Where Evil Waits (7 page)

“Mother of God,” Knutson said.

Penny Wolff had been propped up against the wheel of a vehicle—a van, maybe—her head pulled back to expose ligature marks on her throat, her eyes bulging. The scarf appeared to have been dropped on her lap, and the wire itself—presumably that which had strangled her—lay on top.

“She didn’t fall this way,” Luke said, stricken. “It’s an exhibition. He took her body, drove her somewhere, then put her on display before he took the picture.”

Luke zoomed in, first on Penny’s throat where the ligature
had dug into her skin and left dribbles of blood every few inches, then on the wood at the end of the wire—a handle—and finally on the wire itself, which lay across Penny’s scarf and was—

“Holy fuck.” Luke stared, his stomach turning. “It’s barbed wire.”

S
ASHA TOOK THE WIRE
garrote out of its satchel, wrapped his fingers around the carved wooden handles, and crouched behind an empty truck in an alley off Ackley Street. The alley backed up to the club where the girl named Megan worked as a waitress. He’d watched her before and knew the drill: Shortly after three a.m., Megan would come out the back door, like she always did, and head down the alley for three blocks, like she always did. She’d cut over to Main Street where she would have left her car, like she always did.

And pass right by the van Sasha had waiting.

He drew a deep breath, uneasy with the plan even though he had it down to a science. Megan had been a problem from the very beginning. He’d checked phone directories, listened for hours for names to be called at busy delis, looked up church memberships, and had even gone into funeral homes and checked the names in the sign-in books. He did all the things he’d done to locate the others, but hadn’t been able to find a Megan. He’d racked his brain to think of places where he might hear it come up, and eventually had a brainstorm: college classes. He
didn’t even have to enroll. He’d just sauntered into classes at the nearest couple of universities for the first few days of the summer semester, stayed seated in the lecture hall long enough for each professor to call roll on the first day, and listened. He attended twelve different classes over the course of four days and in the end, in a class called “Technology and Social Change,” the professor read the name Megan Kessler and a young woman raised her hand. “Here,” she said.

Yes,
here
. He’d found her.

And gotten lucky. The Megan he’d found was young, a bit overweight, and socially inactive. She lived in an apartment complex a few blocks from campus. One of her classes met at night, on Mondays and Wednesdays, but she always walked home using a well-lit path, and there were always people around.

That wouldn’t work.

However, on weekends, Megan waitressed at a club in Canton. Late. Alone.

Sasha looked at his watch—four twenty. Past closing time for a Friday night.
Come on, Megan.
Time was ticking. After all the diversions he’d already had with Penny Wolff and Louie Guilford this week, Sasha couldn’t afford to wait any longer for Megan. Kara’s birthday was only two days away.

The back door opened and Megan stepped out. Sasha’s pulse picked up. His fingers tightened on the handles of the garrote. Megan carried a plastic bag over to a pile of trash, then paused to fasten a barrette in her hair. She looped her purse over her shoulder and started walking, nearer, nearer. Sasha’s blood began to pound and everything started. The rage climbed on top of him and with it, pain. He tried to count—
one, two, three—
but despite
what the prison shrink had preached, deep breathing was a crock of shit. The pain started anyway, a pulse point at the back of his skull, and he knew too well what was coming. The grinding jaw, the black spots in his eyes. The nosebleed and shortness of breath, the stretching in his groin that sent white-hot shards of pain through his vitals.

And finally, the orgasm. It would shatter the rage and let him up again.

In the old days, he’d hated it—being held in the talons of that mystical beast Dr. Lyons called rage. It had spurred him to an impulse that cost him fifteen years in prison. But now, he cherished it. He groomed it. He even
fed
it, when necessary.

Tonight, the beast was hungry. It wanted Megan.

He tied a bandanna over his nose, watched her come near and pass him by, close enough that he could smell the odors of cigarette smoke and beer and French fries even through the bandanna. His groin tightened more, and spikes of pain stabbed between his legs. This was the stage when he was still supposed to be able to control it:
Name it, claim it, aim it,
preached Lyons, and Sasha had learned just what the bastard wanted to hear.

Name it:
I have jealousy toward my brother.

Claim it:
My anger is legitimate and it is mine to feel.

Aim it:
I will channel my anger in healthy, productive ways.

Sasha snapped the wire tight, feeling it vibrate all the way to his shoulders. Yes, he’d known what to say to make the prison shrinks happy. But he also knew the truth.

Name it:
Kara Montgomery Chandler.

Claim it:
Kara, you’re mine.

Aim it:
Kara, you’re dead.

