Twisted

  Hank’s car was parked in its usual spot. As the cops had told Derek on the phone, the bodyguard had been out cold when they arrived, thanks to a well-placed tranquilizer dart. He was now in the hospital, being treated and, hopefully, regaining consciousness.

  Derek would head over there next.

  First, he strode into Sloane’s house. Burt was in the kitchen with the hounds, who were whimpering and vitally aware that something was wrong. Burt looked grateful as hell to see Derek, and turned his attention to him, answering every one of his questions while the local cop waited.

  None of his answers helped. They only reiterated the facts that Derek already knew.

  Sloane was missing.

  And he was too late to stop the serial killer who’d taken her.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  DATE: 1 May

  TIME: 1145 hours

  She looks so peaceful on that bed, so utterly right in this room that I built for her. Truly, this is where she belongs until we ascend. I know I have to move her, but locking her in a lifeless cell is going to take a Herculean effort on my part.

  But I have no choice. Until I know her intentions, I can’t afford to let sentiment cloud my judgment. I must contain her, limit her awareness of where she is. More important, I must limit her access to anything she can use to retaliate or escape.

  She’s highly intelligent and equally resourceful. But she’s also strong—in will and in strength—and stubborn. As goddess of the hunters, she’s dedicated to the chase, and she’ll do all she can to outwit me so she can regain her freedom.

  No matter how difficult she becomes, I must demonstrate patience. She doesn’t understand yet. She still views me as the enemy.

  It’s up to me to convince her that I’m her salvation.

  Sloane’s house

  Hunterdon County, New Jersey

  1:05 P.M.

  Sloane’s living room had become the meeting place for Derek, Jeff, Bill, and Larry, who’d spent the past two hours reviewing evidence, and refocusing their strategy and analysis based on the information Elliot’s computer system had spit out.

  At Derek’s urgent request, Bill had flown immediately up to New Jersey to join the team.

  Jeff had been added to the team as well. It was Tony who’d informed Derek of his decision. And Derek offered no argument. Tony was right. Derek knew his objectivity was severely compromised based on this latest development in the case. Plus, Jeff ’s Violent Crimes experience would be beneficial.

  All Derek cared about was getting this Unsub—now—before he hurt Sloane.

  Unless he already had.

  He shoved that thought aside, forcing himself back into special-agent mode. Anything less, and he’d be no good to anybody.

  “Okay, so now everyone on this list is accounted for,” Larry was saying, having just hung up the phone. “I’ve now confirmed all the facts on Eve Calhoun, who was our only unknown.” He counted off on his fingers. “Worked at the Manhattan D.A.’s Office with Sloane at the outset of Sloane’s career. Now a matrimonial attorney. Was last seen doing laps at the NYU pool. Divorced, no family. Just a pissed-off law firm. The victimology fits.”

  Bill nodded thoughtfully, steepling his fingers together and leaning forward on the sofa, rereading his copy of the table for the umpteenth time. “Eve Calhoun being a matrimonial attorney correlates with Hera being the ‘mother.’ Not only is she the goddess queen, she’s also the goddess of love and marriage.” Another thoughtful glance at the printout. “This Unsub has certainly captured an eclectic bunch of women. But there’s more than one motherly type. The pattern does demonstrate a maternal fixation.”

  “Agreed.” Larry perched on the arm of a chair. “I’m not up on my Greek mythology, but I did some quick research. As queen of the goddesses, Hera ran the show. My guess is that our Unsub needs his ‘Hera’ as a strong guiding force. And his ‘Hestia,’ Lydia Halas, is the calm goddess of home and hearth. The real Lydia Halas is a healer, a nurse. Our Unsub needs her for security and comfort.”

  “So we have two maternal figures here—one to nurture, the other to parent,” Bill concluded.

  “What about the other victims?” Jeff asked. “I see the whole mother-complex thing you’re referring to. But that only explains two of the nine women our Unsub went after.”

