Greening’s cell rang. It was Rogerson from Investigations, so he put it on speaker. “Check your email. I’ve just sent you Marshall Beck’s background.”
Greening opened his laptop. He’d had it brought over after he and Ogawa had occupied the rescue center. “Have you found the location on a second property?”
“Yes, I think we have it. It’s near Burnt Ranch. It’s a ranch or stable or something, but it used to be a foster home. He bought the place at auction five years ago, essentially covering the back taxes. He put it in a trust, which is why we didn’t find it at first.”
After Rogerson read them off the property’s address, Greening hung up and opened his email. Ogawa came around the desk to peer over Greening’s shoulder. The attachments made for interesting reading. Beck had never been arrested. In fact, he’d never even gotten a speeding ticket. His DMV address history put him in Bishop, Stockton, Redding, and Sacramento.
“When this is over, it’ll be interesting to see if there are any accounts of missing women in those areas who meet Beck’s profile,” Ogawa said.
Yes, but that can wait, Greening thought.
He clicked a link that came with the intro: You’re going to want to look at this. The link went to an LA Times piece from the late ’80s. It told of the Palomino Ranch, a foster home in Trinity County. More than a dozen kids had been removed from the care of Jessica Wagner, who’d been arrested on charges of child abuse. Wagner had regimented a policy of corporal punishment on the children, flogging them with a switch until they were bloody. The practice had been going on for over a decade before the authorities got involved. Forty-seven of an estimated eighty children had come forward to testify. The only reason the horror had been exposed was that one of the children had escaped after a brutal beating.
“What are the chances that Beck was one of these kids?” Greening said.
Ogawa shook his head. “Christ, no wonder he’s fucked-up.”
This is how monsters are made, Greening thought.
Another link took him to a follow-up piece in which Jessica Wagner killed herself upon being released on bail.
“The bitch got off easy,” Ogawa said.
One question was on Greening’s mind—had Beck taken Zo? there? It was possible. He was finished in San Francisco. He had two choices—kill Zo? quick and run, or cart her somewhere where he could hole up and take his time with her. Greening hoped it was the latter. Trinity County was a six-hour drive from Napa. Given that distance, Zo? was more than likely alive.
“Do you think he’s taken her there?”
“It’s a long shot. That’s a long way to travel when you’re on the run. My money is that he’s got her somewhere closer, but I’ll call the Trinity Sheriff’s and have them run out there to get some eyes on the place.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Zo? awoke suspended by her wrists, naked. The chloroform hit she’d taken had left her a little woozy, but its effect was fading fast. She slowly took in her surroundings. She was in the stable, hanging from a hook driven into a wooden support column. She hung a clear two feet above the ground, but a stool supported her. He’d secured her wrists with bondage-style cuffs that had a sheepskin lining. That suggested that he intended on hanging her here for a long while.
Her clothes lay on the dirt floor in shreds. The thought of Beck cutting her clothes off her forced a shiver from her. She doubted the act was sexual. She never got the feeling from him that any of this was about sex. Still, him seeing her naked was another violation.
He appeared in front of her, causing her to flinch. He had the one thing she’d feared seeing—that damn Bowie knife in a scabbard on his hip. The whip was coiled, and he held it in both hands low against his hips. Her heart quickened. The whip meant she was near the end. She’d never reached this point before. He’d abducted her and stripped her naked before, but she’d never gotten as far as the flogging. Holli, Laurie Hernandez, and the other women had been lashed, but she’d managed to escape this fate, until now.
He saw her staring at the whip. He held it up and examined it. “I made this myself. It took me over a year to make it work. I followed the techniques used by the ancient mariners for keeping their crews in line. It’s an effective tool in the right hands . . . in my hands.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“That’s the wrong question. You should be asking, what did I do to deserve this?”
Nothing, she thought and let out a sob. She hated herself for it. When she’d surrendered to him, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t show him any weakness so she could deny him his satisfaction. Now, demeaned and scared, she felt her resolve crumple.
“Your failure to recognize your failings is the reason you’re here.”
“My failings?” she barked at him. “What exactly am I guilty of—being loud in a restaurant? What were the other women’s failings? Being noisy in a library? Jaywalking? Christ, how can you be so damn petty?”