Terrorbyte (33 page)

Faces of the dead swirled into focus; one by one I saw their calm, peaceful faces. With no warning, piercing screams shattered the calm. Each pain-contorted face stayed for a few seconds, then vaporized in a ball of flame.

As horrible as it was to witness, knowing that I hadn't stopped it was worse.

I needed more help than my team could provide. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and from memory pressed in a number I hadn't used in a long time. I could imagine the surprise on Caine's and Owen's faces should they learn who I'd called. Talk about jumping the chain of command.

Within the second round of ringing tones a familiar voice said, “O'Hare.”

“Director, this is Ellie Conway.”

A pause ensued. I waited.

Cait O'Hare spoke in a soothing tone, “I have a file on my desk, Ellie, sent over by EADC Owen regarding the case you are working now.” At least she'd heard about it. “What do you need?”

“Cooperation from Homeland Security, Customs, Immigration,” I replied. “If it's an alphabet company I want it on my side.”

A Steven Seagal moment flashed
The Patriot
onto my internal screen. Not to be confused with Mel Gibson's
The Patriot
which portrayed a very different time. Steven Seagal removed the images of Mel Gibson with a swift kick. No room for short men in my life, not even in the movies. There was no need to explain alphabet companies to O'Hare. I'd heard her refer to CIA, NSA, USSA, CBP and the rest as alphabet companies more than once. She was the ultimate Seagal fan.

“What's happened?”

“We've got a terror cell operating and they're making money by selling our children.”

“Owen didn't mention a cell.”

“Owen doesn't know, it's only just become apparent. There is a military aspect. I don't want to hand this on. These kids are the priority, if I hand it over … we've recovered six but I believe there are more.”

“I'll speak to the relevant directors.” She paused then said, “I may leave out some pertinent information regarding terror cells and the military. Let's call this child trafficking for now.”

“Thank you.”

“You get those bastards and bring home those kids,” O'Hare said. “Whatever it takes, Agent.”

“Yes, Director.”

Her voice softened as she said, “You owe me dinner.”

“Ruby Tuesday's, when this is over?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I heard a hint of amusement in her voice. Ruby Tuesday was an inside joke from a case I'd helped out on a few years previously. A case involving an award-winning novelist; a stalker; a bomber; a kidnapper; songs with the word Tuesday in the title and Director O'Hare. Good times.

I hit the end button and pushed my phone back into my pocket. I saw Praskovya and Mac exchange glances; neither said boo.

Smart men. I sure didn't want to explain the phone call they'd just overheard.

“Mac?” I hit his arm lightly to get his attention. I showed him a picture on my phone that I'd just received from the Cobham crime scene. We hadn't made it to that crime scene. As soon as we'd rescued Carla, that's where we'd head. Mac took my phone and viewed the picture of a blue Post-it note with the words, ‘I am invincible' in black ink.

“Nice, is it new?”

“Yes. From the Cobham scene.”

“Interesting words.” He handed my phone back to me.

“This means we're right about there being more than one killer.” I was absolutely sure. “Why would a guy leave a note that says ‘I am invincible'?”

Mac frowned. “Because he thinks he is?”

“No, no, no. It's from ‘I Am Woman' by Helen Reddy. It's a chick song.”

“You think his accomplice is the chick from the car, the one Praskovya here is chasing?”

Duh! Where had he been for the last few hours?

“Those crime scenes were totally scripted. She was in the car crash – her traveling companion was in Richmond. That, at the very least, suggests she may have been in Richmond also. I think she's killing too … she's the other killer. The Richmond victims were not raped.”

Praskovya swallowed so hard I heard him. To his credit he didn't interrupt me.

“They're blowing smoke up our asses and grabbing youngsters from right under our noses.  She is involved.  Hands-on killing – just like him. Two of the notes are hers. I need Questioned Documents to verify.”

I heard Lee's phone flip open. Seconds later he asked someone at Questioned Documents to compare the notes and determine if there were one or two authors.

