Twisted (45 page)

What were they doing out here alone, and why couldn’t they get in?

Burt headed in that direction to find out. “Moe? Larry? Curly?” he shouted as he pushed his way through the evergreens.

At the sound of Burt’s voice, they came bounding toward him, their leashes dragging behind them, creating such a din that there was no mistaking this for anything but urgency.

“Where’s Sloane?” he asked them, already stooping to grab hold of the looped handles of all three leashes. They responded by half dragging him across the lawn and back to their front door.

Burt rang the bell three times. No response. He then knocked until his knuckles turned white. Again, nothing. Finally, he used the spare key Sloane had given him and his mother for those times when they needed to get in for “hound-sitting.” He unlocked the front door, and pushed it open. “Sloane?” he yelled.

Silence.

He checked every room, only to find them empty. In the kitchen, a mug and today’s newspaper were laid out on the table. And the coffeemaker, which had been program set for six-thirty, had already brewed four cups.

Burt didn’t waste another second. He picked up the phone and dialed the police.

FBI
New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza, New York City

7:05 A.M.

Derek wasn’t happy. He’d wanted to spend last night with Sloane. Stoic as she was, she was badly thrown by Elliot’s murder. And after a long day of grilling people and hearing the gory details of Elliot’s death over and over, she needed comfort, not a train ride home—accompanied by one of Manny’s people—and a night alone with the hounds. But Derek had been tied up with frantic meetings, phone calls, and paperwork until 3 A.M. He’d never even gone home, just crashed in the office for a few hours, then showered and changed clothes.

Now back at his desk, he glanced at his watch. Sloane should be back from her morning run. He was just about to call and check up on her—under the guise of determining what time she was meeting him at John Jay for day two of mouth-swabbing and interrogating—when his phone rang.

“
FBI
,” he answered briskly.

“Agent Parker?” It was a young woman’s tentative voice.

“This is Parker. Who am I speaking with?”

“Deborah Culmen. I am—I
was
—one of Dr. Lyman’s graduate assistants. There were two of us helping him monitor his AI system. The instructions he left us from the beginning were that in the event he was unreachable, we should call you if any results materialized.”

“And have they?” Derek leaned forward, his body taut with anticipation.

“The computer system just spit out a model based on all the information Dr. Lyman fed it. I think you should come over here and take a look at it right away.”

“I’m there.”

Derek left the federal building and drove his Bureau car up to John Jay in record time. He took the steps two at a time and strode through the door to Elliot’s office.

Deborah was waiting. White-faced, she handed him the screen print. She was actually shaking.

It took Derek three seconds to figure out why.

What he was looking at was a chilling, one-page analysis in the form of a table:

NOTES
:

(1) Coin signifies battle between good (goddess) versus evil (Python).

(2) Apollo killed Python and assumed guardianship of Delphi (Greek mythology).

(3) Tai Kee is phonetic pronunciation of Tyche, goddess of fortune, luck, and prosperity.

A hard jolt of awareness shot through Derek as some of the crucial pieces fell into place while triggering a whole new set of questions. Those he’d turn over to the
BAU
to decipher.

His own attention was fixed on the final table entry—the one that made his blood run cold.

The last victim’s name: Sloane Burbank

And worse, the “date taken” listed beside it: May 1.

That was today.

He flipped open his cell phone and punched in Sloane’s number on speed dial. It went directly to voice mail. Dammit. He hung up and tried her home phone. Same thing. She couldn’t still be out running. Maybe she was in the shower? Outside?

He was clutching at straws and he knew it.

With his jaw tightly clenched, he checked the time. Hank was still on. He would have some answers. He never left Sloane unattended. During his shifts, he kept a perpetual, full-time eye on her.

Hank’s cell phone rang and rang. No one picked up. Eventually, it went to voice mail.

It had to be bad cell reception. Hank never ignored a call, not when he was on duty. Unless he was in trouble.

No. Derek refused to go there. He’d wait a minute and try again. This time Hank would answer.

There was sweat beading up on his forehead, trickling down his neck.

As if on cue, Derek’s cell phone rang.

“Hank?” he said into the mouthpiece.

It wasn’t Hank. It was the local cops in Sloane’s town. Burt Wagner, Sloane’s next-door neighbor, had suggested they call him.

Derek listened to the entire story.

He was already in motion as he issued a few terse orders to the local police.

Then he turned back to Deborah, recited Jeff ’s phone number, and told her to call him, then send him a fax of the printout and have him fax copies to Bill Mann at the
BAU
and Larry Clark at his New York hotel. He blew out of the office faster than he’d come in.

When he arrived at Sloane’s house, the local police were still on the scene, one interviewing Burt inside the house, three others checking the outside grounds and street.

Hank’s car was parked in its usual spot. As the cops had told Derek on the phone, the bodyguard had been out cold when they arrived, thanks to a well-placed tranquilizer dart. He was now in the hospital, being treated and, hopefully, regaining consciousness.

Derek would head over there next.

First, he strode into Sloane’s house. Burt was in the kitchen with the hounds, who were whimpering and vitally aware that something was wrong. Burt looked grateful as hell to see Derek, and turned his attention to him, answering every one of his questions while the local cop waited.

None of his answers helped. They only reiterated the facts that Derek already knew.

Sloane was missing.

And he was too late to stop the serial killer who’d taken her.

DATE:
1 May

TIME:
1145 hours

She looks so peaceful on that bed, so utterly right in this room that I built for her. Truly, this is where she belongs until we ascend. I know I have to move her, but locking her in a lifeless cell is going to take a Herculean effort on my part.

