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  Luke took his cell phone out. He speed-dialed Swann. He found himself suddenly angry at Ed. If Ed wanted to know why they never talked about serious things, this was why. This.

  This. Was. Why.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Luke said. “Okay? This conversation never happened.”

  Ed nodded. “All right.”

  “We need to call this in, and technically, we aren’t even here.”

  Swann’s voice came on the line. There was hard rock music playing in the background.

  “Mike’s Pizza,” he said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  5:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  A Safe House

  Annieville, South Carolina

  “Wake up.”

  Clare had fallen asleep in the chair. His chin was on his chest. He opened his eyes a crack, and looked up at Luke and Ed.

  Ed slapped him across the face.

  “I said wake up.”

  That got him. His head snapped sideways with the force of the slap, and his eyes popped open wide.

  Luke went to the sink and ran some water into the metal pot. It was time for stale instant coffee. It was that darkest point of night, in the hours right before dawn. Soon the sky would begin to lighten. They had another day ahead of them.

  He was going to let Ed do the interrogating.

  They had barely spoken the entire ride back down here. Ed was such a simmering volcano of rage that Luke almost overlooked his own anger. There was going to be hell to pay. Swann had called them while they were driving. The local cops had found two more decayed bodies inside the warehouse. The South Carolina Bureau of Investigation was already on the scene.

  Clare knew more than he was letting on. Of course he did. He had given them the warehouse, maybe hoping there’d be nothing to find—just an old warehouse that criminals once used in the deep, dark past. And maybe that’s all it was, but they were going to find out. Luke wouldn’t allow Ed to kill Clare, but he was going to step aside and let Ed get the information out of him.

  “Why did you hit me?” Clare said.

  Ed squatted down close to him. Ed had the crazy eyes now. The scariest thing about Ed was not his size. It was his eyes.

  “You’re an accessory to murder, Lou.”

  Clare took a deep breath. “I didn’t do it. Whatever you found there, I didn’t do it. It’s just a place that I knew about. I don’t know anything about…”

  Ed slapped him again. And again. Ed’s hands were huge. The slaps were hard, bone rattling.

  Luke put the water on the burner and turned it to high.

  “Shut up,” Ed said. He spoke very quietly, really just a little above a whisper. “Whether you know anything about those bodies doesn’t matter. Three bodies, by the way. Children. Two in the warehouse, one in a truck parked outside. Okay?”

  Clare blinked. He said nothing.

  “Whether murder, or conspiracy, or jaywalking would stick to you doesn’t matter. You know why?”

  Ed leaned in very close to Clare’s face now. They were almost close enough to kiss. Or maybe Ed would bite him and tear the flesh from his cheek.

  “Because I’m going to kill you, Lou. And I’m going to do it slow, right here in this house, starting now. And it’s going to take a long time, and you’re going to cry and beg me to stop. Then you’re going to beg me to kill you. But I’m not going to do it like that. I’m going to do it nice and slow. You and I are going to get to know each other. I’m going to know everything about you, everything you know, and each step of the way you’re going to tell me something more. Every dirty little thing you’ve ever done. The name of every filthy bastard you’ve ever worked with. You’re going to tell me everything, all because you want to make it stop. But it’s not going to stop. Not until I think it’s enough.”

  Clare was silently weeping.

  “You can start with some names.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Clare said. “If I give you anything else, they’ll kill me.”

  Ed uttered a short bark of laughter. He spoke as if to an imbecile, someone who could not understand plain English unless you gave it to them slowly and simply.

  “You’re already dead.”

  The water was boiling. Luke looked at Ed.

  “You want coffee?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Time Unknown

  Place Unknown

  She woke with a start.

  Until a moment ago, she had been wandering in some other world—a world without pain or thoughts, without feelings or experiences. She drifted along in that dream world. She felt like an abandoned ship, floating with the tides and blown by the wind.

  Just before she opened her eyes, a thought flashed in her brain, like lightning. For a fraction of a second, it seemed like she had the answer. None of this was real. None of it had happened. There were no kidnappers.

  She had fallen asleep and it was all just a nightmare. In another second she would open her eyes and find herself right where she belonged—in her own bed in the house she shared with her mom and Jeff.

  She was wrong. Her eyes popped open and confirmed the truth. Everything she hoped was a nightmare was real. Surprisingly, her mind was clear. The drugs they had given her had worn off.

  She was in a small room. They had been keeping her here for days, or maybe weeks. It was impossible to tell any more.

  “Charlotte,” she said, barely even a whisper. The voice sounded to her like the croak of a frog.

  No one called her by that name now.

  The room was in twilight. On one dark wall, she could make out the slightly lighter square where there was a window. The window’s glass had been blacked out. But even through the gloom she could make out its shape, because of a small amount of daylight penetrating along the edges. In here, it was night. It was always night. Outside, wherever that was, the sun was rising and daytime was coming.

  She was on a wooden bed, and the bed was pushed up against the wall. Under the only light spot—the window—there was a bedside table. That was the room—bed, window, table. And across from her, a black door. There was no doorknob on this side of the door. You could not open this room from the inside.

