Murder 42 - A Thriller (Sarah King Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

33

Natalie Gibb stared at her home from the curb. Her mother’s arms were around her, and her father was getting her bag out of the car. She hadn’t been home in two weeks. Two days in trauma, one in surgery, and the rest in recovery. Her face still bore the evidence of her suffering. The orbital bone around her eye had been shattered, and it made one of her eyes droop. The ER doctor had told her to consult a plastic surgeon, but the plastic surgeon wasn’t hopeful. He said he could improve it, but it would never quite look the same.

She now had two false teeth that had to be glued into her mouth, as well as massive tears that were just staring to heal in her uterus and rectum. She felt as though she’d gone through a meat grinder. And worse, she was so jumpy any small noise would set her off. A child had run by her hospital room, and she nearly had to be sedated.

Night was the worst. She’d see the black figure standing over her in his bed. He’d cut her arms and legs so badly, drained her of so much blood that she didn’t have the strength to move. And then he would smile before he did something, and she would scream. The screams were what he wanted. She realized that early on. So even when he did something that wasn’t particularly painful, she would scream right away, hoping he would stop.

By the end, she lay on his floor, a bloody mess of flesh and bone, while he showered and dressed. He treated her like a piece of trash, and that was the worst part: he didn’t recognize her as a human being.

“Are you ready?” her mother asked, setting her hand on Natalie’s shoulder.

She tensed, feeling every instinct tell her to swat her mother’s hand away. But she fought it and just looked at the ground with a small nod.

They headed up to her two-bedroom apartment. She’d gotten it for the price of a one-bedroom because she’d moved in when the apartments had just been built and were looking to fill the vacancies quickly. Hers was on the third floor, and it took them several minutes to climb three small flights of stairs. Each step sent a small shock of pain through her, and she had to stop frequently to catch her breath.

On the second flight, she stopped, put her face in her hands, and wept. Her mother rubbed her back as her father waited patiently just behind them.

“You must think I’m so weak,” she said through tears.

Her mother didn’t respond at first, but eventually she began to cry as well. She wrapped both arms around her, and they wept together on the stairs. Only when someone came out of an apartment did Natalie pull away. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and continued up the stairs.

Once she got to her apartment and opened the door, it felt as if a weight were taken off her shoulders. She was home—a place of safety and comfort. She had seen television shows about women who were raped and then never left their apartments again. Suddenly, she could see the allure.

“I’ll get you some tea,” her mother said.

Her father sat next to her on the couch but didn’t touch her. He seemed to be in a daze, unable to process any of this. His gaze looked over the apartment but didn’t seem to be taking any of it in. Neither of them spoke.

Her mother set the tea on the coffee table and sat between them. “We could stay the night,” she said. “The offer’s still open.”

Natalie shook her head. “No, I’m home. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, dear. It’s not going to be fine for a long time. You have to accept that it’s going to be a long road until you feel normal again.” She leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to drive you to the therapist.”

“I don’t need a therapist.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll be here at ten a.m. sharp. Please be ready. You sure you don’t want us to stay?”

She shook her head. “I have to spend my first night away from other people some time. Might as well be now.”

Her mother looked at her father, who rose from the couch. Both of her parents hugged her and then left. She stood alone in the middle of her apartment. Once she was alone, she hurried to the door, locked it, then set her back against it and slid down to the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks.

She didn’t know how long she cried for, but it was long enough that by the end she felt she didn’t have any more tears. Finally, she stood up and crossed the living room to her bedroom. They had bathed her at the hospital, but she hadn’t had a shower for two weeks. The feeling of hot water on her skin was exactly what she needed right now, to let the steam block everything out and loosen her muscles and her mind.

She walked into her bathroom and avoided looking at the mirror. Undressing, she glanced at the bruises on her arm where IV antibiotics had been given and then grabbed the shower curtain and opened it.

Farkas stood there with a smile on his face.

“No!”

She tried to run but felt him grab her hair, and he swung her into the bathroom wall. She hit it with a thud, and flashes of bright color lit her vision as he slammed her head into the wall again. He threw her to the floor and stood over her.

