“I don’t know…”
“I saw the video. You were one of them.”
Rutherford shook his head.
“You were all wearing masks,” continued Black. “But that fancy ring you’re wearing gave it away. The type you were all wearing. A token of club membership, yes? You really should be more careful. When is your next gathering? Tell me, or I swear to Jesus Christ Almighty, I will fire a bullet into your fucking eye.”
“Three days from now,” gasped Rutherford. “Monday evening.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I swear it. No one knows until that morning. We’re given a location by email. It could be anywhere in the country.”
Suddenly he sank to his knees. “Please, I was forced. These people have their ways.”
“The only person forced was that child. Who are these people?”
“I don’t know. Government ministers. Police. Corporate executives. Never any names. We get emails. Instructions. Only one person knows who everybody is. He organises things. He chooses where and when.”
“Who, Rutherford?”
“He calls himself the Grey Prince. Why the fuck do you care?”
Black regarded him for two seconds. “Two reasons. First, your ring of confederates tried to kill me. You brought it on yourself. Second, you’ve abused, raped and murdered kids for God knows how long. This has to stop. I’m speaking for them. Let’s call it retribution. A reckoning.”
Black paused, then asked, “Did the little girl die?”
Rutherford lowered his head to stare at the carpet. “They all die.”
“Look at me.”
Rutherford lifted his head.
“Do you know her?”
Black showed him the photograph of Gilbert Bartholomew’s daughter. Rutherford glanced at it, looked away. Black stepped forward, grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head up to face the picture, his pistol pressed under his chin.
“Do you know her?” he hissed.
Rutherford stared at the girl’s face.
“No,” he muttered. “They all look the same.”
He bowed his head again.
“Of course they do,” said Black. “Look at me, Rutherford.”
Rutherford looked up.
Black shot him in the face, then again in the chest.
He had information. A date.
And if his hunch was right, then he knew how to find them.
36
Stanley Lampton had never been a victim. He didn’t have abusive parents. He hadn’t been abused as a child. It was just in him. Borderline psychotic. During his many meetings with prison psychiatrists, the general conclusion was that it all could be boiled down to power. Power over the vulnerable. Power over kids. The complete destruction of their innocence turned him on. The ruination of a young life got him hard. If asked, Lampton would disagree. He would say he loved those kids, and he would say they loved him right back.
The power which his employer Boyd Falconer had granted him was something he could only have dreamed of. In his mind, he had arrived in paradise. He was careful not to overstep his limits. Falconer had made this clear. If he did, then the penalties were severe. He would be taken out to the desert, shot in the back of the head, and left for the vultures to pick. This frightened Lampton, but the rewards overshadowed everything.
He was rarely disturbed in his subterranean kingdom. A wall in his room was devoted to twelve monitors. Each showed him a full of view of each of the other rooms. He would watch. He would listen. They often needed tenderness, a display of affection, especially the very young ones. He was a master of that. To gain their trust. To calm their fears. Sometimes, in case of minor emergencies, a nurse was brought in. To deal with cuts or bruises or common colds. In extreme cases, such as the measles thing, they wheeled in a doctor. Beyond that, Lampton took care of everything. He consoled them, comforted them, humoured them. Loved them. The nurse and the doctor did it for the money. Lampton found such a concept vile. Never would he debase himself in such a way. He did it all for nothing. His was a higher calling.
He loved those kids.
But the rules were strict. He was allowed to read stories. During the day, he could play games. Interact. Keep them occupied. Made sure they brushed their teeth. Bathed them, which was difficult for him. But he kept his discipline. Sometimes, if a child became unruly, or particularly difficult, then he would threaten. Sometimes he would make an example of one in front of all the others. He did this rarely, but when he did, they listened, and any trouble went away.
Lampton accepted all this, because he knew he must. If he didn’t, he would die. But the rewards were glorious.
And one such reward awaited him. The little girl from the UK.
She had been drugged when she arrived. With great delicacy, Lampton bathed her and changed her into fresh clothes. When she began to rouse, he fixed a hot chocolate from the little kitchen in his room, and brought it through to her.
He placed it on her bedside table, and sat at the edge of the bed.
She was pale, fragile. A little wisp of life. Perfect.
She stared at him. How incredibly blue her eyes were, he thought. Blue, like the Arizona sky.
“I’ve made you hot chocolate. Not too hot. With cream on top. And sprinkles. Look – little stars.”
She didn’t reply.
Lampton smiled. “What’s your name?”
Nothing. Lampton expected no more. He was patient, attentive, understanding. These kids had been through a lot.
“You can tell me later. People call me Stanley. Or Stan, if you want. I’m your friend. I’ll look after you. Nothing can hurt you now.”
He leaned in a little closer, and spoke in a whisper. “And if you eat all your dinner up tonight, I’ve got a treat for you.”
Closer still.
“Ice cream!”
No reaction.
“Everybody likes ice cream. Do you like ice cream?”
She responded with a slight nod, which set Lampton’s heart thumping.
“That’s good. I think we’re going to be close buddies. Now if you need anything, anything at all, you just press this red button at the side of your bed, and Stan will come to help you. Strawberry or vanilla?”
She blinked her eyes, but said nothing.
“Both!” said