  Memories began to flood her brain. A lump formed in her throat, and each memory that came back to her caused that lump to swell. Soon the lump was so fat, so thick, it would not let her breathe.

  She remembered sneaking out of the house that night, so clever, so smart, so daring, like a teenage James Bond. Like Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider.

  She remembered the party at Taylor’s house. She had two drinks there, vodka and tonic. Taylor was rich, and her house was incredible, of course. Jeff never tired of telling her that he and her mom were rich, too, and so was she, by the standards of normal people. But Taylor was really rich, filthy rich, crazy rich, and you could tell the difference.

  The drinks had gone straight to her head. Lights were flashing, music was pumping. She was in the heated pool, and then the hot tub with a bunch of people. It was a chilly night, but the water was hot and the water jets were pounding. It was so loud!

  Everybody was laughing. It was just that amazing feeling like life was totally ahead of you and the sky was the limit. They were all going to be rich and fabulous like Taylor one day. They would make it on their own, or Taylor would bring them with her. It didn’t matter.

  Then she was on the beach with Rob. Of course it was Rob. Big, beautiful Rob. Rob Haskins, how many girls had ended up down on the beach with him?

  Who cares? The feelings were there, so…

  Then everything was gone. It happened so suddenly. Rob was gone. She was gone. Misery, sickness, confusion. Waking up in a cage. The woman hitting her hand with a stick. Then giving her food.

  And then she was gone again.

  She remembered first waking up here. She had been bothered by that window, a window that no light came through. It made everything in the room seem dark and hostile. The first thing she did was take a look to see wh
at was wrong with it. She walked right up to it.

  The glass was painted black.

  Black. A black window? The paint was solid, caked on in several layers. And it was not painted on the inside—only the outside was painted, or maybe between the panes. A person on the inside, locked in this room, could not scratch the paint off.

  What kind of torture room is this? Who paints the windows with black paint?

  She remembered staring at the door after that. It was almost as bad as the window. It was just an ordinary wooden door, also painted black. But what was behind it? Who would come through that door?

  She watched it carefully. She did not want it to open. But her body was waking up. She was thirsty and she was hungry.

  When was the last time I ate? On the plane?

  The plane to where?

  Where am I? Why am I here?

  After a little while, she realized she needed to go pee. She looked around the room. There was nowhere to go in here. Time passed, and the feeling became worse. Now she couldn’t hold her bladder much longer. She was nauseated from hunger, and from thirst, and she needed to use the bathroom—all at the same time.

  She knew what she had to do. She had to stand up, step toward the door, and knock on it. But she couldn’t do it. She was too scared. Her heart started thumping in her chest at the thought of it. Who would open the door? What would she say to that person?

  What if the door never opened?

  She couldn’t bear it much longer—she needed to go to the bathroom!

  She got up and moved toward the door. Her heartbeat was so loud that it seemed to fill the whole empty room. If there was someone on the other side of that door, he could probably hear her heart, too.

  There were no sounds outside this room. She tapped on the door, three times. Suddenly, someone behind the door was moving toward it. A shadow was there, on the other side. Some sort of bolts, one near the top and one near the bottom, were pulled back. The door opened.

  The first thing she saw was a rifle that hung across a man’s chest, with the barrel up high and the gun’s strap around the man’s neck. After a moment of shock, she saw the man himself. He was small and dark, with deep-set eyes. He had dark hair. He wore a green uniform. His arm rested on the barrel of his rifle, which was strapped on so high, it was almost to his chin. The gun seemed so natural on him it was almost as if he was born with it attached.

  The man looked at her without emotion.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said.

  The man said nothing. His eyes were flat. She knew he understood her, because he jerked his head to the side, indicating the way. He took a step back and let her come out, then positioned himself in front of her. She followed him.

  They moved down a narrow stone hallway. It seemed like they were underground, or in a submarine deep beneath the ocean. The trip took no more than a dozen steps. There was an unpainted wooden door at the end of the hall with the initials WC carved into it. The man pointed at the door.

  “Bathroom?” she said.

  The man nodded and said nothing.

  She pushed the door open and rushed in. The tiny room afforded her a small sense of privacy. It was tiny, maybe three or four feet across. The walls were painted dark green. The toilet itself was gross, disgusting. There was a dark circle of rust inside the bowl.

  She suddenly realized that she hadn’t showered in a long time. She wanted to wash her hands very badly. She wanted to wash her entire body. But it wasn’t to be. There was no sink in this room. There was no shower.

  She came out. The guard was leaning against the wall like a statue. He was like some tool that had been left behind, a mop maybe, or a vacuum cleaner. When he saw her, he nodded his head, directing her back to the room where she woke up. She was supposed to go back to the room. She was going to be a prisoner inside there.

  He put her inside the small and dark room again. She heard him on the other side, fiddling with the bolts, sliding them back into place. Then she was locked in and silence fell. No sounds. No sunlight. No people. Nothing at all. She was just utterly alone.

  She drifted, dozed, and fell asleep.

