Her vision blurry with exhaustion, Angie clicked off the lights in her apartment and crawled into bed with her track pants and sweatshirt still on. As fatigued as she was, she could not fall asleep. Outside wind gusted. Rain hammered in waves against her windows. Her brain circled around and around everything she knew about her case to date, and she tried her damnedest to remember something from her past. Anything. She even tried to conjure up the ghost of the little girl in pink again. But nothing came to her. She punched her pillow into shape, determination steeling her. Whatever it took, she was going to get answers. Not for herself, but for that little girl who could be her sister.
As she dozed she thought she heard the little girl’s words finally whispering through her mind again . . .
Come. Come playum dum grove . . . come . . .
Or was it the wind?
CHAPTER 26
FRIDAY, JANUARY 5
“Doctor,” the nurse says with a nod as the man strides past the reception area. He wears a medical coat, a name badge clipped to his pocket, a stethoscope around his neck.
He knows from the Russian interpreter where the girls are being held in the institution, what ward, what room. He knows protocol of entry. He reaches the room and tilts his head politely toward the uniformed officer sitting outside, guarding the occupants. A momentary look of question enters the officer’s face. It’s placated by his quick smile and his assured reach for the door handle. Confidence. It’s the art of the trickster. It’s 12:49 a.m. as he enters the room. The officer is perhaps tired and sluggish because of the hour.
A small night-light casts a faint glow near the back of the ward. The girls are afraid of the dark, it seems. But the glow is not bright enough for him to see what he needs, so he takes a small Maglite from his pocket. He goes bed to bed. One by one he checks the charts hanging at the ends of the beds. One girl stirs as he moves past. He casts her an avuncular smile, waits. She turns over and goes back to sleep. He suspects they’ve had medication to aid slumber.
He finds the chart he’s looking for. His target is asleep on her back, features slack and calm under a blanket of oblivion. Pretty thing. She must have brought in top dollar. He knows from the interpreter that she’s the one who spoke to the lead detective named James Maddocks. It’s via her that the man will now send a message from his boss. He removes his lab coat, lays it neatly on a chair near the bed. He snaps on latex gloves. Going up to the side of her bed, near her pillow, he bends down and places a gloved hand upon her shoulder. Gently, he tries to rouse her. “Sophia,” he whispers in her ear.
She moans slightly, stirs. He tries again. “Sophia.”
Her eyes snap open wide. She sees him. Terror twists into her face. He slaps his gloved hand hard over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispers, holding his Maglite to his lips like an index finger. Then in Russian he says, “Be very quiet. Do not move, or I will kill all the other girls as they sleep. Do you understand?”
Her eyes flare sharply toward the younger ones, whites showing huge around her irises. She’s protective over them, he realizes. This is helpful. “Do you understand me, Sophia?” he says again in Russian, close to her ear.
She nods. Terror has muted her flight-or-fight response. It’s numbed her. She fears for her life and is compliant because of it. She’s been well conditioned. He places his thin Maglite between his teeth and holds it there so he can see what he is doing while using both hands. He takes from his breast pocket a prefilled syringe. He uncaps the needle, taps it. With a swift move he smothers her face with his hand, twisting her head brutally sideways. She writhes and squirms and struggles to breathe under his palm, and it makes the vein down the side of her neck bulge. Deftly he sticks the needle into the vein and pushes the plunger on the syringe. He waits a few seconds, and she starts to relax and go limp. He releases his hand. A soft sigh escapes her.
“Feels good, no?” he says softly in Russian, stroking her cheek. Her eyelids droop. He returns the syringe to his pocket and then unsheathes the hunting knife that hangs on his belt. He sharpened it well before coming. She’s fading, starting to pass out. It won’t be long now.
Clamping his palm down over her brow to hold her steady, he forces the back of her head firmly into the pillow. Maglite still in his mouth, he shines light upon her lips. He sticks his gloved fingers between her lips and pries her jaw open wide. He holds it open as she begins to gag. Her eyes flare to life again, just for a moment, and fear flickers in them, but she’s no longer able to resist.
“You know what happens to girls who talk,” he whispers.
He brings the hunting blade up to her mouth.
CHAPTER 27
Angie remained standing in front of Jacob Anders’s desk. She didn’t have time to sit. It was 8:11 a.m. She was in a rush—going to be late for work.
“It’s all back in here,” Anders said, patting the side of the box on his desk. “We’ve taken all the blood and hair samples we could, and it’s possible that we’ll have some DNA results for you in a few days. The semen stains might not prove viable, though. We’ll try, but it will take longer. There appear to have been two different sources.”
“Of semen?”
“Yes.”
“On the sweater? Two contributors?”
“Correct.”
A sick, bitter taste rose up the back of her throat. It steeled her determination. Whatever had happened that Christmas Eve over thirty years ago, she was going to find out. She was going to get those two men.
Dead or alive.
Anders watched her face intently as he said, “There was also a lab report on evidence from a rape kit conducted on Jane Doe.”
She inhaled deeply. “What did it say?”
“No evidence of sexual activity, although there was evidence of earlier vaginal tearing.”
Angie’s gaze shot to the window. Her heart raced, and she clenched her fists at her sides. She glared at the stormy ocean. It didn’t prove anything. She could have been injured some other way. Didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, either. But clearly, whatever had occurred in her early childhood had been bad enough to wipe her memory clean in a merciful act of self-preservation, creating a blank slate upon which her adoptive parents had written a totally new life and identity.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
“All the paperwork from the box has been logged, copied, and digitized. The evidence has also been logged and photographically documented. What samples remain have been returned to the packaging.”
“And the prints?” Angie asked, referring to the images of the bloody finger and hand patents that had been captured on the outside of the cradle door.
“Also digitized.”
A spark of adrenaline knotted into her anxiety—those digitized prints could now be run through automatic identification databases.
“This is your copy of everything we have on file now.” Anders slid a memory stick across his desk toward Angie.
“I can’t thank you enough, Jacob,” she said as she snagged the storage device off his desk and slipped it into her breast pocket. She reached with both hands to grasp her box.