detective could have managed to channel his fear and anxiety to help him focus on the case. It was easy for Mitchell to imagine Jacob in a similar situation, taking control of the investigation, becoming a better, sharper detective when a loved one’s life was at stake.

Mitchell was not that detective.

He had a hard time concentrating. At times, he realized Matt or Jacob or Zoe was talking to him, repeating the same sentence over and over, with Mitchell nodding dumbly, not hearing a single word. He kept thinking of Riley Poe, lying in the entrance of Tanessa’s apartment amidst a pool of blood. Kept thinking of that bed, covered with yellow California poppies. Jovan’s earlier victims’ names kept flashing in his mind, along with the knowledge that in all probability Tanessa was about to join that list very soon.

At one point he left the room in the middle of a debriefing, ran to the bathroom, and threw up. Then he sat in the toilet stall and shook like a leaf.

He finally found a place to hide: in front of his computer, watching footage from various security cameras around Tanessa’s building, trying to spot anything relevant. The task was technical enough that he trusted himself to do it despite the torrent of fear and despair and guilt that flooded his brain almost constantly.

According to Matt, there were signs of struggle in Tanessa’s bedroom, but none outside of it. There were plenty of scenarios, some less likely than others, but the prevailing one was that Tanessa had been incapacitated by Jovan and carried outside. It was unclear how he had done it, but he was a doctor, and it was more than possible he had managed to drug her. So far, no witnesses who’d seen Jovan or Tanessa had turned up, but a neighbor from next door, a mother of four, claimed she thought she heard some noise coming from the apartment. At the time she’d thought it was the TV, but once she realized her neighbor had gone missing it occurred to her that it might have been something else entirely.

It was a long night full of misery, grief, and anxiety. Dawn brought with it no relief.

Sometimes, Ricky Nate thought, there just wasn’t enough coffee in the world.

She was on her third cup, and still her left eye refused to open all the way. Three hours of sleep was not enough for any human being to function. It was the dumb unveiling’s fault. Her editor wanted her to write a seven-hundred-word piece on the unveiling of the new swan statue in front of the Broadway Shopping Center. Seven hundred words. About a statue of a bird whose neck was too long.

She’d tried to explain that something was going on, that there were hints from various people in the police department that The Deadly Messenger had struck again. Her editor had asked for a bit more. Just saying something was up was not a valid news story.
Something’s Up, Thinks Our Reporter
, was not a very good front page headline, he said. So Ricky had spent the rest of the day—and evening—trying to get anyone to divulge some information.

She’d failed miserably. Her informer in dispatch would not speak with her again, afraid for her job. Various detectives, cops, and clerks did not even pick up the phone, and if they did, they barked “no comment” at her with such vehemence that her feelings nearly got bruised.

And then it was midnight. There was still a hole in the newspaper, and the statue unveiling piece needed to be written. She hadn’t even seen the damn thing, but she figured if you’ve see one swan statue, you’ve seen them all. Never had a statue been described in such a sarcastic and bitter tone. As far as Ricky was concerned, it was the swan’s fault she hadn’t managed to get her information. She’d lain awake in bed for hours afterward, seething in frustration, certain that one of the competing newspapers would publish the article about the Messenger. Finally, around four in the morning, she’d managed to shut her eyes, only to hear the alarm chirp, letting her know it was seven o’clock and she had to get up and go to work.

She would call in sick, she thought. But there was still that thing with the deadly messenger, and perhaps there was a sensational story to write about it…

Her phone rang. She glanced at the number; it wasn’t one she recognized. She answered in a croaky, morning voice. “Hello?”

“Is this Ricky Nate?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Jovan Stokes. I believe you call me The Deadly Messenger.”

Her heart sped up. This was one of those moments that either made a reporter’s career or broke it. All her exhaustion faded away, leaving her alert and tense.

“Why are you calling me, Mr. Stokes?”

“I really liked your articles so far, Ms. Nate.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quavering. Could she somehow get the police to track this call? She turned on her laptop. Maybe if she sent an urgent e-mail to someone in the department…

“I have another article for you to publish today, at one o’clock,” the gritty voice said. She pictured the man whose image had been recently released by the police on the other side of the call.

“The
Gazette
is printed at night,” she said. “And distributed in the morning. And tomorrow is Saturday, so we won’t print it until Monday.”

“We live in a remarkable time, Ms. Nate,” he said, and she could almost hear the smile in his voice. “News is delivered twenty-four hours a day online. Publish the article on your website.”

“What’s the story?” she asked. Her laptop finished loading up. She opened the e-mail client.

“Do you remember Tanessa Lonnie? The cop they used as bait?” he asked.

“I… Yes.”

“I have her.”

“What do you—”

“Yesterday I kidnapped Tanessa. She’s with me now, alive. I need you to publish two photos, which I’ll send you shortly. But you have to publish them at one o’clock, and not sooner. If they’re published a minute before that, I’ll kill Tanessa. If you contact the police, I’ll kill Tanessa. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said. Her heart pulsed so fast it was practically vibrating. “What are the photos?” She finished writing a short e-mail, let her cursor hover over the “send/receive” button.

“You’re the one who called me The Deadly Messenger,” Jovan said. “It’s a message.”

The call terminated.

She stared at the laptop screen. The e-mail remained unsent.

She swallowed hard, and began searching her phone for Mitchell Lonnie’s number. She found it under
Mitchell Lonnie - asshole detective
. She dialed the number.

He didn’t answer. She cursed loudly. Did Jovan have sources in the police? Would he know if she simply dialed 911? She hesitated. Was it worth the risk? She trusted Mitchell Lonnie; Tanessa was his sister. Who else could she trust?

Her e-mail alert blipped. She had a new e-mail with attachments, the sender’s address a jumble of characters. She opened it, and gasped.

The first attachment was a picture of Tanessa Lonnie. She sat against a wall, her feet tied, her hands behind her back, her face tear-stained. A red rag was stuffed in her mouth and held there by several layers of masking tape.

The second was an image of a strange-looking machine. It was made of metal, and seemed quite large, though Ricky had no real sense of the scale. On top of it there was something that looked like a large sink. It sat on top of a large box. A pipe shaped like the letter T connected the sink and the box, its third end protruding. The entire contraption looked quite silly, but in this context it became sinister, a machine used by a madman for unthinkable purposes.

Jovan always sent messages containing his murder weapons. Ricky didn’t know what this machine was, but she had a suspicion regarding its use.

She opened a new message to Mitchell Lonnie, and attached the image of Tanessa to it. She wrote a couple of sentences:
Jovan sent this to me. Call me now
, and then
sent the message.