Profile of Terror (30 page)

Kaitlyn nodded, pointing her Glock down and focusing on the front door as Carly turned the key in the lock.

Carly twisted the door handle to swing the door open.  Scanning the entryway, she nodded to Kaitlyn, and moved inside.  "Stay here while I clear the downstairs first, then we'll go upstairs."

Carly methodically cleared each of the rooms, then returned to the front entrance of the house.  Motioning for Kaitlyn to follow her, they climbed the old stairs to the floor above them.  Once they reached the top, Kaitlyn waited for Carly to return after she cleared the rooms on that level. 

"All clear," said Carly, as she raced down the stairs.

<><><> 

Jim Ryder busied himself with conducting an inventory in one of the larger rooms that jutted off the tunnel.  It was a place he affectionately referred to as "Carly's Room".  It was here that Special Agent Stone would feel the slash of his whip across her body as she cried out for mercy.  Mercy that he would never deliver.  Not if his life depended on it.

Two large dog crates with padlocks were placed against the far wall.  Next to them were a couple of plastic bins filled with handcuffs, men's belts, dog collars, two whips, a video camera, a folding tripod, and a couple of bondage and torture magazines he'd moved to his underground hideaway years before.

He admired the leather straps hanging from the ceiling.  His penis throbbed with excitement as he imagined a naked Carly Stone dangling from her wrists as he snapped his whip again and again, ignoring her screams and cries for help. 

He assembled the tripod and then fastened on the video camera.  Rubbing his erection with his hand, he visualized beating and raping her again and again on the dirt floor.  She'd come to realize his power over her.  Carly would call him "Master." 

It was then that he heard a sound.  He rushed to the room where above him the trapdoor had been installed long ago.  Barely breathing, he listened intently until a floorboard squeaked in protest.  He heard voices in the house, mumbled words he could not make out.  Someone was in the house!  Hurrying to the small room where he kept the duffle bag filled with weapons, he pulled out a handgun, and then returned to stand under the trapdoor, his weapon poised and ready.

Shit, whoever was in the house was going from room-to-room.  Who the fuck was up there?  Was it the old biddies from the county historical association?  If so, he wasn't worried they'd find the trapdoor.  They hadn't found it before; why would they find it now?

Was it law enforcement?  If it was, how carefully would they search the house? 

<><><> 

Standing in the downstairs living room, Carly said, "There are no signs that anyone has been living here.  There are fireplaces in most of the rooms.  Let's check each of them for loose bricks and other signs it may be hiding some sort of entrance to the area beneath the house." 

"Did you see a door to a basement?"

Placing her gun back in the holster at her waist, Carly said, "No.  Why?"

"I find it odd that a house built in Indiana, even one over a hundred years old, would not have a basement to keep the family safe in inclement weather, like a tornado."

"Maybe there is an underground storm shelter in the backyard."

"I didn't see a shelter on the survey, but we'll look for one later."

"Besides the fireplaces, let's look closely at the floors.  Look for anything that strikes you as odd. Maybe there is a trapdoor. It just makes sense that if the Smith family hid the slaves that came to them for help, the rumors may be true, and they hid them in rooms beneath the house."

"Let's get started."

One by one they checked each room for loose bricks in the fireplace, and examined the flooring for oddities.  They had just entered the last room to inspect, when they heard footsteps coming from the front of the house.  Both women withdrew their weapons and pressed against the wall on either side of the door.  Carly sucked in a breath.  The footfalls became louder, as the intruder came down the hall toward the room they were in.  A man burst into the room and Carly yelled, "Freeze!"

Holding his hands in the air, an annoyed Brody Chase turned to face her.

Carly shoved her gun back into its holster.  "Brody!  You scared us to death.  What are you doing here?"

"No, what are
you
doing here?"

Just then, Gabe walked into the room, sent Kaitlyn a fierce glare, and stood next to his brother.

"Gabe?  You're here, too.  Were you following us?" asked Kaitlyn.

"As luck would have it, I was in Brody's office telling him a curious thing I learned in the library where you said you and Carly were meeting with Mrs. Willoughby, librarian and county historian,"  Gabe began, clearly displeased.  "It seems that Mrs. Willoughby left work at noon, and obviously had no meetings scheduled for the afternoon."

Brody interrupted, "Here's the rest of the story, and we're sticking to it.  Gabe was in my office worried as to where Kaitlyn might be, when dispatch notified me that one of our deputies had spotted one of our vehicles parked in the driveway of the Smith-Cedar House.  The dispatcher called me because the license plate number matched the vehicle that you'd checked out, Carly."

"I see," Carly nodded, her arms crossed defensively.

Brody looked around the room, and then back at Carly.  "So what
are
you doing here?  Why didn't you tell anyone where you would be?"

"We're checking the house for any signs of Jim Ryder.  I still say this is the perfect place for him to hide.  Mrs. Willoughby said there have been rumors for years that there are places in or beneath the house or in the surrounding woods where fugitive slaves were hidden by the Smith family."

