"Let's try the tape again. What do you think?"
She nodded.
He jerked off the tape.
She flinched and gasped, then pressed her lips together.
It seemed she could be trained.
He was sorry to see that the tape left red marks on her skin. He was sorrier to see that her mouth was swollen, her cheek discolored from his blow, chin bruised. He brushed away the guilt, turned and filled a glass with water. With his back to her, he opened a brown prescription bottle and added a few drops of liquid to the Water. It was a cocktail of his own invention, pentobarbital mixed with morphine. To that he added three green drops of mint flavoring. He returned to the girl and lifted the water to her lips.
Gillian took two small swallows before noticing the bitterness. She pulled back, remembered the drugs that had been found in the blood of two of the victims. "I have to go to the bathroom," she told him. Maybe she could make herself throw up.
He led her down a hall into a small, windowless room. "I really shouldn't undo your hands," he said, "because you haven't earned my trust. But let's say this will be another test."
He pulled a pocketknife from his brown canvas pants, flicked open a blade, and sliced the tape, freeing her hands. Then he shoved her into the bathroom and locked the door from the outside.
She used the toilet, then looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her face was bruised, her lip swollen. She kept staring. She was trying to recall something important she'd planned to do when the room began to move and the floor began to slant. She grabbed the edge of the white porcelain sink. It dissolved under her hands, and she collapsed.
The key turned in the lock. The door opened. She felt his hands under her armpits. With her feet and legs trailing behind like dead weight, he dragged her across the floor.
Six hours after receiving Mary's call, Anthony arrived at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. Luckily a couple of rookie NCAVC agents had been eager to do the fieldwork on his newly assigned Utah infant abduction case. They would stay in contact, faxing him information as they received it.
Immediately upon landing, he called Mary to let her know he was in town. "Where are you now?" he asked, heading down the escalator to pick up his checked luggage.
"At Gillian's house." She gave him the address and directions.
"I'll be there as soon as I can." He folded his phone and slipped it into the pocket of his black trench coat, retrieved his luggage from the carousel, and cut over to the car rental counter.
The heavy afternoon traffic hadn't yet hit. He was able to get on 35W without any trouble. He headed north, toward downtown Minneapolis, the U of M, and Dinkytown.
He had a problem with the one-way streets and ended up finding the address after two wrong turns.
Cars were parked in front of the house. The yard was surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape. Beyond the tape were clusters of people, reporters, video camera technicians, some just hanging around, taking in the sights.
The day was brilliantly sunny, about fifty degrees. When he stepped into the street, the crisp air was welcome after the stuffiness of the car. His stomach growled, but he ignored it as he edged through the mob of people, flashing his ID when necessary.
"Ooh, FBI," a black girl said, pausing between each letter and batting her eyes in mock admiration. She had a hundred-dollar braided hairdo and fifty-dollar, mile-long, curved red fingernails. "Lookie. FBI."
Her lack of respect didn't make him mad. Quite the contrary. He admired her don't-take-shit attitude. She would never be a victim.
"Excuse me, ladies." He squeezed past while they continued to check him out.
In the yard, a team of workers had established a string grid and were going over every square inch, raking and vacuuming the grass for anything that may have dropped from the kidnapper. Another officer was crouched on the ground, making a cast of a footprint.
Anthony found Mary inside. She was wearing jeans, a white shirt with untucked tails, and a gray sweater. Her hair hadn't been brushed, and she wasn't wearing any makeup. As soon as she saw him, she hurried over.
He grasped both her cold hands and rubbed them between his.
"Anthony-thank you so much for coming."
It was unsettling, seeing her in the role of the victim's family member. A battle was going on inside her between professional FBI agent and hurt, bewildered sister. The bewildered sister was winning. He wanted to put his arms around her. Instead, he released her hands and asked, "Have they found anything?"
"Fibers that they've taken to the lab. They were navy blue, like the others. Officers are going door to door, conducting interviews. A couple of witnesses identified a photo of Tate, saying they saw him hanging around on more than one occasion. They found some minute bits of mud on the carpet that they're sending to the University of Minnesota's agricultural campus to see if anyone there can determine where the mud came from."
"Fingerprints?"
"All over the place. They lifted one set that didn't match anybody we know of who's been here. Those are being fed to databases right now."
"What about the footprint outside?"
"Left by a work boot. They think it might belong to a man. Any man. Maybe our man. You know how that is. This house is next to a college campus. A lot of traffic goes through the yard."
"Where's your mom?"
"Home. Agents and police are there tapping the phone and setting up recording equipment in case he tries to call."
"He won't."
"I told them that, but we have to do something. They're also going to tap Gillian's phone."
Exhaustion was written on her pale, drawn face, and he asked, "When did you last eat?"
"I don't know. Yesterday, I guess. I haven't even thought about it."
"Let's go down the street and get something. You can fill me in at the same time."
"I don't think I even brushed my hair."
He smoothed out a couple of strands. "You look fine."
They were leaving when Ben came bursting in. "Is it true? Did he take Gillian?"
"Yes," Mary told him.
"Oh, man!" Ben put both hands to his head. "I can't believe it! I fucking can't believe it! This can't be happening! Shit! Oh, shit!"
"Calm down," Anthony told him.
"Calm down! How can you say that? How can you both stand there looking so… so not busy? When you know as well as I do what is happening right now! She's being tortured! Her fucking eyes are being cut out! Do something! You have to do something!"
Mary's face turned ashen, and Anthony thought she might pass out. Before Ben could do any more damage, Anthony grabbed him roughly by the arm and steered him out the door, practically throwing him down the steps. "In your present mental state, you have no business being here," he said coldly. "You aren't helping anybody."
"Neither are you! How could this happen? You said the guy was in jail! You said everybody was safe. That Gillian was safe. Well, you were wrong! Wrong!"
"Hitchcock confessed," Anthony said. "He fit the profile. Evidence pointed to him."
"You people are supposed to know more than the rest of us!"
"You're overreacting."
"Overreacting? You're underreacting." He began to cry. "She's dead! You know it and I know it! She's already dead!" Sobbing, he turned and ran.
The door slammed, and Mary came to stand beside Anthony on the porch. "Should somebody go after him?" Her voice sounded tight, as if she might fall apart any second. He'd never seen Mary cry. He didn't want to.
In the distance, two blocks away, Ben was still running. "Let him go," Anthony said angrily. "Let him run himself into exhaustion."
"He was just saying what everybody else is thinking."
"Well, he's wrong." Anthony turned so he could see her face. Don't cry. Please don't cry. "About Gillian. You know that, don't you?"