Say You're Sorry Page 3

  That fucking dog. Its yapping had distracted him. I should have just shot the stupid thing. His hesitation had ruined his plan for tonight, might even have put him in jeopardy. He’d need to take care of the blonde. He didn’t think she could identify him, but he’d spoken to her. And she’d been way too savvy for her own good, no matter that she’d first appeared to be just another teenager.

  She hadn’t been that young, though. Close up, he’d seen her eyes. The grim determination that came from experience. She had old eyes. And she’d seen enough of him that he needed to be worried about her. He’d have to get rid of her.

  Of course, he had to find out who she was first. He’d need to wait until the next morning to look at the log of all the calls taken by 911.

  Stripping off his clothes, he shoved them in a bag to be burned. He’d already discarded the stocking he’d worn over his face as well as the coat and gloves. Those he’d soaked in gasoline and set on fire, burning them in the barbecue grill of a deserted park until they were stinking blobs of melted plastic.

  The stocking mask had been a huge mistake. He’d known it in the back of his mind the whole time he was buying the stockings, prepping, and dragging the mask over his head. He usually carried at least one disguise in his duffel bag, but he hadn’t had it with him when he’d left the house that morning to go to work.

  It was just supposed to have been a staff meeting. No big.

  But it was big. It was a disaster. He hadn’t been prepared for the news. For how it would feel, everyone staring at him with pity because his own father was selling the company, putting them all out of a job. That his father hadn’t even had the nerve to face them himself, sending his assistant to deliver the proclamation that the new owners would be replacing them with their own people, that the current employees would be receiving severance benefits depending on how long they’d been with the company.

  He hadn’t been prepared for how much it had ripped him apart. How his world had just collapsed. His rage had taken over and it was all he’d been able to do to escape the meeting without breaking his father’s assistant into little pieces.

  He’d needed something—or someone—on which to vent his rage, and he’d needed it right then. Hell, he needed it right now. Fucking blond bitch.

  He stepped into the bathroom he’d installed in the basement and stared at his reflection. “Goddammit,” he hissed as the full impact of what he was seeing hit him hard.

  Deep red scratches scored his flesh, which was bad enough. Forensics would have skin samples. They’ll have my DNA.

  But even worse . . . The locket was missing. The moment rushed back, stealing his breath. It had been when the blonde had grabbed for a hold on his coat, right before she’d kneed him in the nuts.

  “Bitch.” She’d be so sorry she’d done that. Once he got his hands on her . . . He fantasized her on her knees, begging his forgiveness. She’d tell him she was sorry. They always said they were sorry. Eventually.

  More pressing was the likelihood that the police would find his fingerprints on the locket. He’d caught himself rubbing the silver heart from time to time since taking it from his last victim. But he’d worn gloves tonight, so hopefully his prints had been rubbed off.

  Either way, they’d have to catch him first before using the physical evidence against him. He wouldn’t be popping up in any of their databases. I just won’t get caught. Simple enough.

  He started the shower and stepped under the spray, wishing he weren’t on duty for the next few days. Otherwise he’d smoke some weed and calm down. But there was always a chance that he’d be chosen for a random drug test, which would pick that shit up.

  He ran his hands over the scratches at the base of his throat, hoping whatever they’d scrape from under the bitch’s nails wouldn’t be too damning. He needed to figure out how much the cops knew.

  He was edgy. Too jumpy. He needed to calm the fuck down. He needed a woman in the basement bed. Now he wished he hadn’t dispatched the last one so quickly. He normally kept them alive for a long time, using them to slake his rage, but Miriam had made him so furious. So get yourself another houseguest. That he could do.

  Tomorrow. After work. You can hunt tomorrow. Take off the edge. And then his mind would be clear and he’d figure out how to eliminate the blonde.

  He’d been operating under the radar for years. He wasn’t about to allow a loose end to jeopardize that now.

  Tonight, he needed to sleep. He left the basement, taking the stairs two at a time. Hopefully, a run would tire him out enough to sleep.

  He opened the back door and clucked his tongue. “Mutt,” he called softly. “Come here, boy.” The Airedale mix trotted in from the backyard, dropping to sit just inside the kitchen door, lifting his paws, one at a time, so that they could be dried off. Mutt was very smart. He’d learned that trick within days of being brought home.

  He wondered if Mutt’s previous owner had done the same. It was a possibility. Seattle was known for its rain and the woman who’d been walking him had seemed the fastidious type. Janice Fiddler had been her name. He’d been unable to transport Janice to his basement guest room, finishing her off in her own basement instead, but she’d provided him with the best of souvenirs.

  Mutt was good company.

  TWO

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 10:30 P.M.

  Gideon found Rafe Sokolov leaning against the wall outside one of the SacPD interview rooms, waiting for him. Big and blond with a relaxed air that made him appear far younger than he really was, Rafe always looked more like a surfing frat boy than a cop. But few cops were as smart and there was no one on the planet Gideon trusted more.

  Rafe gave him a considering look. “Did you talk to Mercy?”

  “Yeah. Right after I hung up with you.”

  “Figured as much. She okay?”

  Gideon shrugged. “As okay as she can be.”

