Innocent Prey (A Brown and de Luca Novel) (14 page)

I heaved a sigh and started browsing the on-demand channels for a movie I hadn’t yet seen, paid eight bucks for one that looked fascinating and then fell asleep out of sheer boredom about forty minutes in.

The flashes I’d seen when I’d touched the dead girl came pounding back to me in my dreams. Like bolts of lightning, the kind that light up the entire sky all at once. Like the blinding flash of a camera you weren’t ready for.

Flash! Venora’s hand, cutting letters into her impossibly flat midriff.

Flash! The beadwork blood droplets following behind her awkward cutting tool.

Flash! Cinder-block walls. Barred door.

Wait a minute, that’s new.

Don’t think, don’t think, just lean back and let it play out.

Flash! Three young women struggling with an armed man in a ski mask. Don’t look there, don’t look there, don’t look there.

Flash! Gunshot breaks my freaking eardrums and makes me jump out of my skin.

It’ll be gone soon. Look, dammit, look!

Flash! Bunks on both sides. Like a prison cell.

Look harder! This is important.

Flash! Close-up of the bunks, the black block letters stenciled on the edge, peering out from beneath the mattress.

Flash! Closer now. Closer.

P
roperty
of
B
lackwater
S
tate
P
enitentiary

I sat up on the sofa, opened my eyes and whispered, “I got it.” Then I reached for the phone and dialed Mason’s number.

* * *

He would’ve been irritated by the dead-of-night phone call if he hadn’t glanced at the caller ID first and seen Rachel’s name. He’d had a miserable night of second-guessing himself where she was concerned. Where this case was concerned. Where the chief’s job was concerned. Where the boys and his competence in raising them was concerned.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure his conscience was going to let him keep being a cop at all, much less chief of police. He’d covered up the crimes of a serial killer, let a copycat killer take the blame for all of Eric’s murders. Telling himself it didn’t matter because both men were dead, and because he’d given closure to the families by recovering the bodies, wasn’t working so well to ease the guilt anymore.

Somehow, when Rachel was around, he felt okay about things. Not great, but okay. When she wasn’t... Shit, if he confessed anything close to those feelings—to needing her—she would run screaming. Maybe.

The phone rang again. He picked it up and pushed his serious thoughts away. “Can’t sleep without me, huh?”

“Slept. Dreamed. Got something for you.”

He sat up straight, because she had that tone that told him she wasn’t in a teasing mood or a sexy mood or a silly mood. She was dead-on balls-serious. “You got something? In a dream?” And then he said, “What’s going on, Rachel?”

“If I knew I’d tell you. Closest I can figure is that the whole thing with Eric and the transplant and the visions did something to...rewire my brain. When I touched that girl’s hand—”

“The dead girl’s hand. You got a flash, you said. Was this the same kind of thing?”

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “I think I saw Venora’s murder. Dammit, why the hell me, you know?”

“Easy. Take a breath. Tell me what I need to know, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah. The girls were in what looked like a jail cell. I saw them all fighting with some jerk in a ski mask. His gun went off. I heard it. Felt it burn straight through my chest.”

He nodded, fascinated by her. In so many ways. “And...?”

“And I saw the edge of the bed, stamped in black ink. ‘Property of Blackwater State Penitentiary.’”

He rose to his feet in the bedroom, wide-eyed in the darkness. Speechless.

“Mace?”

“Yeah. I’m here, I just—”

“Is it a real place?”

“Blackwater prison was closed down in the seventies. I didn’t even know it was still standing.”

“Maybe it’s not. It was a dream, after all. Where is it?”

“About fifty miles outside my jurisdiction.”

“But we’re going anyway. Aren’t we?”

“We’re going.”

She was quiet for a second. Didn’t hang up, though, so he knew she had more to say. “What, Rache?”

She breathed into the phone, which made him horny. Then she said, “Do we have to tell the sexy Fed?”

“You think she’s sexy?” he asked, grinning.

“Don’t you?”

“Not half as sexy as you are, Rachel.”

“I wasn’t fishing for that. I don’t care about that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Yeah, I do. Vanity, thy name is de Luca.”

“I think we have to tell her,” he said when he could wipe the grin off his face. Okay, he was confused about things with her. But damn, he was glad they had whatever it was they had together. “Mainly because time is crucial if we want to save those girls. If we get up there and find them, we’re gonna want backup ready and waiting. We don’t want it to be an hour away. And we want it all on the up-and-up, so any evidence we find is admissible.”

