Chapter Thirteen

Dutton, Wednesday, January 31, 2:30 a.m.

They were hideous. Obscene. But Alex forced herself to look at each one even when the sandwich Meredith had forced down her throat threatened to claw its way back up.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said for the seventh time, shaking her head at the picture of a girl being brutalized. I thought my dreams were bad before… “I don’t recognize her.”

Daniel put another on the table in front of her while Chase looked on in stony silence. Meredith sat on the other side of her while Daniel’s friend Luke sat on the sofa in the living room with his computer on his lap, watching in the same thoughtful way he’d watched her at the Underground.

It seems like it’s been years. But it had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d nearly been killed.

“Alex?” Daniel murmured and Alex forced herself to look at the eighth picture.

“I’m-” She frowned, the denial forgotten. She pulled the picture from the table and held it close to her eyes, which felt like they’d been rubbed with crushed glass. She studied the girl’s face. Her nose. “I know her. That’s Rita Danner.”

“How do you know?” Daniel asked.

“Her nose. It’s been broken. Rita hung with the popular crowd, but she had a mean streak, especially if she was jealous of you. She liked to pick on the nerds.”

“Did she pick on you?” Meredith asked.

“Only once. We were at a sleepover and I woke up to find Rita smearing peanut butter into my hair. I took a handful of the peanut butter and shoved it up her nose.”

Daniel blinked. “You broke her nose?”

“I shoved a little too hard.” Alex sighed. “I hated her. But this… My God.”

“Luke?” Daniel asked.

“I found a wedding announcement. Rita married a Josh Runyan of Columbia, Georgia.” He tapped a few more keys. “And here’s a divorce announcement dated two years ago. But it looks like Rita still lives in Columbia.”

“It’s not too far,” Daniel said. “We can visit her. See what she recalls. What about this one?” He slid another picture on the table. “Well?”

“I know her, too. Cindy… Bouse. She was a nice girl. I didn’t break her nose.”

“Then we should try to talk to her first,” Daniel said dryly. “Luke?”

Luke’s expression was stricken. “She committed suicide eight years ago.”

Alex sucked in a breath. “Oh God.”

Daniel stroked her back. “I’m sorry.”

Alex nodded unsteadily. “Let’s see the next one.” She couldn’t identify the girl in the tenth picture, or the eleventh. There had been fifteen victims and Daniel had told her from the outset that he would not show her Alicia’s picture. For that she’d been grateful. Daniel had already identified Sheila’s picture, so Alex had only two pictures to go.

He slid the twelfth picture onto the table.

“Gretchen French,” Alex said immediately. “We were friends in junior high.”

“I’m looking,” Luke said before Daniel could ask. “Here’s one. She lives on Peachtree Boulevard in Atlanta. She’s a nutritionist. Has her own website.” He brought the laptop over to the table. “Look at her current photo.”

Daniel compared them. “That’s her.”

“Then we start there,” Chase said. Those had been the first words he’d spoken since they began. “Go ahead and look at the last one.”

Alex focused. “Carla Solomon. She played in the school orchestra with Bailey.”

“I see a C. Solomon on Third Avenue, here in Dutton,” Luke said. “That’s all I got.”

“What about the nine you didn’t know?” Meredith said.

“They may have gone to a different school,” Alex replied. “Dutton’s high school was pretty small. Everybody knew everybody.”

“We’ll pull yearbooks from all the local high schools,” Chase said brusquely. “Daniel, you’ve got enough leads for now. Everybody go to sleep. I’ll see you in the office at eight sharp.” He looked at Alex. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

Exhaustion was fuzzing the edges of her mind. “I wish it would help us find Bailey.”

Daniel squeezed her knee. “Don’t give up,” he murmured.

She lifted her chin. “I won’t.”

Wednesday, January 31, 2:30 a.m.

Mack couldn’t stop the chuckle from bubbling out as he nodded at the computer screen. Things were going so well. Gemma was dead and ready for disposal and I’m a hundred thousand dollars richer. Then again, it really wasn’t about the money at this point. It was about making them pay the money. It meant they were afraid. The one who’d paid the hundred grand was so afraid, he was sitting outside his sister Kate’s house watching at this very moment, just in case.

He’d made his point. I’m here. You’re not safe. Your family is not safe.

And it had worked. Kate’s big brother had paid a hundred grand. Her big brother’s whiny friend hadn’t paid a penny, but he’d also been afraid.

He smiled. The one who hadn’t paid the money had paid in another, far more satisfying, way. He’d been successful with the two he’d chosen for his initial assault. They’d been the weakest. Low-hanging fruit, ripe for the picking. But the other two were also affected. They were getting nervous. Scared.

Things were starting to happen. Things he hadn’t had a direct hand in. Janet, Claudia, Gemma, all mine. All just pieces of kindling to get the fire going, but now it appeared the fire was going pretty good.

Bailey Crighton had been declared a missing person. Of course Mack now knew exactly where she was, and who had taken her. And why. He actually felt a little sorry for Bailey. She was an innocent bystander, and was now caught up in all this. He knew how that felt. When this was over, if she was still alive, he might go let her out.

He knew someone had tried to kill Alex Fallon. So clumsy. No finesse at all. Now she had a guard, two sharp-eyed GBI agents keeping watch over her little house. And one sharp-eyed agent keeping watch inside. He knew there’d been some kind of gathering at Fallon’s house tonight. Vartanian was getting close.

Took him long enough.

He knew there’d been a big brouhaha at the pizza parlor tonight. Three dead. Sheila among them. Yes, Vartanian was getting close.

And the remaining three were scared. One of the four was dead, a victim of his own guilt and fear. Of course getting run off the road and left to die in an amazing explosion had helped. Which had only gone to prove what he’d believed all along. The group of upstanding pillars of the community would kill one of their own without blinking an eye.

They’d done it tonight to Rhett Porter. From his desk drawer he pulled the last of his brother’s journals. It was half unfinished, because they’d done it five years ago to his brother Jared. Yes, he knew one of the four was dead. By sunrise, everyone in Dutton would know it, too.

Wednesday, January 31, 2:30 a.m.

“Bailey.”

Bailey had heard Beardsley’s last five whispers. I’m here. Please help me. The words were in her mind, but she couldn’t force them to her tongue. Every muscle in her body clenched and ached. More. She needed more. Dammit, he’d made her need it again. Damn him to hell.

“Bailey.”

She watched four fingers curve under the wall. Beardsley had torn a little more of the floor away. Hysterical laughter welled from somewhere deep inside her. They were trapped. They’d die here. But now Beardsley could wave good-bye.

The fingers disappeared. “Bailey. Sshh. He’ll come.”

He’ll come anyway. Her eyes closed and she prayed to die.

Wednesday, January 31, 3:15 a.m.

Mack crept up the stairs silently. Breaking into a cop’s house should have been harder to do. He’d passed the impressive gun cabinet on the first floor, wishing he could take what he wished. But tonight was about recon and stealth, not weapons. If he cleaned out the gun cabinet as he was so tempted, the fact that he’d been here would no longer be a secret. And he wanted it to be a secret.