  “Look, guys.” Derek interrupted before Larry or Bill could reply. “This is all very fascinating. But we’re racing the clock here. How does all this psychological analysis help us find our Unsub or his victims?”

  “As opposed to doing what?” Bill asked, leveling a calm stare at Derek. “Racing into the field, guns blazing? Analysis produces a more focused pursuit, which will lead to quicker success. By knowing who this Unsub is, how he thinks, and what motivates him, we can zero in on him and his intentions.”

  “But what solid information have we come up with?”

  “For one thing, that there’s a better chance than we originally thought that the kidnapped women are alive. The coin the Unsub leaves at each crime scene shows the strong dichotomy in his mind between the bad women he murders—the ‘Pythons’—and the good women he kidnaps—the ‘goddesses.’ If he feels he needs these goddesses, then he’s keeping, not killing, them.”

  “For what? And for how long?”

  “I can’t answer that—yet. But some trigger is compelling him to act each time he kills a prostitute or kidnaps a goddess. The prostitutes are an outlet for his sexual fantasies, so the trigger could simply be pent-up sexual need that he loathes and is ashamed of, but can’t control. So he takes control by killing the prostitutes, as violently as possible, after he’s through with them. But the goddesses—that’s the unknown. This isn’t a harem, it’s a specific collection of revered women, all with virtuous traits and preexisting relationships with Sloane. Once we figure out the Unsub’s reason for collecting them, I’d be willing to bet we’ll figure out his plan, his timing, maybe even where he’s imprisoning his victims.”

  “So we all agree that the key lies with this list of Greek goddesses,” Larry murmured thoughtfully. “We need detailed information. That takes time. Maybe we can shortcut the process.” He shot Derek a quizzical look. “Not to sound callous, but can you get a hold of Lillian Doyle? I realize she’s terminally ill. And, yes, I realize she’s a sociology professor, but that woman knows her ancient history. She’s gone into long dissertations on the roots of violence in ancient civilization. I’m not sure if she’s an expert on Greek mythology, but I know she’s referred to it more than once during the workshop panels we’ve done together at John Jay. It’s possible she’d see a connection here, or, at the very least, know someone who would.”

  “It’s worth a phone call.” Derek was already dialing. “Bob,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I know you’re swamped interviewing the John Jay faculty and students. But you’ve got personal contact information on the entire John Jay staff, and I need a home number fast—as in, yesterday.”

  “Whose number are you looking for?” Bob asked, sounding as ragged as the rest of them.

  “Professor Doyle’s. Also, I’ll need her son Luke’s cell-phone number, since I assume he’s taking her calls.”

  Bob grunted. “You can have the numbers, but they won’t do you any good. Neither Dr. Doyle nor her son, Luke, has answered either their home or cell phones. And I’ve tried each number several times. I hope that’s not bad news, healthwise.”

  “How many voice mails did you leave?”

  “None. Both their voice-mail boxes are full.”

  “Both of them? That’s weird.” Something about that didn’t sit right with Derek. And when he got that unsettled feeling, he acted on it. “Dr. Doyle. Do you know the name of her physician, or, given her condition, her oncologist? I could call and make sure she’s all right.”

  “Sorry. Don’t have access to her medical info. But it shouldn’t be hard to finagle. Dr. Doyle lives on West a Hundred and Seventy-first Street near Broadway. I’m ass
uming her pharmacy is close by. Hang on for a minute.” Bob called out to someone who was summoning him into the interrogation room. “I’ve got to go,” he told Derek. “I’ll call you later. Let me know if you reach Dr. Doyle.”

  “Will do.” Derek disconnected the call, then called Tony and explained what he needed.

  “What are you hoping to find?” Jeff asked, once his partner had hung up.

  “I don’t know.” Derek scowled. “But this feels wrong. And I can’t get what I need by phone, because no pharmacist or doctor is going to release patient information to me without seeing proper authorization. So Tony’s sending someone out.”

  He spent the next half hour on the Internet, searching for experts in Greek mythology.

  He was about to contact a local college, when his cell phone rang.