“I hate when you’re logical.”

“You hate when I’m right.”

“That, too. So how are you gonna tell her you came up with this place?”

“Anonymous tip?”

“She’ll know there’s more.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to give it to her.”

Rachel sighed heavily. He waited for her to get to whatever was bothering her, knowing she would. She always did. Eventually, she said, “Just don’t let the chief tell her I’m a fucking psychic. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“I’m not,” she said again. “I’m not, am I?”

She sounded a little bit like a scared kid. “Hey, you’re Rachel de Luca,” he said. “You’re writing the script of your life as you go along. It says so in chapter one of your first book.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he told her. “You’re whatever you want to be, Rache. You’re intuitive. And you dream stuff. That’s all.
You
get to decide what it means, and
you
get to decide what you want to call it.”

“NFP,” she said.

“Huh?”

“That’s what I’m calling it. NFP, for Not Fucking Psychic.”

She was quiet for a beat or two. Then she said, “If word gets out that I’m some kind of police psychic, my career will be over. I’m already walking the razor’s edge between respectable self-help and new age spirituality. Something like this could push me over into the Fluff Bunny Zone. No one comes back from there.”

“Really?”

“Probably. Hell, I don’t know. I just know I like my work being taken seriously.”

“Even though you so often refer to it as bullshit.”

There was a long pause, then she admitted, “Less and less, you know.”

“Good.”

11

B
ack at the BPD, Rosie, among others, was working on the old hit-and-run case Judge Howie had kept clippings about. We didn’t know where it would lead, or what, if anything, it had to do with the missing girls, but we were damn well going to find out.

We, on the other hand, were taking an early morning field trip to one Blackwater State Penitentiary, two hours north in a wooded area outside Utica. Special Agent Cantone had followed in her own car. Blackwater had been closed down in the seventies, replaced by the much bigger and more modern Marcy Correctional Facility. I got all that from Mason as he and I and Cantone traversed the overgrown path that had once been its driveway.

Tall fences that seemed to be made out of vines and foliage leaned drunkenly around the brick main building. If you looked closer, though, you could see razor wire loops along the tops.

The building itself was like something out of
America’s Most Haunted.
Its windows had fan-pattern bricks over arched tops, and bars over their blackness. Like dead eyes, those windows. Tangled masses of ivy had all but swallowed the south and east sides of the place, greedy fingers of it reaching across the front to pull itself farther along.

However, even I knew what was obvious to my companions’ trained eyes. Someone had been here. The weeds and jungle-like growth were flattened down in proof that someone had walked in and out of here several times, and recently. It was even more obvious when we got to what had presumably been the main entrance. The vines had been torn away from the giant and rusted doors, and the debris on the ground in front of them had been swept aside by the trespassers’ feet.

“They weren’t even careful,” I said.

“Could be anything. Could be kids,” said Agent Cantone. She’d dressed appropriately, in jeans, a long-sleeved button-down over a clingy T-shirt and suede boots I’d have killed for. Her hair was in a ponytail. Her makeup minimal. And she still looked freaking amazing.

“Where did you say you got this anonymous tip, Detective?” she asked for the third time.

“I didn’t.”

“Look, if this pans out, I’m going to need to know.”

“No, you’re not.” He opened the door, touching it with care. At the moment the possibility of rescuing several captive girls outweighed the need to check the door handle for prints first. Even so, he used his shirtsleeve and touched it as minimally as possible.

It creaked and groaned. He held it open with his back so we could go inside. Cantone held a flashlight in an overhand grip like only cops hold flashlights, her gun in her free hand as she went inside, walking slowly. I went in behind her, holding my flashlight like a normal human. I didn’t have a gun, and I didn’t want one. Mason stepped away from the door, letting it groan shut slowly.

This was like something out of a freaking horror movie. I hated the chills racing up my spine. The hallway was damp and musty, dark with free-range mold I hoped wasn’t the deadly type. The floors were littered with debris, both natural and man-made. Broken glass, scattered pieces of brick and chunks of mortar, along with dirt and countless little shells from what looked like tiny nuts. Apparently the local wildlife had been feasting in here over the winter. Many winters.

We came to an intersection. Mason aimed the flashlight beam in each of the three directions, then nodded and picked one. The one with no spiderwebs crisscrossing the way, and with a barely discernible path through the rubbish on the floor.

