“Use soap.”
She obeyed, more to relax Phil and give herself time to think of an escape. How could she get out of here? Running was out of the question.
Kill or be killed.
You don’t have a choice, Claire. First opportunity, you take it.
“You’re done,” he said after five minutes. His voice was thick. He was turned on by her nakedness. It made her ill.
When he handed her a towel, she noticed how dirty he was. His hands and fingernails were covered with dirt. Had he been gardening while she was drugged?
They’ll never find us. At least not until they find your grave.
He’d been out digging her grave while she’d slept off the drugs. She wrapped the towel around her body. He only had a knife in his hand now. What happened to the gun? She didn’t see it anywhere. She didn’t remember where he’d put it. In a drawer? There, on the dresser.
“I know what you’re thinking, Claire.”
His breath was on her ear.
“Accept your fate.”
He steered her at knifepoint to the bed. She let the towel drop to the floor “accidentally,” counting on his sick obsession with her breasts to distract him.
She reached down to pick it up. “Don’t,” he whispered.
She turned to face him, defiant. He stared at her breasts. He reached out and touched her nipple. She resisted the need to slap his hand away.
“Sit,” he said.
She sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned over her, his breath on her chest, and he reached for the cuffs that were attached to the bed.
“You hurt me,” she said, pointing to the three nicks on her chest where his knife broke skin when he cut off her shirt.
“I’m sorry.”
He actually sounded sincere.
“Please, Phil. Please don’t kill me.”
He gently touched her face. “I’m sorry I have to.”
The handcuffs clicked around her wrist.
“I need to shower now. You really are beautiful.”
He picked the gun up off the dresser, went into the bathroom, and shut the door.
The shower turned on again. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. She took the small fragment of soap she had clenched in her fist and rubbed it all around her imprisoned wrist. He’d been distracted by her breasts and hadn’t ratcheted it too tight. She made her hand as long and narrow as possible, pulling her thumb in toward the middle. Between the loose cuff and the soap, she slipped out.
She didn’t have a weapon, but she had time.
She slipped quietly out of his room, limping.
Get out of the house. Get out of the house now!
FORTY-THREE
It took the FBI twenty minutes to run a quick background check on Langstrom and find property he owned in rural eastern Sacramento County.
“Call the sheriff’s department,” Mitch said. “They may have a unit closer than we are.”
Richardson said, “Belay that. Mitch, this guy is a cop. He’s going to be listening for activity.”
“They all have cell phones nowadays,” Mitch said. “Can’t we do this off the radio?”
“You head over there right now, I’ll call the sheriff at home and get units sent over there without any chatter.”
Hans interjected. “He’s a cop and he’s a sociopath. He’ll be listening for chatter, as well as silence. When you talk to the sheriff, make sure he contacts only off-duty deputies, which will prevent unusual chatter.”
“Point well taken,” Richardson agreed.
Hans and Meg jumped in Mitch’s car. Two more cars followed. Mitch flew down the road as fast as he dared while Meg typed the address into the GPS system. “I’ll double-check the map,” Hans said. GPS was, unfortunately, often wrong. If they were off by a street, it might delay them from reaching Claire in time.
Mitch merged onto the freeway. It was dark, and traffic was light on Saturday night. He turned on the hidden police lights built into the grill of the small sedan. Cars moved out of his way.
“Take Business 80 to 50 east, exit Power Inn Road, to Jackson Highway. Langstrom’s property is off Dillard Road.”
“I know where Dillard is,” Mitch said, jaw tight. “It’s faster to get off at Watt.”
Hans was reading Langstrom’s file in the backseat. “He dropped out of Stanford shortly after Jessica White went missing,” he said. “Moved to L.A. His father is a renowned surgeon, Ander Langstrom. He died five years ago.”
“Mother?” Meg asked.
“Died when Langstrom was eight.”
“How did he steal an identity and go through the police academy?” Mitch asked. “Don’t they do background checks anymore?”
“It’s amazingly easy,” Hans said. “My guess is Palmer died and Langstrom assumed his identity. Or he killed Palmer and destroyed the body sufficiently to prevent recognition, then went about living the guy’s life. That’s going to take a little more research. But Langstrom all but disappeared fifteen years ago. He has a residence in Los Angeles, files taxes-on a sizable inheritance-and is considered a recluse. Palmer has also paid taxes, on a much smaller income.”
“None of this makes sense,” Mitch said. “Why would Langstrom kill two people he doesn’t know? Do you think Collier is credible, that Drake and his cohorts blackmailed Langstrom into murder?”
“As far-fetched as it sounds, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe it wasn’t simple blackmail. It looks like Palmer has a sizable bank account. His income is higher than what I’d imagine a fifteen-year veteran of the police force would make. But I don’t have his tax records. It’ll take our finance people to make sense of it.”
“An assassin,” Meg said. “They brought him up here for a job.”
“Why did he stay?” Mitch asked. “If he went back to L.A., he’d never have been connected to Taverton’s murder. A hired gun. He could disappear.”
“This is why.” Hans handed Meg a photograph over the seat.
“Jessica White?”
“Doesn’t she look familiar? I mean, I haven’t seen Claire O’Brien in person, but I’ve seen her photograph and they certainly look a lot alike.”
Mitch stole a glance at White’s picture. The resemblance was there. Black hair and blue eyes and pale skin. “That might mean nothing.” But Mitch didn’t believe his own statement.
“Hold on. I found something.”
Mitch glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Hans open his laptop and start pounding away on the keyboard. He asked, “What?”
“Let me pull up a photo if I can find it.”
“Photo of who?”
“There’s an odd thing in Langstrom’s file. Sealed juvenile records.”
“Not a criminal file,” Hans added. “He was a witness. Damn, I can’t access the file, but I have a name. State of California v. Bridget Lincoln.”
“Did he testify for the state or the defense?” Meg asked.
“Don’t know,” Hans mumbled, typing frantically. “Bingo!”
He handed his laptop over to Meg.
“Shit, Hans, she looks just like Claire.”
Mitch tried to look, but Meg said, “Keep your eyes on the road. You’re going over ninety. There’s Watt.”
“I see it.” He cut across lanes to exit.
“Trust me, she looks like Claire,” Meg said.
“What happened to her?”
Hans said, “She went to prison for five years for statutory rape. She was the principal of a private K-8 school in Glendale. I’ll bet a million bucks that Langstrom went to that school and was one of her victims.”
“That’s sick,” Meg said.
“Men aren’t the only pedophiles,” Hans said. “Women pedophiles and rapists are rare, but they exist. It’s usually a maternal situation instead of a violent attack. They provide a needed mother figure to the male victims-usually prepubescent without a mother in the home and often with a domineering or distant father-and in exchange for affection, they molest or manipulate the boys into engaging in sex with them. Bridget Lincoln wasn’t a Mrs. Robinson seducing a college boy, she was a sexual predator.
“Langstrom fits the profile. Only child, mother died young, father successful and largely absent. Lincoln comes in, gives the young boy attention-it appears she preferred twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys-and when the one got too old, she traded for another. If Langstrom was already pre-wired a sociopath, the rejection could have set him off.”