Last Breath (19 page)

He had learned much from spiders, so much that he supposed he had become something of a spider himself. Certainly he was a creature who spun elaborate webs and even lived, in a sense, on the great Web of the Internet.

But now he felt entangled in a web not of his own making—and he didn’t like the feeling, didn’t like it at all.

Perhaps he should flee. He had done it before, in other circumstances, when he had begun to feel that his luck had run its course.

Oh, but he hated to leave when Caitlin’s fate was still unknown. When there was still a chance he might have her.

Besides, he was safe in his apartment. His shock troops would protect him against all intruders. In the event that the barbarians stormed his castle, he could count on holding them off long enough to flee.

He decided to risk staying a little longer. Had the victim been anyone else, he would have yielded to prudence and made his escape. But Caitlin was indeed special.

He had wanted her for so long.

Walsh was in C.J. Osborn’s living room, conferring with members of the Scientific Investigation Division, when his cell phone buzzed.

“Detective, it’s Noah Rawls in Baltimore. I see your men have found the house.”

Walsh almost asked how Rawls could know this, but the answer was obvious. He was still monitoring the video feed.

“We’re here, all right,” Walsh said, “trying to figure out our next move.”

“Maybe I can be of help.”

“I hope so.”

“Have you tried looking for the Webcam accessories he installed?”

“What accessories?” Walsh covered one ear to muffle the noise of conversation and police radios crackling everywhere. “And remember, you’re talking to a computer illiterate.”

“Then I’ll keep it simple. We already know he’s been shooting real-time video of this woman in her bedroom. But it’s not enough just to record the images. He has to get them onto the Web.”

“Right,” Walsh said, following so far.

“Ordinarily a Webcam is wired directly to a PC. But I gather that’s not so in this case.”

“There’s no computer in the bedroom. She has one, but she keeps it in the den.”

“Then he must have installed a small hidden camera with wireless capability. In other words, the camera is equipped with a transmitter that sends the video signal to a larger receiver, which would be more difficult to conceal. Since the transmitter’s range is probably quite limited, the receiver must be hidden either inside the house or near it.”

“So we look for a receiver? Like a TV set?”

“No, Detective, a computer. Not the victim’s, but one that the killer himself could set up and control. Most likely a portable computer, one with the necessary hardware and software to pick up a TV signal and convert it to digital form.”

“How is this computer connected to the Web?”

“Via a landline, probably—although he could be using a cell phone as a wireless modem. Either way, he’s sending the video feed from the computer to the proxy server on the Web, which then sends it to the Web server here in Maryland.”

“Okay, we look for a computer, right? A laptop model?”

“That’s correct.”

“And it could be in the house or nearby?”

“Yes.”

“I’m betting it’s someplace on the grounds. It would be easier for him to obtain access to the yard than to the house.”

“But he had to be inside the house to plant the Webcam.”

“I’m going on the assumption that he obtained access to the place on some pretext. Repairman, say. He planted the camera while the victim wasn’t looking. Installing this other gear would have required a separate visit.”

“Possibly,” Rawls conceded. “If that’s so, where would he hide it?”

“Could be the garden. Or along the fence. Or in the garage.”

“Is there a light in the garage?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Then that’s your best bet.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“Because a light means electrical wiring—and he would want to wire the computer into the main current. Laptop batteries don’t last very long.”

“Good point. We’ll check the garage first. Can you stay on the line?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Great. Hold on.”

Walsh pulled Cellini away from a conversation with Boyle and said he required her assistance in a search.

Together they crossed the yard. Beyond the picket fence, clusters of neighbors and other spectators stood watching, their faces garish in the flickering glare of the patrol cars’ light bars. What they didn’t know was that Detective Lopez, inside the house, was taking their photos with a long-lens camera. There was an outside chance the killer was among the gawkers at the scene.

“Should’ve thought of that myself,” Cellini said when Walsh summarized Rawls’s suggestion. “Thing is, I can’t figure out why he would leave
any
of his equipment in place.”