And that was how we went, just following a trail that was sometimes clumsily obvious and other times almost invisible, to a stairway, and then down it into the hubs of darkness, and finally to a section marked
D,
where cells lined each side of the hallway.

One of the cell doors was open. It had a chain and a padlock dangling from it that were not only rust-free, but also looked new. And when we got closer, we saw that the inside of the cell had been swept, maybe even washed. But there was still a big bloodstain just inside the door.

“Ten to one that blood matches Venora LaMere’s,” Mason whispered.

“Jesus.” Agent Cantone aimed her light around the inside of the cell. I didn’t. Mine was holding steady on the side of one of the bunks, where Property of Blackwater State Penitentiary was stenciled in black.

“They were here,” I whispered. Because whispering seemed like the thing to do in there.

“Looks like,” Cantone agreed. She aimed her beam upward, at a single-bulb pull-string light fixture dangling from the ceiling, with wires that led out through the bars to a car battery sitting in a corner of the hallway. “The question is, where the hell are they now?” She turned to Mason and asked again, “Where did you get this tip?”

“Anonymous informant.”

“If your informant knew, we need to know
how
he knew. These girls’ lives are at stake, Brown.”

“I know that. And if my source could shed any more light on this, I’d tell you. But that’s just not the case.”

I started to take a step into the cell, ignoring the two of them, but the Fed put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

“We need to get a forensics team in here before we go any farther. It’s a crime scene.”

I nodded. “Sure, yeah, I knew that.” That forward step had been involuntary. No way did I want to go into that cell where a girl had died and feel the terror and pain and utter despondence I’d felt in my dream last night. Cantone holstered her gun and pulled out a phone instead. I saw her move its glowing screen up and left and right. “No bars.”

“We’re sublevel,” Mason told her. “You should be able to get a signal at the top of the stairs.” And I knew what he was doing, damn him. Getting her out of the way, giving me room to do...whatever the hell it was I was somehow able to do. Maybe. Sometimes.

She wasn’t stupid. I didn’t think he was fooling anyone, but she didn’t argue, either. She aimed her flashlight back the way we’d come and started walking that way.

When we could no longer see the beam of her light, Mason turned to me. “Go on, see if you can get anything.”

“I’m not going to
get
anything, Mace.” But I was way more afraid than I wanted to say that I would.

“You had a flash when you touched the dead girl’s hand. Get in there and
touch
something, and see if you have another.”

I looked inside the cell. “I don’t want to...contaminate evidence.” That last part was an afterthought.

“Rachel...”

“I know, I know. Lives at stake. Civic duty. Blah blah. I’m going.” I clutched the flashlight for dear life and moved inside the cell. The way the beam trembled on whatever it touched gave away my scaredy-cat shivers. I’m not even sure what I was scared
of,
but there you go. I took three steps inside, bent a little and put my hand on the mattress.

Nothing happened. I sighed in relief.

Then I turned to that stained spot on the floor. And everything in me was telling me not to go there, not to touch that. But I knew I didn’t have a choice in the matter, and even if I did, I’d have touched it anyway. If I could help save the missing girls, I damn well would.

I retraced my steps backward, disturbing not even a dust mite, then crouched near the stain and lowered my hand toward it. I hesitated just for a second, then pushed past the fear and pressed my palm to the dried blood on the cold floor.

The flash was instant, and I was seeing it as if from above, somehow.

I saw Stephanie Mattheson lying still on the cell floor, near the bunk on the right. Close by, another girl...Lexus Carmichael. I’d studied her face enough to know it by heart. She, too, lay with her eyes closed. And a third girl I didn’t recognize, lying perfectly still. Near the cell door, Venora lay in a pool of her own blood.

Were they all dead?

Two men in ski masks came in, speaking softly. Something about...

...gotta move them. Someone might’ve heard the fucking shot.

Something about...
the new place. It’s not ready yet, but it’ll do till we replace Venora and make the delivery.

The two men began picking up the girls one by one, carrying them outside, coming back for another. Stephanie Mattheson flinched when they bumped her into the wall, and the girl whose face I didn’t recognize moaned when they lifted her.

“They’re alive,” I whispered.

I blinked my eyes open and found myself standing up straight, staring at my upturned palm. It occurred to me then that I’d recited aloud every word I’d heard the men say. It also dawned on me that Cantone was standing behind Mason, looking at me over his shoulder like I’d just pulled off my fake rubber face to reveal an alien life form.

“What the fuck was
that?
” she asked.

I didn’t answer, just stepped away from the cell without touching anything else.

