Taken (Second Sight) (5 page)

“I have a message for you,” Prentiss said.
 

Then, as he put the phone near Isabelle’s mouth, he slowly lowered the chain into her upturned palm.

“No,” she screamed. “Please no!”

Prentiss heard Mac shout dimly through the earpiece.

“
Isabelle?
” he yelled.

But his voice was cut off by the amazing shriek of pain that racked Isabelle’s body. She writhed on the metal cot, her back arching like a gymnast as the handcuffs banged loudly. No actual victim had ever been so good. Whether it was because they’d only just arrived and she was fresh or because the psychic pain was somehow worse than the real thing, Prentiss didn’t know. But her agonizing scream filled the room in a way he’d never thought possible. Though he could have enjoyed it forever, he made himself lift the chain away and she immediately collapsed, her breathing ragged and irregular, half moan.

Prentiss lifted the phone to his ear.

“On the news,” he said simply and hung up.

• • • • •

Mac’s fist sailed into the wall and then through it.

“Mac!” Ben screamed.

They’d been in Ben’s office when the call had arrived. Mac had squeezed the receiver so hard he thought it might crush in his hand. He’d nearly thrown it at the floor and even now it dangled from it’s coiled cord. It’d been a short step to the wall next to the desk.

Mac looked down at the hole into which his wrist disappeared. Dust from the drywall puffed out and landed on the black sleeve of his jacket. There was no sensation of pain. In fact, Mac fought back the urge to yank his fist back and do it again.
 

He felt Ben’s hand on his shoulder.

“Take,” Mac growled through clenched teeth. “Your. Hand. Off.”

Isabelle woke in pain–but not the pain of a reading. Instead, she was sore. Her arms ached and were stiff and her wrists and ankles felt bruised. She opened her eyes to look up at her hands and realized that it was dark. She glanced at the empty chair next to the bed and relief washed over her. The Chameleon was gone.

Beyond the bars of the door of her jail cell, there was a corridor lined with windows set high in the wall. Only dim moonlight filtered through the smudged glass but her eyes slowly began to make out some details. ‘A35’ was stenciled in huge letters on the wall opposite her. She was laying on something hard that was attached to a metal wall with two large chains. The handcuffs looped through the large links and Isabelle could see that her wrists weren’t just bruised, they were cut.

At the back wall there was a small urinal but, other than the metal chair with torn plastic upholstery, the room was empty. It reminded her of Linda Vista Hospital–decrepit, dark, dirty, and abandoned. She shuddered as the image of the operating room and Angela’s bloodless body came unbidden to her mind.

“Oh god,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.
 

Is that how I’m going to end?

Hot tears gathered under the closed lids and began to slide over her cheeks and toward her ears. Esme’s pain and the blood-soaked carpet in the church basement came vividly to life.

Will I be the center of some new, horrific crime scene?

But at that, she thought of Mac and her eyes popped open.

“No,” she whispered.
 

Right now, Mac is looking for me. He’s doing everything humanly possible.
 

She could picture him, working with Sergeant Dixon and Ben. He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t sleep. An image of his face, grim and set, as it’d been in Ben’s office, came to her mind. Though before it’d frightened her, now she found it oddly comforting.

If anyone can find me, it’s Mac.

But Mac needed
time
. She glanced around at the jail cell–so like Linda Vista and yet not.

I need time.

Whatever it took, she had to stall the Chameleon. She stared at the chair he’d sat in.

It’s either stall him or die.

“Hurry, Mac,” she whispered.

• • • • •

Mac stood in the center of Isabelle’s living room, latex gloves in hand. Camden Gould, the nighttime anchor for KTLA news, had broken the story about the Chameleon’s latest abduction. An image of Isabelle from a previous broadcast and the new composite of the Chameleon had been flashed on the screen. With three abductions and one brutal murder so close together, the city would be in a panic by morning. The pressure was on from every law enforcement agency in L.A., from Quantico, and even from D.C.
 

