He saw his son’s terrified eyes staring straight down at him.
One Hundred and Two
She woke up but didn’t open her eyes. She knew she hadn’t been unconscious for too long – five, ten minutes maximum. As the damp cloth was pressed against her nose and mouth back at her front door, she recognized the characteristic smell straight away – ether. She also realized that in her crouched position, ambushed by a surprised attack coming from behind her, and against an opponent that was certainly stronger than she was, fighting would have been pointless.
Instinct immediately kicked into action. As soon as she realized that her attacker was using an anesthetic to subdue her, she knew exactly what kind of reaction he’d be expecting from her. She played along, holding her breath for as long as she could and faking a struggle. Her initial mouthful of ether would no doubt knock her out, but not for too long. If she could act convincingly enough that she was fighting her attacker and gasping for air, he would believe that she’d taken in enough breaths to render her unconscious for a long while.
It worked.
Her assailant didn’t hold the cloth to her nose for longer than twenty-five seconds, believing she was under.
Now, Captain Blake remained totally still and silent. She could hear the rattling of a car engine. She felt the hard floor under her vibrate and bump every so often. She opened her eyes very slightly to get a better idea of her environment. There was no doubt: she was lying down in the dark back cabin of a van, speeding somewhere. Her hands were tied behind her back, but her feet weren’t restrained. That could give her a chance. Her cell phone and handbag were gone – no surprise there.
For now she knew there was nothing she could do but wait.
She had always been very in tune with her mind’s clock. She figured they had driven for about an hour before they came to a complete stop. The van seemed to be moving at a reasonable speed for most of the journey, which meant that somehow they’d managed to avoid most of the stop-start traffic Los Angeles was so famous for. Wherever he’d taken her, she was pretty sure it was somewhere out of town.
She heard the driver’s door open and then slam shut. He was coming for her. It was show time.
She quickly slid down towards the back door, getting as close to it as she could. She would only have one chance at this. She brought her knees close to her chest and waited. This time the element of surprise was on her side. She heard the doors being unlocked and prepared herself.
As the doors opened, she kicked out as hard as she could. Her feet thundered against her captor’s chest. For the first time in her life she wished she had worn stiletto heels to work.
As she’d predicted, it caught her captor totally by surprise. It knocked the breath out of him and sent him tumbling backwards, straight to the ground.
She threw her body forward and pushed herself to the edge of the van’s back cabin. Her legs were shaking so hard from fear and adrenalin she was unsure if she’d be able to stand up. As she fought to steady them and jumped out of the van, her eyes quickly scanned her surroundings. The van was parked in front of a large old building, but there was nothing else around except wasteland, unkempt vegetation and the narrow road they’d obviously taken to get there.
Her gaze dropped to the floor and fear rose in her throat like a tsunami. Her captor was gone.
‘Fuck!’
Panic took over and she started running in the direction of the road, but she didn’t have the proper shoes for it and her hands were still tied behind her back. All she managed was an awkward, wobbly dance for a few strides before her legs were hooked from under her with amazing force and precision. She hadn’t even heard him come up behind her again.
She hit the ground hard with a thud, shoulder first, then head. Her vision blurred and all she could see was a figure towering over her.
‘So, clever bitch wants to play rough, huh?’ His voice was calm but very menacing. ‘Well, check this out.’
His fingers closed into a fist.
‘It’s pain time, whore.’
One Hundred and Three
Whitney Myers checked her watch before answering her cell phone after the third ring.
‘Whitney, I’ve got some information for you,’ Leighton Morris said in his usual overexcited voice. Morris was another of Myers’ LAPD contacts, who she called upon every now and then when she needed inside information.
‘I’m listening.’
‘That detective you asked me to keep an eye out for, Robert Hunter . . . ?’
‘Yeah, what about him?’
‘He boarded a plane early this morning.’
‘A plane? Where to?’
‘Healdsburg in Sonoma County.’
‘Sonoma County? What the hell? Why?’
‘That I don’t know. But it’s certainly something to do with the case he’s investigating at the moment, which by the way, is very hush-hush.’
‘He left this morning, you said?’
‘That’s right, and he just booked a return ticket for this afternoon.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Actually, he should be boarding pretty soon.’
Myers checked her watch again. ‘Into LAX?’
‘You got it.’
‘Do you have the flight details?’
‘Right here.’
‘OK, text them to me.’
She disconnected and waited.
One Hundred and Four
There were no delays, and Hunter landed at LAX right on schedule. With no luggage to collect, he walked through the gates just minutes after touching down. Garcia was already there, waiting for him with a folder under his arm.
‘Are you parked on a meter?’ Hunter asked.
Garcia pulled a face. ‘Are you crazy? This is official business. We’ve got perks.’
Hunter smiled. ‘OK, let’s grab a coffee and I’ll run you through everything I got. Anything from Operations or the research team yet?’
‘Not a scrap so far. I just checked with them.’
They found an isolated table towards the back of the Starbucks in Terminal One. Hunter proceeded to tell Garcia all he found out about the Harpers. He told him about Andrew’s secret place in the attic and the peepholes. He told him about the self-harming and that he was sure that Andrew had somehow survived and witnessed everything that happened that day, twenty years ago. After that, Andrew had vanished.
‘If his father was that brutal, how did Andrew survive?’
‘I don’t know exactly what happened that day. No one does except Andrew. But he’s alive. And the pressure cooker in his head finally blew.’
‘You mean something triggered it?’
Hunter nodded.
‘And there were no pictures of him whatsoever?’
‘I couldn’t find any. It’s a small town, small school. Back then the school’s yearbook only featured high-school students. Andrew was in fifth grade when it happened.’ He rubbed the scar on his nape. ‘I think we were right about the killer using projection and transference together with a deep love for the person the victims remind him of.’