Fragmented (25 page)

44

Thursday –
7:50 a.m.

For the
past hour, Jessica Baker’s eyelids fluttered open and shut. She remembered a dark and empty room void of sound or movement. Then she saw a window with shafts of gold and yellow light filtering through a dirty curtain. Then she was back in the dark. Different times, different places. She was being moved, but where? There was no way to know how much time had passed during those brief moments of consciousness. But for each of them she was conscious. She was still alive.

Jessica shifted, arms and legs bound from behind, trying to find a position to stop the pain radiating up her back. A short rope ran along her spine and connected her wrists to her ankles, keeping her from standing, contact points rubbing the skin raw and numb. She managed to cope with her cramped legs, but her head was in a bleary haze from a combination of stress and fear, and the lack of insulin was making her panic. She tried repeatedly to convince herself that this was all just a bad dream. But she couldn’t.

As she rolled to her left side, perspiration dripping down her forehead, the air in the room hot and heavy with the smell of dust, her body pressed deep into a pile of clothes, rags on top of some kind of dirty cushion left flat on the floor. It reeked of age. Whatever she was lying on, it hugged close to her skin, damn near suffocating her; it didn’t allow her body heat to dissipate, causing her to swelter in a slick pool of sweat. She was so tired and dazed, she didn’t much care.

Jessica noticed a thin strip radiating beyond her ankles, and she tried to focus her blurry vision. The glow became clearer. A gap between the bottom edge of a door and the hardwood floor. She tilted her head upward, eyes following the dark seam of the doorframe. Halfway up she spotted a pinpoint glimmer of reflective light bouncing off a curved surface. A brass doorknob. Suddenly Jessica felt a spark of hope. If she could get to the handle, maybe she could find her way out. She paused and listened for her captor but only heard the sound of her own heartbeat and labored breath. Straining to hear over the noise, searching for any signs of life on the other side of the door, she sucked a lungful of air, then forced her legs as straight as possible, pushing against the door. It bowed, allowing a sliver of white to filter around the edges. She tried it again, but it would not give. She realized she didn’t have the power to kick it open. The energy needed was more than she had and she was growing weaker by the minute.

If she could gain more leverage, more extension, perhaps she could pop the latch. Jessica spotted a tarp slung over a pile of junk three feet high. Unable to use her hands, she lurched forward with her jaw, biting down on the edge of it, and yanked her head back. She rocked, trying to gain enough momentum to roll off the stacks of clothing. The tarp pulled partially away, revealing a small collection of framed paintings and photos, which tilted, then tumbled onto Jessica’s face. The weight of the frames and glass pinned the tarp over her nose and mouth, causing her to cry out. Jessica struggled, flailing, fighting to shake the tarp from her face so that she could breathe. She twisted and broke free of the heavy objects. The glass in the frames cracked in thick fissures across the artwork, and her body fell still, exhausted and limp.

Jessica squeezed her eyes closed, her jaw tight. Tears steamed from her face, rolling off her left cheek and onto the dusty hardwood floor.

She lay still for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen. To be rescued. For her captor to come get her. To just die. Her eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, fell upon one of the framed photos, broken, leaning sideways against the wall. It was a black and white of a small town gas station, probably taken in the early ’40s judging by the bulbous round cars and men wearing fedoras standing around antique gas pumps. Then she noticed her reflection, her face fractured into sections, divided by the cracks. Broken glass with sharp, jagged edges. Good enough to cut through rope.

With a single kick, she smashed the glass. Most of it shattered into small pieces, too small to use for cutting, but one piece, in the shape of a dagger, lay flat on the floor, large enough for Jessica to get her hands around. She rolled over, slid her body over the shards, feeling for the larger piece. Glass dug into her skin with every push of her feet, searing, stabbing pain, but she didn’t care. Her fingers fished blindly. Finally, she felt the long, sharp edge. Her dagger.

45

Thursday –
8:14 a.m.

The three
investigators hovered over Youngblood, who had been briefed on what to say—but it would still be up to him how to say it. Bait Cooper out into the open and hopefully lead the team to where Jessica Baker was being held. That was the goal. It had been two days since her abduction, and with each passing minute without her meds, Jack lost a little more hope of finding her alive.

Youngblood typed in the web address, then punched in Cooper’s username and password. The inbox was empty and there was nothing in the trash. But it was valid. Youngblood sat back and threw his hands in the air
.

“I fucking can’t believe it. It’s still active.”

Jack thinned his lips into a tight smile. “We’re one for one. Let’s see if he’s still looking at his messages.”

Youngblood took a moment and thought about what to say, fingers resting on the keyboard without making a move. Then he started typing his message, pausing, backtracking, trying to get it just right. The last thing he wanted to do was make Cooper suspicious.

Alvie
, Youngblood started.
Your phone’s off and I’ve been waiting at the house all day without hearing from you. I can only think you’re in trouble. I ran out of ideas on how to contact you. This was the last. If you are in trouble, reply and I’ll come get you. I’m on the move in case they know about me.

