Claire lifted her foot. The toe of her shoe was sticky where she’d accidentally stepped in the blood. She waited for the repulsion to roll over her, but she was too numb to feel anything.
Her sneaker made a Velcro-tearing sound as she walked over to the computer. Bird computer speakers on delicate stands were perched on either side of the monitor. The finish was white, because that complemented the silver bezel around the monitor, just like the white amplifier completed the system.
Claire turned the chair sideways so she could still see the door in her peripheral vision. If she was going to be attacked again, at least she would see it coming this time. She tapped the keyboard, but nothing happened. The large screen was made by Apple, but it looked nothing like the iMacs she was used to. She ran her hand along the back in search of the power button. She guessed the large white cylinder by the monitor was the computer. She pressed her fingers on the buttons until Apple’s start-up tone blasted through the speakers. Claire dialed down the sound on the amplifier.
There were cables stuck in the back of the computer, more white Thunderbolts that connected to several twenty-terabyte storage drives daisy-chained together on a metal shelf. She counted twelve drives. How many movies could fit on twelve massive drives?
Claire didn’t want to think about it. Nor did she want to stand up and examine the other equipment on the metal shelves. An old Macintosh computer. Stacks of five-inch floppy disks. A duping machine for copying VHS tapes. Multiple external disk drives for burning copies of movies. Typically, Paul was archiving the early artifacts from the family business.
Everything would be Internet-based now. Claire had watched a Frontline on PBS that showed the vast, illegal market on the dark web. Most people used the hidden Internet to illegally trade stolen movies and books, but others used it to sell drugs and trade in child porn.
Claire thought about Paul’s American Express bills with the mysterious charges they never talked about. How many private charter flights had Paul paid for but never flown? How many hotel rooms had he rented that they’d never stayed in? She had assumed the expenses were bribes to Congressman Jackson, but maybe not. Her husband was meticulous in everything he did. He wouldn’t want to raise suspicions by abducting too many girls in his own back yard. Maybe Paul was using the flights and rooms to secretly move women around the country.
And maybe the Congressman was as heavily invested in the business as Paul.
Paul had been a teenager when his father died. He was living at a military boarding school one state over. There had to have been an adult who took over Gerald Scott’s business while Paul was getting his education. Which could possibly mean that the Congressman’s mentorship had run a parallel track: One side helped Paul establish himself as a legitimate businessman, and the other made certain that the movies would still be made.
And distributed, because there had to be quite a bit of money involved in sending out these movies.
Claire had seen Johnny Jackson and Paul together on countless occasions and never put it together that they were related. Were they hiding their relationship because of the movies? Or because of the government contracts? Or was there something far more troubling that Claire had yet to uncover?
Because there was always something far more troubling with Paul. Every time she thought she’d hit bottom, he found a way to open a trap door and let her sink farther down.
Claire asked herself the obvious question about the masked man’s identity. Johnny Jackson was in his seventies. He was vigorous and athletic, but the masked man in the more recent movies was clearly younger, closer to Paul’s age. He had the same soft belly, the same hint of muscles that were too infrequently exercised at the gym.
Adam Quinn’s body had been toned. Claire hadn’t seen it, but she had felt the power in his broad shoulders and the hard muscles in his abs.
Which meant something, but she wasn’t clear what.
The computer monitor finally flashed to life. The desktop came up. As with Paul’s other computers, all of the folders were stored in the dock that ran along the bottom of the screen. She ran the mouse over the icons.
RAW.
EDITED.
DELIVERED.
Claire left the folders alone. She opened up Firefox and connected to the Internet. She typed in the words “Daryl Lassiter + murder + California.” This was the man Huckleberry had told her about, the one he believed had kidnapped and murdered Julia Carroll. At least, that’s what FBI agent and future congressman Johnny Jackson had told him.
Yahoo gave her thousands of links for Daryl Lassiter. Claire clicked on the top suggestion. The San Fernando Valley Sun had a front-page article about Lassiter’s murder during his transportation to death row. There were blurry photos of the three women he’d been convicted of killing, but nothing of Lassiter. Claire skimmed a lengthy bit about the history of California’s death penalty, then found the meat of the story.
Lassiter had abducted a woman off the street. A witness had called 911. The woman was saved, but the police had found a “mobile murder room” in the back of Lassiter’s van, including chains, a cattle prod, a machete, and various other instruments of torture. They had also found VHS tapes, and on the tapes a “masked Lassiter tortured and executed women.” The three women pictured in the article were later identified from missing persons reports.
“Joanne Rebecca Greenfield, seventeen. Victoria Kathryn Massey, nineteen. Denise Elizabeth Adams, sixteen.”
Claire read each name and age aloud, because they were human beings and because they mattered.
All of the identified girls were from the San Fernando Valley area. Claire clicked through some more links until she found a photograph of Lassiter. Carl Huckabee had not had the Internet at his fingertips back when Sam Carroll had killed himself. Even if he had, he wasn’t likely to seek confirmation of what his friend the FBI agent had told him—that the man on the tape who murdered Julia Carroll was the same man they had caught in California.
Which was why Huckleberry would have no way of knowing that while Daryl Lassiter was tall and lanky, he was also African American, with a tight Afro and a tattoo of the Angel of Death on his muscular chest.
Claire felt the last bit of her heart give way. Somewhere, somehow, she had been hoping against hope that Paul’s father had not been the man in the tape, that Julia had been murdered by this stranger with the piercing brown eyes and a dark scar running down the side of his face.
Why couldn’t she give up on him? Why could she not reconcile the Paul she had known with the Paul she now knew him to be? What sign had she missed? He was so kind to people. He was so fair about everything. He loved his parents. He never talked about having a bad childhood or being abused or any of the awful things you hear about that make men turn into demons.
Claire checked the time on the computer screen. She had another eight minutes before Paul called. She wondered if he knew what she was doing. He couldn’t monitor the cameras inside the Fuller house all of the time. He would be driving just under the speed limit, keeping both hands on the wheel, staying as unobtrusive as he could lest the highway patrol stop him and ask what he was keeping in the trunk.
Lydia would make noise. Claire had no doubt that her sister would raise hell the minute she was given the chance.
Claire just had to find a way to give her sister that chance.
She leaned her elbows on the worktop. She looked at the folders on the dock. She let the mouse hover over the one labeled EDITED. Her finger clicked the mouse. No password prompt came up, likely because if someone was in this room, they had already seen enough to guess what was stored on the computer.