“An orphaned pickpocket, living off his will alone in a town run by criminals,” Vitucci said. Her eyes moved to the young, skinny boy. He was just a kid. A sob choked her, and she let out a stuttered breath. “And an ex–border guard who ignored the pleas of the woman he fell in love with in that sad, poverty-stricken town, who asked him to bring her across the border. He followed the law back then, and so she took matters into her own hands and was killed when she attempted to cross with their daughter. He blames himself. He tries to make amends by living solely outside the law now and drinking himself to death. For her.” Noelle looked at the older man, who was wrapping a piece of fabric around his bloody wrist. He had no hand. Oh God.
Their gazes hung on the screen for several minutes as they took in every staggering detail. At the top were two names: Trigger and Goliath. They obviously referred to the two people in the cages. A wave of nausea overtook her. They had named them, like circus animals. She gulped down the sickness, feeling faint.
It was too much to comprehend and grotesquely familiar. What were our game names? How did you monsters refer to us? She let out a strangled cry, turning toward Evan. Evan wrapped his arms around her, letting out a sound that was both anguish and fury. The feed was live, streaming from Vitucci’s computer. Those two people were there in cages right that very moment. Evan let go of her, whipping in the other direction, to face Vitucci. She turned as well, bringing her hands to her mouth.
Vitucci was gone.
Her gaze moved to his desk. So was the jewelry box holding his sister’s diamond.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Caspar paused to straighten his bow tie before using the flat of his hand to knock on the rusted steel door. It was pulled open by a young expressionless gentleman. “Invitation, sir?”
Caspar removed the coveted printed card stock from his inner coat pocket and wordlessly handed it to the greeter, who took a long moment to inspect it before handing it back. He recognized the man. He was the lackey who’d shot that old prostitute in the back when she was so close to freedom. The man gestured Caspar to spread his arms and then patted him down once he’d done so. “Have a lovely evening, sir.”
“I intend to,” he murmured, stepping through the metal detector, into a wide-open space that was mostly concrete. He had no idea where he was. He’d been picked up at a designated spot and then blindfolded and driven here. Wherever here was. Somewhere in Reno, that’s all he knew. Obviously, the originals hadn’t wanted to travel far.
He pulled in a slow breath before moving toward the arched doorway from which the sounds of organ music and conversation flowed. He’d waited eight long years for this night. To be in the same place with all these players. He’d sacrificed; he’d given up opportunities to enact small forms of revenge, because he wanted them all, not just one. What good did it do to smack a cockroach, or even a few, when the rest would just come scuttling back once the lights went out?
Oh yes, he had a mission here tonight, but first . . . first he would savor this for a moment. He exhaled slowly.
He had finally proved his loyalty and earned their trust. Or perhaps they were planning to kill him. He’d won the game so many times, after all. The other players had grown irritated. And suspicious. He hadn’t cheated—he’d played by their rules. He’d won using his wits alone, and with the help of the contestants, but even so, and though there had been few “winners” overall, he’d caught wind of the displeasure of the others. They preferred to possess the victories. All of them. Watching those they considered so much lower than themselves walk away—or run away, as the case always was—was a bitter pill to swallow. Why should men like them swallow anything bitter at all?
The thought made him smile and spurred him forward toward the celebration beyond.
He’d told Evan and Noelle how he’d spent his life collecting clues about people. It’d helped him survive once. Then it’d allowed him to provide insightful therapy to his patients and interesting lessons to his students and even to help the police solve crimes. He’d thought of himself not just as a collector, but the Collector. A persona. Because it’d allowed him to separate himself from the helpless boy he’d once been, the one who’d been used and victimized. The one who’d watched his mother bleed out on the floor as his sister was hacked to death. Yes, he’d gone by several names, in his own mind and on the lips of others. But tonight . . . tonight he was Caspar again. But this time, he was not helpless. He was not the broken boy who’d barely escaped with his life, and his pockets filled with the gems he’d stolen over the years. The ones that, later, Baudelaire had helped him sell. The ones that had made him rich.
He stepped into the room. Bach’s Fugue in G Minor swelled, laughter rose, and the splashing sound of the champagne fountain at the center tinkled pleasantly. Despite the plain walls and concrete floor, there were riches here, the unequalled luxury men like these enjoyed surrounding themselves with, from all corners of the earth. French and Irish crystal, German dinnerware, silk tablecloths from Myanmar, English roses, and Japanese orchids. The world was their playground, and for them, nothing was unavailable. He knew these men well enough to know they’d destroy it all with gusto by the end of the evening. What spoke of your own power even more strongly than possession?
Destruction. True kings not only invaded. They pillaged too.
He could see by their coloring that the six women in cages hanging above the party were from places both near and distant as well. The king and his court had learned, after all. Abducting people from one singular geographical location eventually became problematic.
They’d destroy them as well. Tradition and all.
Caspar glanced up to see a young girl with tangled black hair. She peered down at him with half-open, drugged eyes. She was naked, her hands bound and a gag in her mouth. The jewels she was draped in sparkled in the reflected light.
Ah, a nod to where it’d all begun. How nostalgic these beasts could be.
The combination of beauty and violence. It was their ambrosia, and they devoured it. It was what gluttons did.
They’d done so for decades, gathering in numbers, making it more unlikely that they’d ever be stopped. And each act of depravity made them more and more desensitized. And so they created a bloody game where the outcome was never quite certain, and it added to the thrill because it hinged on the wills of their victims, one of the only things they could not control, in a world where everything else was predictably theirs for the taking.
He glanced away from the girl. Hold tight, he thought. If I’ve played my cards right, you might have a savior. Of course, it would be up to her too. No one could save you if you weren’t brave enough to save yourself. He’d learned that well.
He was here to avenge it.
Speaking of vengeance, there was old Dedryck, the king. The one who’d started it all. My, but he had aged, and quite poorly, despite his vast wealth. He looked like a withered corpse in a wheelchair, his tuxedo hanging on his bony frame and a blanket draped over his lap. His back was hunched, but his sparsely haired head was raised, and he was staring at Caspar, his beady eyes trained directly on him. Could the old man even see him from that far away? It seemed so.
A server approached with a tray of flutes filled with pale-golden champagne. He bowed slightly, extending the tray. His disguise was impeccable; even Caspar barely recognized him. Caspar noted that he had done an impressive job covering his birthmark as well. It was undetectable. “Sir?” the server asked, his pinkie finger making the most minute movement toward one of the glasses. Caspar picked up the flute. How lovely. Baccarat, if he wasn’t mistaken. The server moved away.
“Mr. Vitucci.” Caspar turned, responding effortlessly to the moniker. He’d been living under it for longer than he had not, after all.
A man approached him, clapping him on the back as he let out a deep laugh. “Nice touch,” he said, nodding to the tissue paper poppy pinned to Caspar’s jacket. “Ironic.” The man grinned, and so did Caspar.
“Indeed,” Caspar agreed.