The Avenger of Blood waited patiently for Marcia Carver, a woman who was perhaps the proudest grandmother in all of Hampton Roads, Virginia, to return from the Princess Anne Country Club, where she had just finished showing off the twins. Her husband, of course, would still be at the office, figuring out some new trick for springing the rapists and murderers and drug dealers who paid for his three-million-dollar mansion at the north end of Virginia Beach.
The Avenger crouched in the shrubs, checking the handheld device that used GPS signals to track the small transponder attached to the frame of Marcia Carver's Lexus. She was less than ten minutes away. Her husband's car, according to a similar device the Avenger had appended there, had yet to move from the office parking lot.
Two weeks ago, Marcia's son Bobby and her daughter-in-law, Sheri Ann, had returned from China with the heirs to the Carver family legacy. Twins! According to the young couple's Web site, they had told the adoption agency they would be open to twins but hadn't found out until they arrived in China that they would indeed be the proud parents of two thirteen-month-old twins-a chubby little round-faced girl named Cail Ying and her brother, Chi. The American names were predictably presumptuous-Callie Ann Carver (a takeoff on her new mother's name) and Robert Carver III.
The Avenger assumed that the Carvers had paid somebody off and bought the twins with a hefty bribe. Adoptions of twins were rare in China, especially when one of the twins was a boy. The Avenger wasn't fooled by the sweet little adoption journal Sheri Ann Carver had put online for the world to read. Or the blow-by-blow description of their tour around China so the Carvers could better appreciate their babies' homeland. Or the hundreds of photos of the twins, showing Callie Ann constantly smiling, toothless, and bright-eyed, her brother wearing a perpetual look of confusion, his little mouth forming an O as he clutched a tattered blanket.
Sheri Ann was a spoiled Southern belle, not the kind of woman who could tolerate mommy duties for long. As a result, the Avenger could have taken the kids when they were in the care of their nanny much of the past ten days, during Sheri Ann's many absences for her tennis matches or gym workouts or pedicures. But that wouldn't drive home the point the way this plan would. Grandma and Grandpa needed to share the pain. Blood money had bought them all this happiness. Justice demanded that it also bring them pain.
Breathless, the Avenger hunkered low behind the shrubs as the Lexus approached. The automatic driveway lights, normally triggered by the headlights from the car, did not illuminate. The Avenger wondered if Marcia would notice.
Marcia parked the car and climbed out the driver's side. She opened the rear door and started cooing over her grandkids. It was almost too easy. Staying low, the Avenger came up behind her, put a gloved hand over her mouth, and twisted her neck, at the same time driving a needle into the small of her back. From behind, the Avenger held Marcia in a chokehold until she went limp, then lowered her to the pavement.
The Avenger glanced in the backseat of the sedan at the twins and worked hard to stay unemotional. The little girl smiled at the Avenger, extending her arms as if the Avenger might free her from the car seat. The little boy looked confused, clutching his blanket and contorting his frightened little face as he began to cry. The Avenger shut the car door, drowning out the noise at least temporarily.
Quickly, efficiently, the Avenger dragged Marcia into the bushes and raked over the footprints. Popping the trunk, the Avenger threw the rake inside. Then the Avenger fired up the Lexus and climbed in, trying to ignore the little boy's loud crying as the car backed down the driveway.
Later that night, the Avenger watched the Carvers' televised pleas for the return of their babies. The Avenger shrugged off the million-dollar reward the Carvers immediately offered for anyone who had information that might lead to a safe rescue of the twins. This wasn't about money. Justice demanded this.
A package arrived at Robert Carver Sr.'s office two days after the kidnapping. It contained a note from the kidnapper and a piece of Chi Ying's tattered blanket. DNA tests would confirm that the bloodstains on the blanket belonged to both Cail and Chi.
For strategic reasons, the police insisted, and the Carvers agreed, that information about the blanket and accompanying note should not be released to the public. They continued the manhunt as if the babies might still be alive, though the Carvers had already begun the grieving process.
The note was generated by an HP inkjet printer and contained a quote from the Bible, complete with a reference:
For I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. Exodus 20:5.
At the bottom of the note, the kidnapper had typed a signature-a biblical allusion that ripped at the heart of the parents and grandparents. The Avenger of Blood.
9
Catherine O'Rourke stared at her computer screen. The day after the Carver kidnapping, her article had appeared on the front page of the afternoon edition. The next day, in both the morning and afternoon editions, her story about the history of the twins' adoption had again been front page, above the fold. Now Catherine's editor was breathing down her neck for yet another story on day three, something worthy of another front-page placement, and Catherine was drawing blanks.
The investigation had stalled. A press conference held by Virginia Beach Police Chief Arthur Compton just a few hours earlier had been a waste of time. The police were following all leads. There had been no ransom demand. They had not been able to find any footprints, fingerprints, or DNA evidence.
Cat stared at the photos of cute little Chi Ying and Cail Ying, photos she had tacked up on her cubicle wall. The twins had round, pudgy faces and bright little eyes. She couldn't believe that anyone would harm them. Money had to be the motive. But why no ransom note? Would the babies be sold on the black market instead?
Cat put the final touches on her sidebar story about the Carver family. The Carvers' law firm, of course, was prominently featured. Three generations of Carver men had made their mark as criminal defense lawyers. There was no case too controversial for the Carvers, Catherine had written. To beef up the story, she had quoted a few respected defense attorneys whom she had called earlier that day. A young lawyer named Marc Boland had given her the best sound bite: "The Carvers believe in the Constitution. They believe they are doing the dirty work that our founders envisioned when they set up our legal system. Their primary operating principle is that somebody has to represent those who can't speak for themselves."
The sidebar contained a paragraph of titillating speculation about the Carvers' nefarious clients and numerous enemies. Could the kidnapping be an act of revenge?
But sidebars didn't make the front page. Cat needed a story.
Her source at the police department called thirty minutes before deadline. She wanted to rush him, but she knew from experience that she couldn't short-circuit his routine.
"Are you using your earpiece?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Take it out and pick up the handset."
Catherine waited a moment. He was a great source, but his paranoia could be frustrating. "Okay."
"This is off the record, not for attribution, and not for publication unless I specifically say so."
"Right."
"You would go to jail, if necessary, before disclosing my name."
"Absolutely."
"You won't give me up to your editor, your fellow writers, or even the paper's attorney."
"Especially the paper's attorney." Catherine checked her watch. One more set of questions before he would start talking.
"Even in the face of extreme torture, you will protect my confidentiality."