"No kidding?"  Brody's expression held a hint of a grin as he gazed at her.  "If you don't mind some help, Gabe and I can go through the house and grounds with you.  There is no one who would be more delighted to find Mr. Ryder and slap his ass back in jail than yours truly."  

Brody followed Carly out of the room, while Gabe grasped Kaitlyn's hand to hold her back.  "Please tell me you realize the danger you are in from the Gamers."

"Of course I do."

"Then why did you tell me a lie about what you were doing today?"

"I have a bad case of cabin fever.  I had to get out of hiding, even for just an afternoon, before I went crazy.  You had no reason to worry about me.  Besides the fact I'm armed," she said as she showed him her Glock. "Carly is a former federal agent.  Did you really think she wouldn't know how to protect me?"

Gabe pulled her into his arms. "Sorry, Cat. I know I'm being overprotective, and I can't seem to stop myself.  But that doesn't excuse you from lying to me."

Several hours later, the four met at Carly's vehicle.  They'd searched every room of the house, examining the fireplaces for loose bricks, and the floors for any indication of a trapdoor, and had found nothing.  Next, they'd canvassed the perimeter of the grounds, including the woods, and came up with the same.  They were headed toward an old shed on the property to search it when Brody got a call from Bradley Lucas, reminding him he was to give the Commission an update on the Gamer murders in an hour.  They left convinced Jim Ryder wasn't on the property, and he probably never had been.

<><><> 

The next day, Gabe sat with Cam in Brody's conference room, munching on a turkey sandwich and chips.  Carly entered the room, plopped some file folders on the table, and then retrieved a cardboard lunch box along with a bottle of sweet tea, and then joined them.

"Who else are we expecting?" asked Carly.

Washing his food down with a gulp of tea, Gabe answered, "Wayne Griffin from Indy will be here, along with Robynn Burton from the state police." 

It was the first meeting of the Gamers Task Force, and Gabe was impatient to get started.  If the postscript on their last email was true, the Gamers were targeting Kaitlyn as their next victim.  She continued to dress in disguise, alternating between auburn and raven-colored wigs whenever she appeared in public.  Each time he picked her up from school, he canvassed the area looking for a white van.  So far, he'd seen nothing.  That didn't mean the killers weren't there on foot, or watching from another vehicle.  The Gamers weren't afraid of risk, as evident by the way they abducted Destiny Cooke outside the church where her state trooper fiancé waited inside.  Gabe had no understanding how anyone could kill another human being for the thrill of it.  He hoped Carly would provide more information on the psychology of what she called "thrill killers." 

Detective Wayne Griffin entered the room with Brody and slid a plastic evidence bag across the table to Cameron.  "Here's the locket for your evidence room.  Every time I look at that thing, I think of Sharon Maud's mother when she opened it and saw her own photo inside.  The woman broke down, and I couldn't calm her for at least twenty minutes."

"I'm so sorry she had to go through that," said Carly. Her dark eyes were gentle and understanding.  She couldn't imagine having the gift of a daughter, only to lose her to a killer.

"Mrs. Maud and Sharon's three small children motivate me to do all I can to help you find these bastards."

It may have been wishful thinking, but Cameron imagined that Robynn Burton's dark green eyes searched for him as she entered the conference room, carrying a black leather briefcase.  Her ebony hair pulled back into a long, sleek ponytail, she wore a gray suit that fit her curves like a glove.  Her eyes narrowing on his face, Robynn smiled at him, and it was all he could do to hide his immediate arousal.  What the hell was wrong with him? 

Cameron held out the chair next to him, inhaling her sweet scent as she sat down.   After he introduced her to the others, he led her to the food table, where she retrieved a boxed lunch and a bottle of water.

As soon as they sat down, Brody started the meeting. "Welcome to the first meeting of the Gamer Task Force.  Our obvious end goal is identification and arrest of the killers of both Abby Reece and Destiny Cooke."

Wayne Griffin leaned forward and interrupted, "In addition, the same killers are linked to the murders of five prostitutes, all of whom frequented truck stops in Indianapolis."

"How did you come to that conclusion?" asked Robynn.

"The shoe found on Abby Reece belonged to one of my five victims, Sara Cassity.  The locket placed on Destiny Cooke was owned by my victim Sharon Maud, whose mother had given it to her."

"Any DNA or fingerprints from the killers on these items?" Robynn leaned forward placing her elbows on the table.

"Unfortunately, not with the Indianapolis murders."

"But we were able to lift a print from a piece of the duct tape used on Destiny Cooke," added Cameron.  "We ran the print through IAFIS, the FBI's integrated automated fingerprint identifier, but got no hits. Which means this particular perp doesn't have a criminal record.  It does match the partial print we found on Abby Reece."

"Don't forget about the white van.  I think it is an important link between the prostitute murders and the two in Shawnee County," Gabe quickly added.

Wayne threw his empty lunch box into the trash can and returned to his seat. “We noticed a 2012 Chevrolet 1500 utility van in a couple of our surveillance tapes of the truck stops.  On the side of the van was a magnetic sign advertising a bakery.  Unfortunately, the bakery listed on the sign had one of their magnetic signs stolen, and we couldn't make out the license plate in the tape."