“I had to work fast. The knot on my right ankle took the longest. I had regained my equilibrium by that point, but I had a terrible headache. I slid off the table, tiptoed to the door, and opened it. It was still dark, but the sun would be coming up soon. I didn’t see anyone around. The van was gone, so I took off running through the woods.”
“Still naked?” Breck spoke for the first time.
“There were no clothes in the shed, and he must have left mine in the van. Either way, my life was more important than my modesty at that point.”
Wade silenced Breck with a glare. “Go on, Nina.”
“I had to run a long way before I finally came out near some houses. I didn’t know the area but found out later that he’d taken me to Chantilly. It’s in the western part of Fairfax County, about thirty-five minutes from where he’d grabbed me.”
She thought back to her frantic search for help, her terror at knocking on the door of a stranger when she was hurt and vulnerable. A stranger who could be worse than the monster she had just escaped.
“I spotted a house with a light on and rang the doorbell. A man answered, took one look at me, and hollered for his wife. She put a blanket around me while her husband called the police.”
“What happened after the police arrived?”
“The usual. They questioned me while a couple of EMTs checked out my injuries. I was pretty traumatized.” She had drawn from the mix of adrenaline and terror coursing through her to hold herself together through countless interviews with detectives and medical personnel over the next several hours. It was only much later, finally alone after a long shower, that she had allowed herself the luxury of tears.
“Did they transport you to a hospital?”
“You mean did they do a rape kit?” she said, her tone sharper than she’d intended. “Yes. I never saw the report, so you’d probably know more than I do about the results.” Another file with information she’d never seen.
“What about the crime scene?” Wade asked.
“I was able to tell them where the shed was, but by the time they got there, it was fully engulfed. Burned to the ground in less than half an hour.”
“Who owned the land it was on?” Buxton asked.
“The estate of an elderly couple who died without a will. They’d built a house on a twenty-acre parcel of land decades earlier. Their adult children, who had all moved away, were squabbling over it. The property had been in probate for over a year. The police told me my attacker had most likely constructed the shed without anyone’s knowledge or consent. They processed what little evidence was left after the fire, but any prints, fiber, or DNA were destroyed.”
As she finished her account, something Wade had said earlier prompted a question of her own. “You kept asking about the kind of tape he used,” she asked him. “Why?”
“Might help to know if it was anything unusual. Same is true with whatever he used to cut it from your wrists and ankles. There are some military knives that can slice through parachute cords and tough fabrics.”
“I don’t recall seeing what he used.”
“I think that’s enough for now,” Buxton said a little too quickly. The tension in the room eased as he made a show of looking at his watch.
She couldn’t escape the feeling that the boss had rescued her when her memory failed her yet again. That she had somehow let the team down. She wanted desperately to unearth every scrap of information, but she had to admit that a small part of her had become too adept at pushing the details back into the dark recesses of her mind. In order to catch the monster, she would have to drag those pieces—and the pain that came with them—out from where she had carefully stowed them and into the light.
Chapter 11
Three hours later, Nina jumped as Kent thudded a pitcher of beer down on the scarred round table. Wade plunked four clear mugs beside it as he sat next to her.
Breck picked one up and poured. “The first one’s for Guerrera.”
Nina grasped the mug’s chilled handle. “Buxton’s not coming?”
Kent gestured around the room. “I get the feeling the higher-ups make it a point not to see what goes on in here.”
After a grueling day in the confines of the BAU, they had piled into one of the Bureau Suburbans to drive the short distance to the Quantico facility, where the FBI academy had its own bar. Known as the Boardroom, the venue was a destination for everyone from new agents to senior police executives from around the world attending the FBI National Academy. Depending on the evening, there might be dancing, karaoke, or card playing among those who wanted to blow off steam.
She glanced around. “Not a big crowd tonight. No one’s getting rowdy.”
Wade tipped the pitcher, sloshing amber liquid into his mug. “I think Buxton wanted us to have a chance to chat among ourselves.”
Made sense. They had been thrown together to work as a team. Wade and Kent were the only ones permanently assigned to the unit. They needed to gel in order to be productive. May as well take advantage of the opportunity.
She slid an empty mug to Kent. “I saw you studying the code on the computer a couple of hours ago. Any luck?”
“I was working with the cryptanalysts on the internal server.” Kent filled it from the pitcher before pushing it to Breck. “Breaking codes is their wheelhouse, but I wanted to focus on the unsub’s previous phraseology to see if it might shed light on this new message.”
“Kent has training in psycholinguistic analysis,” Wade said, digging through a basket of pretzels in the center of the table. “Courtesy of Uncle Sam.”
She raised a brow at Kent, inviting explanation.
“I was in Special Forces before joining the Bureau,” he said simply. “My team needed someone to assist with interrogations.” He held up a hand. “Don’t ask for details. All my missions were classified. I had an undergrad degree in psychology, so they picked me for advanced training. Paid for my master’s too.”
Breck nudged Wade’s arm. “You hunting for a peanut at the bottom of that bowl?”
Wade stopped pushing pretzels around. “I could use some protein.”
“I could, too, but peanuts won’t do it for me,” Breck said. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse and chase the rider.”
Nina smiled. “I love the way you talk, but I can’t place your accent.”
“Georgia,” Breck said. “Not Atlanta either. I’m from the Low Country, where sushi is still called bait.” She stood. “I’ll order us a pizza.”
“What drew you to study linguistics?” Nina asked Kent, far more interested in his background than food.
“It was a logical progression,” he said. “I can speak four languages, and I like to read. Words interest me.”
“What can you tell about a person from their speech?”
“Not just speech but written communication too. I can get a feel for their education level, IQ, area where they grew up, and worldview, among other things. Sometimes idiosyncratic turns of phrase can offer insight, such as when the unsub said he wished he’d been the one to ‘bestow’ the wounds on your back.” He put down his beer. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring that up again.”