Twisted (47 page)

“You’re angry.” Luke either made that assessment from her silence or her pensive expression. “And I know why. Professor Lyman. I’m truly sorry for your pain. But I’m
not
sorry I killed him. He deluded you. He made you believe he was your friend. He wasn’t. He was Python’s messenger, an evil serpent sent to destroy the purity of our upcoming journey. I had no choice but to kill him.”

This was the toughest moment of Sloane’s performance. She wanted to gouge out Luke’s eyes for what he’d done to Elliot. But what point would there be to lash out? It wouldn’t bring back her friend, and it would only condemn her and the rest of the women here to a certain death.

“I see your dilemma,” she said calmly. “And I’m not angry, just confused. I believe you about Python. But these other, lesser goddesses—who are they?”

His expression hardened, and Sloane realized she’d pushed one of his buttons. “You know who the other goddesses are. You’ve been tracking them, and me, for weeks now. Don’t toy with me, Artemis. I won’t tolerate it.”

“I’m not toying with you,” Sloane assured him. “I just wasn’t making the connection. Are you saying that the lesser goddesses are the women we classified as kidnapped?”

“They weren’t kidnapped. They were rescued. All except that bitch Tyche, who spurned the gods and will be condemned to a lifetime of hell. I wanted to make her pay for what she did to me. But the gods chose to handle it after I’m gone. So be it.”

Tai Kee
. They’d all assumed it had been a Mandarin or Fukienese phrase. But it was just what Tina had said it sounded like—a name.

“Again, forgive my ignorance,” Sloane said ruefully, “but what is—Tai Kee, did you say?—the goddess of?”

“It’s Tyche,” he corrected her pronunciation, then spelled the name for her. “And she’s the goddess of fortune, prosperity, and luck. Or rather, she was. Now she’s just a dirty slut like the rest of them.”

It was the first time Sloane had heard or seen the brutal Luke, the man capable of being a serial killer. His gaze darkened to near black, and his features twisted with a rage so intense, it seemed to vibrate through him. The transformation was terrifying.

“If this Tyche is really that unworthy, it’s good that she’s not joining us and the others in our ascent,” Sloane said carefully.

“You’re right. I communed with the gods and they said the same thing.” As Luke spoke, the serial killer receded, replaced by the hollow-eyed Delphi.

“It sounds as if the gods have treated you well.”

“Always. It’s the demons sent by Hades who forced me to do those dirty, sickening things.” Luke pressed his hands to the sides of his head, gave it a few hard shakes. “I won’t think about that. The demons are gone now. They’ve lost this hard-fought battle.”

Luke was talking about the prostitutes he’d raped and killed. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure that one out.

Sloane took the opportunity to probe an area that Luke might now be receptive to, if only to supplant the dark voices in his head with something he considered light and beautiful. “Can you tell me the details of our ascent? The process sounds intriguing.”

“The process is secondary. The destination is everything.” Luke lowered his hands, but he was still shaking from whatever emotional upheaval had just taken place inside his mind.

“You mean Mount Olympus.”

“It’s exquisite—pure, unscathed, perfect. I’ve heard stories about it all my life.”

“From Gaia?”

“Yes. She read to me every night, long stories of splendor and eternal life. If you had seen the way her face would light up when she’d read, she was totally transformed. I always swore to myself that someday I’d see that euphoria on her face again, this time for good.”

“So you’re facilitating it.” Sloane smiled. “What a loving son you are.”

“I try.”

“Does Gaia know all the details of our ascent?”

“No. I want to surprise her. Actually, no one knows, not even Hera. I usually talk things over with her. But this time…I chose not to.”

“Would you be willing to talk them over with me?” Sloane asked. “I’d be happy to listen.”

He became very calm, as a soft, peculiar smile touched his lips. “You’re always a good listener. Even when I didn’t speak, you heard me. I called just to hear the sound of your soothing voice. I’d been deprived of that joy since I realized your
FBI
friends must have put a trace on my cell phones. That’s why I took your name off the invitation list to Gaia’s retirement party. I needed a reason to call you. To connect with my twin. And to make sure you were coming. I had to reinforce my connection with you, even though I knew we’d soon be connected for eternity. That’s why I visited your home, lay on your bed. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes.” Sloane feigned understanding. “To strengthen our connection, would you please share your plans with me? Tell me about our upcoming ascent.”