But it wasn’t any more pressure than Mac had already put on himself. This very moment, Isabelle was alone somewhere, like the other victims. The Chameleon would no doubt have been watching the news.
 

“Isabelle,” he muttered.

He had failed her.

The way he had failed Lynn.

The latex gloves made small squeaking sounds as he bunched them in his fist.

Lynn had died because he’d let his feelings for her cloud his judgement. The key witness in a Russian syndicate murder trial, he’d used her knowledge to help the prosecution build a case. He’d profiled the defendant through Lynn’s statements.
 

But they’d fallen in love and, even now, her death was like a gaping wound that could never heal. He would never know what might have been–never know if he could have saved her. In protective custody, the mob had still managed to get to her. At the time, Ben had told him there was nothing Mac could have done.
 

But a profiler should have seen it coming.

“I should have seen this too,” he whispered, looking in turn at the closed, front door, the couch, and the hallway that led to the bedroom.

But Isabelle had been like a drug, at first a pathway from pain and loneliness and then an all-consuming addiction.

As he headed to the bedroom, he took off his jacket and tie, and pulled on the examination gloves. He flicked on the bedroom light, tossed the jacket and tie to the bed, and rolled up his sleeves.
 

Isabelle is not lost yet.

Though the connection between the Chameleon and Isabelle had come from Esme’s case, victimology dictated that Mac had a job to do. He had to profile Isabelle.

Understanding the victim led to understanding the killer.

Mac went to the small walk-in closet and tugged on the long chain of the bulb on the ceiling.

Isabelle’s clothes and shoes were arranged neatly. He let his hand drift along the dresses, some of which he recognized. Today she’d been wearing his favorite, the green one. That was why he’d bought the green gloves. But it wasn’t clothes that he was interested in right now. Though he knew she didn’t use a journal or diary, not that he had seen in the brief times he’d stayed here, there might be other clues.
 

On the shelf above the clothes there were a few purses, a grey fedora, a sun hat made of straw, and rolls of wrapping paper. It was the usual compliment of items rarely used and also rarely helpful. He crouched down to see what was next to the shoes–a shoebox labelled photos.

That’s more like it.

From the very start, he’d seen that Isabelle had no photos displayed in the apartment. He took off the lid and laid it on the floor. Paper packets of photos and negatives were roughly arranged in two piles. He opened one of the top packets and took a quick look through. With a small twinge of guilt, he thumbed through the images of some man who posed at a railing with the Hollywood Sign in the distance behind him. He stopped at one of Isabelle and the man together, a closeup of their heads pressed together, smiling, a self-portrait. With dark hair and blue eyes, he wasn’t exactly the match for Mac that Isabelle was for Lynn but there was some resemblance. Mac couldn’t help but smile at the happy look on Isabelle’s face. He turned the photo over. It had been printed nearly three years ago. He tucked it back into place and opened the next packet. A series of birthday parties with friends, restaurant scenes, Disneyland, and occasionally the same man filled the first pile. But as he set that pile aside, Mac ignored all of the photos in the second pile and went right to the bottom of the stack–the place where the most important photos were typically found.

As he opened the yellowed cardboard folder, Mac realized he was seeing family photos. Isabelle as a young girl with a man who had to be her father, standing in front of the steps to what looked like a brownstone apartment building. He held her bare hand and Mac couldn’t help but stare. But there was no mother. No sisters or brothers. Quickly, Mac scanned the rest of the photos. High school without gloves. College with gloves. A young man who must have been a boyfriend, Isabelle looking at him as he looked at the camera. And that was the majority of the pile.
 

Mac sat back on his haunches.
 

Her mother had died young, possibly in child birth, and her father had raised her. Her psychic ability had begun between high school and college. The majority of the photos were from the time before that. Since the ability to read objects and people had begun, she’d had two boyfriends. And in the last three years…nothing. Not once in the time that he’d known her had her phone rung with anything other than work and there’d been little of that.

