Vicki Pettersson - The Taken

“And you’d know the difference?” Grif prompted Paul. “Between a rookie and a pro?”

“Hell yeah! I was banging betties at thirteen. Why am I saying that?”

“Because you’re an asshole,” Grif reminded him. “What’s less obvious is why Chambers would want to kill you for it.”

Paul grimaced, the rest of his face scrunching up as tightly as his brow had. Someone was going to have to smooth that down for him to get it back to normal. It wasn’t going to be Grif.

“Caleb Chambers didn’t kill me. No way, man. I was playing him tight! Everyone knows about the parties. But me? I got into his inner sanctum. Usually you need a whole lot of money to do that, but I bought my way in with knowledge. Figured it all out myself. He’s powerful, but he’s not God. As we all know.”

Grif ignored the arm Paul held out for a fist bump. It fell after another second anyway. “So how’d you play him?”

“I took the list Kit gave me the night Nicole was killed. I combined it with what I already knew of his predilections-the parties, the young girls. I went out on a limb and shot off an e-mail that said I knew what he was doing, where the girls were coming from and where they were going. That got his attention. It also got me the invitation to his Valentine’s gala. I think he wanted to see if I knew as much as I said I did.”

“And was he satisfied you did?”

“Satisfied?” Paul laughed, threw his head back, and gurgled. After he’d righted it, he said, “You mean scared. I scared the shit out of the Caleb Chambers, and that’s what got me an invite to the real auction.”

Grif stilled. “Real auction?”

“The new girl. Didn’t you see her?”

Grif flicked his cigarette away. “There were more than a few women there, Paul.”

Paul shook his head. “Everyone wants this one, man, and they’re willing to pay top dime for her. I figured, why them? Just because they’re rich? Just because they got connections? No, if she was going to be taken by someone, it might as well be me. It might as well be free… in exchange for keeping his little secret.”

Grif wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Authorities have been covering up the Chambers parties for years, Paul. It’s not that great of a secret.”

“The parties, right. But not the auctions. Not the virgins.”

Grif’s blood iced over.

“You still have those down here?” Courtney asked.

“It’s not funny, Courtney,” Grif whispered.

“Hey, you all right, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Paul laughed at his own joke, unbalancing his head again.

Bridget’s words from earlier that evening came back like a gut punch. He’s a bishop in the twenty-ninth ward. He’s the head of his own congregation.

“You’re not talking about the women in the back room, are you? You’re talking about…” His mind raced, searching out the name. “Charlotte.”

One of my girls, Chambers had said.

“The galas are a way of showing off the new merch to interested buyers,” Paul said. “That’s when the bids come in. The auction, though, isn’t until the following week.”

Chambers wasn’t controlling powerful men using high-class professionals. He was luring them in using sex, yes, but used his position in the Mormon Church-an institution rife with a host of virginal girls-to do it. He was using the church as his cathouse.

He was turning babies into hookers.

“I feel sick,” Grif said, and began to climb out.

Courtney edged aside for him, calling down to Paul, “Told you you’re rank, dude.”

“Hey! Hey! What about me? You can’t just leave me…” He motioned down at his own body. “Here.”

Grif whirled, pointing at the man who’d been rotten even before death. “You know, it’s sad that you left a good woman to go running with hookers. It’s beyond pitiful that you then got turned by one of your playthings. But to sleep with a kid because you figure it’s going to happen anyway is so far past tragic…”

“Even the Germans don’t have a word for it,” Courtney finished for him.

“When is this auction?” Grif asked, glancing at his watch. Today was Saturday, a full week after the gala. Charlotte could already be gone. No, Grif thought. Taken.

But Paul said nothing.

Slowly, Grif lifted his gaze and pinned it on Paul. “I will keep you sentient inside that body long after your skull is hollowed out by parasites and your eye sockets squirm with maggots.”

Paul’s larynx dropped, and didn’t rise again. “It’s always midnight, a week after the showing,” he croaked.

The showing . A memory of Charlotte’s open, trusting face as she gazed up at Chambers flashed, striking Grif so squarely that he almost missed what Paul said next.

“… in the casino Chambers was building. His pet project-he’s gonna splay his name across that big tower. Or he was until the financing fell through. That’s why…”

“That’s why he runs women and blackmails men. It’s how he plans to raise enough capital to finish it. Bribing, selling, killing.” Grif swore. “You said midnight?”

Paul nodded as best he could, but the Pure energy was fading. He wouldn’t be of any use much longer. That’s okay. It was just after ten now. Grif still had time.

“But the pre-show starts an hour earlier.”

“Pre-show?”

Paul’s careless shrug had his shoulders drooping low. “Yeah, you know. Like a warm-up act. Girls who might be a little used up but have volunteered for kink-tie ’em up, tie ’em down. It lets the Richie Riches play out their S &M or rape fantasies, the girls get extra coin, and no one gets hurt.”

Unless they were being tied down against their will.

You should teach her a woman’s place… or someone else surely will.

“Where, Paul?” Something in Grif’s tone snagged Paul’s wandering attention.

“Wait a minute… you think Kit…?” Paul tried to access more of his maggot-laced brain, but quickly gave up. “No way. Why would anybody want her…”

“Where, you rotting meat suit?” Grif’s breath was full in his chest now, heart throbbing so hard it felt like it’d rip right through the flesh. “Tell me now or I’ll slit you back open, pop that bag of organs sitting in your stomach, and let the coyotes feed while you watch.”

“Jay-sus, Grif,” Courtney whistled, but Grif’s sight was red. Red as the blood that had once spilled from his body. Red as his wife’s nails had been when he’d allowed her to die. He wasn’t going to allow it to happen again. He certainly wasn’t going to allow this dead guy to damn Kit to death.

“At the old white elephant sitting in the middle of the Strip, man. The lot where the Marquis used to be.”

Grif didn’t hesitate, just growled at Courtney as he whirled away. “Re-bury him. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

“Wait!” Courtney called after him. “You’ll need me to navigate. You don’t know where you’re going!”

But Grif just broke into a run. He knew exactly where Chambers’s pet project stood. After all, he’d died there once before.

How long had it been since she had been taken?

Kit turned her head from side to side, like that might help her see. Only hours. Not days. Not yet. But it was full dark now. She couldn’t see the sky, not inside what sounded like an empty warehouse, or from behind the folds of the sleek, thick blindfold, but she could sense the night lying atop the city like an opaque veil. Yet unlike her midnight drives along Vegas’s bowl-like rim, there was nothing comforting in this darkness. This was both an abyss and a dead end. It felt as if she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d be trapped in blackness forever.