  “Yeah, Tony, do you have something for me?” Derek listened, then punched “off,” an odd expression on his face.

  “What is it?” Jeff asked.

  “The agent Tony sent out located Dr. Doyle’s pharmacist and her oncologist. Evidently, she’s no longer refilling her meds, and she’s no longer a patient at that—or any other—oncologist’s office.”

  “Since when?” Bill demanded.

  “Since yesterday. According to her oncologist—who was very forthcoming, once he heard the circumstances—she delivered this news to him by phone. It came as quite a shock. She’d been following his health regimen from when the cancer had originally been diagnosed—which was, apparently, long after it should have been. The implication was, she hadn’t been going for regular checkups, or this might have been caught early on.”

  “What kind of cancer are we talking about?”

  “The doctor’s not at liberty to say. But Tony said that our agent spotted a number of consult reports in Lillian’s file when the oncologist was going through it. Most of those consults were with an ob/gyn.”

  “Got it.”

  “Her oncologist said that Lillian’s always had an incredibly strong will to live—even recently, when the prognosis was at its grimmest. So her phone call and abrupt turnaround came out of the blue. He strongly advised her that she was making a rash and ill-advised decision, especially with regard to the pain medication. But she was adamant. She announced that she’d decided to go off to her country house and spend her last days in peace. No meds. No doctors.” Derek’s head came up, a glint in his eyes. “Only her son.”

  After that, Derek was like a dog with a bone. He was onto something and he knew it. Now all he needed was proof, and enough probable cause to get it.

  Ninety minutes later, Bob Erwin was summoned out of a meeting for an urgent phone call.

  “This is Erwin,” he said.

  “Bob, get a detective over to Lillian Doyle’s apartment now,” Derek instructed. “The landlord will let him in, since the apartment’s now officially vacant. You don’t need a search warrant; Dr. Doyle broke her lease. According to the landlord, she and her son dropped off her key and enough cash to cover the remaining months of the lease. They then promptly left, for good. ERT’s heading over there now to sweep the place and to get a DNA sample from Luke’s comb or his toothbrush, and helicopter it down to Quantico.

  “And one more thing. Luke Doyle didn’t take a leave of absence from Bellevue. He quit. Said he was taking his mother and relocating—permanently. Coincidentally and on the same day, a shitload of morphine and Nembutal disappeared. But this time there were prints. I guess when you’re planning to disappear, you get careless about using gloves. His loss, our gain. I had the M.E.’s office compare those prints to the ones on Luke Doyle’s coffee mug and stethoscope. Game, set, match. We’ve got more than enough to arrest him.” Derek gritted his teeth. “Now we just have to find him.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Consciousness returned in painful waves as she averted her face from the repugnant smell of the mattress she was lying on.

  Where was she?

  Memory filtered back, first in broken flashes, then in chunks, until it was all there.

  Luke. All this time it had been Luke. A serial sexual killer. A stalker. A madman.

  Her first reaction was overwhelming rage.

  Luke Doyle had killed Elliot. And maybe Penny. And Lydia. And Cynthia. And the list went on and on. Including helpless Asian women who’d been sold into prostitution and then brutally butchered by her dear friend Luke.

  Rage transformed into guilt. How could she not have seen it? How could she not have known? If only she had, all those people might be alive today.

  Usually, she was an excellent judge of character. But not this time. Then again, Luke had never acted abnormally around her. They’d had lunch together, taken walks together, faced a world tragedy together.

  But when she got right down to it, how much time had they really spent together? Talked?

  Not a hell of a lot. Not alone and not in any depth.

  He was a medical assistant. He healed people. She’d watched him do so with her own eyes. He’d been caring, compassionate, gentle.

  And that same man whose gentle hands had healed the wounded had slashed people’s throats and carved up their bodies. How was that possible?

  Even now he was a walking contradiction. He had put his entire world on hold to care for his mother during her final days. He’d even moved in with her to be the best caretaker possible. He’d literally given up everything in his life to ease her passing.

