Taken (Second Sight) (7 page)

Prentiss blinked at the jail cell wall, his chest heaving, his hands on the metal the only thing keeping him upright.
 

“
Bitch
,” he whispered, as he rubbed his knee.

It’d taken years to learn how to walk without a limp. The scar was painful, rubbing on the inside of his pants, but he couldn’t wear shorts. He couldn’t let anyone see. It was red and thick, a jagged and mounded line of skin that never became smoother. And it had only become more painful over time. He’d taken to sleeping with a pillow next to his knee to keep the sheet from touching it. He’d never seen a doctor. Too many questions would have been raised. He’d bandaged it himself and then dumped his mother’s body in the swamp behind their shack. That was probably how it’d gotten infected.

He rubbed it hard, through the black slacks, pressing his palm down viciously–using the pain to ground him. He’d killed that bitch. He’d killed them all.

Slowly, he swung his gaze back to Isabelle.

• • • • •

Instead of pain, disorientation was the first thing that Isabelle felt. Something had changed. Slowly, she opened her eyes to bright light and had to squint.

Where am I?

As she tried to look, she realized she was raising her head. It had been tilted all the way back, felt like a million pounds and the back of her neck ached. As she tried to sit upright, her chin nearly landed on her chest and, as her entire body pitched forward, she felt herself come to a quick stop.

“
Ow
,” she muttered, as the familiar pain of the handcuffs bit into her wrists.

As she tried to ease the pain by sitting up, it finally occurred to her that she was in a chair.

“Welcome back,” the Chameleon said.

Isabelle slowly raised her head as her wrists, ankles, and arms protested in pain. The Chameleon stood directly in front of her, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands grasping his thick leather belt, looking comfortable. They were in the corridor. Cell A35 was to her right and Isabelle could now see that they were on the bottom floor of a two-story cell block. The windows in the wall to her left soared upward and it looked as though it might be midday.

The Chameleon smiled pleasantly and, without taking his eyes away from hers, he opened one of the leather compartments on his belt. Isabelle cringed at the memory of the metal stick. Her bruised stomach tightened in response. But it wasn’t a stick that he removed. With a press of his gloved thumb and a flick of the wrist, a knife blade snicked into position.
 

With blinding realization, Isabelle knew he was going to kill her. Esme had been tied in a chair, just like this. Even though she knew it was pointless, Isabelle couldn’t help but struggle. Her lower legs wouldn’t move at all and her hands only jerked behind the chair back.

It had all backfired. Her breathing became labored and her blood roared in her ears. She’d tried to stall for time and all she’d done was bring the end more quickly.

“I can read the other objects,” she said, the words tumbling out without a thought. “I can still suffer.”

The Chameleon grinned in response.

“Oh you will,” he said. “Believe me.”

He took a step closer.

“Please,” she tried. “I won’t say another word.”

“I
know
,” he agreed and he took another step.

He towered above her, the metal blade glinting as he reversed his grip on the handle.
 

This is it
, she thought.
I’m going to die.

Her father’s face appeared, smiling sadly at her.

Daddy?

But quickly his face was replaced with Mac’s, the strong jaw, the blue-green eyes, his eyebrows furrowing.

Oh Mac
. Her eyes filled with tears that made his face waver.
Mac, I should have read you
.
 

She closed her eyes and felt the teardrops fall.

Too late now.

Mac closed the front door to Isabelle’s apartment. Without a single other clue turned up, he’d decided to go through the photos again. But as he loosened his tie, his phone rang.

It was Lou.

“Lou,” Mac said.

“Spirit gum,” Lou said. “It’s spirit gum.”

Spirit gum
? Mac thought.

“The chemists identified the components pretty quickly: alcohol, resin, and castor oil. That was easy. The problem was trying to find a substance that contained all three.”

Spirit gum. It was what makeup people used to glue on hairpieces in the movies.

“Mac?” Lou said. “Did you hear me?”

Given the disguises that the Chameleon used to blend into his surroundings it made sense.
 

“And where can you get it?” Mac said.

“Well, you’re in a hot spot for it right there,” Lou said. “It ought to be all over L.A. because of the entertainment industry. Costume stores would have it. Studios would have it.”

The hair on the back of Mac’s neck stood on end. Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

“Mac?” Lou said.

“Thanks Lou,” Mac said quickly and hung up.

Studios
would have it.
 

It was used in
make-up
.

Mac stared at his phone not seeing it.