“Maybe he planned to return later and retrieve it.”

“Too big a risk of the evidence collectors coming across the stuff.”

“Well, in this case he might’ve left in a hurry. Let’s say he’s still in the house when the deputies arrive. He hears them banging on the door, and he gets spooked. Flees out the back way before the deputies can reach it. While they’re searching the interior, he’s making his getaway.”

They reached the garage, where C.J. Osborn’s Dodge was parked. Shelves lined three walls. Walsh took the right side, Cellini the left. They both pulled on rubber gloves to avoid contaminating the scene. The SID forensics experts hadn’t checked out the garage yet.

As he searched through racks of hardware supplies, Walsh crooked his cell phone under his chin and asked Rawls if he was still there.

“Sure am,” Rawls said, sounding much nearer than three thousand miles away.

“We’re looking through the garage now. Is there any progress on your end in tracking this guy down?”

“We’re pursuing a couple of angles. For one thing, he corresponded via e-mail with the subject here in Baltimore. We’re reviewing the e-mails now. They were scrubbed—sent anonymously—but there may be some clue in the actual content of the messages.”

“Don’t you have document analysis experts for that?”

“Yeah, we’ve sent copies of the e-mails to one of our documents guys. His initial reaction was that there wasn’t much to work with, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Okay, what’s the other angle?”

“Do you recall how I told you that he’s been routing the video feed through a proxy?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve obtained a subpoena to see the information in that client’s account.”

“So soon? Fast work.”

“The Bureau never sleeps, Detective,” Rawls intoned sententiously, then laughed. “Unfortunately it may take time for the proxy to comply with the order. You ought to see the delaying tactics these outfits will use.”

“Why would they delay in a case like this? They’re protecting a serial killer.”

“It’s a privacy issue,” Rawls said mildly.

“Tell them about C.J. Osborn’s privacy. Tell them—hey, wait a minute. I found something.” Walsh motioned to Cellini, who joined him at the rear of the garage.

Behind a row of paint cans rested a small black computer, its green LED dimly glowing, and duct-taped to it, a cell phone. Neither detective touched the equipment. There was a small chance the killer had left prints, fibers, or other evidence on the gear.

“Jackpot,” Cellini said. “We can track him down through his cell-phone account. If that fails, we’ll get the serial number of the computer. He might have registered it with the manufacturer. If so, he’s in their database.”

Walsh told Rawls what they’d found. “In the garage, just like you thought.”

“He must have wired the phone into the main current also,” Rawls said. “Otherwise it would have gone dead weeks ago.”

“So,” Walsh said slowly, “if I wanted to shut down the video feed, all I’d have to do is unplug the phone?”

“Or shut down the computer. If that’s what you want to do.”

“It isn’t.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ve been watching from here, remember. I’ve seen the police going in and out of her bedroom. None of you has even glanced at the camera, though you must know it’s there.”

“We can guess its approximate location ... Probably hidden inside the curtain rod of the window facing the bed. But everybody’s under orders to play dumb. And we’re going to continue the moron act for a while.”

“You don’t want him to know you’ve figured out the Internet angle.”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s one step ahead of us in every other way. This is the one area where we may—
may
—have an edge on him. And right now, we need any edge we can get if we want to save C.J. Osborn’s life.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Rawls said very softly, “Detective, are you telling me he’s abducted that woman?”

Walsh closed his eyes. “Oh, shit. I’ve just been assuming you knew.”

“I only know what I see on the monitor. Police in the house. I thought you had tracked her down and taken her into protective custody.”

“He beat us to her. Not by much.”

“Is she ... Do you think she’s already ...?”

“Probably not yet. He, uh, takes his time with them, I think.”

Another silence on the Maryland end of the call. Walsh wished he hadn’t broken the news that way.

Finally there was a sigh from Rawls. “This is some job we’ve got, isn’t it, Detective?”