“No,” she cried, “no, please. I can’t take anymore. Please.”

He just smiled and pulled a knife out of his pocket. He bent down and cut along her breasts, and she screamed and writhed, but he wouldn’t stop. She thrashed around, swiping at anything with arms and legs, a hysterical animal backed into a corner. She couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. All she did was scream and fight.

It made him laugh, and he stood upright. As she lay there, he said, “You’re gonna get brave when I leave. So brave, you’re going to think you can call the police. But guess what? I’ll find you. If I feel you’re a threat to me, it would be easier to kill you than allow you to live, wouldn’t it? Are you a threat to me, Natalie?” He bent down and ran his fingers through her hair, and she hit his hand. “Tell the police you were mistaken. It wasn’t me. You were drunk and aren’t sure who it was. I’ll be watching, and I can get to you anytime I want.”

She didn’t know when he’d left, but when she opened her eyes, he was gone. She rolled to her side and cried, the blood dribbling down her chest and splashing in small drops on her white linoleum floor.

34

Sarah stood back as Stefan pounded on Gio’s hotel room door. He opened it, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and looked at them both before saying, “Where’d you guys go?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stefan said. “What matters is this.”

He handed Gio the slip of paper.

“What is it?”

“It’s the address of the man who made the
Murder 42
video.”

Gio looked down at the slip of paper again. “How’d you get it?”

“We can explain on the way. Let’s go.”

Gio shook his head. “Not with her. I’m not putting her in any more danger that we don’t have to.”

“I want to come,” Sarah said.

“If this is real, then it’s a takedown. You can’t add anything to it. You’re going back to Philly.”

He looked at Stefan again, and Sarah could tell there was something there, some conflict, and she wondered what it was. Just plain male machismo, or was it over her, or the fact that Stefan had been the first to see this address?

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Gio said. “Your involvement with this is over.”

Once at the airport, Sarah stood outside the car. Stefan sat in the passenger seat, and Gio was behind the wheel. Stefan held out his hand, and she shook it.

“Pleasure, Sarah,” he said. “You were the most interesting consultant I’ve ever dealt with. I hope our paths cross again.”

She blushed, or at least thought she did. “It was nice meeting you, Stefan.”

Gio stepped out of the car. He came around and lifted her bag. “I’ll walk you in.”

They crossed the walkway leading into the terminal. Gio reached out and held her hand. “What’s going on with you and Stefan?” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not stupid, Sarah. Are you gonna see him again?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not going to see him again. I’m in Philadelphia, and he’s in Phoenix. Long distance doesn’t sound appealing to me.”

“But if it wasn’t long distance, you’d be interested?”

She looked over at Stefan, still waiting in the car. “Why not? He’s sweet to me. And he’s cute.”

Gio’s jaw muscles flexed and then relaxed.

“You’re also cute when you’re jealous.”

“I was thinking that… maybe when this is over…”

“Why did you ignore me?”

“When?”

“After everything. It seemed like you got what you wanted and didn’t need me anymore, so you just ignored me.”

He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I have a part of me that wants to push you away and says I can’t have that kind of connection to someone in my life. And then I have another part that says that’s the only thing worth living for. So I don’t know what to do.”

“How about first, you be safe, and then you call me.”

He nodded. “I can do that.”

Despite wanting to be mad at him, she leaned in and kissed him quickly on the lips. Just a peck, which was enough to put a grin on his face. She took her bag from him and walked into the terminal without looking back.

35

The plane hummed along, the vibrations lulling Sarah to sleep. She tried to stay awake so that she could fall asleep easier that night, but it wasn’t happening. A child farther back on the plane was speaking. She couldn’t see him, and at first she thought he was speaking with someone but then realized he was reading a book to himself. The voice was even and calm, the voice of someone concentrating completely.

Sarah didn’t feel herself doze off, but the relaxation she felt in her muscles and the peace of her thoughts let her know she was asleep, a type of sleep where she was cognizant of what was happening around her.