Youngblood removed his fingers from the keys and looked back at Jack, waiting for approval.

Jack studied the message, then nodded. “I guess it’s as good as any.”

“What do we do next?” Youngblood asked.

“Wait.”

The command post buzzed and the Chico PD, in conjunction with the FBI, had teams of officers and agents scouring every inch of the area. But the waiting was killing Jack.

“Eric, why do you really think Cooper killed his family?” Marquez asked.

Youngblood shook his head and grimaced. “I wish I knew. Something he was hiding, that his wife may have found out about?”

“Something worth killing your wife and child over?” Marquez’s tone was filled with disgust.

“He killed that Holloway girl. That’s pretty bad. Maybe she discovered that, and that’s what drove him to kill again.”

“How would she have learned about Grace Holloway?” Jack asked.

Again, Youngblood shook his head. “Who knows? I told you, I had very little contact with him until he reached out to me after he murdered his family. Between those times, I can only imagine he had made other friends that shared his interests.”

“Like killing young girls?” The question was rhetorical.

Youngblood shrugged. “Look, Alvie came to us after his mother died. Before that, I didn’t know him from Adam.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “How long it usually take for Cooper to respond?”

“Minutes, no more than an hour. But that was years ago.”

It had been over an hour. Youngblood folded his arms on the desk and settled his head on top of them with his eyes closed. Marquez was on the phone with Jim Harrington, getting updates on tracking Cooper’s cell phone and e-mail. Nothing. Jack returned to Cooper’s journals, nudging Youngblood every so often to ask about a phrase or a place mentioned. Youngblood was able to give some speculation here or there, but nothing of much substance. Jack tapped Marquez on the back.

“Check the Rabbit Hole.”

Marquez rolled to the undercover computer. As she launched into the website, Youngblood lifted his head and craned his neck in her direction.

46

Thursday –
9:45 a.m.

The response
to Youngblood’s message was short and simple:
Where are you?

“You think he knows we’re on to him?” Marquez’s voice was cautious.

Jack shook his head. “I doubt it or he wouldn’t have responded.” He looked back at Youngblood. “Tell him you were contacted by the police at
Monroe
’s house and that they’re accusing you of the Grace Holloway murder.”

Youngblood said, “If he thinks I’m hot . . . that’ll drive him away.”

Jack nodded. “It could. But helping Cooper escape will ensure law enforcement can’t pin the Holloway murder on you, guilty or not.”

“I told you, I had nothing to do with her death.”

Jack put a hand on his shoulder. “I heard you the first time. I just want to give Cooper a reason to hook up.”

Colfax glanced at Youngblood and pointed a finger. “You know when we get him, he’s going to implicate you in the Holloway murder, or just say you killed her.”

“He can say anything he wants.” There was a quiet moment, a feeling of uneasiness electrifying the room. Then Youngblood asked, “Are you saying you’d believe him?”

Colfax shrugged without saying a word.

Jack rapped the table gently to break the tension, and told Youngblood to craft a reply to Cooper to see if they could meet. Youngblood never shifted his focus away from Colfax, the brittleness still apparent between them.

Marquez slid her chair to help draft the response, as Jack rang Harrington to fill him in.

“I’ll put a call into the server, see if they got a location where Cooper launched his e-mail.”

“Push them hard, Jimmy.”

In the background, Youngblood and Marquez formulated the message. It had to be short and to the point. Words were important. Too many wasted ones would certainly draw suspicion, thus killing any hopes of getting Cooper to show himself. Jack was already concerned that Cooper was aware law enforcement was on to him. He’d proven his desperation by murdering their informant and trying to off cops. It wasn’t only Jack tracking Cooper now, and their killer was lashing back, eliminating anyone who got in his way. Maybe Cooper had already decided it wasn’t worth the trouble keeping Jessica Baker alive. Start over with a new victim, a new target of opportunity.

“We’re ready,” Marquez said.

Jack nodded once. “Pull the trigger.”

The message was placed in the draft box and Youngblood signed out of the e-mail account. They’d cast their imaginary fishing pole. Now they’d wait for a bite.

“He knows your hunting him,” Youngblood said, breaking the silence.

“He probably does,” Colfax replied, “but I’m betting he’s not going to pass on your help. The heat’s on and you’re his only friend. At least the only one he hasn’t killed yet.”

Youngblood folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t like me, do you?”

“I don’t like people involved in killing young girls—”

“I told you—”

“
Or
those who know about the crime but choose to keep the information to themselves because they’re scared.”

Youngblood’s gaze fell toward his lap. “I’m sorry,” he said to no one in particular. Or maybe to everyone, including Grace Holloway and Jessica Baker. Colfax clenched his teeth and walked away.

Jack’s cell phone vibrated. It was Harrington, his voice sounding anxious.

“Tell me something good, Jimmy.”