He blinked but the black spots were in his eyes and
barbs of pain jabbed at his groin. He let Megan get five paces ahead, then came out from behind the truck. He didn’t sneak, didn’t duck walk or tiptoe. He walked with swift, deliberate strides, holding the handles of the garrote in each hand with the wire hanging in a circle at his knees, thinking only of the moment of release to come.

Megan turned, let out a squeak, then spun around to run. He caught her with the wire from behind, a lasso around the throat, and she stumbled back. She grabbed at the wire, her fingertips ripping open, and Sasha pulled harder, harder, until the wire rang tight and his head and groin nearly exploded with pain. He gritted his teeth and suspended her in the air, an animal growl rumbling in his throat. Her hands flailed in useless circles that caught nothing, and a gurgle rose in her throat.

Her legs gave out. Sasha wanted to howl. The pain in his groin gave way to orgasm, the red curtain of rage exploding into a thousand pinpoints of light. He let Megan sink to her knees, some visceral instinct keeping his arms out and the wire tight for several more seconds, then finally bent his elbows and let the weight of her body sink to the cement.

He dropped the handles and stood over the heap that was Megan Kessler. Moisture soaked his crotch and for several seconds, he sucked in air, waiting for the pain to ease. He scrubbed his sleeve across his upper lip—nosebleed—then pressed his hand against his chest to keep his heart from pounding through his rib cage. One heartbeat at a time, his senses crept back into grasp.

Sasha smiled. What would Dr. Lyons think of
that
? He’d learned to channel his rage, all right. Right into the wire garrote.

Thanks, doc.

He pulled off the bandanna and wiped the blood from his nose, then reached down to Megan Kessler. She may not be dead yet, but as long as he’d crushed the windpipe… He grabbed a fistful of her hair and stretched out her throat to look. The wire was lodged deep. No chance she was still alive.

He looked around to make sure they were still alone, then plucked the garrote from her throat. His van was only twenty feet away—an old white Dodge with no windows. He’d worried a little that if authorities ever got a hold of the photo he’d sent of Penny Wolff, with her propped up against the wheel well in a cornfield in Mississippi, they might be able to figure out what he was driving. But he didn’t think it would matter. He’d bought this van off a guy with cash, never transferred the title. And usually he drove the Lexus. This was strictly a work vehicle.

He carried Megan Kessler’s body over and shoved her through the side door. Slammed it closed and backtracked to the abandoned truck where he’d hidden to wait for her. There, he collected his satchel. Coiled up the lovely wire and tucked it back in the case.

Okay, Kara. Last one.

It’s time.

Luke’s throat went dry. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Barbed wire,” he said. “That garrote is fucking barbed wire.”

Knutson picked up the purple scarf and shook it loose. The holes took on new meaning and the dark stains around each began to make some sort of sick sense. He looped it in a loose circle twice around his arm, with the ends dangling in the way a woman might wear it around her neck. The bloody holes lined up.

“Jesus Christ,” Luke said, and Knutson unwound the scarf. Luke had seen a lot of weapons in his day. South American cartels were notorious for creative killings.

But he’d never seen anything like this.

On the computer, he zoomed in on one of the handles of the garrote, enlarging it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “These are turned wood. Like, handcrafted. This garrote was
designed.
”

“That’s a scary amount of forethought,” Knutson said.

That’s a scary amount of sick.

“We know what happened to Andrew Chandler and Penny Wolff,” Luke said. “But what about all the others in between? The people who owned the gifts Kara received and that represent some
truth
to the killer. Are they all dead?”

Knutson made a noncommittal gesture. There was no way to know, but it was a good bet. “The bigger question now is, who’s next?”

How is Aidan?

Luke rubbed a hand over his head. “We need to hole up the kid.”

“We can put him in the safe house you used when you were supposedly in custody. It’s not far.”

Luke nodded. Didn’t want to think about how he was going to get Kara to let him—a cartel hit man—take Aidan away from her. He doubted that was what she had in mind when she’d hired him.

Knutson said, “I’ll call Quantico and do some history. See if I can find any bodies that were missing something personal when they were found.”

“Check the ink pen,” Luke said. “I saw an engraving.”

Knutson pulled it from the pillowcase using a handkerchief, and spun the silver into the light. “ ‘All my love, Gina.’ ”

Someplace to start, anyway.

Luke closed his eyes, almost disbelieving all that had changed in a few short hours. To have Andrew Chandler’s death come back to haunt him now… It was crazy. He thought he’d put that behind him.

“I was talking to Chandler an hour before he died,” he said.

“Wasn’t your fault, man.”

“I’m the one who put Elisa with him.”

“Wasn’t your fault.”

“But it wasn’t John Wolff’s, either,” Luke said. “That much is clear now.”

Knutson advanced on him. “You’ve got a job to finish, Luke: Eight and a half tons of cocaine. You can’t let some psycho with his dick in his hand and a thing for Kara Chandler throw you out of the game.”