We were pulling into the driveway of the Boyd's home when his phone rang.

“Ellie, lab says two notes were written by different people; they're now analyzing the scene writing again and will check the latest note when it arrives in the lab.”

“Excellent.”

Mac gripped the wheel. “Does this help us at all?”

“It may do.”

I flicked through the photos in my phone until I found the passport photo of the missing woman. I put my hand on the door handle and said, “Let's go get the kid.”

Praskovya was out the car and had opened my door before I could reach the handle.  More Russian charm.

Lee knocked on the front door of the house.

An adult female voice called out, “Who is there?”

It's me, the big bad wolf. I'll huff and I'll puff.

“FBI, Mrs. Boyd.”

“Hold your identification up to the peephole.”

Good to know she could follow instructions.

Lee did as commanded. I got the feeling she wasn't expecting a large man at her door; probably his movie-star good looks threw her too.

Mrs. Boyd said, “It was a woman who called me. Agent Conway?”

I stepped up to the peephole, then stepped back and said, “Right here, ma'am.”

The door opened two inches. “Pass me your identification.”

I did.

We waited. It was a small price to pay for the security of a child.

Two minutes later the door opened. I saw the phone in her hand. She really was smart. She'd checked. I couldn't help but wish more people would make that phone call.

I stepped forward with my left hand outstretched; it was a rather awkward handshake.

“Supervising Special Agent Conway, ma'am. Where's Carla?”

“Follow me.”

We filed through the door. Praskovya was last and closed it firmly behind him.

We followed the woman into the house. I glanced around. No shortage of money in this home but appearances can be deceiving. In this case no one is above suspicion, not even apparently caring mothers who take in a worried child. Trust no one.

She stopped outside a pale pink door and knocked.

“Girls?”

She opened the door. Three young teenage girls looked up from the computer they were gathered around.

“Carla Torres?” I asked.

A cute brown-eyed blonde raised her hand. I asked the mom for somewhere to talk and she suggested I use the sitting room down the hall. The hallway could've been another room in its own right, it was so spacious.

“Come have a chat with me, Carla.” I ushered her out the door. “I'm Ellie.”

“Hi.”

We stepped into a living room and sat down.

“Where's my mom?”

I held my phone out, showing her the picture on the screen. “Have you seen this woman before?”

Her eyes lit up with recognition. “Yes. She moved into our building. She has the coolest accent. Russian or something.”

“Do you remember when she moved in? … Which apartment?”

“Last month and she lives in 7A,” Carla said. “She is at our place a lot. She and mom go swimming together. Some kind of fitness class.”

“Swimming,” I repeated. Swimming. Chlorine. They went swimming. How many others went swimming? This chick really likes chlorine.

“Where's my mom?”

How do I say, I don't know but I think she's dead?

I ignored the question and showed her another picture, the man from the crash. “Have you ever seen this man?”

“No.” She passed the phone back. She was telling the truth. I never could understand why no one liked working with kids.

My phone rang. “I need to take this, then we'll talk some more.” I stood up and walked to the window as I answered the call.

“Conway.”

“It's Agent Simmons. We have the mother.”

“Condition?”

“Same as before.”

“Where?”

“In her home.”

“One second.”

I turned to Carla. “When did you go home?”

“After school.”

“How long did you wait?”

“It was nearly seven. Mrs. Boyd always told me I could come here, if I got scared or worried. I kept calling and calling but mom didn't pick up her cell.”

“Thanks.” I turned back to the window and my call. “Did you get that?”

“It's ten fifteen. She's still warm.”

I whispered harshly, “Seal the scene, sweep for cameras etc. And lock down apartment 7A.”

“ETA?”

“Within the hour,” and hung up.

“Carla did you leave messages for your mom on her voicemail?”

“Yes, lots. I told her I was at Sally's and I was okay. And she should come get me.”

I smiled at the worried girl. I'm sorry about all this, Carla, I'll be right back.”

