Still dazed by his own audacity, Reece checked the security feeds, verifying that the front gate had locked behind him and that the motion sensors were armed and active. The system was state of the art, designed and installed by an ex–Secret Service agent for a hundred-thousand-dollar flat fee, in cash and nonnegotiable. There were eighteen cameras on the grounds, another dozen in the house.
Leaving the monitors, Reece poured a glass of I. W. Harper bourbon. He was not a big drinker, but adrenaline was making him twitchy, and this particular bourbon seemed to help.
“The only bourbon enjoyed in a hundred and ten countries.”
It was a popular slogan, and his father had enjoyed repeating it. Reece could see the old man, now, the quick wink and the quick drink.
Hurry on now before your mother gets home …
A railroad engineer, he’d died when Reece was seven, crushed between two cars after an unfortunate fall. Reece’s mother had been strong enough to hold the family together, but she’d left him, too, killed by esophageal cancer when Reece was only twelve.
Finishing the bourbon, Reece left the security monitors, and followed one of the secret corridors that crisscrossed the north wing of his house. He had other places, of course—safe spaces of his own and others that X made available—but the north wing was for someone special.
Sara was the first.
At the next corridor, Reece turned sideways to squeeze between the wall studs and plywood. A single bulb gave enough light to see, but Reece didn’t need it. He knew every corner and turn, every room beyond the gypsum board, and every safe place to watch. It’s why he’d built the north wing in the first place.
The secret places.
The watching.
He imagined the rooms as he passed them.
Bathroom, bedroom …
The girl would stir soon, and he’d be there to watch and listen. He wouldn’t touch her, of course—not for days or even weeks—but the intimate moments mattered as much: the dressing and the self-care, the small rituals enshrined in the days and nights of women across the world.
At the next intersection, Reece turned left, squeezing down another corridor.
Kitchen, living room, closet …
He stopped behind the wall of the master bedroom, where he could watch through the two-way glass or any of the small holes, so perfectly concealed. But this was the beginning, so Reece took a ladder up, and crept along the ceiling joists until he was above the bed, and could see down through the light fixture. Sara had not moved since he’d arranged her with such care: the blond hair on one shoulder, the sheet that covered her just so. He could have dressed her differently, of course, or undressed her. But Reece was a watcher first, and patient; so he closed his eyes, and in the dimness smiled.
Her name was Sara.
She was his.
* * *
When Sara woke, it was like rising through a black cloud, everything soft and supported, a slow drift upward. For a moment, she was at peace. But there’d been that splinter of a dream: gray light from the street and noise in the room, a man’s face as he’d pressed her into the bed and clamped his hand across her face. She’d tried to scream, but choked, instead, on something sickly sweet and wet, his voice horribly gentle, as he’d leaned even closer.
Breathe it in …
In her mouth and lungs, the taste, like a sickness.
That’s my good girl …
That part had been the worst: the lifted jaw and eager eyes, the small teeth in an expectant mouth. She’d tried to fight, but had no strength. A fading room. A fading self. At the end, she’d tried to beg, but the lips had gone, and the eyes had gone.
Just a dream, she thought.
But the taste was in her mouth.
Sara bolted up in a room she’d never seen.
It was real.
His sweat had dripped onto her face.
Bile filled Sara’s throat, and she puked it out onto a bedspread as pale and pink as the walls around her. She saw a metal headboard painted white, curtains the color of turned cream. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t unsee the room.
It was a bedroom.
She had no clothes.
She buried her face in a strange pillow; afraid to scream, afraid he would come.
Him.
He.
All she knew were the strong hands and the moon of his face, the open mouth and the teeth, like a child’s teeth.
That’s my girl, he’d said.
My good, good girl.
Sara screamed into the pillow; she had to. She wanted to be sick again, to make herself empty; but reality was the one thing she couldn’t vomit out. When that fantasy passed, she went looking for her courage. To do it, she kept her eyes closed, and focused on her heartbeat, then on the breath in her lungs. She reminded herself of all that she’d survived in twenty-seven years: the bad boyfriends and the back-alley abortion, the fight with her parents and the year she’d lived rough in Haight-Ashbury.
When she thought she could, she opened her eyes. A wooden floor. Baseboards painted white. Risking more, she saw a wooden chest at the foot of the bed, a dresser with a lace doily, a vase of plastic daisies. Small rugs lay on the floor. There was a vanity, a mirror, framed photographs of people she’d never seen.
Covering herself with a blanket, she picked up one of the photographs, a black-and-white shot of a young family in front of a roller coaster and clapboarded buildings with signs advertising beer and popcorn and ocean bathing. A small boy held a bag of peanuts. Only the father was smiling.
Sara put the picture down.
No noise in the room.
There were curtains but no windows.
At the bedroom door, she listened but heard nothing.
He would be on the other side.
He had to be.
Moving quickly, Sara checked under the bed and beneath the vanity. The dresser drawers were filled with old-fashioned undergarments; the clothes in the closet were equally dated. Dressing numbly, she saw herself in the mirror, hollowed out and pale as soap, a strange woman in a pencil skirt and fitted blouse.
“Not me,” she said. “Not like Tyra.”
She opened the door, and stepped into a hallway with a pink bathroom on one side and a second bedroom on the other. The hallway ended at a kitchen.
Still, no windows.
Crying openly, she staggered into the next room, and stumbled against a rolltop desk. The room was small, but there was a door and an umbrella stand. That meant, exit, outside, escape. Sara ran for the door, and tore at the lock, metal giving as she jerked at the knob, and the chain snapped tight.
“Shit! Shit!”
She fumbled at the slide, tore skin. The chain dropped, and she heaved at the door. Beyond it was a second one made of steel. No handle or lock. Not even hinges.
“No! No! No!”
Sara pounded metal until her hands ached.
“No, please…”
She slid to the floor.
“Not like Tyra.”
28
The guards came midmorning, this time Jordan and Kudravetz. They took Jason to the subbasement, and there was no question of X’s intent. Stripped down to fighting shorts, he stood barefoot on swept stone, the glint in his eyes cold, critical, and eager.
When the guards left, X leveled those eyes at Jason. “I assume we still understand each other?”
“You made your point perfectly clear. Nothing has changed.”