An icy chill went up her back, and she lost her breath. She saw Stefan and Gio and several other men, dressed in what appeared to be combat gear. Stefan and Gio had thick black vests that said FBI across the back in yellow. Someone dressed in SWAT gear broke through the door of what appeared to be a condominium or apartment. Others officers swarmed inside, Gio and Stefan right behind them. They shouted out when a room was clear. Cupboards were opened, rugs kicked up to see what was underneath, the balcony searched.

The image flashed forward. Sarah knew this because the sunlight was hitting the condo differently, so the sun had moved. The SWAT team had cleared out, and only Stefan and Gio and a few other people remained. Stefan and Gio spoke on the balcony.

And then Sarah’s vision swept upward to another building across the street. A man sat on his own balcony with binoculars, looking into the condo and watching Stefan and Gio. He lowered the binoculars and smiled.

Another flash, and Sarah watched as Gio was hit over the head coming out of a hotel at night and stuffed into a van. The man from the balcony injected him with drugs. He woke up somewhere in the dark, and the man bent down over him and whispered, his voice like the hiss of a snake. “A federal agent… this will be a glorious work.”

Sarah jolted awake. She gulped air in large, panicked breaths.
Gio
, she thought.
Gio
.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she said to the stewardess, panic in her voice. “We need to turn the plane around. Turn the plane around, please.” Sarah unbuckled herself.

“Ma’am, you need to remain in your seat.”

“Turn the damn plane around!”

Several stewardesses came out. Sarah didn’t know exactly what was happening. Her chest felt tight. What the man was going to do to Gio was right there on the periphery of her consciousness. If she wanted to see it, she could.

As they tried to calm her, she got a glimpse. And saw only blood, bone, and organs.

“No!” she screamed. “No, turn the plane around. Stop the plane!”

Sarah was held down, and the more they pressed her into the seat, the more she panicked.

Gio
.

36

The cold air of the open fridge refreshed Farkas as he searched for a beer. He found one near the back, a European beer with pear and apple. He poured it into a large crystal glass and then sat outside on his balcony and watched the show across the street.

His official address was in the building across the street—an apartment rented by him under a false name. It was even decorated just in case something like this ever occurred. He sipped his beer as he watched the FBI and the LAPD SWAT team rush into the apartment with fingers on triggers. A man he knew a long time ago had been killed by a SWAT team. He was growing marijuana in his house, and the SWAT team raided the home at two in the morning, wearing all black. The man, thinking a gang had just invaded his home, lifted a golf club, at which point the officers promptly shot him in the chest. Farkas had no doubt that if he had actually been at the apartment across the street, he wouldn’t have been walking out of there alive. Not after the officers saw what he had created on that video.

The raid seemed by the book. The rooms were cleared, the incident commander in charge of the raid inspected every nook and cranny himself, and then the FBI and forensics people began poring over everything, hoping to find some trace of Farkas—though he knew they couldn’t have known his name. It was curious that they even got this far. He had been careful to forward mail from a different address, a service that guaranteed no one but the Post Office itself could find out who had sent the packages.

He sighed. It seemed, ultimately, that few guarantees were ever kept.

No matter
. Clearly, he’d have to leave the city now. He’d been wanting to move to Buenos Aires for quite some time, and it seemed as though the opportunity had just presented itself.

As he lifted the glass for another drink, he stopped. The glass lowered as his eyes fixed on a single individual: a man standing on the balcony speaking with another man. Farkas reached for his binoculars and observed the two.

Both were FBI, but the one was… beautiful. Something about him. Not just his appearance, though he was strikingly good looking, but his eyes and his countenance, the way he held himself. It was a man who had felt great pain and was attempting to mask that pain. A feature that, to Farkas, was as beautiful as a rose.

Every instinct told him to flee the city now. None of his bank accounts were stateside, so there was no money needing to be transferred or withdrawn. He could pack up his clothing, a few trinkets he needed, some memorabilia, and be on the next plane to Brazil.

But that man… He couldn’t resist. Farkas had to have him. The man would be his goodbye to Los Angeles and all the beauty and horror it contained. This one though, should be public. Very public. Something so outrageous the media would cling to it for weeks. He would have to come up with something brilliant—his magnum opus.

As he stared at the man, a smile parted his lips, and he held up his glass of beer in salute.