Twisted (2 page)

He whipped a knife out of his pocket and charged forward, leaving Sloane no time to prepare and the audience no time to react.

Grabbing Sloane’s left shoulder, he pressed the knife to her back. “Get in my car,” he ordered in a gravelly voice.

It was like someone flipped a switch.

Sloane whipped around in a quick body turn. Her left forearm shot forward, locking against his right wrist to deflect the knife attack, and propelling her into the offensive strike of delivering a forward horizontal punch to his throat with her right elbow. As he gasped for air and recoiled from the simulated blow to his throat, her left hand snapped up, pinching his knife-wielding arm in a vise grip between her upper arm, forearm, and chest. The nut-cracking pressure caused the knife to fall from his hand.

Threat obliterated.

Sloane then trapped her assailant’s head with her right forearm, grabbed his shoulder with her left hand, and yanked his upper torso down, jerking her knee upward in a lighting strike to his groin.

She stifled a smile as she felt him inadvertently tense and arch away from her, even as he responded on cue, doubling up and crying out as if he’d been castrated. She finished him off with a downward elbow strike to the back of his neck, then pushed him away as he collapsed on the floor, writhing in mock agony.

It was all over in ten seconds.

“I’m crushed by your lack of faith,” Sloane murmured as she helped him up, applause filling the auditorium. “I barely tapped your windpipe. Did you really think I’d kick your balls through your nose?”

“Never crossed my mind.” His reply was drowned out by the applause. “I know you’re a pro. Pure reflex on my part.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally.” Sobering, Sloane turned to address the room. “That was just one example of using Krav Maga in self-defense,” she explained. “There are dozens of moves, for whatever threatening situation you may find yourself in. Read the tip sheet I passed out. In it you’ll find contact information on local Krav Maga programs. I can’t stress training enough. It’s empowering, it’s practical, and it works.” She turned to her attacker, gesturing for him to remove his ski mask. “How about a round of applause for John Jay’s own Dr. Elliot Lyman. He was a great demo partner and a good sport.”

More applause as Elliot complied.

“Even if you
are
still a chicken,” Sloane added under her breath. “Back in high school, you ducked every time I slammed one of your lobs back at you, even though you had seven inches and two years on me. Nothing’s changed.”

“Then I was a computer geek,” he reminded her. “Now I’m a computer-science professor. A nerd who plays with algorithms. Not a kick-ass
FBI
agent like you.”

“
Ex
–
FBI
agent,” she reminded him.

“For now. That’ll change.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.” Sloane’s jaw tightened in a way that declared the subject closed.

She finished her presentation, answered a slew of questions, and then chatted with her copresenters for a while after the seminar broke up. She knew the John Jay faculty participants from previous workshops they’d given here, and from her visits to Elliot. They’d known each other since her freshman year in high school when she’d tutored him in Spanish and he’d tutored her in computers. They’d stayed in touch afterward, and resumed their friendship when Sloane left the Bureau and moved back east.

An hour later, she was heading for her car, reflecting on the disparate opinions voiced by law enforcement professionals and academicians. Watching silver-haired Lillian Doyle explain the roots of violence in modern-day civilization to Jimmy O’Donnelly, a retired
NYPD
detective who’d seen every heinous form of violence imaginable, was like watching two people talking two different languages. The louder they spoke, the less they understood each other.

Still, the eclectic composition of the panel was good for the attendees. They’d gotten a varied perspective on the subject of crimes against women. It was also good for the speakers. Neither Jimmy O’Donnelly nor Larry Clark was the type to retire. As for the professors, they reveled in the debates. Especially Lillian Doyle, who, according to Elliot, needed the mental distraction. Her cancer was no longer in remission, and this semester had been a tough one on her.

Sloane herself enjoyed doing these workshops. They were good for her in more ways than one.

She turned up the collar of her coat as a stiff breeze blasted across her face, reminding her that winter wasn’t quite over. A throbbing pain shot through her palm, triggering the same vivid flashback as always. The knife, slicing through her flesh. The blood. The pain. It was an image she couldn’t escape. It had changed the course of her life.

