Jane listened to Iris crying in the darkness, and she thought of the other girls who’d vanished. Deborah Schiffer. Patty Boles. Sherry Tanaka. How many others had there been, girls whose names they did not yet know?
She fought against her bonds, but duct tape was indestructible, the favorite tool of MacGyver and serial killers alike. No amount of straining and twisting would tear those straps from her wrists.
“Don’t let him win,” said Iris. Her voice had steadied; the steel was back in it.
“I want him, too,” said Jane.
“The keys. You have to reach them.”
Already Jane was twisting, rolling across the floor. Her bruised hip banged against the concrete and she gasped, breathing deeply for a moment as the pain faded. Then it was another twist, another tumble across the floor. This time her face landed on the concrete, scraping her nose, banging her teeth. She rolled onto her unbruised side, knees drawn up in a fetal position, fighting tears of pain and frustration. How was she going to do this? She couldn’t even make it across the floor, much less rise to her feet and reach the keys.
“You have a daughter,” said Iris softly.
“Yes.”
“Think of her. Think of what you’d do to hold her again. To smell her hair, touch her face. Think.
That quiet command seemed to come from somewhere inside her own head, as if it were her own voice demanding action. She thought of Regina in the bathtub, slippery and sweet-smelling with soap, dark curls clinging to pink skin. Regina, who would grow into a young woman, never knowing her own mother except as a ghost reflected in her own face, her own features. And she thought of Gabriel, growing old and gray.
“Think of her.” Iris’s voice drifted through the darkness. “She’ll give you the strength you need to
“Is that how you did it all these years?”
“It was all I had. It’s what kept me alive, the hope that my daughter might come home to me. I lived for that, Detective. I lived for the day I’d see her again. Or if it never happened, for the day I would see justice done. At least I’ll know that I died trying.”
Jane rolled again and her battered hip thumped against the floor, her face scraping across rough concrete. Suddenly her back collided with a wall and she lay on her side, panting, resting for what would be the next, and most difficult challenge. “I’ve reached the wall,” she said.
“Get to your feet. The door’s at the far end.”
With the wall as a support, Jane tried to squirm up to a kneeling position, but lost her balance and collapsed facedown, her mouth slamming against the floor. Pain shot straight from her teeth into her skull.
“Your daughter,” said Iris. “What is her name?”
Jane licked her lip and tasted blood. Felt the soft tissues already puffing up, swelling. “Regina,” she said.
“How old is she?”
“Two and a half.”
“And you love her very much.”
“Of course I do.” With a grunt, Jane struggled to her knees. She knew what Iris was doing; she could feel new strength in her muscles, new steel in her spine. No, she would not be kept away from her daughter. She would survive this night, the way Iris had survived these past two decades, because nothing mattered more to a mother than seeing her child again. She fought gravity, straining her back and neck to rise to a kneeling position.
“Regina,” said Iris. “She is the blood in your veins. The breath in your lungs.” Her voice was hypnotic, her words a whispered chant that sent heat rushing through Jane’s limbs. Words spoken in the universal language that every mother understands.
Get to your feet, Jane thought. Get those keys.
She rocked forward on her knees, coiling her muscles, and sprang up. Landed on her feet, but only for a few tottering seconds before she lost her balance and fell forward, her kneecaps slamming onto concrete.
“Again,” ordered Iris. No hint of sympathy in her voice. Was she as ruthless with her students? Was this the way real warriors were honed, without mercy, pushed beyond their limits?
“The keys,” said Iris.
Jane took a deep breath, tensed, and sprang up. Again she landed on her feet and wobbled, but the wall was right beside her. She propped her shoulder against it as she waited for the cramp in her calf to ease. “I’m up,” she said.
“Get to the far corner. That’s where the door is.”
Another hop, another wobble. She could do this. “Once we get free, we still have to get past him,” said Jane. “He has my gun.”
“I don’t need a weapon.”
“Oh, right. Ninjas just fly through the air.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Or what I can do.”
Jane hopped again, landing like a kangaroo. “Then tell me. Since we’re probably going to die, anyway. Are you the Monkey King?”
“The Monkey King is a fable.”
“It leaves behind real hair. It kills with a real sword. So who is it?”
“Someone you want on your side, Detective.”
“First I want to know who it is.”
“He’s inside you and me. He’s inside everyone who believes in justice.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s as much as I can tell you.”
“I’m not talking mystical mumo jumbo,” Jane panted and hopped again. “I’m talking about something real, something I’ve actually seen. Something that saved my life.” She paused to catch her breath. And said quietly: “I just want to thank him-or her-for that. So if you know who it is, could you pass that message along?”
Iris answered, just as softly: “It already knows.”
Jane made one last hop and her forehead banged against a door. “I’m here.”
“It’s hanging about the level of your head. Can you feel it?”
Brushing her cheek against the wall, Jane felt metal suddenly bite into her skin. Heard the soft clink of the hanging keys. “Found it!”
“Please don’t drop them.”
Jane gripped the keys in her mouth and lifted the ring off the wall hook.
The squeal of the opening door made her freeze. Lights blazed on, so bright that she shrank back, blinded, against the wall.
“Well, this is a complication,” said a voice she recognized. Slowly she opened her eyes against the glare and saw Mark Mallory standing beside Patrick. It has always been the two of them, she thought. Hunting together. Killing together. And the bond that linked these men was Charlotte. Poor Charlotte, whose every interest, every activity, had introduced predators to their prey, turning something as innocent as a tennis meet or an orchestra performance into an opportunity for killers to glimpse and choose fresh faces.
Mark grabbed the key ring and wrenched it from Jane’s mouth. Gave her a shove and sent her toppling to the floor. “Does anyone know she came here?”
“We have to assume so,” said Patrick. “That’s why we need to get rid of her car. We should have done it hours ago, if only you’d gotten back sooner.”
“I wanted to see if anyone would show up.”
“No one came for her?”
“Maybe the tracker’s broken.” He looked at Iris. “Or maybe no one cares about her. I waited for four hours, and not a soul turned up.”
“Well, someone’s going to be coming for
