“Thank you, Agent Barrett,” she says, shaking my offered hand. She’s looking at me a bit goggle-eyed. “I know it’s not professional of me, but I just wanted to say that I’m a huge admirer. I’ve studied your career and your cases.” She smiles shyly. “I’m not a stalker, just a fan.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate you taking part in our operation. Has Callie briefed you?”
“To a degree.”
Marjorie Green is one of those subtle women, the ones I secretly tend to envy the most. She looks younger than she probably is, but she radiates a mix of unselfconscious assurance and lack of ego, an air of quiet, unprepossessing confidence.
“We’ll fill you in. Let me introduce you to the others.”
Everyone is welcoming and friendly, except for James.
“We have a house,” Callie continues, when the introductions are complete. “Both the title and the mortgage will be in place by tomorrow morning, held in the names of Robert and Cynthia Long. I went with leaving a fair amount of equity in the home.”
“How much?” Alan asks.
“More than a hundred thousand.”
“Good. It’ll give credibility to Robert Long’s need to get the wife out of the way.”
“Nothing makes more sense when it comes to murder than money,” Callie agrees. “They both have a good credit rating to go with the Social Security number, and there are credit cards with minor balances on them for both. Use them sparingly and make sure you keep all your receipts.”
“I assume you have a place for Leo too?” I ask.
“Of course. Being the slighted young man, he’s in a so-so two-bedroom apartment. All utilities, including Internet and the rest, will be activated tomorrow. Ah, and a joint life-insurance policy as well. Five hundred thousand dollars on each of you.”
I shake my head in amazement. “Jesus, Callie. How’d you manage to get all of this done so fast? This normally takes at least a week.”
“I am owed many favors by many people. And I have my numerous male fans, of course.”
“Puh-leeeze,” Alan says, rolling his eyes. Marjorie watches it all, bemused.
“Additionally,” Callie says, pinning Alan with a scowl, “I told them it could count as a belated wedding gift. It’s called incentive.”
“However it occurred, good job.”
“Thank you.”
“When are we going to start?” Marjorie asks.
It’s a good question, and I give it careful consideration. As Alan had said, the bugbear of a good undercover operation is a lack of patience. There are probably a number of women out there, locked away in dark rooms, losing their minds and picking their skin until it bleeds. He’d warned us about coming after him, and we need to ensure that our actions do not endanger any living victims.
“Tomorrow,” I decide. I look at Alan and Leo and Marjorie. “That work for you?”
“It works great for me,” Marjorie says, obviously excited about her first undercover experience.
Leo and Alan both nod, resigned to their fate.
I give Leo and Marjorie my full attention. “You have to operate on the assumption that you’re being watched, every day. When you’re on this assignment, you’re not allowed to call family, wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, anyone. Success depends on assuming the identities we’re developing for you.” I pause to give weight to what I’m about to say next. “The consequences of having your cover blown go further than your own safety. We’re operating on the assumption that his threat is real, that he has other prisoners. If he thinks we’re getting too close, he could decide to kill them. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Leo says, face and voice sober.
“Yes,” Marjorie replies.
“Good. Then let’s get Marjorie up to speed and finish building your covers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I am at the prison, watching Douglas Hollister as he sits across from me. The rest of my team are busy at their assigned tasks; I want to spend some time with Hollister, so I can continue to fill in the picture of the man who’s behind all this.
We still know remarkably little about our perpetrator. He’s done an excellent job of hiding himself from view, whatever his anomalies in that regard. He’s kept contact at a minimum, controlled all points of communication. He’s mutilated most of our best witnesses, and Heather Hollister is too damaged to be much help right now. Douglas Hollister is the most tangible link we have.
I take some time to study Hollister before speaking. He’s a broken, beaten man. It permeates his body language and his silence. He stares down at his own hands, meeting my eyes only once, when he entered the interview room. He’s aged overnight; his skin is sallow, and his face sags in exhaustion and depression.
“Why are you here?” he asks, listless.
“Two reasons. I want to talk more with you about the man you dealt with. And I wanted to see how you were adjusting to prison life.”
He raises his head at that last. “Adjusting? Is that a joke?”
“Not at all.”
He snorts, but it’s halfhearted. “I’m trapped in a building filled with rapists, murderers, and thieves. Almost all of them are bigger and stronger than I am, and almost all of them are unfriendly. How do you think I’m doing?”
“Has anyone threatened you?”
“Not overtly. But it’s coming. I can feel it.”
“You can request protective custody.”
“Oh sure.” His tone is derisive. “Someone told me about that. You’re put in another building with a different set of rapists and murderers and thieves, except now you have a target on your back forever, because everyone assumes you’re a snitch. No thanks.”
“If it comes down to a choice between that or death, I’d advise you to choose that, Douglas.”
He sighs, rubs his face rapidly with both hands, as though he’s trying to wake himself up from a hangover or a nightmare. His skin glows red from the rubbing, then returns to its normal color. “I’m not all that concerned with living or dying right now. Why should I be? I killed one of my own sons, and the one who lived will know that eventually. Dana’s a … thing now. And Heather wins, after all. Death? I really don’t care.”
I fight the instinct for anger. However many years I spend with sociopaths, with all their malignant narcissism, they still have the ability to surprise me. They have a twist in their mind that I can’t understand in the root of me.
“You will,” I say. “You feel that way now, but it will pass.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m familiar with the phenomenon of shock,” I tell him instead. It’s a true-enough answer. “I’ve dealt with men and women in your situation. Suicide or death wishes are a common first stage. Survival asserts itself eventually.”
“Really?”
The self-pitying sound in his voice makes me want to say ugly things, to hurt him in his weakness.
“Really. Just hang in there, and don’t close any doors you might need to open later, okay?”