Walsh found a smile. “It has its ups and downs. How long you been with the feds, Special Agent?”

“Twenty-six years.”

“Thirty for me. You think we’re both getting too old for this work?”

“I think, Detective, these young guys need old farts like us to keep their butts in line.”

Walsh laughed. He felt the same way. “Call me Morrie, okay?”

“Okay, Morrie. I’m Noah. We dinosaurs ought to be on a first-name basis. You get to work on the electronic gear, and I’ll see if we can put a little more pressure on this proxy outfit. Maybe we can make faster progress.”

“I just hope it’s fast enough,” Walsh said.

“He takes his time with them,” Rawls reminded him.

“Yeah. But not
much
time.”

He ended the call and checked his watch. 8:15. She had been abducted at approximately 6:45.

If C.J. Osborn truly was a member of the Four-Hour Club, her time was quickly running out.

Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. Could hardly even breathe with the damn rubber ball wedged in her mouth.

C.J. had one advantage. Adam had left her alone—and while alone, she could try to find a way to free her hands. If she could loosen the duct tape around her wrists or cut it somehow ...

Then she could remove the gag, the blindfold, the tape on her ankles, even the cord that lashed her to the pillar.

With her hands free, she could do anything.

There had to be some way to get the tape off. She fingered the post behind her. The surface was concrete—most likely covering a substructure of steel. Were there cracks in the surface, rough spots where she could abrade the tape?

No such luck. The concrete was as smooth as if it had been freshly poured.

What she needed was a tool. Some sort of debris—a shard of glass, a sharp piece of metal.

Wherever she was, the place had a concrete floor and concrete posts. It might be a work space of some kind, a place where she just might find a discarded screw or a rusty nail lying around.

She extended her legs and reached out, feeling the concrete floor with the tips of her sneakers.

She wished he hadn’t blindfolded her. Wished she could see what she was doing.

Damn Adam anyway. Damn him to hell.

He’d said that if she knew the how of it, the why would explain itself. But the question
why?
still rang unanswered in her mind.

There seemed to be nothing directly in front of her. The floor felt smooth and clean.

She extended her legs to her left, exploring the floor on that side of her body.

Still nothing.

She turned in the opposite direction and again made a sweep of the area near her.

This time her sneakers snagged a large object, flat on the side facing her.

She tapped it with her feet and heard a hollow thump. She kicked it, felt it shiver.

A box? A crate?

She kicked it again and heard a glassy rattle.

Were there tools in the box? Or on top of it?

Goddamn it, if only she could
see
.

Frustration made her reckless. She launched another kick at the box, slamming the soles of both sneakers into its flat face, and she heard the box creak and tip over with a thud.

Then there was the tinkle of small objects, either glass or metal, hitting the floor. One of them shattered. Another rolled toward her. She heard it turning over and over on the smooth concrete like a pencil on a tabletop.

Twisting at the hips, she lowered her body nearly to the floor and groped with her bound hands, praying she could intercept the thing, whatever the hell it was.

It stopped rolling.

Still out of reach. But close. She was sure of that.

She bent her legs at the knees. Her sneakers made contact with the thing. It was small and lightweight and felt fragile. She eased it toward her, tucking her legs under her lap.

Finally her hands closed over their prize.

She wasn’t certain what she held. Lightly she ran her fingers over the thing. It was a few inches long, with rounded sides, and it tapered to a narrow tip ...

A sharp tip.

Needle sharp.

That was what she had. A needle of some kind.

Not a hypodermic needle—she detected no plunger at the other end—but some needle-tipped tool anyway. What it was used for, why it was here—she had no idea, and she didn’t care.

It was sharp. It was the tool that could set her free.

Now came the tricky part. She had to point the needle upward and press the tip against the tape binding her wrists.

She gripped the needle in both hands, aiming the sharp point upward, trying to maneuver it so she could spear the coil of tape around her wrists. The job was hard. Her wrists weren’t made to work that way.