It had changed her.

Now she winced, belatedly realizing she should have put on her street gloves before venturing outside. Her occupational therapist would be royally pissed if she knew. Well, no point in fishing for them now. She was practically at her car.

A few minutes later, she hopped into her Subaru Outback. It took her extra time to turn the key in the ignition, and she gritted her teeth against the discomfort.

The engine had just turned over when her cell phone rang.

The caller ID read
private
. Not unusual. Most of her clients chose to protect their privacy.

“Sloane Burbank,” she said into the mouthpiece.

“Sloane?” a women’s tentative voice replied. “This is Hope Truman. Penny’s mother. I don’t know if you remember me.”

“Mrs. Truman—hello—of course I remember you.” Sloane’s brows arched in surprise. It had been a dozen years since she’d spoken to the Trumans, although she and Penny had been inseparable friends in elementary and middle school. Even afterward, when Penny had gone on to attend a private high school, they’d still gotten together for shop-till-you-drop days and sleepovers. Then social lives, college applications, and life had kicked in, and they’d eventually grown apart and ultimately lost touch. But the memories of their antics, their secret codes, and shared adolescence were the kind that lasted forever, like cherished diaries.

“How are you?” Sloane asked. “And how’s Penny? Last I heard she was working her way up the editorial ladder at
Harper’s Bazaar
.”

“Then you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That’s why I’m calling.” Mrs. Truman took a deep breath. “Penny disappeared almost a year ago.”

Sloane’s spine straightened. “When you say disappeared…”

“I mean vanished into thin air. Without a trace. And without a word to Ronald and me. No contact whatsoever.”

“No contact from Penny—or from anyone?” Sloane’s trained mind kicked into gear. The Trumans were wealthy and high-visibility. Ronald Truman was a renowned cardiologist at Mount Sinai. He was always making medical headlines. And recently his self-help books on keeping your heart healthy had topped the bestseller lists.

Making the Trumans ideal candidates for extortion.

“No contact from anyone,” Mrs. Truman was answering.

“You never received a ransom call or note?”

“Never. And God knows, we waited. Trust me, Sloane, we went through every channel and considered every option. Including the unthinkable—that it was a kidnapping gone wrong. But Penny’s body was never found.” A shaky sigh. “I’m aware of how slim the odds are. It’s been eleven months. But she’s my daughter. I can’t let it go.”

“I understand.”

Sloane knew a lot more about the odds than Mrs. Truman did. And what she knew made her sick.

“I just read the newspaper article about you and the conference you’re speaking at,” Mrs. Truman continued. “I had no idea you were an
FBI
agent, or that you’d left to apply your skills as a private consultant. When I saw those words—it was the first glimmer of hope I’ve felt in months. We’ve exhausted all avenues. I remember what close friends you and Penny were. You were inseparable for years. I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you—before you leave Manhattan, would you stop by my apartment? I realize I’m asking a great deal, and with absolutely no notice. I’m willing to pay anything you ask—double or triple your normal rates. I’ll have my driver pick you up at the campus and drop you off there afterward. Whatever it takes to—”

“That’s not necessary,” Sloane interrupted. There were a hundred questions running through her mind. But this situation had to be probed in person. “Penny was a big part of my life. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it. The conference just ended. I’m in the parking lot with my motor running. I’ll swing by now, before I head home.”

“God bless you.” There were tears of gratitude in the older woman’s voice.

“What’s your address?”

“One twenty-five East Seventy-eighth, between Park and Lex. Apartment 640.”

“I’m on my way.”

DATE:
20 March

TIME:
1800 hours

OBJECTIVE:
Athena

Finally. She’s awake.

This time there’s awareness in her eyes. Not like the other times she came to, when she was groggy and disoriented. This time she sees me—
really
sees me. She’s quivering. Afraid.

She should be. She knows she’s mine.

I can feel that adrenaline rush begin. I’m used to it now, although the first time it caught me by surprise. Not anymore. Now I anticipate it. It feels good. Power. Control. She’s resisting, but her struggles are futile. This time I took extra precautions because of her strength and intelligence. Thicker ropes binding her wrists and ankles. Duct tape securing the ropes. The door of her room double-locked.

