“That picture. It’s my daughter.”
He held out the image for them both to see. “She is my prisoner.” He watched for a reaction. Seeing none, he asked, “Do you care?”
“Of course I care. And I have a gun.”
Sagan brandished the weapon, and Zachariah took stock of his adversary. Tall, with a boyish, unshaven face hardened by dark eyes that seemed quick and observant. Short black hair that he envied, since his own had long ago betrayed him. Little evidence of physical exertion could be seen in the arms or chest, another detail the report had noted with the concise
“Mr. Sagan, there is something I need you to understand. It is vitally important that you believe me when I say this.” He paused. “I do not care if you kill yourself. It is your life to do with as you please. But I do require something from you before you do that.”
Sagan pointed the gun straight at him. “We’re going to the police.”
He shrugged. “That is your choice. But I must tell you that nothing will happen except your daughter will experience unimaginable agony.” He held the photo of Alle Becket higher for Sagan to see. “You must believe me. If you do not do as I ask, your daughter will suffer.”
Sagan stood silent.
“You doubt me. I see it in your eyes. Perhaps as you once doubted a source telling you something that could make for an incredible story. You had to constantly wonder. Was it true? Embellished? Or outright false? Considering what ultimately happened to you, it is understandable you would now doubt me. Here I am, a total stranger, who shows up at this most inopportune moment, making outlandish claims.”
He slipped the black Tumi travel bag from his shoulder. Sagan continued to aim the gun. He unsnapped the clasps and found his iPad.
“I need to show you something. After watching, if you still want to involve the police, I will not interfere.”
He laid the satchel down on the floor and activated the screen.
———
LIGHT BLINDED ALLE’S EYES. BRIGHT. SINGULAR. FOCUSED ON her as she lay tied to the bed. She squinted and allowed her burning pupils to adjust, finally focusing on the now lit room.
She spotted the camera. Just to the right of the flood lamp, supported on a tripod, the lens pointed at her. A tiny red indicator signaled that it was capturing her image. She’d been told that when that happened her father would be watching. She tugged at her restraints with her arms and legs, raising her neck, angling her head toward the lens.
She hated the feeling of confinement. The loss of freedom. A total dependency on someone else. If her nose itched, there’d be no way to scratch it. If her shirt came askew, no way to adjust it. If bad people tried to do bad things to her, no way to stop them.
Two men approached the bed, from beyond the lamp’s glow.
One was tall, thick through the waist, with a thin nose and equally thin lips. He appeared to be Italian or Spanish, his oily hair dark and curly. She’d learned that his name was Rocha. The other man was the blackest she’d ever seen. He had a bulbous nose and yellowed teeth, and eyes like drops of crude oil. He never spoke and she only knew him by the nickname Rocha used.
Midnight.
Both men approached the bed, one on either side, the camera and her between them. Rocha bent close, a few inches from her face, and gently caressed her cheek. His fingers smelled of citrus. She shook her head in protest, but he only smiled and continued his stroking. Midnight, too, climbed onto the bed, his right hand cupping her breast through her shirt.
She reacted to the violation, her eyes alight with fear and anger.
Rocha shoved her head back onto the mattress.
A knife appeared in his hand, glistening in the flood lamp.
The camera continued to record every moment of their assault, the red dot signaling that her father could see. Two years they hadn’t spoken. For her, she had no father. Her stepfather had always been there for her. She called him Dad and he called her daughter.
An illusion?
Sure.
But one that worked.
Rocha shifted to the foot of the bed and grasped her left shoe. He slipped the knife inside her pant leg and slit the cloth up to her waist.
Midnight chuckled.
She raised her head and glanced down.
The cut ended at her waist.
Bare skin lay exposed.
Rocha plunged a hand into the tear and made his way toward her crotch. She protested, yanking on the restraints, shaking her head. He tossed the knife to Midnight, who brought the blade to her throat and ordered her to lie still.
She decided to comply.
But before doing so, she locked her gaze on the camera, the meaning in her wild eyes unmistakable.