  Rafe opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head.

  “What?” Gideon snapped, but felt instant remorse. None of this was Rafe’s fault. The man had been there for him when everything had gone to shit. Had helped him pick up the pieces. “Sorry. It’s . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Rafe said quietly. “Talking to Mercy messes you up. I get it. I was just going to say that the two of you would benefit from counseling, but I knew you’d say no, so I edited myself.”

  Gideon nodded, because that was exactly what he would have said. “Where is Miss Dawson?”

  Rafe gestured to the closed door. “In there with Erin.”

  Erin Rhee had been Rafe’s partner for the past year. She seemed sharp. Most importantly, she had Rafe’s back. “So you two took the case?” Gideon asked.

  “Yes.”

  Gideon eyed him sharply. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  Rafe eyed him right back. “Because?” he challenged.

  “Because she’s ‘like a sister’? Your words, not mine.”

  Rafe waved his hand vaguely. “She’s an old family friend.”

  “That’s what you’re going with? What about the fact that you’re her landlord?”

  Rafe scowled. “I was first on the scene.”

  “Because she called you, didn’t she?”

  Rafe’s scowl deepened. “Right now we’re calling it an attempted abduction and assault with a weapon,” he said, ignoring Gideon’s question, which was answer enough. “We’ll investigate the reference to other victims and see what turns up. I wanted you to see this first.” He pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket. Inside was the silver locket, and Gideon’s questions about Daisy Dawson evaporated. Rafe’s eyes softened, his expression concerned, and Gideon realized the real reason for Rafe’s insistence.

  To protect me. Because he knows this is going to hurt me. Gratitude welled, leaving Gideon without words, but Raf
e clearly understood.

  “Daisy pulled this off her attacker’s neck,” Rafe murmured.

  Gideon took the small bag and held it up to the light, clenching his jaw against the sudden wave of nausea that swept over him. Yes, he knew this locket. Well, not this exact locket, but . . . Yeah. He’d seen more than his fair share of them. He’d hated them all once he’d grown old enough to understand what they’d represented. Slavery. Possession. Their wearers pawns in a chess game they didn’t fully understand until it was too late.

  “It’s the same design, isn’t it? The same one you had tattooed right here?” Rafe tapped his left pectoral. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen it, I wasn’t sure.”

  Yeah, it was the same design. With the exception of the number of branches on the olive tree. The tree on the locket had twelve branches. The tree on his tattoo had thirteen.

  It made him want to throw up.

  “Gid?” Rafe softly prompted.

  Gideon made himself speak, grateful Rafe had allowed him to see the locket in relative privacy. “Yeah.” His voice was rough. Rusty. “It’s the same.” From his pocket he pulled the photograph he’d taken from the wooden box in his living room. Two teenaged boys, one golden, one dark, both shirtless, arms slung over the other’s shoulders, grinning happily. The tattoo on Gideon’s chest could be clearly seen.

  “I remember this,” Rafe murmured. “It was my birthday. We went river tubing.”

  Gideon remembered the day perfectly, one of the nicest Gideon had ever had. Only a month before he’d found Mercy and his life had been forever changed—again. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

  Rafe looked up from the photo. “The design is exactly as I remembered. What can you tell me about the locket?”

  “The original owner’s name is Miriam.” Gideon hoped she was somewhere safe. “She wouldn’t have just taken it off and left it somewhere. It was purposefully removed, the chain cut off her.” He spoke dispassionately. It was the only way he knew how to talk about it. About them. “With bolt cutters.”

  Rafe’s brows lifted. “Excuse me?”

  Gideon pointed to the delicate silver chain in the evidence bag. “This is not the original chain. The locket would have been hanging from a heavier chain that required a lot of strength to break. Strength none of the women had.”

  “So every woman who had a locket had a similar chain.”

  “Not just every woman who had a locket. Every woman. They all wore a locket.”

  Rafe blinked. “Like a . . . what? A symbol of membership?”

  “Ownership,” Gideon corrected. “The locket sat at the hollow of their throats, but the chain was never long enough for the wearer to pull over her head. It was, however, long enough to be used as a ‘teaching tool.’” He said the two words mockingly.

  “Teaching tool?”

  “Her husband or any of the other men could grab the chain at the back of her neck and pull until she couldn’t breathe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they could,” Gideon said flatly. “There was no clasp. It was welded. The wearer would likely have a scar somewhere on her neck.”

  “A burn?” Rafe asked, looking appropriately horrified. “From the welding?”

  “Yes. At least one. Most wearers would have to be refitted as they grew. Links would be added to the chain. Miriam would have received her locket on her twelfth birthday. How many times she had to be refitted depended on how much larger she grew over her lifetime.”

  “So this is more like the collar that a dom puts on a sub.”

  Gideon nodded. “Yes. Although it wasn’t seen as a kink to the women who wore them. It was more like a wedding ring, although they wore those, too.”

  “So she got the locket on her twelfth birthday. Do I want to know at what age she would have gotten the wedding ring?”

  Gideon studied the locket so he wouldn’t have to look at his friend’s expression. “Also on her twelfth birthday.”