Luke paused, considering her request. “I’m not ready to fully trust you—not yet. However, I do trust you to guard a secret. Also, you’re strong. You don’t scare easily. So, as my twin, I believe you’re the right one to share this with.” His gaze flickered over her. “But first, you need a chiton. There are several in your closet upstairs. I’ll bring one down, since you’re not ready to be transferred upstairs. I’ll also bring you some lunch. You slept through the usual hour that it’s served.”

“What time is it now?”

“Three forty-five. Lunch is served promptly at noon, unless I’m away. In that case, provisions are made.”

The mattress Sloane was sitting on was lumpy and uncomfortable. She wriggled a bit, then winced. “Delphi, I understand why you don’t fully trust me yet. But is there any way you can keep me confined to your satisfaction without using these shackles? They’re cutting into my flesh, especially my injured hand.”

That bothered him. “Your injury—I didn’t think of that. Very well. When I return, I’ll bring an alternative to the shackles.” His gaze hardened again, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, emanating leashed violence. “Let me state this in advance. I know how intelligent you are. And also how skilled you are at Krav Maga. In fact, I know everything about you. So don’t try anything. Not now. Not when I return. Not at all. You won’t succeed and it will break my heart to have to kill you. But don’t doubt that I will,
if
you force my hand.”

“I don’t plan to do that,” she assured him. “I’m resourceful, but I’m not stupid.”

“Very well, I’ll be back shortly.”

Lillian Doyle’s Apartment

West 171st Street, New York City

4:55 P.M.

Derek pulled on his gloves and entered the apartment.
ERT
was already doing its job. There was music playing from somewhere inside. The Pachelbel Canon, Sloane’s favorite. He headed toward it, then paused as one of the
ERT
agents came up to him.

“Parker, you won’t believe this,” he said, pointing. “Go take a look. I didn’t touch a thing so you could get the full impact.”

Derek walked into the spare bedroom, where the music was coming from. Empty. Except for the desk positioned directly across from the doorway. But that desk said it all.

Stunned, Derek came to a dead halt, his gaze glued to the images on the laptop screen.

A slideshow of photos synchronized with the music. Images only of Sloane. Not just at work and at home, but everywhere. And not just current photos, but some that went way back, starting with her days in the D.A.’s office. Luke had obviously become obsessed with her from the very first time they met. He’d kept a month-by-month digital photo album of all her activities, all her meetings with friends, all her time in her backyard—romping with the hounds or shooting at her archery range.

He even had pictures of her in Cleveland—both on the job and off—and at Quantico, where he’d filmed her arriving and departing. The psycho had followed her everywhere, living her life, capturing it for posterity.

There were even a few shots of Sloane and Derek together, strolling, talking, and laughing. A big white “box” had been superimposed over Derek’s portion of the photo. Fortunately, Luke hadn’t gotten any intimate shots, but just the fact that he’d been stalking and obsessing over Sloane for all these years made Derek want to puke.

The segment ended with a blank frame that simply said:
For Artemis
.

The next segment began.

To Derek, it looked like a Discovery Channel special on viruses and how they invade healthy cells. Then the scene appeared to dissolve to white as if someone poured liquid disinfectant to “bleach out” the contents. In its place were highlights of Luke killing and dismembering the Asian prostitutes. It ended with
For Gaia, with Love
.

And finally, the home video concluded with Luke reading from a prepared script…

“Welcome, serpents. By the time you see this, you’re too late to stop the Ascension. Gaia, Artemis, the lesser goddesses and I have gone to Mount Olympus, leaving this despicable, disease-ridden world for Python and his
FBI
underlings to rule. Bow to your superiors and accept your defeat.”

With that, the final frame burst into flames, disintegrating into a pyramid of pictures. At the apex was a picture of Lillian—younger, vibrant, and obviously in good health—with a simple caption:
Gaia
. Below that in the hierarchy were pictures of Sloane and Luke, captioned
Artemis
and
Apollo,
respectively. At the bottom of the pyramid was a picture of each of the kidnapped women, captioned with the name of the goddess she embodied.