“I asked you what that was,” Cantone repeated.

Mason put an arm around my shoulders, and we started back down the hall toward the stairway. “Are you okay, Rachel?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to open my damn mouth again, lest some kidnapper’s voice come out instead of my own, because that was what it felt like had just happened. Except I knew better.

We started up the stairs, Cantone right behind us. “Jesus, Mason, are you telling me
this
is your anonymous informant? A damned
psychic?
”

“I’m not a fucking psychic!” I spun around and shouted it at her, and she actually stumbled down a step.

“Then what the hell are you?” she asked, her voice a whole lot softer. Hell, no more hostility from this one. She was a little bit afraid of me now.

“I don’t know anymore.”

I went up the stairs, and when I got outside again I couldn’t seem to get enough of the fresh air. It had felt like I’d been suffocating in there. Like I’d developed claustrophobia or something.

“Does the chief know about this?” Cantone demanded.

“Yes, and he wants it kept absolutely quiet,” Mason said.

“I have to get out of here,” I told him. I couldn’t look at Cantone. I didn’t want to see the ridicule, the skepticism, the speculation in her eyes. Much less the fear. Not that I gave two shits what she thought of me. More like I didn’t know what
I
thought of me at this point, and I needed to get clear on that before I started letting anyone else’s opinion in.

I headed straight back up the weed-entangled driveway toward where we’d left the cars, wishing I could leave behind the panicky feeling rising in my throat. It had to have come from them. The girls. Or one of the girls. Whichever one I’d been...plugged into back there.

But I knew which one, didn’t I? The one whose cold, dead touch had given me the first flash, and whose blood stained that concrete I’d touched to get the second. I’d seen the room as if from above. Was that what she had seen, at the end?

Cantone and Mason came along behind me. And I moved even faster. Wanting to run away from them, from this place, and from this fucked-up enhanced vision that had come to life inside me. I wanted to run from it, because I couldn’t really deny it anymore, could I? I was having visions, flashes, dreams. And it wasn’t connected to Mason’s brother, whose corneas had restored my eyesight. I wasn’t experiencing things the other recipients of Eric’s donated organs had experienced. Not unless one of the girls had received something that...

I turned abruptly and looked Vanessa in the eye. “What about those other girls? The ones who also aged out and are currently unaccounted for. What do we know about them?”

She was staring at me like I’d lapsed into Latin. There was less fear in her eyes now and more curiosity. But none of the other stuff I’d expected to see there. Like ridicule or blatant disbelief.

Then again, she was FBI. Maybe she was just good at covering up.

“I only received all the files this morning. They’re in the backseat of my car right now. But their photos and fingerprints are being run through the national database right now.”

“Those files have medical records in them?”

She lifted her brows. “I don’t know. Probably.”

I nodded, looked at Mason. “We need to go through those files.”

We emerged from the wooded path and onto the road where we’d left our vehicles parked. Mason’s pride and joy next to Cantone’s sensible Prius. I looked back at the agent again.

“I don’t like asking for favors,” I said.

“I sense that about you.”

Was that a slam or a compliment? Or just an observation?

“The truth is that I don’t know what’s happening to me. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to be involved. And if this...this vision thing or whatever the hell it is, ever gets out, it could do some pretty significant damage to my career as a writer.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

Just like that. I blinked, kind of shocked. “You will?”

“Until and unless I think doing so puts those girls or this case at further risk, sure. What the hell do I have to gain by spreading gossip about you, de Luca?” She looked at her feet, shook her head. “Shit, who’d believe it, anyway?” She actually laughed a little bit. So did Mason, but it wasn’t heartfelt. Then her face turned serious again. “In return, I want you two to give me your word, here and now, that you won’t keep anything related to this case from me again. I want full disclosure. Okay?”

Mason didn’t agree. He looked at me instead.

“Yeah. I’m good with that,” I said.

Only then did Mason say, “Me, too.”

Cantone unlocked her car, reached in and pulled a big file box out of the backseat. “Here, take these and head back to Binghamton. You can read on the way. I’ll wait here for the crime scene boys to arrive. Good enough?”

“Good enough,” I said.

* * *

I scanned files for damn near the entire two-hour drive back, but I found nothing about any of the missing girls having had any organ transplants or even major health issues. Of course, Stephanie Mattheson’s health history wasn’t in the file. Maybe she was the connection.

But I knew better. It was the dead girl. That was what it had felt like. That was whose head I’d been in. Somehow.