wouldn’t cross you. Okay, okay. Sure.” G pressed the red button on his cell and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt. It felt suddenly very tight.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I walked into the Motel 6 lobby at quarter past nine, and I was thinking that I ought to switch hotels soon. I decided to give it the night. Mr. Granderson was at his usual post behind the desk. He looked up, saw me, and backed up a step.
“Oh, Mr. Spector, uhm, or is it Willoughby?”
I definitely needed to switch hotels. “What’s the problem?”
He squinted like he was bracing for a punch. “The-there’s no problem,” he muttered. “It’s just that you have messages. Two of them.” He handed me two slips of paper. I thanked him and walked away. The first message was from Doctor Shepherd at the hospital. The second was from the FBI agent, Deanna Rezvani. Both were marked: Urgent.
Chapter 11
I passed the business center, half expecting to see the old man ignoring his granddaughter again, but I found it empty. Maybe he finally figured out that little girls like to go outside and play.
My room felt empty too—thankfully—not even a trace of Shade-vibe, so I put my case on the bed and picked up the phone. Dr. Shepherd first. Got voice mail. Agent Rezvani next. Voice mail again. So much for urgent.
I took a shower, making the water so hot it stung. Steam enveloped me. I let my head rest on the shower wall. The resetting began. I felt my flesh tighten. Everything about me began to feel sturdier and stronger.
But I was still angry. I’d been at it two days now, and while some of the evidence I’d turned up was promising—especially the sailboat dealer—I still hadn’t rescued anyone. Those women in the pictures were still out there, kenneled up like beasts. I pounded the wall with a taut fist. Inexcusable, unfathomable, egregious—evil.
A flash of images—the blade, the creepy smile, the kennels. My stomach lurched, and I almost lost it. Those women…precious, precious lives being degraded like that and snuffed out. Beautiful children with hopes and dreams—each life of inestimable value—suddenly gone. I thought of the killer. I pounded the wall, caving a square of fiberglass inward.
“Ignorant, bloodthirsty, fool!” the words blasted from my lungs. I came that close, but I caught myself before it was too late. There’d be a time for unleashing all of the pent up indignation, the righteous anger, the collective fury of retribution—the rage. But for now, I needed to think clearly. It started and ended with the photos. What was I missing?
The FBI files revealed that the original Smiling Jack photos had been released over a span of four years. In the earliest photos, there were always shots of the victims to come, threats that he would continue to kill. The second batch of photos began to appear four years after the last photo of the first series. And, it had been four years since the last photo of the last series before the photos I’d discovered on the camera. What was it about four years?
The photos I’d obtained on the camera continued the pattern. And now, according to Agent Rezvani, the shots were all over the web. Jack was making a new power play. He’d murdered the woman with red hair, and rubbed it in our faces. But there were young women still alive. Five, if the number of doghouses meant anything.
Until more photos surfaced, I couldn’t know for certain. But, I needed to operate under the assumption that every day I delayed, was another day of hell for women who were still alive. I wondered about that.
What is their existence like? Being treated like animals, degraded, and likely abused—I dared not imagine the potential variety of horrors. And yet, in the photos, the women wore that same ghastly, contented smile. Drugged? But what sort of drug would keep someone grinning while her life’s blood drained away? That would be another question for Dr.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I walked into the Motel 6 lobby at quarter past nine, and I was thinking that I ought to switch hotels soon. I decided to give it the night. Mr. Granderson was at his usual post behind the desk. He looked up, saw me, and backed up a step.
“Oh, Mr. Spector, uhm, or is it Willoughby?”
I definitely needed to switch hotels. “What’s the problem?”
He squinted like he was bracing for a punch. “The-there’s no problem,” he muttered. “It’s just that you have messages. Two of them.” He handed me two slips of paper. I thanked him and walked away. The first message was from Doctor Shepherd at the hospital. The second was from the FBI agent, Deanna Rezvani. Both were marked: Urgent.
Chapter 11
I passed the business center, half expecting to see the old man ignoring his granddaughter again, but I found it empty. Maybe he finally figured out that little girls like to go outside and play.
My room felt empty too—thankfully—not even a trace of Shade-vibe, so I put my case on the bed and picked up the phone. Dr. Shepherd first. Got voice mail. Agent Rezvani next. Voice mail again. So much for urgent.
I took a shower, making the water so hot it stung. Steam enveloped me. I let my head rest on the shower wall. The resetting began. I felt my flesh tighten. Everything about me began to feel sturdier and stronger.
But I was still angry. I’d been at it two days now, and while some of the evidence I’d turned up was promising—especially the sailboat dealer—I still hadn’t rescued anyone. Those women in the pictures were still out there, kenneled up like beasts. I pounded the wall with a taut fist. Inexcusable, unfathomable, egregious—evil.
A flash of images—the blade, the creepy smile, the kennels. My stomach lurched, and I almost lost it. Those women…precious, precious lives being degraded like that and snuffed out. Beautiful children with hopes and dreams—each life of inestimable value—suddenly gone. I thought of the killer. I pounded the wall, caving a square of fiberglass inward.
“Ignorant, bloodthirsty, fool!” the words blasted from my lungs. I came that close, but I caught myself before it was too late. There’d be a time for unleashing all of the pent up indignation, the righteous anger, the collective fury of retribution—the rage. But for now, I needed to think clearly. It started and ended with the photos. What was I missing?
The FBI files revealed that the original Smiling Jack photos had been released over a span of four years. In the earliest photos, there were always shots of the victims to come, threats that he would continue to kill. The second batch of photos began to appear four years after the last photo of the first series. And, it had been four years since the last photo of the last series before the photos I’d discovered on the camera. What was it about four years?
The photos I’d obtained on the camera continued the pattern. And now, according to Agent Rezvani, the shots were all over the web. Jack was making a new power play. He’d murdered the woman with red hair, and rubbed it in our faces. But there were young women still alive. Five, if the number of doghouses meant anything.
Until more photos surfaced, I couldn’t know for certain. But, I needed to operate under the assumption that every day I delayed, was another day of hell for women who were still alive. I wondered about that.
What is their existence like? Being treated like animals, degraded, and likely abused—I dared not imagine the potential variety of horrors. And yet, in the photos, the women wore that same ghastly, contented smile. Drugged? But what sort of drug would keep someone grinning while her life’s blood drained away? That would be another question for Dr.
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