“All right, cut the chatter,” Deputy Pardon ordered. “Stay alert. She’ll resurface.”
“She’d better,” Cellini said in an undertone only Tanner could hear.
“Are there are any other rooms besides the bedroom where the curtains are closed?” Walsh asked.
Tanner shook his head. “The bedroom’s the only one.”
“Why don’t we have infrared lenses trained on the house?”
“We do. On the front of the house anyway. But she’s not showing up. No body heat.”
“Then she’s in the rear. There’s nothing back there but the rear hall, the laundry room, and the bedroom.”
“Well, she’s not in the bedroom.” Tanner tapped the computer screen for emphasis.
“Maybe she’s doing her laundry,” Cellini said, trying for humor. Nobody laughed.
“This is wrong.” Walsh’s face was set in deep lines of worry. “Maybe they should go in.”
Tanner considered it. He wanted to agree, but he knew C.J. would be furious if they blew their cover in a misguided attempt to protect her. “Another minute or two,” he said. “If we go in now, the game’s up. We’ll scare him off for sure.”
Walsh frowned but nodded. “Minute or two. That’s all.”
Treat had the impression Caitlin wanted to speak. He had to admit to a certain curiosity over her final words. He eased the pressure on her throat incrementally.
“They’ll see you,” Caitlin whispered. “They’re looking at you right now.”
Treat almost smiled.
So it was a trap. They had known about the Webcam, the Web site, all of it. They had simply pretended to suspect nothing. Really, the authorities were more clever than he gave them credit for.
Still, all their cleverness would avail them nothing.
“I’m afraid, dear, I could hardly allow live video of a homicide to go out unedited over the Internet. Suppose impressionable young children were watching. I wouldn’t want to warp their innocent minds.”
“What…” She was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
“No one can see us,” he said more plainly. “We have the rarest luxury of all in this crowded, interconnected modern world. We have total privacy, Caitlin, just you and I.”
He felt the tensing of her neck muscles and knew she was about to scream, but already his hand was on her mouth, forcing it shut, muffling her cry as he forced her away from the bureau.
“Bedtime, Caitlin,” he breathed. “Rest in peace.”
“Look at this.”
Rawls had accessed the Web site’s file manager and was studying the list of uploaded files. He pointed to the date next to one of the entries. Today’s date.
“It was just updated,” Brand said. The hour and minute were listed alongside the date. “Less than five minutes ago.”
“Check out the filename. ‘WebcamOne. avi.’ ”
“What the hell? That’s not live video.”
“Not anymore. He recorded three hundred K of the feed”-there were software programs that could capture a video stream as an. avi file-“and uploaded it to the file manager. He’s got it linked to the Web page, so we think we’re seeing a real-time shot when actually-”
“It’s a goddamn loop,” Brand finished. “That’s why it looked wrong. Flickering-”
“Whenever the loop restarts.” Rawls nodded. “Call Walsh. I’ll try to get the live feed back.”
Rawls figured the signal was still being sent. He simply had to relink it to the site.
He opened an editing program built into the file manager and brought up the Web page, which appeared as a clutter of HMTL code. The link to the live video had been replaced by a link to the WebcamOne file.
“You remember the original link?” Brand asked as he flipped open Rawls’s cell phone and punched redial There was ringing on the other end of the line.
“I made note of it. Mind like a steel trap.” Rawls deleted the new link, typed in the old one, and saved the changes, then pulled up the Web page and hit the Refresh button.
A live image of the bedroom appeared. Not empty anymore.
“Oh, Christ,” Brand said, nearly dropping the phone.
C.J. Osborn was sprawled on her bed, a man on top of her, a tall man with sinewy arms, a man who was strangling her to death.
Walsh’s cell phone was chirping at him. He groped for it in his pocket, still watching the laptop computer, and then the video image shivered and miraculously changed.
Cellini gasped.
Tanner was already on his feet, yelling into the microphone. “Code ninety-nine, she’s down, she’s down!”
On the screen, C.J. writhing as strong hands gripped her throat-the hands that had strangled Nikki Carter and Martha Eversol.
The phone was still ringing. Walsh grabbed it. “Yes?”
“This is Brand, FBI. You see it?”
Walsh took a breath. “We see it. SWAT’s going in.”
C.J. hadn’t expected to die like this, spread-eagled on her back amid the tangled sheets, fingers on her throat, air cut off, vision dimming, until only his eyes remained clear and sharp in the descending darkness-eyes that cut through her, laser eyes, eyes that spoke of hatred and desperation and the singing joy of revenge.
Noise.
The boom of gunshots from the front and rear of the house.
Doors being blown open.
Rescue.
Treat heard it too. Released her throat and pivoted at the hips, still straddling her, and then the gun was in his hand, the Beretta he’d taken from her.
He fired three times at the bedroom doorway to hold off the assault.
And C.J. twisted on her side and reached out to her nightstand.
Treat swiveling to face her again.
The purse in her hand.
His gun tracing a slow arc toward her.
Her hand inside the purse, finding her off-duty gun, the Smith. 38, her finger slipping inside the trigger guard.
Treat about to shoot, point-blank range, no way he could miss.
But she fired first
Not aiming, just thrusting the purse in his direction and snapping the Smith’s trigger, blowing the handbag to tatters as she fired again and again and again, each shot blossoming like a many-petaled rose on his chest, his neck, his belly, and his eyes still staring, not with hatred any longer, only with dazed surprise.
She emptied the gun, and Treat tottered, slumped, fell off the bed.
Over the ringing in her ears she heard the smack of his body on the floor, a sound as final as the thump of earth on a coffin lid.