I hustled from the elegant room to find Mac, Lee and Praskovya. My arm began to throb.

“Lee … Child Services. This kid needs protective custody until next of kin are found.”

Mac asked, “Mother?”

“They found her – still warm.”

“You think someone's coming for her?”

“Oh, hell, yeah. And I'll be real surprised if we find any next of kin,” I said.

“This sucks out loud,” Mac hissed.

“If they want this kid, it's not going to be difficult. She left messages on her mom's voicemail, saying she was at Sally's house. Like a good kid.”

We stopped dead as a cell phone rang in the sitting room.

I ran.

Carla flipped the phone open before I could stop her.

I mouthed, ‘Who is it?'

She shook her head and said, “Hello?”

I indicated that she should put the phone on the coffee table and mouthed, ‘Speaker.' She pressed a button and set the phone on the table.

“Hello?” the voice replied. A distinctly female Russian voice. “Carla?”

I nodded.

Carla replied, “Yes.”

I stepped to the doorway and whispered to Mac, “Get this call traced, it's incoming to Carla's cell phone.”

“Number?”

Mrs. Boyd coughed. “Here,” she said and wrote the number on a pad.

I moved closer to Carla to hear the Russian.

“It's Selena. Your mother asked me to fetch you.”

“Is mommy home now?”

“Yes. She's not feeling well. I'll come get you.”

“Sally's mom said I can stay.”

“She wants you to come home.”

I wrote a note to Carla on my notebook, telling her to keep the woman talking. She nodded at me.

“Okay. Can I finish the game we're playing?”

“It's getting late. You have school tomorrow.”

“I suppose,” Carla said, with the resignation of a child who really doesn't want to do something.

“I'll come now, Carla. What is the address?”

Carla looked at me, unsure of what to say. At that moment, my phone vibrated, with a text message saying where the phone call originated.

I picked up Carla's phone and ended the call. While I talked to Dave Simmons, I switched off her phone. She stood watching me.

“Dave, a woman called from that apartment block, a phone in apartment 3A. Don't let anyone leave. She's dangerous. Consider her armed. Backup on the way.”

I called out to Lee, “We're going.”

“The girl?” he asked, as he turned toward me.

“One of us stays here with her,” I replied.

Carla stamped her foot and yelled at me, “Where's my mommy!”

Shit!

“How old are you, Carla?” She looked eleven or twelve tops, maybe ten.

“Twelve and a half,” she said with a defiant look. “Where's my mom?” Her voice climbed an octave or two. “I want my mom!”

I looked at Lee. I hoped he had some kind of brilliant rescue plan.

He didn't.

Carla yelled louder.

He tapped his watch.

Didn't I look desperate enough? Shit.

“Who is staying?” Lee asked.

“I'm coming!” The kid squawked. “I want my mom! Don't leave me here!” She stamped her feet as tears poured down her face.

“Calm, Carla. Be calm.” I grabbed both her hands and held them. “Listen to me.”

Her mouth opened to let loose another scream. Lee clapped a hand across her gaping mouth and said, “Listen to Ellie. Shush now.” Soothing her.

I watched her eyes and saw her relax. I nodded. Lee released her.

“I'll take you with us, Carla. Let us do what we need to do. On the way I'll tell you about your mom.”

It was a bit of a squeeze in the back of the car. Carla sat between me and Mac. Lee drove. Praskovya, who'd remained silent, rode shotgun.

I admitted something to myself with the kid safely ensconced in the back of the car. I was that kid. I was almost that kid.

Dad was at sea when Aidan and I got home from school one day and found mom was gone. I was eleven years old and had to take care of my eight-year-old brother. I called all the places I knew she went and didn't want to call dad. Eventually I decided we were better off not reporting her missing. She turned up a few days later, stinking of booze and cigarette smoke, wearing the same clothes she'd worn when she waved us off to school.

I was that kid. Time after time, I was that kid. I waited for what I considered to be the inevitable: mom's death.