Psychobyte (32 page)

Mitch smiled and nodded. “Look …” He pointed to the shape again. “Baby one.”

Crap! He did say baby one.

“Uh huh.” Words failed me.

“And this, on the other side … baby two.”

Nope, nothing. I heard the words, I saw blurred darkish shapes on a small piece of paper, and it made no sense.

I felt a switch click in my brain. “I thought you just said there were two babies.”

Mitch laughed. “I did.”

I didn’t sign up for that.

Two. I don’t think so!

I was barely coping with the thought of one.

Two? Jeez. How is that a good idea?

Clearly a mistake; the second image a shadow or some kind of anomaly.

“I don’t think that will work for me,” I muttered, staring at the image in my hand. Babies? Really? Looked more like nondescript blobby things. “Pretty sure this isn’t going to work for me.”

Mitch’s hand found mine. He extracted the picture and handed it to Dad.

“Give it a minute, El. Let this sink in.”

“I might need longer than a minute.”

It took me over two weeks to almost get used to being pregnant to start with.

The universe enjoyed messing with me. I heard it laughing. No, not the universe. I knew that laugh. Chance. Somewhere in the blurriness I thought might be my mind, Chance was laughing. Great.

Fear

Despite Kurt’s best effort at keeping me in hospital for some forced rest, I did what I always do and made him remove the drip from my arm and discharged myself. I felt great. Kurt informed me it was because of the intravenous fluids.

No sense lying around. Killers to catch. Wedding to attend. Honeymoon to go on. Anything that was going to happen after that could wait.

The sudden admittance to hospital meant I no longer needed the appointment Kurt had set up for me. It also gave Kurt time to scan my hand. Fractured fourth and fifth metacarpals. Not serious. Just inconvenient and painful. I checked my phone. Almost time to meet with Mallory Stevens’ bank manager.

“Now what?” Mitch asked, pulling me into his arms and hugging me in the hospital parking lot. I melted into him for a few minutes. Enjoying the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body.

“I’ll head in with Kurt. We have an appointment at a bank and then I’m going to talk to Jane Daughtry’s former boyfriend and a few other people. I want to narrow in on the suspects by tonight.” I hadn’t moved, relishing the closeness. “We’re getting close, I can feel it.”

“Good luck. I’ll be late tonight, El.” His words ruffled my hair.

“I’ll be late too. I want this case over.” I pulled back a bit in his arms and looked up at him. “Meet you at home.”

“My place tonight?”

“Yep.”

He smiled. His lips met mine. And everything was okay.

“Take it easy.”

“I will.”

The bank manager wasn’t the most helpful person I’d ever met. She warmed to Kurt so, in the interest of getting information, I left him to it and went in search of food.

Suddenly starving, I knew what I wanted. Cream cheese and smoked salmon on a bagel. Just had to find it.

Pretty good at locating whatever I needed, my phone confirmed this time was no exception. I found a place with exactly what I needed to eat. I took my bagel and walked down the street as I ate. Felt good to eat and not feel sick, killing time with some not unpleasant window shopping. Just as I finished the bagel and started on the ginger beer I’d purchased, a macabre window came into view. Bloodied aprons on naked mannequins.

What the hell?

My eyes searched above the window for the name of the store: Valentine Gallery.

The name suggested romance; the displayed art reminded me of a crime scene.

Fragments of everything I’d seen or heard over the last week floated down from the sky. The pieces took shape as they grew closer. Jigsaw. Two corners dropped at my feet, one had part of an apron attached.

I swung open the gallery door and stepped into the air-conditioned interior. My eyes adjusted to the dim light, drawn to spotlights around the room, shining on various works. I thrust my hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Unlocking the screen, I pressed Sandra’s name.

Moments later her voice filled my ear. “O Genie of the Emergency Department, how can I help?”

News travels fast.

“I’m in an art gallery, Valentine Gallery in Fairfax. Get me everything you can. I’m looking at bloody aprons, cushions, covered notebooks, and bags. The patterns I’m seeing are forensic. Someone knew what they were doing.”

“Can you snap a few pics and send them to me?”