I didn’t gag her. I will when I go out. But no one can hear her. Not from this place.

Breaking her is going to be harder than the last one. But I’ll do what I must.

They
demand it.

125 East Seventy-eighth Street, Apartment 640

Sloane perched at the edge of the Trumans’ elegant antique mahogany-and-damask sofa, sipping the tea that Penny’s mother had insisted on brewing. Setting down her cup, she adjusted her pen in a style she’d gotten used to—one that guarded her injury—and flipped open her notebook.

She waited patiently while Hope Truman fluttered about, arranging a plate of ladyfingers.

Ladyfingers. That brought back a slew of memories. Snack time at Penny’s, after they’d played Barbies for hours. Penny would stylize her Barbie, choosing fashionable outfits for her, then color-and style-coordinating all her accessories. Sloane would pretend her Barbie was She-ra, Princess of Power, and body parts would fly. It was lucky for Ken that he wasn’t anatomically correct.

Back then, ladyfingers had represented a treat. Now they were Hope Truman’s way of releasing a burst of nervous energy—desperation and procrastination combined. Sloane recognized the signs. A loved one who wanted results, but was terrified of what they’d be. And after nearly a year? There was nothing to cling to but prayers, nothing to hope for but a miracle.

Sloane was supposed to be that miracle.

Subtly, she studied Penny’s mother. At fifty-seven, she’d aged gracefully. Still slender. Well put together. Hair and makeup perfect. Brown cashmere turtleneck sweater and camel slacks that made her a walking ad for Bergdorf.

But it was obvious that this crisis had taken a huge toll.

There were tight lines on her face that had nothing to do with age, and a haunted look in her eyes that Sloane had seen too many times to misread.

“So how are your parents?” Mrs. Truman asked, grasping for chitchat to accompany the normal motions of hostessing.

“They’re fine,” Sloane replied. “They retired and moved to Florida—although I use the word
retired
loosely. My mother still works with a few of her favorite authors who were clients at her literary agency, and my dad still handles an occasional art deal if he has an affinity for the piece involved.”

“Yes, I remember how much he used to travel abroad—and how often you went with him.”

“I loved it. That’s how I learned so many languages. It’s probably one of the main reasons the Bureau became so interested in recruiting me.” Sloane cleared her throat, and gently steered the conversation to where it needed to be. “Do you want to tell me about Penny?”

With an unsteady nod, Mrs. Truman stopped fussing over the refreshments and sank onto the edge of a wingback chair, her fingers tightly interlaced as she spoke. “I apologize for rambling.”

“Don’t. You’re frightened. Striking up ordinary conversation is a natural reaction under circumstances like these.”

“Thank you. And thank you for coming,” Mrs. Truman repeated. “I can’t tell you what it means to me.”

“You don’t have to.” Sloane leaned forward. “Mrs. Truman…”

“Hope,” the older woman corrected. Her lips curved ever so slightly. “You’re not a child anymore. I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

Sloane returned the faint smile. “Okay—Hope. I can only imagine what an ordeal this has been for you and your husband. You said Penny disappeared a year ago?”

“As of April fourteenth, yes, it will be a year. Although we didn’t find out she was missing until several days afterward.”

“Tell me all the details you can.”

Hope nodded, resorting to autopilot as she retold a story she’d probably told a dozen times before. “The fourteenth was a Saturday. She didn’t show up at work on the sixteenth or the seventeenth. She didn’t call in either day. Her assistant at the magazine tried to reach her at home and on her cell. No answer. The morning of the seventeenth, she was scheduled to meet her friend Amy for breakfast. Amy and Penny roomed together after college graduation for two or three years. Ronald and I have met Amy many times. She’s lovely. When Penny didn’t keep their breakfast date, and Amy had no luck finding her at her office or with any of her friends, she called us.”

“And you called the police.”

Hope nodded. “They ran down every lead they could. Eventually, they learned that a woman matching Penny’s description had bought a bus ticket to Atlantic City on April fourteenth. At that point, they brought in the
FBI
.”