  Only to wake up again, now, in the same horrible place. She stared across at the black door, realizing what had awakened her this time. Someone had pulled back the bolts. Maybe the man with the gun had returned. Maybe he was going to hurt her. Maybe he was going to kill her.

  The door creaked open, light from the outside hallway flooding in. She blocked her eyes with her hand. A silhouette stood there.

  “Good morning, 21,” a woman’s voice said.

  It was the woman from the airplane. “I’m Mistress Elaine,” she said. “You may have forgotten. You should call me Mistress.”

  The woman was dressed in a bright green wrap, over what appeared to be a yellow-green one-piece bathing suit. She had a sun hat on her head, with sunglasses perched on top. She wore sandals on her feet. In one hand, she held a rod or switch like the one she had wielded on the airplane.

  “It’s time for you to get out of bed,” the woman said. “Today is your big day, and we need to get you prepped and looking your best.”

  “What is the big day?” Charlotte said. Her voice still sounded like a croak. Her vocal cords were out of use. Her lips were chapped. Her throat felt dry. She could use a glass of water. Or a gallon.

  “Today’s the day you meet him,” the woman said. “I hope you brought your appetite, because we’re going to have a nice breakfast on the patio, then get you all cleaned up and beautiful for him. You’ll want to make a good first impression.”

  “Who is he?”

  The woman’s stark emerald eyes seemed to show surprise. “Don’t you know by now? He’s the man who owns you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  8:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Pistol Pete’s Van & Truck Rental

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  “This was supposed to be an easy job.”

  Luke was tired. Usually by now, twenty-four hours into an operation without sleep, he would have reached for a Dexedrine. Probably more than one. But he hadn’t brought any, and neither had Ed.

  They were sitting in the car across a busy road from the truck rental lot, Pistol Pete’s Van & Truck Rental. Morning traffic zipped by in each direction. A tall, heavyset guy had arrived half an hour ago. He had turned the sign in the office window around from CLOSED to OPEN just a few minutes ago.

  Luke was on the phone with Trudy. They had passed her all of the names and places Louis Clare had given them. It was a long list. When he broke, he broke like a wave. They had left him tied up at the safe house. A couple of agents from the South Carolina Bureau of Investigation were on their way there. They were going to take him into custody, a little more official this time.

  Clare was going to be answering a lot of questions in the days ahead. Or he could choose to remain silent instead. He did have that right.

  “Swann just came in,” Trudy said. “We’re going to feed this stuff into intelligence and police databases all day, see what turns up. Mug shots, aliases, who’s alive and who’s dead, who’s in jail, who might be in that area. It’s a lot.”

  “Good,” Luke said. “Can you do me one more favor?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Name it.”

  “Can you send a prescription of Dexedrine pills for Sem Goethals to a pharmacy around here? I’m beat.”

  “Luke!”

  “Just let me know,” he said.

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, drink some coffee.”

  “I’m long past coffee, darling.”

  She hung up.

  Luke looked at Ed. Ed was in the driver’s seat. Ed’s eyes were bloodshot. The lids were heavy. His jaw was lined with dark stubble.

  “You look worse than I feel,” Luke said.

  Ed shook his head. “You ready?”

  Luke nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  They climbed out of the car and crossed th
e street. Luke held a slip of paper with half the license plate number of the van in question. That was the best the cameras could do—white Ford van, with a South Carolina commercial vehicle plate starting with LPJ. That was a lot. A van fitting that description was available for rent from this location.

  They entered the lot. Before going to the office, they walked slowly down the line of rental vehicles, inspecting the plates. There were only about twenty vans on the whole lot. This was going to take all of five minutes.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  Luke looked up. Now he knew he was tired.

  The man who had arrived stood there, twenty feet away, with a pump action shotgun. He wore work coveralls, and a denim baseball cap. A large belly, like a beach ball, protruded from his coveralls. He held the gun cradled in his thick arms, pointed at the sky. The man had simply appeared there, as if out of nowhere.

  Instantly Luke and Ed had their guns out, pointed at the man.

  “Drop it!” Ed said.

  “FBI,” Luke said.

  The man raised one meaty hand, but still held the shotgun with the other.

  “Drop it!” Ed said again. “Now. FBI.”

  A long, dangerous second passed.

  “It’s an expensive gun,” the man said. “I ain’t about to drop it.”

  “Then put it down slowly.”

  The man placed the shotgun on the ground, moving as though he was underwater. He raised both hands.

  “Pistol Pete?” Luke said, still targeting the man’s center mass.

  The man nodded. “The very same.”

  Luke indicated the shotgun. “What happened to the pistol?”

  Pistol Pete shrugged. “Times have changed. A pistol won’t do anymore.”

  Luke and Ed did not lower their weapons.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” Luke said.

  Pistol Pete nodded. “I suppose. The white van.”

  “Yes.”

  Pistol Pete shook his head. He spoke as though he wasn’t being held at gunpoint. “I knew it was a mistake when I saw him. Man came in here the day before the girl got taken. Wanted to rent a van for cash. Anonymous, no questions asked. Willing to pay three times the price.”