Т Паркер - Where Serpents Lie

Brittany could still see through the airhole she was meant to breathe through. Dead Gopher Man was covered in silver scales like a fish and lying just a few feet away from her. His back was to her and his whole body was moving, slowly and rhythmically, like he was swimming in slow motion. He made noises every few seconds, but nothing she could understand. It was kind of moaning, kind of talking. She heard this funny sound above her every once in a while — kind of a short click with a rattle after it. Two or three times. Then it stopped. His hand was still on her back and she could see his arm extending back toward her, covered in the shimmering scales. She could see just a tiny bit of the dress he had put on her and she knew it wasn’t one of hers. Beyond Dead Gopher Man this slow dark shape moved through a tree. Dead Gopher Man kept moving, faster now but still evenly — what was he doing?

Brittany closed her eyes as hard as she could and tried to scream and shook herself into a Dream Bust. She shook so hard she thought her bones would come undone. But the scream wouldn’t get out past the tape and she realized why the Dream Bust had failed her today: because the scream was the most important part; it frightened away everything else in the dream, but she couldn’t do it because of the tape.

Suddenly she was on her back and she felt two strong hands on her arms pinning her down and she couldn’t see past the hood but when he spoke she knew he was just inches from her face. His voice was a quick, foul hiss:

Stop it! Mother’s watching!

Marcine Browne ushered me into her office at Bright Tomorrows. It was 9:55 A.M. She was mid-thirties, dressed and made up with pride, red haired and quite attractive. She flicked on the lights and pointed to a chair in front of a desk.

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“I’d rather not waste your time,” I said.

“Can I get me some coffee?”

She was back in five minutes with two cups. They were white mugs with BRIGHT TOMORROWS emblazoned across them in optimistic red script. She looked at the bandage on my face as she offered me the coffee.

“Thank you,” I said. “Ms. Browne, I’m the lead investigator for the Sheriff’s Crimes Against Youth unit. We’re small, we work hard and we believe that children in our society need protection.”

I waited a beat. I like to let the importance of what we do sink in.

“All right.”

“Can I speak frankly with you?”

“Please do.”

“Have you heard of The Horridus?”

“Yes.”

“He took his third girl from a condo in Irvine, about four hours ago. The condo is three miles from here. The girl is missing, her mother is ready to break down and I’ve failed them. She’s five years old, and somewhere out in this county of 2.6 million souls, he’s got her.”

She said nothing. I liked her face.

“The Horridus named himself. It’s the Latin root for rough. He’s living through what the FBI calls an escalating fantasy. That means he’s got a vision, a goal in his imagination. It isn’t something he can just go out and start doing. It’s something he has to work up to. That’s what the abductions are — practice runs for the real thing. Who knows, maybe this time, it will be the real thing. Rough.”

I paused but she said nothing. I was reassured by the intelligence in her face, though I knew my chances of getting what I wanted from Marcine Browne were somewhere between slim and none.

I was pleased that she was finally unable to resist the bait.

“I think this is absolutely terrible,” she said. “I feel awful. I’m not a mother myself, but I can imagine how it would feel, to have that happen to your daughter. What would the ‘real thing’ be?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll rape and kill them. Probably in that order. It’s a matter of time. Right now, it might be a matter of minutes.”

I let this sink in. She looked at me with her lovely green eyes. “Investigator Naughton, why are you here?”

“I need your help.”

“How?”

One of Marcine Browne’s co-workers stuck her head in the door and said good morning. She smiled brightly at me, no doubt the lure-the-new-male-membership smile. Marcine asked her to shut the door, please.

The quiet in the office was just what I wanted. What Marcine did in the next few minutes would be between herself and her soul, and the soul is best heard in silence.

“We know, very generally, what he looks like. We have some general indications as to his age, what he drives, what kind of a house he lives in and what kind of a past he has. We have some suspicions — founded on the opinions of people who profile unknown subjects for a living — about what kind of work he does, how he behaves socially, what his interests are.”

“That sounds like a lot.”

“Until you realize it isn’t. Until you realize we don’t know his name. And that people can change their appearance pretty easily. That there are five thousand other vehicles like his on the roads out there. And over two and a half million people in this county alone. Plenty more in Los Angeles and down in San Diego. Until you realize he just kidnapped a five-year-old while we were all asleep. While her own mother was asleep fifteen feet away. When you realize all that, you understand how little you’ve really got.”

She looked at me again. I could see the confusion on her face. She sighed, sat back, then sat forward again. “Mr. Naughton, maybe I watch too much TV, but this isn’t like anything I ever saw a cop do. You’re telling me all this stuff, but you’re not asking me any questions. May I see your ID again?”

I showed it to her again.

“I’m sorry. But what is it that you want?”

“Let me tell you just a little something more. I talked to the mother of the second girl. That’s part of my job. The girl was named Courtney and she was six. I was trying to put things together. I’m glad I did. Her mother was a member of Dawn Christie and Associates.”

Marcine looked at me with a hard, uncomprehending stare. “Well, they’re another service. They have a different philosophy than we do. Our competitors, but... so what?”

“The mother of the girl who was taken four hours ago was a member here. A new member, Abby Elder.”

“Oh, God,” she said quietly. “I was afraid that’s why you were here.”

I waited. I knew she’d make a mental run for it, and my only chance was to keep her right here in front of me, where decisions could be made.

“You’ll have to talk to James Rudker — he’s the founder-owner.”

“I don’t have time to talk to Mr. Rudker. There’s a member of Bright Tomorrows I need to see, Ms. Browne. He’s a member of Dawn Christie, too. And the only way I can find him is by comparing your membership list with theirs.”

“I simply can’t give it to you. It’s impossible. Look, I signed an oath as an employee to follow the rules.

Furnishing our members’ names to anyone goes against those rules. And it breaks all the promises of confidentiality we make to our members. We’d have been out of business years ago if we did that. You’re asking me to give up my job.”

“No. The list goes from you to me. I put it in my pocket and it stays there until I get to my office. There, I compare the names against Dawn Christie’s list, and—”

“— She gave you hers? ”

I said nothing as I lifted from my pocket the sheet of real estate listings that Frances had given me, and held it up.

Marcine shook her head. “That’s really hard to believe. I mean, I’ve met Dawn and she’s not exactly... a pushover.”

“She’s tough as nails. And she’s bright. That’s why she knows she can trust me. When I finish the comparison, the list goes back to you. This list goes back to her. If I get the match, I’ll take it from there. No one but us will know that this guy was a member here. That’s a promise. I’ll put it in writing and sign it, just like you did your employment agreement, if you want me to.”