A moment passed, and the entire sequence started again.

Forcing himself to keep it together, Derek crossed over and examined the desk. Beside the laptop stood only one other object—a children’s book on Greek mythology. Derek picked it up and opened it. The inscription read:
To my little Apollo
. Obviously, a gift from Lillian when Luke was a boy. The book was well-worn, signifying it had been read often. There was a chapter on each goddess, complete with an illustration. It was like a textbook, except presented with clear, elementary school simplicity.

At this point, Derek had every drop of proof he needed. The lab in Quantico had called earlier and confirmed the
DNA
match. So they now had both fingerprint
and
DNA
evidence. And now this sick, twisted video.

The problem was, he had no idea where Luke Doyle was.

The bastard was smart. There wasn’t a shred of information on him in this apartment that Derek hadn’t already obtained elsewhere—his military record, his school transcript, his employment records from Bellevue. Not a damned thing that could provide a clue as to his whereabouts.

Ditto for the phone records they’d obtained by court order. Neither Luke’s nor Lillian’s phones had revealed anything. No calls had been made, either to or from their home or cell phones, since Sloane’s disappearance.

A credit search on both the Doyles had proven equally useless.

No addresses that the Bureau didn’t already know about. So if that country house really existed, it hadn’t been bought under either Luke’s or Lillian’s name. Piles of bills and credit-card statements in the kitchen—all with one word scrawled in large, red letters:
PAID
. No outstanding balances. None.

Eerily, it looked as if the Doyles were paying off each and every one of their debts to society.

Its finality made Derek’s skin crawl.

They were out of time.

Judging from the amount of morphine Luke was administering to his mother, and his own statement that he expected her to pass in a day or two, it was clear that Lillian had made a rapid downhill slide since the evening of her party. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that once “Gaia” had moved on, the rest of them would follow close behind.

They would be sacrificed in an elaborate ritual, no doubt dismembered piece by piece using a combat knife. Luke had been honing his carving skills on those prostitutes he’d killed. And the fact that he’d implied that Sloane was the only “goddess” strong enough to listen to him describe the details of their ascension didn’t bode well for his planned methodology.

Sweat broke out on Sloane’s forehead, drenched her back, as she visualized the thick blade of a Bowie knife and what it could do. A hell of a lot more damage than a switchblade.

Vivid recall took over. The excruciating pain of razor-sharp metal piercing her flesh, severing her nerves and blood vessels. The intolerable agony, the sickening sight of blood gushing from her palm, flowing onto the ground until she blacked out—it was a nightmare she’d carry with her forever.

And that was only her hand. This time the ritualistic killing would involve not only a combat knife, but the puncturing of vital organs and a torturous, drawn-out death.

Stop it
. Sloane nipped her thoughts in the bud. She wasn’t letting her mind go there. It would only paralyze her and waste valuable time. None of the women in this house was going to die. She would come up with a means of escape. She had to.

The Bureau had provided her with the finest, most sophisticated training in the world. But no handbook, no amount of education, innate ability, or years of crisis resolution experience could prepare her for a situation like this—where she was negotiating for her own life and the lives of others—with no help. And, given the circumstances, it felt as if everything was happening at warp speed, with Lillian’s impending death being an imposed, but intangible deadline—like a bomb with a lit fuse, set to go off at some imminent but imprecise hour. There was no opportunity for her to make gradual progress, foster developing trust. And there was no margin for error.

Sloane’s mind stepped through the salient points of crisis negotiation, extracting those techniques that would work in this high-stress situation. She prayed she had the right answers.

That brought her to the cell phone she’d slipped into the seatback bag of Lillian’s wheelchair when Luke had kidnapped her. Obviously, she’d been incapacitated and unable to access to it during their trip. But the phone still had to be in that bag. If Luke had discovered it, he would have slit her throat by now. Fine, but had he brought the wheelchair inside the house? Was it with Lillian? Sloane had to find out. She had to get into Lillian’s bedroom—or rather, convince Luke to take her there.