“Do they recognize the dead male?” Callahan asked.
Anderson nodded. “Fat guy named Salazar, they said. His brain’s half toasted up from huffing gasoline when he was a kid. Anyway, unless you guys intend to take over the case, I’m going to have the sheriff’s office order up some construction lights and ground-penetrating radar. Looks like we’re gonna be here awhile.”
“Knock yourself out.” Callahan pushed to her feet. “No sign of a guy who calls himself Matarife?”
“Nope,” Anderson said. “That name has come up in a couple of different interviews lately, but we didn’t have an ID. Anonymous caller said Matarife’s real name is Ernie Pacheco. This is Pacheco’s place, but he’s not here.”
“What about a girl named Magdalena?” Callahan asked. “She should speak some English.”
“Sorry, Kelsey,” Anderson said, more tender now. He’d obviously been around Callahan long enough to read that this was something extra-sensitive. “We haven’t identified the bodies out back, but neither of the girls inside call themselves Magdalena.”
“Tell me about what’s inside the house,” Caruso said.
Anderson turned. “Follow me. But I gotta warn you. It is some gruesome shit.” He nodded to the Johnson County deputy at the door, as if FBI badges weren’t enough to gain Caruso and Callahan entry.
? ? ?
The living area of the house looked normal enough, if a little on the tattered side for such a large home. Wood paneling and oak furniture gave the place an early-1970s feel and added to the oppressive darkness of the situation. Caruso imagined this would be what Jeffrey Dahmer’s place would have felt like if he could have afforded a big house. There was a big-screen television fixed to the wall above a gas fireplace. A half-bowl of salsa and the remnants of tortilla chips occupied the coffee table along with a half-dozen empty bottles of Corona. The place could have easily belonged to an upper-middle-class Texas family who had gone to bed without cleaning up after watching a ball game—except for the smell.
Caruso had never been one for incense. The sweet smell of patchouli was overpowering—but not quite strong enough to hide the outhouse odors coming from the next room.
Anderson pushed open a door off the kitchen and motioned for them to come inside.
“We found the two girls in here. They were chained to eyebolts set in five-gallon buckets of concrete. Six more buckets had no girls attached. We’ll swab those for DNA.” Anderson shook his head, pointing to the far side of the room with his notebook. “Sick bastards made the poor kids use those buckets there to go to the restroom.” He nodded to a tall door painted bright fire-engine red at the far end of the room. “The worst part is on through there.” He stopped. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t go in, Kelsey.”
She glared daggers at him. “What?”
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t go back in there if I didn’t have to.”
“Come on,” Callahan said.
Caruso felt himself holding his breath as he followed the others into what had once been a deep three-car garage but was now bricked off from the outside. Soundproof foam and old mattresses covered the walls. In one corner, a high-back leather chair sat atop a rough plywood podium. A leg iron and chain were affixed to the base of the chair. There was a small HD camera mounted to a tripod set up out front, with a cable running from the camera to an open laptop computer. In the farthest corner from the chair, three cameras and three pole-mounted lights surrounded a timber bed. Clear plastic sheeting took the place of regular bed linens. Blue plastic hospital restraints hung from each post of the heavy bedframe. A stainless-steel table behind the cameras held an assortment of whips and gags.
“I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit in my day,” Anderson whispered. “But I never seen anything like this.”
“I have,” Callahan said. She motioned them out of the room, and then out of the house.
“I didn’t want to talk in front of that open computer,” she said once they were standing in the driveway. “Not until Forensics gets a chance to look it over. There’s too big a chance it’s streaming everything we say to some other location.”
“That’s why you make the big money, Kelsey,” Anderson said.
“You said you’d seen this before,” Caruso said.
“Sadly, I have,” Callahan said. She peeled off the gloves with a hooked thumb so they turned inside out and she didn’t have to touch the outside of either with her fingers. “I’m pretty convinced they were sitting the girls in that big chair and auctioning them off on video. Any girl that didn’t bring in a high enough bid was then used in a snuff video.”
Caruso stifled a gasp. He shook his head, imagining John Clark’s reaction when he’d seen something like this. It sure explained the dead guy at the gravesite and the woman found floating in the pool missing part of her windpipe.
Callahan cocked her head toward Anderson, something dawning on her. “Did either of the girls give a description of the guy who saved them?”
Caruso kept his face passive.
The Ranger shrugged. “Like I said. We’re still waiting on a Spanish speaker. Why? You have an idea who it was?”
Callahan shot an accusing glance at Caruso. “I’ve got a pretty good guess,” she said.
30
The Hendley Associates Gulfstream hit heavy turbulence six hours north of Buenos Aires. The movement jostled Jack Ryan, Jr., awake from a much-needed seven-hour nap. Chavez was still sawing logs in the seat across from Lisanne, but Adara and Midas sat at the small conference table in mid-cabin. They both made good use of the G550’s encrypted satellite Wi-Fi.
Jack sat up from the leather couch and raised both arms above his head in what his kid sister called a “squinty-eyed” stretch.
Midas glanced up from his computer.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Jack nodded but said nothing. He stood, steadying himself against the armrest in the bumpy air.
Lisanne unbuckled her seat belt and moved toward the galley. She whispered, so as not to disturb Chavez. “I have a fresh pot of coffee on.”
Ryan made his way forward and put his hand on the lavatory door. Still barely conscious of the fact that he was hurtling through the air at 35,000 feet, he gave her what he was sure was a dopey grin.
“Filling up on strong coffee is second on my to-do list.”
Lisanne leaned forward, giving him a conspiratorial nod. “It’ll be waiting here for you,” she said.
Three minutes later, Ryan set his coffee cup on the conference table and then dropped down in the aisle to pump out thirty push-ups and make sure he was fully awake.
“Any new crises while I was out?” Ryan asked when he was done and seated at the table with the others.
Adara was deep in thought, poring over some article.
Midas looked up and shook his head. “Not that I know of. I woke up about ten minutes before y—”
“Listen to this,” Adara said, cutting him off.
Ryan moved closer. Midas lowered his computer.