  Rafe drew a breath and let it out carefully. “And the tattoo you used to have?”

  Used to. Because he’d had it altered. Had a new tat inked over it, obliterating that particular reminder of his past. “What about it?”

  “When did you get it?”

  Gideon swallowed hard, pushing the memory away. Not about getting the tattoo itself, but what had followed later that night, after his birthday celebration was over. The night that still haunted his worst nightmares, seventeen years later.

  “On my thirteenth birthday.”

  Rafe looked like he wanted to ask more, so Gideon plowed forward. “Miriam would have been her given name. She might go by a nickname, though.”

  “Like Mercy?” Rafe asked.

  Gideon nodded again, not wanting to think about his sister. Not here. Not in public. Not when he was barely holding on to his composure. “Or Midge or Mir or Mimi.” Miriam had been a popular name. There had been a need for many nicknames.

  Rafe was quiet for a long moment. “I know you don’t like to talk about this.”

  Gideon chuckled bitterly. “That’s the understatement of the century.” But he’d forced himself to do so, the first time to the cop who’d come to see him in the hospital, five days after his thirteenth birthday. Four days after his escape. One day after he’d finally regained consciousness. The cop had been kind. Compassionate.

  He might have even believed me. Of that, Gideon still was uncertain.

  However, he’d never told Rafe. Not even after finding Mercy in foster care, traumatized and scared. He’d been seventeen. She’d been thirteen. He’d known what had put that haunted look in her eyes. He’d understood. And he’d wanted to rage at God, the universe, the man—or, God forbid, men—who’d hurt her.

  She’d never talked about it. Not once in all the years since he’d found her. Maybe he should have pushed her.

  But he hadn’t wanted to push her away. Which happened anyway. Now she lived in New Orleans, two thousand miles and two time zones away. They exchanged Christmas cards and awkward birthday voice mails. He hadn’t actually seen her in two years, and that was only because he’d been “just passing through.” He hadn’t really been. He’d made the trip because he’d specifically wanted to see her, needed to see her, to make sure she was okay. It had been the anniversary of her escape and she’d known he’d been lying about “just passing through.”

  “You know you can talk to me,” Rafe said softly. “Anytime.”

  Staring at the wall over Rafe’s shoulder, Gideon forced the words out. “I know.” He had talked about it before, in fact. Once he’d joined the FBI, he’d forced himself to tell his first boss about the community, about the abuse. The boss had opened an investigation and several agents had searched the vicinity where the community had been at the time of Gideon’s escape. But they’d found nothing, not on foot or by air. Not even by satellite photos.

  The community had been gone.

  “I’ve respected your privacy on this since the day we met, but I need to know more about . . . them.” He gestured to the locket that Gideon still held aloft. “I’m sorry.”

  Gideon managed a curt nod. Rafe had never demanded more information than Gideon had been willing to share, but that obviously was about to change and Rafe was not to blame. “I’ll tell you. But not here and not on camera.” Because it was going to be hard and Gideon didn’t want any witnesses to whatever emotions seeped out. It was going to be bad enough just telling Rafe, even though he trusted the man with his life.

  Rafe nodded. “Fair enough. Why would Daisy’s attacker have had this locket around his neck?”

  “That is a very good question. Did you open it?”

  Rafe shook his head. “No. I tried, but I couldn’t find the mechanism. I figured I’d ask you before I forced it open.”

  “There’s a trick to it.” There’d been a trick to everything there
. Everything and everyone had hidden behind a facade. He handed the evidence bag to Rafe. “Let’s take it to the lab and I’ll show you.”

  “Forensics will be here in”—Rafe checked his watch—“less than a minute to take it to the lab. We can check it out, but I’ve got to get Daisy’s statement first so that she can go home.” He looked up at the sound of footsteps. A woman in her midforties approached them, her head tilted in question.

  “You done with it?” she asked.

  “For now,” Rafe told her, giving her the small evidence bag. “Cindy, this is Special Agent Gideon Reynolds. He has some knowledge about the locket and may be consulting with us. Gideon, this is Sergeant Cindy Grimes of the Forensic Investigation Unit.”

  Gideon shook the woman’s offered hand, then watched her as she studied the locket.

  She looked up, a sparkle in her eyes. “I love these things.”

  Gideon’s brows rose. “You’ve seen one before?”

  Cindy shook her head. “Not this exact locket, no, but ones with this basic design. There’s a trick to the mechanism.”

  “Can you open it?” Gideon asked.

  “Eventually, sure. Do you know how?” She looked a little disappointed, like a kid who’d had her toy taken away.

  “I won’t spoil it for you. I’ve never seen one that was booby-trapped, so if you get it wrong, it’s not likely to self-destruct.”

  She made a face. “The responsible thing to do would be to just open it. Show me,” she said with a put-upon sigh.

  Gideon pointed to the two children kneeling in prayer. “Push the boy first, then the girl. Then the angel. It should pop right open.”

  Cindy met his gaze, hers sharp and discerning. “Patriarchal religious movement?”

  Gideon blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Olive tree and an angel. People praying. Boy first? That’s not a hard puzzle.” She gave Rafe a hard nod. “I’ll let you know if I find anything inside.”