No one had appeared from the back. I noted several CCTV cameras. Using my phone, I snapped a few pictures and sent them to Sandra.

“Gruesome,” I said taking a closer look at a cushion with a decent-looking directional blood spatter. “The color’s good.”

“The color
is
good,” Sandra replied. “Backup?”

I almost said no, then I remembered my morning. “Yes, Sam or Lee, or both if they’re available. Kurt is at the bank a block over. I’ll let him know where I am.”

“Your GPS is active. I’ll send the address to Sam and Lee.”

I hung up.

From the end of the room, I heard a noise. A light cough.

“Hello!” I called.

“Hello,” came a reply. The owner of the voice didn’t emerge from the shadows.

“Who’s the artist?” I asked. “These are astounding.”

“A young upcoming artist. Kris Lette,” the voice said. “He’s someone to watch.”

Yeah, he is.

I peered closer at an apron. Very realistic color. Every piece. The variation of color was what I’d expect to see in dried blood. Clever. Maroon and deep reds with a smidgen of reddish brown.

I searched for a price tag. A bag hanging from another naked mannequin’s shoulder had a small tag attached. I flipped it. Nearly five hundred dollars.

Wow. Guess it’s art and not just paint squirted on calico.

“I’d like to purchase a piece—”

“Of course.”

I jumped. The voice was right behind me. Creepy. My hand rested on the top of my holster. Reassurance.

Whatever I was on felt hard and cold.

My hand touched water?

A puddle. A cold puddle. Fingers moved and wetness made a sound. It felt like water. Not sticky. Not thick or slippery. The viscosity said water or water-like. The lack of smell also suggested water. A deal of relief came from believing it wasn’t anything sinister like blood. At the back of my mind, I heard the word plasma and stopped the thought. It wasn’t comforting to know that plasma had a similar viscosity to water.

No smell.

Not blood.

A chilling next thought: my eyes wouldn’t or couldn’t open. I screwed up my nose: I had something around my head. Blindfolded. The fingers on my right hand moved but my hand wouldn’t rise. I should’ve been able to feel pain when I tried to move my broken knuckles. My legs were immobile. Left hand. I thought about my left hand. Twisted. I turned my wrist and heard metal on metal. Something chaffed against my wrist.

Metal handcuffs. Mine?

I took a breath and tried to sense my surroundings. Apart from cold and wet, I had very little. No images. No sound. A light breeze brushed against me. From the breeze came a faint scent. Wet dirt. Musky wet earth.

Crapadoodledo.

Patchouli.

Being handcuffed and unable to see ‒ not as big an issue as the smell of patchouli. And, I figured, my weapon gone.

A shiver started at my feet and vibrated throughout my body.

Time wasn’t working for me. I had no way to gauge its passage. Apart from my ever growing desire to pee.

I determined that whatever dropped me was not a blow to the head. Wet dirt. Russian. Fentanyl spray.

Everything so wrong.

Mom’s voice soared ever louder in my head. “No, Gabrielle, it’s right. You fit the profile. You should know that, victimology. You fit the profile of every victim.”

And I’m not drinking coffee these days.

But I wasn’t at home or in the shower.

The art gallery.

Think. GPS.

Sandra knew where to find me. My phone would still be sending the signal. Even if they think they’ve turned it off or taken the battery out. Tiny batteries, independent of the phone’s operating system and main battery, powered our little trackers, without a display or LED to indicate the phone still sent a signal.

All I had to do was survive until the cavalry arrived.

The phone screen I often saw in my head popped up. Under Mitch’s image, a green call button. I pressed the button and waited.

It went to voicemail.

What the actual fuck?

Are you kidding me?

Voicemail?

I shrugged internally.

Something fell, startling me. Metal clattered against the hard floor. It sounded about ten feet from me. Filling my mind with my favorite meadow scene, I let calm wash over me. The meadow faded. Calm remained. Time to employ the senses I did have and not bother about my inability to see. I could hear, smell, feel, and taste.

More clattering. Blades? Then the sound of things put on a surface.

Don’t think, just be.

I tried calling Mitch again.

Voicemail.

Fuck!

The noise stopped. Silence again.

I tried my internal Mitch call again. This time, I heard ringing followed by his voice.