Luke knew that. “My part in that is already finished. I’m waiting right now, that’s all. If you take the kid off my hands, I can figure out what’s going on with Kara. It won’t stretch my cover to do it.” He shut down the computer, ejected the thumb drive, and pocketed Kara’s cell phone.

Knutson looked wary. “Remember who you’re dealing with, Luke. She’s a prosecutor. She’ll smell bullshit a mile away. Don’t forget who you are.”

“I won’t forget who I am,” Luke promised, and added another vow that only he could hear:
And I won’t forget what I have to do.

K
ARA SAW THE CHUNKS
of gold hair hit the floor, felt her head grow strangely light, and didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. This was what she wanted: She wanted Kara Chandler to disappear. She
needed
it. But feeling it happen—and knowing it was happening according to Luke Varón’s plan rather than her own—added a layer of the unknown to something already inconceivable.

What was Andrew Chandler to you?

A hit. I was hired to kill him.

She closed her eyes, hardly able to wrap her mind around it, as the woman named Madelena worked. She whacked Kara’s hair into a pixie cut and brushed on dye that looked almost black, then proceeded to apply makeup with a heavy hand. Kara would have done much the same, but Varón was right: Madelena did it better.

When Madelena was finished, she plucked at Kara’s sassy haircut with her fingers and hit it with a hair dryer for all of a minute. Kara shook her head and felt five pounds lighter. Madelena handed her a mirror.

Kara swallowed. She wouldn’t have recognized herself.
Playful waves the color of dark chestnut and mussed, feathery bangs that made her cheekbones stand out. Her eyes were smoky with shadow and dark mascara, the green of her irises popping like emeralds. Her lips were lined and painted the color of candy apples.

“Now the clothes,” Madelena said, and pushed a bag into her hands. She pointed at a door off the kitchen. “In there.”

Kara slipped into the bathroom and put on the clothes. A short denim skirt and lacy white tank, with a second black tank over it. Beaded sandals. Dangling mesh earrings that almost brushed her bare collarbones. She could have been a hooker on Spring Street.

She walked back into the kitchen at the same moment Luke Varón reappeared. He stopped and his gaze took her in one inch at a time. Surprise tinged his features. Surprise, and something else that made everything below her waist seem to loosen.

“Jesus.” Aidan stepped up behind Varón. “Mom, you—you look like a stripper.”

Kara gathered up a dose of indignation, aimed it at Varón. “A fine observation for a child to make about his mother.”

Madelena hurried to hand Kara a pair of eyeglasses. “Here,
senora
,” she said, and Kara took them. They had narrow black frames, the size of gum sticks.

“Now you look like a graduate student,” Aidan said, “who works nights as a stripper.”

Varón cocked his head. “Excellent job, Madelena,” he said, and shifted his attention to Aidan. Also a brunette now, his hair was shaved short to expose a tattoo climbing up the back of his neck—an abstraction of a dragon with a dagger and flames. Permanent ink, Kara had been
informed, but not injected. It would wear off over a few weeks’ time. Kara had watched Aidan’s transformation occur one step at a time, but the final product still jarred her. The tough-kid, street look had aged him, made his neck look thicker and his shoulders broader. She thought he might be getting a perverse kick out of the image.

“The pajama bottoms aren’t working for you, stud,” Varón said. To Madelena: “You brought him clothes?”

“There,” she said, nodding to a stack on the seat of a stool. “He wouldn’t leave me alone with his mother to go change.”

Varón’s brows hiked up. “Good man,” he said to Aidan. “You’re going to need that sense of protectiveness from here on out. Fine, then. It’s just as well you stay in pajamas for now, anyway. That way you can catch a few Zs while I talk to your mom.”

A scowl crossed Aidan’s features. Kara seethed. Aidan was a smart kid, and savvy. But he was no match for the manipulative mind games Luke Varón played.

Aidan picked up the clothes. “I’ll be back, Mom.”

When he was gone, Kara turned on Varón. “You know just how to pull his strings, don’t you? Making him feel like you want him to protect me, and like he’ll miss something important if he doesn’t go do what you want.”

“Just stating the facts.”

Madelena turned to them. “Mr. Varón?” She adjusted the volume at a small TV mounted beneath the kitchen cabinets and stepped aside. “You see?”

Varón took two steps closer, peered at the television. The morning news was just signing on. Kara tuned in and her heart took a tumble.

She was dead. Reports claimed that both she and Aidan were feared dead in a tragic explosion that had rocked the
night. A boat belonging to the late Andrew Chandler had gone up in flames at a little after two in the morning, and while there was as yet no sign of Assistant District Attorney Kara Chandler or her fourteen-year-old son, authorities were saying the Chandlers were believed to have been aboard the boat at the time of the explosion. The cameras showed streams of workers pouring in, preparing for a search as threads of daylight brightened the sky.