  What life?

  The thought suddenly struck Sloane like a ton of bricks. Whenever she and Luke had talked, it had been about work, about 9/11, about her recovery from her hand injury. Never a word about his friends, never a mention of a date, never a funny story from his past.

  And, lately, never a word about anything but Lillian.

  Because Lillian was his life.

  Mentally, Sloane reviewed the detailed profile Larry had developed of their serial sexual killer.

  An abnormal bond with his mother. A screwed-up view of other women—the “good girls” and the “bad girls.” A built-up rage that needed only a trigger to set him off.

  That trigger was Lillian’s cancer.

  It made perfect sense. When Lillian was first diagnosed, Luke had freaked out. The result had been Penny’s abduction. Others had followed. Then Lillian had gone into remission, so the kidnappings had stopped. That was the classic “cooling off” period ascribed to serial killers when their stressor ebbed. And now, when he knew his mother’s cancer was terminal, when he was about to lose her forever, he’d gone completely over the edge.

  That explained the why. The rest of what was going on here was up to her to decipher.

  Sloane shifted, trying—and failing—to change position, so she could get a glimpse of her surroundings. Abruptly, she realized why she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were in shackles. Evidently, Luke didn’t trust her.

  Smart man.

  He knew how advanced her Krav Maga skills were. He wasn’t taking any chances, especially not after the ass kicking he’d taken from Tina.

  With an iron will, Sloane fought the last vestiges of medication, forcing her head to clear. She couldn’t see much, but she could see that she was alone. That was a temporary luxury she couldn’t afford to waste. She had to assess her surroundings, her resources, and her limitations, plus work out her strategy, all before Luke came back.

  Dark, cramped room. One blackened window separating her from the world. One dimly lit, freestanding lamp. One wooden chair. Concrete floor. Dirty mattress. Rough wool blanket. Definitely not the Ritz-Carlton.

  Resources—none.

  Limitations—plenty. Shackles. The excruciating pain in her hand. Being held prisoner by a serial sexual killer who had definite plans for her.

  Conventional escape were out. Luke had a combat knife, a traveling drugstore, and a twisted mind. If she fought him, he’d slash her throat or drug her. Either way, she’d die in minutes.

  Her only hope of survival was taking a more subtle
approach—at least until she figured out what Luke had planned. Not just for her, but for any other victims who might still be alive. Sloane had to find a way to comfortably ease him back into the friendship they’d shared. Maybe then she could earn a modicum of his trust, get the information she needed to fully assess the situation, and look for the best, one-shot opportunity she’d have to escape.

  Footsteps sounded from down the hall, followed by a key inserted in her door lock.

  Sloane took a slow, deep breath. The Bureau had trained her as a hostage negotiator at Quantico. She’d honed her crisis resolution and active listening skills in the field.

  Time for the ultimate test.

  This time the life she was negotiating for was her own.

  Luke stepped into the room. His gaze immediately darted to Sloane. Illuminated by the hall light, he was fully and clearly visible for one brief moment before he shut the door behind him. In that moment, Sloane saw an opaque emptiness in his eyes that told her that the Luke she’d known—the one who could at least feign sanity—was gone.

  “You’re awake,” he observed, crossing over to sit on the chair. “I wanted to be here when you woke up so you wouldn’t be afraid. But Gaia needed me. She was in pain. I couldn’t allow that. You understand.”

  “Of course.” Sloane nodded. “May I ask who Gaia is?”

  A soft smile curved Luke’s lips. “The supreme goddess. Goddess of the earth, the core of all creation. She rules over the sky, the mountains, and the sea.”

  “The supreme goddess,” Sloane repeated, as if it were the most natural statement in the world to make. “And you said she was in pain. Are we talking about your mother? Is Lillian Gaia?”

  “In this world, yes. But all that will change very soon.”

  “Were you able to relieve her pain? Is she comfortable now?”

  A startled look, but one of gratitude and pleasure, crossed Luke’s face. Not a surprise, given his attachment to Lillian.