“What happened?”

“I’ve been taken.”

Silence for a beat.

“El?”

“Tell Kurt I think the Russian has me or maybe even Kristopher Lette. I was in the art gallery. I don’t know where I am now.”

Could still be there. Another voice interjected. “Your call is being transferred.”

Do what now?

Kurt’s voice filled my head. “I’m in the Art Gallery. This art is pretty screwed up. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t seem concerned that he could talk to me like this.

It occurred to me, quite slowly, that he might not be talking to me at all. That this could all be a delusion.

“The last thing I remember, I was in the art gallery.”

“Stay alive, El, I’m coming for you.”

Heavy, almost labored, footsteps moved toward me.

“You might wanna hurry and bring SWAT.”

Footsteps stopped in front of me. I breathed in. Patchouli. More lively footsteps hurried across the floor and joined the first. They moved with more freedom than the first set of steps. A younger person or a happy person. Not a good time to think about anyone’s happiness or the cause of their happiness.

“You shouldn’t be so nosy.”

I tried to place the voice, in case I’d come across it before. American, gravely, ex-smoker? I couldn’t smell smoke so ex-smoker felt right. Older male. My guess, fifty something; the voice from the art gallery.

Another voice joined in, the younger male. “I’ll get the fabric. There’s a big order to fill.”

Fabric?

“Bring the new bolt,” the older voice said. “The heavyweight unbleached calico.”

The younger footsteps hurried away.

Fabric? Where’s Lette the vampire? Surely they wouldn’t proceed without him?

The older voice addressed me, “I’m going to enjoy you.”

“Hold that thought,” I replied with a snarl.

He laughed, sending foul air in my direction. Bile rose as I tried not to breathe in his stench. The man choked, then spluttered, coughing uncontrollably.

Sick? Could that be why the two-month gap?

I didn’t really care. It gave me something I could use or take advantage of.

The coughing eased.

“You’re going to be fun,” he rasped. His throat sounded dry and added more menace to his voice. “The others weren’t.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’ve wanted a conscious one since we began this venture.”

“Junior doesn’t like them awake …” Thinking aloud rather than conversing. It’s a business venture. Stevens and Fallon weren’t dating these bozos; they were in business with them. The art business. Bile seethed in my throat.

“You going to vomit?” the male said with a faint remnant of an accent. Russian or similar. “If you are, do it now. I don’t want you throwing up on my fabric.”

I swallowed hard.

And continued my thought about the art business. One Unsub motivated to kill Jane, but it wasn’t the purpose of the killings; that was a convenient happenstance for the Unsub. That’s why the killings continued. She was the target but not the target.

God!

He’d really dropped the ball this time, letting these freaks live. Time God started micro-managing. Clearly, things have gotten out of hand.

Mitch’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He told me they were coming, they’d picked up my GPS. I detected a some panic. Not like him. Calm. Controlled. Planned action was like him. Panic? Not really a thing. Neither of us did much of that. Ever.

Just needed to stay alive until the cavalry arrived.

Footsteps approached bringing with them a dragging sound. Must be a big bolt of fabric or the younger male isn’t overly strong or both. What did I know about him? I dragged the image I saw once front and center so I could study it. Greek descent, I thought. I moved the image around a little trying to see more of him. Thin. I saw an arm. Didn’t look like he worked out. Another image overlaid. How old was he? Not that young, just in better physical condition than the coughing guy. Thirty-something. Something told me he wasn’t the person who abused Jane when she was at college. Not that I could prove that happened, yet.

So why kill Jane? Why was it about Jane for him?

Ask?

“Hey, Jane Daughtry … what the hell was that about?”

Nothing. I smelled something. Fear. Not there before. It didn’t come from the older guy; just the scared younger one.

His voice cracked as he spoke, “None of your business.”

So he wouldn’t confess all before my death. Some talk when they think they’re safe, some don’t. I like the talkers.

“What’s your name?”

Low voices. I couldn’t make out the words. The pounding of my heart overshadowed the talking and made it harder to hear.

“You don’t need to know.”

“I don’t. But if you’re going to kill me, I’d like to know who to haunt.”