Mac put the photos back, turned off the light, and went to the small desk in the corner of the bedroom. In the middle drawer was a checkbook–utility bills, shoe repair, rent. He picked up a black month-at-a-glance calendar. There were only two appointments for the month, one of whom was “Olivos.” That had to be Anita, Ben’s wife, and the reason that Mac had met Isabelle. Her false admission on television had cost her. He leafed forward and found nothing, except, wait, in October, on the 23
rd
, just the word “Dad.” In the photos, there’d been nothing recent of him. His death date.

Mac flipped to the beginning of the year–more client last names, the dentist, but no first names, no friends. He set the calendar back in place.

Isabelle is alone.

He went through the other drawers and found stationary supplies and, in the bottom drawer, there was a large manila envelope. He opened it and pulled out a thick, ivory colored diploma.

“Psychology,” Mac read aloud.
 

Was it the default degree to which unfocused students sometimes gravitated? Somehow Mac sensed that it wasn’t. He glanced back at the closet. Her psychic ability had come before college. A psychology degree might help her to work with clients. Or maybe it was part of understanding her own psyche.

Mac had to smile a little.
 

Psychology is good. That could help.

He replaced the diploma and closed the drawer. At her dresser, he reached into the back of her lingerie drawer but there was nothing. But as he opened the drawer of gloves, he paused. Though he’d realized she wore different ones, he hadn’t known there were so many. He picked up a soft grey pair that he recognized.

Isabelle is a survivor. She doesn’t run from her gift. She runs from people.

He skimmed the back of his fingers along the line of gloves, left to right. She had said that reading him would mean the end of their relationship. He recalled the look on her face when he told her to just do the reading–fear. Mac replaced the linen gloves in the line with the rest.
 

She was willing to use herself as bait to capture a serial killer who delighted in torture. Despite what she had seen at the crime scenes or read in the objects, Isabelle had been courageous enough to agree to Ben’s plan. And yet the thought of their relationship ending was unthinkable.

She’s brave
, Mac thought, as he closed the drawer.
She’s smart
.
And she’s a survivor
.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the dresser.

And the Chameleon?

He thinks he’s found someone like the others. But he hasn’t. Isabelle isn’t like them. She’ll fight to survive. He should have stuck to his pattern and picked a younger victim. He didn’t realize he’d left a fingerprint, been on security video at the hospital, and was very likely on video at the Federal Building. But one thing hadn’t changed: his need for notoriety.
 

Mac froze as a piece fell into place.

Another thing had likely not changed as well. The killer was a Chameleon who used costumes to blend into his surroundings. In the Federal Building, that could only amount to a few possibilities. They had to canvas costume stores.

Even though it was midnight, Mac took out his phone and dialed Dixon.

“Hold on, Isabelle,” he muttered. “Hold on.”

Isabelle had been awake for hours by the time the Chameleon had arrived. Though she’d slept in a few short segments, the pain of being shackled was something she couldn’t ignore. But being awake had helped her. She’d racked her brain to remember everything and anything Mac had ever said about the Chameleon.
 

But as he sauntered slowly down the corridor outside, his shoes clicking in a slow but steady rhythm, he whistled. And, to her shock, the sound completely unnerved her. Casual and light, it wasn’t a tune she recognized but she immediately broke out in a sweat. It was as though the coming pain were normal, expected, and utterly routine.
 

She gripped the thick support chain of the metal cot with her left hand. Somewhere in the middle of the night she’d learned that holding onto the chain relieved the strain of the cuff around her wrist. His footsteps drew closer.

All the resolve she’d built up when she was alone had vanished.
 

The cheery whistling grew louder.

Stop it
, Isabelle thought, shutting her eyes.
Stop that sound!

As though in answer to her, he did just that and Isabelle realized he was standing outside the cell door.

“Good morning, Isabelle,” he said, grinning as he opened the squeaking door. Completely against her will, she flinched. “Ah, I see you’re ready to begin.”