But I have no choice. Until I know her intentions, I can’t afford to let sentiment cloud my judgment. I must contain her, limit her awareness of where she is. More important, I must limit her access to anything she can use to retaliate or escape.

She’s highly intelligent and equally resourceful. But she’s also strong—in will and in strength—and stubborn. As goddess of the hunters, she’s dedicated to the chase, and she’ll do all she can to outwit me so she can regain her freedom.

No matter how difficult she becomes, I must demonstrate patience. She doesn’t understand yet. She still views me as the enemy.

It’s up to me to convince her that I’m her salvation.

Sloane’s house

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

1:05 P.M.

Sloane’s living room had become the meeting place for Derek, Jeff, Bill, and Larry, who’d spent the past two hours reviewing evidence, and refocusing their strategy and analysis based on the information Elliot’s computer system had spit out.

At Derek’s urgent request, Bill had flown immediately up to New Jersey to join the team.

Jeff had been added to the team as well. It was Tony who’d informed Derek of his decision. And Derek offered no argument. Tony was right. Derek knew his objectivity was severely compromised based on this latest development in the case. Plus, Jeff ’s Violent Crimes experience would be beneficial.

All Derek cared about was getting this Unsub—
now
—before he hurt Sloane.

Unless he already had.

He shoved that thought aside, forcing himself back into special-agent mode. Anything less, and he’d be no good to anybody.

“Okay, so now everyone on this list is accounted for,” Larry was saying, having just hung up the phone. “I’ve now confirmed all the facts on Eve Calhoun, who was our only unknown.” He counted off on his fingers. “Worked at the Manhattan D.A.’s Office with Sloane at the outset of Sloane’s career. Now a matrimonial attorney. Was last seen doing laps at the
NYU
pool. Divorced, no family. Just a pissed-off law firm. The victimology fits.”

Bill nodded thoughtfully, steepling his fingers together and leaning forward on the sofa, rereading his copy of the table for the umpteenth time. “Eve Calhoun being a matrimonial attorney correlates with Hera being the ‘mother.’ Not only is she the goddess queen, she’s also the goddess of love and marriage.” Another thoughtful glance at the printout. “This Unsub has certainly captured an eclectic bunch of women. But there’s more than one motherly type. The pattern does demonstrate a maternal fixation.”

“Agreed.” Larry perched on the arm of a chair. “I’m not up on my Greek mythology, but I did some quick research. As queen of the goddesses, Hera ran the show. My guess is that our Unsub needs his ‘Hera’ as a strong guiding force. And his ‘Hestia,’ Lydia Halas, is the calm goddess of home and hearth. The real Lydia Halas is a healer, a nurse. Our Unsub needs her for security and comfort.”

“So we have two maternal figures here—one to nurture, the other to parent,” Bill concluded.

“What about the other victims?” Jeff asked. “I see the whole mother-complex thing you’re referring to. But that only explains two of the nine women our Unsub went after.”

“Look, guys.” Derek interrupted before Larry or Bill could reply. “This is all very fascinating. But we’re racing the clock here. How does all this psychological analysis help us find our Unsub or his victims?”

“As opposed to doing what?” Bill asked, leveling a calm stare at Derek. “Racing into the field, guns blazing? Analysis produces a more focused pursuit, which will lead to quicker success. By knowing who this Unsub is, how he thinks, and what motivates him, we can zero in on him and his intentions.”

“But what solid information have we come up with?”

“For one thing, that there’s a better chance than we originally thought that the kidnapped women are alive. The coin the Unsub leaves at each crime scene shows the strong dichotomy in his mind between the bad women he murders—the ‘Pythons’—and the good women he kidnaps—the ‘goddesses.’ If he feels he needs these goddesses, then he’s keeping, not killing, them.”

“For what? And for how long?”

“I can’t answer that—
yet
. But some trigger is compelling him to act each time he kills a prostitute or kidnaps a goddess. The prostitutes are an outlet for his sexual fantasies, so the trigger could simply be pent-up sexual need that he loathes and is ashamed of, but can’t control. So he takes control by killing the prostitutes, as violently as possible, after he’s through with them. But the goddesses—that’s the unknown. This isn’t a harem, it’s a specific collection of revered women, all with virtuous traits and preexisting relationships with Sloane. Once we figure out the Unsub’s reason for collecting them, I’d be willing to bet we’ll figure out his plan, his timing, maybe even where he’s imprisoning his victims.”

“So we all agree that the key lies with this list of Greek goddesses,” Larry murmured thoughtfully. “We need detailed information. That takes time. Maybe we can shortcut the process.” He shot Derek a quizzical look. “Not to sound callous, but can you get a hold of Lillian Doyle? I realize she’s terminally ill. And, yes, I realize she’s a sociology professor, but that woman knows her ancient history. She’s gone into long dissertations on the roots of violence in ancient civilization. I’m not sure if she’s an expert on Greek mythology, but I know she’s referred to it more than once during the workshop panels we’ve done together at John Jay. It’s possible she’d see a connection here, or, at the very least, know someone who would.”

“It’s worth a phone call.” Derek was already dialing. “Bob,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I know you’re swamped interviewing the John Jay faculty and students. But you’ve got personal contact information on the entire John Jay staff, and I need a home number fast—as in, yesterday.”

“Whose number are you looking for?” Bob asked, sounding as ragged as the rest of them.

“Professor Doyle’s. Also, I’ll need her son Luke’s cell-phone number, since I assume he’s taking her calls.”

Bob grunted. “You can have the numbers, but they won’t do you any good. Neither Dr. Doyle nor her son, Luke, has answered either their home or cell phones. And I’ve tried each number several times. I hope that’s not bad news, healthwise.”