Saturday morning. She and Aidan had ceased to exist.

A picture of Andrew filled the screen and snippets of the ubiquitous tale floated past Kara’s ears…
well-known builder… associated with Montiel Enterprises… killed with Elisa Moran in a hit-and-run accident… drunk driver confessed to leaving the scene…

Kara closed her eyes. Poor Sally and Seth, to lose her and Aidan a day after Louie.

Look what you’ve done
.

Madelena gathered up her supplies, packing them all back into a large bag. The man who had driven the car reappeared as well, seemingly unconcerned with the news reports, helping Madelena pack up. He picked up the dark layers of clothing and hat he’d discarded, and threw them into her bag while Varón crossed his arms and listened to the television. He seemed impervious to the presence of the driver and Madelena: They were minions who milled around him doing their prescribed jobs while he reigned over the castle.

Varón clicked off the TV and pulled a small stack of cards from his pocket. He held them out to her. “Your name is now Krista Carter. You live at Sixteen Twenty-five Campbell Street, Apartment Five-E. You were born at Our Lady of the Saints Hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Since you grew up with horses, I picked Bluegrass territory for your background.”

He thumbed through the cards as he spoke: driver’s license, credit cards, social security card. Costco membership, voter registration card, even a birth certificate. Of the latter, there were two: one for Krista Carter, born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1980, and one for Austin Carter, born in Hamilton County, Ohio, in 1999.

Kara marveled at the documents. They looked completely legit.

“For a couple of days, the news will report that you and Aidan are suspected dead in the explosion,” Varón said. “After that, they’ll find bits and pieces of your bodies—enough to positively identify both of you.”

“Bits and piec—” She couldn’t finish.

Varón met her eyes with utter solemnity. “I’m sending Vince to search through my stash of dead bodies and plant limbs in places authorities will find in a couple days.” He cocked his head. “You want it to look real, don’t you?”

The inanity of that registered by droplets. Jerk. She looked up at him and saw the faint humor in his eyes, then cursed, forcing herself to relax: There were no bits and pieces of bodies to be strewn in the lake.

Still, another thought prickled her skin: Varón may not be able to produce bits and pieces of body parts containing Chandler DNA, but he
could
produce false police reports about it. No surprise there. She’d already suspected he had an in somewhere in the police department.

Or in the DA’s office? Kara hadn’t lied about having new evidence against Montiel. What she hadn’t told Varón was that for some reason she didn’t understand, Ben Archer had suddenly put a halt on the indictments they’d been preparing. Briefly, Kara had wondered if there was something going on deeper than she knew—Had Montiel paid off the DA? But she knew it was more likely that Montiel’s
position as a respected billionaire and generous philanthropist was more to blame. One of his biggest projects was
pro bono
—a nationwide program called
HomeAid
to construct low-income housing. Ask any person on the streets about Montiel and
HomeAid
was sure to come up. Campaigns to keep it going after Andrew’s stake in it fell apart had been a source of wide public support.

Varón, on the other hand—Gene Montiel’s “chief security advisor”—had no philanthropic side. He did what he was paid to do, even when it was murder. End of story.

“Fine,” she said with a petulant lift of her chin. “I don’t care how you get it done.”

The man he’d referred to as “Vince” picked up Madelena’s bag and leaned toward Varón. “We’re outta here, Luke. I’ll call you.”

Kara’s pulse skittered under the surface of her skin. They were leaving—leaving her and Aidan alone with Varón. She didn’t know why that should scare her; Vince Knutson and Madelena were on Varón’s side.

But she was scared.

She bolstered her courage and when Madelena and the other man left, Kara glared at Varón. “I’m going to check on Aidan. When I come back, I’ll need my phone back.”

“Your phone is out of commission for a little while. While I pull the text messages and see what else is there.”

She frowned. Thorough, indeed. “A computer, then. I want to see what I can find out about the investigation into Louie’s murder.”

“When you come back,” Varón said, “I’ll have some things to talk about, as well.”

A warning? Kara wondered, but shook it off and went to the back room. She rapped her knuckle against the door. “Aidan?” No answer. She pressed the door open.

He lay on the sofa, with short dark hair and the tattoo on his neck, wearing jeans that would no doubt sag to his knees and a DMX t-shirt Kara had never seen before. He’d traded in his favorite Nike sneakers for a pair of two-hundred-dollar BIOMs supplied by Varón. He didn’t look like Aidan, and it took that first instant of shock to register that the form on the sofa was indeed her son and that he was indeed, sleeping.

Okay. Kara forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths. It was just as well that he get some sleep. It was time to face off with Varón.