“He didn’t even have a weapon, but they just scattered.” She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump congealing in her throat. “Left me behind.”
“What happened next?” Wade prompted gently.
“He picked me up and carried me to the van, then choked me until I blacked out.”
“And when you came around?” Wade’s even tone betrayed no emotion. He was in interview mode.
“I’d start to fight, and he would hit me in the head. Kept me disoriented.” She continued to concentrate on Wade, who anchored her to the present as she sank deeper into the past. “I was dizzy and sluggish. I remember him pulling off my clothes and taping my wrists and ankles together. He also taped my mouth.”
“Do you remember what kind of tape he used?”
She tried to dredge up a clearer picture. “No.”
“What color was it?”
“It was dark. I don’t remember.”
No doubt sensing her agitation, Wade moved on. “Please don’t take this next question the wrong way, but I have to ask to understand what personality type he is.” He waited until she acknowledged him before speaking. “Did you fight him?”
“Like my life depended on it.”
“How did he respond?”
“The more I struggled against him, the more violent he got. Actually, I think it turned him on.”
Wade gave her a brief nod as if he’d been expecting that answer. “Okay, what happened next?”
“He opened the van’s back doors. There were trees around. A lot of trees. He dragged me out, threw me over his shoulder like a bag of sand, and carried me to a shed. It looked small, but sturdy.”
She stopped, gathering herself for the next part. Wade did not push her. Everyone waited for her to take up her story.
“After he got me inside, he shut the door and laid me facedown on a steel table. He used nylon rope to bind my left wrist to a pole at the upper left corner. Once I was secure, he cut the tape off, grabbed my right wrist, and tied that to the other corner. He did the same to my ankles.”
“So he made sure you were restrained at all times?” Wade asked.
“I couldn’t get away.” It came out as a whisper.
“It’s okay,” Wade said, his voice low and soothing. “Then what?”
“He disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back, he was wearing a black cloak with his mask and gloves still on.”
“What did his cloak look like?”
“I was on my stomach, but I could see that it was long and opened in the front. He had a rope tied around his waist.”
“You’re doing good. Go ahead.”
She wasn’t certain if anyone but Wade had read the Fairfax County police case report and knew exactly what had happened to her. She had planned to compartmentalize, shifting into her investigative role to create emotional distance. Her goal had been to recite the facts as if they had happened to someone else and she was merely reporting them, but the images from that night had assaulted her, threatening to overwhelm her. Steeling herself with thoughts of Sofia Garcia-Figueroa, she plowed on.
“He kept touching the marks on my back. Said he . . . he wished he had been the one to give them to me.” She paused, rethinking her words. “Actually, he said ‘bestow’ them on me, like he was talking about an award.”
Apparently, the fuzzy bits of memory Wade had found problematic during her application process were beginning to clear a bit.
“I’m sure this must be difficult.” Wade’s tone grew sympathetic. “What did he do after that?”
She rubbed damp palms against her slacks, readying herself for the next part. “He took out a cigarette and lit it. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He talked to me the whole time, asking me questions about the belt marks and whether I cried when I got them. That’s also when he asked me to tell him my name.”
Breck’s hand went to her mouth as she listened.
“Did he specifically mention belt marks?” Wade asked.
She closed her eyes, scouring her subconscious for details. “I believe he did.”
A note of urgency tinged Wade’s voice. “How would he know a belt made those marks?”
She knew where Wade was going with this line of questioning. He was working on the assumption that the unsub knew her before he had taken her. She punched a hole in his theory. “The welts were fresh. I’d only gotten them a few days earlier. He could probably still see where the buckle had cut the skin. Pretty obvious what caused them.”
Wade tried a more direct approach. “Can you recall seeing him before that night?”
A question the police had asked a thousand times. One she had asked herself many times more.
“I can’t.”
Wade studied her in silence, taking her measure. The air conditioner kicked on, its hum filling the air around them. “What did he do with the cigarette?”
He knew damn well what the monster had done with the cigarette.
“He used it on my back three times.” Her pulse raced, but she held herself still, unflinching with her answer. “He made a triangle. A burn hole at each point.”
She remembered the sound of her own scream drowning out the sizzle as the glowing tip seared her. The odor of burning flesh reaching her nose. Her chest heaving against the cold steel as she braced herself between each contact of the cigarette against her bare skin, once on each shoulder blade, and finally in the center of her lower back.
She didn’t want to go on but knew she had to. Something she recalled could provide a clue to stop the monster, some seemingly insignificant detail that had never come up before. She owed Sofia that. And she owed whoever he undoubtedly had in his sights right now.
“After he finished, he seemed . . . excited. He untied the rope around the cloak’s waist and spread the front open.” Pulse pounding, she proceeded to describe all three times the monster had raped her. He had held her for hours, repositioning her between each assault.
Wade listened without interruption. When she finished, he asked, “Did he say anything to you at that time?”
“He laid on top of me. Spoke into my ear.” She scrunched her eyes closed, willing his words to come to her. “Dammit, I can’t remember what he said.”
“It’s okay,” Wade said, unable to hide his disappointment.
After that, she answered every one of their questions in turn. Yes, he had worn a fresh condom each time. No, he hadn’t bitten her. Yes, he had struck her repeatedly. No, he hadn’t broken any bones, but she had sprained her left wrist trying to get away.
She felt spent. Mentally and physically drained. But it wasn’t over yet.
“How did you escape?” Wade said, moving on with obvious reluctance.
“After he was . . . done with me, he left. I was still tied to the table, and I could only move a little. He had hurt me.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “A lot. I was soaked with sweat. My hands were so damp, they were sliding on the plastic rope. I kept pulling. My hands are small. I made them narrower like this.” She raised her arm, tucking her thumb into her palm to demonstrate. “I kept pulling until my left hand slid out. After that, I managed to untie myself.”
Wade’s brow went up. “You didn’t know when or if he was coming back, did you?”