His hands jerked up to try to cushion the fall. They got caught in the sticky webbing and he slammed sideways against the ground, the sharp, painful cry lost in his coughing fits.
Darby hopped out. She kicked him on to his stomach. When he tried to roll on to his back, she brought her heel down against his shoulder and kept it there, pinning him to the ground. Using her knife, she began cutting the net.
As she worked, the sharp blade slicing through the webbing, she found the source of his pain: he had fractured his wrist during the fall. It made her think of Charlie, how his bones had snapped when she'd grabbed his wrist and twisted. No doubt something like that could happen — and no doubt the force of being smashed against the side of the head with an elbow could dislodge a tooth or two. But she had knocked out several teeth. Charlie was painfully thin, covered in scars. She wondered if he had weak, malnourished bones from time spent in captivity.
Captivity, an inner voice questioned.
Yes. After his abduction, Charlie Rizzo had been forced to live somewhere, enduring daily beatings, torture, and God only knew what else.
So you're buying that he is, in fact, Charlie Rizzo.
A part of her did, she supposed. At the moment she didn't know what else to think.
Darby tucked the knife in her trouser pocket then prised the netting off the man's body, surprised at its sticky strength. She cuffed him, then helped him to his feet.
Knife in hand again, she cut the straps for the man's tactical vest, the same model as the ones used by NH SWAT.
The people entering the house were dressed as SWAT officers; they must have grabbed the vests and gas masks from the back of the APC, after the men had been poisoned.
That meant a plan had been put in place before her arrival. They had been near by, watching.
But why grab Mark Rizzo? Why not just kill him like Judith Rizzo and the twins, whose remains were now shredded into unrecognizable bits and scattered across the woods? Why did these people need the father?
Darby ripped the gas mask off the man's face. The fresh air would help clear the burning from his lungs, nose and throat. But not his eyes; she'd have to rinse them with water.
'Where has Mark Rizzo been taken?'
The man didn't answer, too busy hacking, but she felt him stiffen underneath her grip. His clothing was entirely black. Black trousers and boots; and the strange fabric of a heavy black long-sleeved shirt that resembled the one Charlie had worn. She wondered if his body had the same severe scarring as Charlie's.
The man's head certainly did. He was bald, and on the back of his head and neck she saw scars in all shapes and sizes. And a tattoo: words and letters written in the centre of his neck, the light blue ink so faint she couldn't read it. She needed light.
She grabbed him by the collar and pressed the tip of the blade against the back of his neck.
'We're going for a walk. Try anything and I swear to Christ I'll sever your spine and you'll spend the rest of your life as a quadriplegic, pissing and shitting into diapers.'
She gave him a shove and started walking. The elderly homeowner had placed a big white plastic bucket on the front steps. All the inside house lights had been turned on, and she caught shadows whisking behind the curtains. When she reached the bucket, she turned the man around to get a better look at the tattoo in the light.
Two rows of tiny letters and numbers: ET IN ARCADIA EGO III–XI–XXIV
Roman numerals. Latin words.
Darby picked up the bucket, finding a scrub brush and a bottle of Palmolive inside. The bucket had a big metal handle for easy carrying. She draped it around her arm and pushed her prisoner to the side of the house, finding the hose neatly draped over a holder. The window above it threw a square of light on a lawn covered with autumn leaves.
She dropped the bucket. Withdrawing the knife from his neck, she tossed him over her leg and pushed him face first against the grass near the hose. He screamed, blowing leaves away from his mouth. She dug a knee into the small of his back, pinning him against the ground, and reached for the tap. Over the sound of running water, she heard footsteps moving towards the lighted windows above her.
After she filled the bucket with soap and water, Darby rolled the man over. His bloodshot, weeping eyes kept trying to blink away the burning. She flushed them with running water, and for the first time got a good, clear look at the man's face, with its network of scars both deep and faint, his egg-white skin so pale it almost seemed translucent, as though it had never been exposed to the sun.
She took the brush with its hard bristles full of suds and water and began to scrub down his face, head and neck. He kept twisting underneath her, hacking and coughing up the soapy water running down his throat and nose. By the time she had finished, his skin was red and raw, and his hacking had subsided to deep, body-racking coughs.
She dropped the brush, picked up the knife and sliced the shirt right down the middle. When she pushed back the fabric, she discovered the same thick, latticed scars that had covered Charlie's emaciated chest. As if scoops of flesh had been carved out. This man had a little bit more weight on him but not much. She could see his ribcage bulging against the ragged, scrawny flesh as she scrubbed him down with the brush.
Then the scar pattern hit her.
'Who whipped you?'
He moaned an answer she couldn't understand.
'Say it again.'
He started coughing. She cut off the rest of the shirt and tossed the pieces to the side. Darby rolled him over so that she could see his back.
Dear God Jesus.
13
Positioned in the centre of the man's back, between his shoulder blades and sitting directly on top of his spine, was a black rectangular device the size of a matchbook. The device had grooved edges, and someone had sewn it into the man's skin. No redness or infection.
A small green light blinked steadily.
'What is this?' Darby asked, tapping the device with her finger.
He turned his head to the side and moaned. Soapsuds bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Or was it the poison? If it had entered his system, he'd go into respiratory distress at any moment. She'd have only a few minutes to question him before he died.
She grabbed the tactical knife. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted shadows crowding the window.
She didn't want witnesses, so she stood up, grasping the man under the armpits, feeling his wet, soapy body shivering in the cold as she pulled him to his feet. His legs wobbled, about to tip over. Grabbing his belt and the cuffs wrapped around his wrists, she pushed him past the side of the house and into the backyard. Then she marched him into the pitch-black woods where they'd have privacy.
Their heavy footsteps snapped the dry branches lining the ground. In between coughs she could hear him fighting to breathe.
A moment later she found a suitable tree well away from the home's back windows. She cut through the cuffs and kicked his legs out from underneath him, pushing him into a sitting position. He didn't try to run or fight, just sat there slumped back against the tree. She pulled his arms behind the tree trunk and bound his wrists with a fresh pair of Flexicuffs.
Darby wanted a record of this conversation. She didn't have her digital recorder and didn't want to rely on memory. Her iPhone had a recording application, but it could store only about a minute or so of conversation, and that -
