Vanish

collecting in a pool at the bottom of the stairs.

“That’s Jane Doe number one,” said Moore.

“You don’t have ID on her?”

“We don’t have ID on any of the victims in that house.”

She turned to the next photograph. It was a young blonde this time, lying on a cot, the blanket pulled up to her neck, hands still clutching the fabric, as though it might protect her. A trickle of blood oozed from the bullet wound in her forehead. A swift kill, rendered with the stunning efficiency of a single bullet.

“That’s Jane Doe number two,” said Moore. At her troubled glance, he added: “There are still others.”

Jane heard the note of caution in his voice. Once again she was on edge as she turned to the next image. Staring at the third crime scene photo, she thought: This is getting harder, but I can still deal with it. It was a view through a closet doorway, into the blood-splattered interior. Two young women, both of them only partially clothed, sat slumped together in a tangle of arms and long hair, as though caught in a final embrace.

“Jane Does number three and number four,” said Moore.

“None of these women have been identified?”

“Their fingerprints aren’t in any database.”

“You’ve got four attractive women here. And no one reported them missing?”

Moore shook his head. “They don’t match anyone on NCIC’s missing persons list.” He nodded at the two victims in the closet. “The cartridge that popped up in the IBIS match was found in that closet. Those two women were shot with the same weapon that the guard carried into Olena’s hospital room.”

“And the other vics in this house? Also the same gun?”

“No. A different weapon was used on them.”

“Two guns? Two killers?”

“Yes.”

So far, none of the images had truly upset her. She reached without trepidation for the last photo, of Jane Doe number five. This time, what she saw made her rock back against the booth. Yet she could not drag her gaze from the image. She could only stare at the expression of mortal agony still etched on the victim’s face. This woman was older and heavier, in her forties. Her torso was tied to a chair with loops of white cord.

“That’s the fifth and final victim,” said Moore. “The other four women were dispatched quickly. A bullet to the head, and that was that.” He looked at the open folder. “This one was eventually finished off with a bullet to the brain as well. But not until…” Moore paused. “Not until that was done to her.”

“How long…” Jane swallowed. “How long was she kept alive?”

“Based on the number of fractures in her hands and wrists, and the fact that all the bones were essentially pulverized, the medical examiner felt there were at least forty or fifty separate blows of the hammer. The hammerhead wasn’t large. Each blow would crush only a small area. But there was not one bone, one finger, that escaped.”

Abruptly Jane closed the folder, unable to stomach the image any longer. But the damage was done, the memory now indelible.

“It would have taken at least two attackers,” said Moore. “Someone to immobilize her while she was tied to the chair. Someone to hold her wrist to the table while that was being done to her.”

“There would have been screams,” she murmured. She looked up at Moore. “Why didn’t anyone hear her screaming?”

“The house is on a private dirt road, some distance from its neighbors. And remember, it was January.”

When people keep their windows shut. The victim must have realized that no one would hear her cries. That there would be no rescue. The best she could hope for was the mercy of a bullet.

“What did they want from her?” she asked.

“We don’t know.”

“There must have been a reason for doing this. Something she knew.”

“We don’t even know who she was. Five Jane Does. None of these victims match any missing persons report.”

“How can we not know anything about them?” She looked at her husband.

Gabriel shook his head. “They’re ghosts, Jane. No names, no identities.”

“What about the house?”

“It was rented out at the time to a Marguerite Fisher.”

“Who’s that?”

“There’s no such woman. It’s a fictitious name.”

“Jesus. This is like going down a rabbit hole. Nameless victims. Renters who don’t exist.”

“But we do know who owns that house,” said Gabriel. “A company called KTE Investments.”

“Is that significant?”

“Yes. It took Leesburg PD a month to track it down. KTE is an off-the-books subsidiary of the Ballentree Company.”

Cold fingers seemed to stroke up the back of Jane’s neck. “Joseph Roke again,” she murmured. “He talked about Ballentree. About Ashburn. What if he wasn’t crazy at all?”

They all fell silent as the waitress returned with the coffeepot. “Don’t you like your apple crisp, Detective?” she asked, noting Jane’s scarcely touched dessert.

“Oh, it’s great. But I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

“Yeah, no one seems to have an appetite,” the waitress said as she reached across to fill Gabriel’s cup. “Just a lot of coffee drinkers sitting around in here this afternoon.”

Gabriel glanced up. “Who else?” he asked.

“Oh, that guy over…” The waitress paused, frowning at the empty booth nearby. She shrugged. “Guess he didn’t like the coffee,” she said, and walked away.

“Okay,” Jane said quietly. “I’m starting to freak out, guys.”

Moore quickly swept up the folders and slid them into a large envelope. “We should leave,” he said.

They walked out of Doyle’s, emerging into the hot glare of afternoon. In the parking lot they paused beside Moore ’s car, scanning the street, the nearby vehicles. Here we are, two cops and an FBI agent, she thought, yet all three of us are jumpy. All three of us are reflexively scoping out the area.

“What happens now?” asked Jane.

“As far as Boston PD’s concerned, it’s hands off,” said Moore. “I’ve been ordered not to rattle this particular cage.”

“And those files?” She glanced at the envelope Moore was carrying.

“I’m not even supposed to have these.”

“Well, I’m still on maternity leave. No one’s issued me any orders.” She took the envelope from Moore.

“Jane,” said Gabriel.

She turned toward her Subaru. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Jane.”