Karen Rose - Die for Me

Vito was on his feet, grabbing it, but it was page after page of names that meant nothing. He looked up at Liz who’d rushed from her office at the sound of Nick’s voice.

“What are we supposed to do with this?” he said, frustrated.

Brent was right behind Nick, laptop under his arm. “We sort and filter. Katherine said she thought the old woman in the graveyard was between sixty and seventy, so I ran the search on female clients fifty-five to eighty, just to be sure. There are over three hundred names. When I just look at sixty to seventy, it’s still over two hundred.”

Vito sank into his chair. “Two hundred.” He’d hoped a single name would pop. But the others weren’t discouraged. They were energized and Vito drew from their energy.

Jen was pacing. “Okay, let’s think. What did he steal from these people? Money?”

“Real estate,” Liz said. “He took Winchester’s aunt’s field. Maybe he took another field from somebody else. A field near a quarry, far enough out that he could do what he wanted without raising suspicion.”

“Or anybody being able to hear,” Nick added.

Vito closed his eyes, despair threatening again. “Of course we’ve also assumed he took Sophie to the place he took everyone else.”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Nick ordered. “Until we have a reason to think otherwise, there’s no reason to believe Simon will do anything more than stick to his routine.”

Vito stood up with a hard nod. “Okay, we’re going to split these lists and figure out which of these people have property in the USDA soil areas that match the grave fill dirt. Then we find out which of those are homes with more than one story.”

“The elevator shaft,” Nick said. “Don’t forget about the old woman’s dental fillings. Check for anyone who lived in Europe before 1960.”

“Daniel called me last night,” Liz said. “He and his sister are back in town and want to help. I’ll put them on call to give us information if we end up in a hostage negotiation.”

Vito made himself breathe. “Then let’s move. He’s had Sophie eleven hours now.”

Sunday, January 21, 4:50

A.M.

Simon leaned away from his computer, stretching his shoulders. Alan Brewster had been a lot heavier than he looked. Carrying him out to the barn for the filming had been the right choice, though. The mess from Brewster’s exploding head would have been bad enough, but percussion from the grenade had blown part of the barn wall away. Had he executed the film inside, he might have damaged his studio.

He’d planned to leave Brewster’s body outside, but discovered the lighting in the barn hadn’t been sufficient to achieve the level of detail he required while filming. The video was grainy and the camera lens had been dirtied by flying debris of the human variety. So he’d brought Brewster back inside to get a closer look at what remained. Of course, carrying Brewster back indoors had been a tad easier. He estimated Brewster’s head alone had weighed a good ten pounds.

With a click of his mouse Simon replayed the changes he’d made to Bill Melville’s death by flail. As much as he hated to admit it, Van Zandt had been one hundred percent correct. Seeing the knight’s head explode made playing Inquisitor a far more exciting experience. Not authentic, but damn exciting.

Simon rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Sophie would provide both authenticity and excitement and he couldn’t wait. He checked his watch. Another few hours and his leg would be fully charged and ready to roll.

As would parts of Sophie.

Sunday, January 21, 5:30

A.M.

“Dammit.” Vito stared at the USDA soil map, pock-marked with nearly forty thumbtacks representing each old woman who lived in the identified soil area and held an account with Rock Solid Investments. And the clock continued to tick. Almost thirteen hours had passed through their fingers.

“There are still too many names,” Nick muttered. “And not one of them German.”

“The old woman could have a German maiden name,” Jen said. “We have to start making calls. It’s the only way.”

“But if we find the right one, Simon will answer,” Brent protested. “We’ll tip our hand.”

Everyone looked at Vito expectantly. For a moment his brain spun uselessly, then it clicked. “Next of kin?” he asked. “Do we have next of kin contacts on these brokerage applications for Rock Solid?”

Brent nodded excitedly. “It’s all in the database.”

“Then we split it up.” Vito blinked at the list of names he held in his hand. “Nick, you’ve got Dina Anderson to Selma Crane. Jen, you take Margaret Diamond up through Priscilla Henley.” He gave Liz, Maggy, and Brent their names, then took the remaining share. And prayed again.

Sunday, January 21, 7:20

A.M.

“Sophie.” He sang it sweetly. “I’m back.”

When Sophie didn’t respond, he chuckled. “You’re quite an actress. But then, it’s in your blood isn’t it? Your father was an actor and your grandmother an opera diva. But then… I’ve always known. I was hoping you’d tell me yourself.”

No. It couldn’t be. Sophie did her best not to tense. The words had been Ted’s.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Sophie.”

But no. She knew what Simon looked like. Ted was big. Was he that big? She couldn’t remember. She was so tired and the fear was backing up in her throat.

“I’ve been thinking about Marie Antoinette. With her head of course.” He ran his fingers across her throat and she flinched and he laughed. “Open your eyes, Sophie.”

Slowly she did, praying it would not be Ted. A face was an inch from hers, broad boned, hard jawed. The smile gleamed, as did the bald head. He had no eyebrows.

“ Boo, ” he whispered and she flinched again. But it wasn’t Ted. Thank God.

Her relief was amazingly short-lived. “Your charade is over, Sophie. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to your fate?”

She lifted her chin and looked around, horror congealing, clawing in her gut. She saw the chair, as it had looked in the museum. She saw a rack and a table with all the artifacts of torture this man had used to kill so many. She looked down at herself and saw she wore a gown, cream velvet, edged in purple. The thought of him touching her, dressing her… She swallowed back a grimace.

“Do you like the gown?” he asked and she raised her eyes. His expression was one of tolerant amusement without a flicker of nerves or fear. “The cream color will provide a wonderful contrast to your blood.”

“It’s too small,” Sophie said coldly, proud her voice didn’t shake.

He shrugged. “It was intended for someone else. I had to make some last minute alterations.”

“You sew?”

He smiled, cruelly. “I have a great many talents, Dr. Johannsen, one of which is a proficiency with needles and other sharp implements.”

She kept her chin lifted and her jaw tight. “What will you do to me?”

“Well, I really need to give the credit to you. I’d planned something far different until I heard you and your boss talking in the museum. You remember. Marie Antoinette.”

Sophie fought to keep her voice hard. “Jumped a few centuries, didn’t you?”

He smiled. “You will be fun to play with, Sophie. I couldn’t get a guillotine, so you’re safe on that score. We’ll have to go a little more medieval than that.”

She clucked her tongue in her cheek. “No pun intended.”

He stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. It was a chilling sound, abrasive and… mean.

Mean. Anna. “You tried to kill my grandmother, didn’t you?”