Linda Vista Hospital had been used for
filming
.

So had the lifeguard station where they’d found the Chameleon’s phone.

No, that’s not it.
Mac gripped the phone hard.
He’s not a Priest and he’s not a Chameleon.
 

“He’s an
actor
,” Mac said.

He’s an actor of a certain height, weight and age who’d been familiar with Linda Vista.
Yes!
His fascination with television, with fame. The elaborate costumes.
 

Costumes!

In the Federal Building, you could dress as an agent, a passport office employee, or a police officer. He’d have been a police officer, for the costume.
 

Mac pumped his fist.
 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the elevator ride with Isabelle. A police officer had been behind them. At the time, Mac had merely been aware of another man looking at her–something that happened often. So often, he hadn’t given it another thought, just reacted without thinking, satisfied the man had looked away.

Now Mac knew why the new composite looked familiar.

“That was him,” Mac said, his jaw clenched.
 

The audacity of the location, the need to stalk his prey, the desire to win fame.

The phone rang and vibrated in Mac’s fist. He’d expected it to be Lou but it wasn’t. It was Sharon.

“It was a cop,” they said simultaneously.

“What?” Sharon said.
 

“Shoot the image of that Hispanic cop to digital reconstruction and to me!” he yelled, abruptly ending the call. He quickly dialed Sergeant Dixon.

“Sergeant,” he said, talking over Dixon’s hello. “Where do they film cop shows in L.A.?”

Dixon sputtered for a moment.

“Well, all over,” he finally said.

“No,” Mac said. “Not just any place. Think Linda Vista Hospital. Someplace abandoned, private, where you won’t be disturbed.”

“Right,” said the sergeant. Mac could hear the gears turning. “That would be the jail in Lincoln Heights. They shot
L.A. Confidential
and–”

“Where is it?”

“You know what,” said the sergeant, starting to catch some of Mac’s enthusiasm. “It’s not that far from Linda Vista
or
from County USC!”

“Text me an address right now,” Mac said, heading to the front door. “I’m downtown. Not far.”

“I’ll send backup,” Dixon shouted. “Don’t go without backup!”

“Text me the damn address!” Mac said, pulling the door open and ending the call.

Now it was
his
turn to stalk his prey.

• • • • •

Prentiss raised the knife and felt the familiar thrill begin when Isabelle’s eyes popped open.

“I can read
you
,” she screamed. “I can feel
your
pain.” Prentiss began the downswing just as the words hit home. Only an inch from her knee, the blade came to a haltering stop. “Don’t you want someone to understand you?” she said, her voice shaking. He stared at her, his jaw tight. “
Your
pain,” she repeated. “The
ultimate
pain. Isn’t that what you want?”

He
did
have the ultimate pain.
All
day.
Every
day. No one knew. No one even suspected. He stared into Isabelle’s tear-streaked face.
But
she
could feel it.
She
would know!

Prentiss looked at the downward-turned blade in his hand. He didn’t have to give this up–maybe just delay it. Isabelle’s entire body trembled, her fear so palpable he could feel it. He faked a jab at her and relished her quick shriek and the way she jerked in the chair.

Yes
. Maybe he didn’t have to rush this.

Slowly, he closed the knife even though his heart had started to race.

This kill had become completely unique.

Everything about the place was right
, thought Mac.
Right down to the fake vehicle in the parking lot
.
A white Crown Victoria with a push bumper added and a few antennas. But the license plate was wrong. It had regular registration tags.

It’d only taken twenty minutes and, aside from the Crown Vic, the enormous parking lot was empty. Mac pulled as close to the building as possible, parked, and jumped out. He pulled his Glock out of the holster and ran.

• • • • •

Isabelle couldn’t keep herself from shaking. The handcuffs rattled constantly. The Chameleon slowly circled behind her. Though he’d put the knife away, Isabelle’s dread only rose. Her hands behind her, there was no way she could know when he’d touch her. He moved silently, taking his time, and the fear that swept through her only mounted higher the longer he delayed. An acrid taste crept up the back of her throat and she tried to swallow to keep from throwing up but her mouth was completely–

Suddenly, there was pressure in her left palm and the reading began. Isabelle saw herself scream and writhe, laying on the metal cot. Although her mind railed against the horror of it, another sensation quickly intruded–pleasure. Cruel delight surged into her and she knew that Prentiss–that was his real name–had truly enjoyed seeing her suffer. The images flew past: her body in the trunk, checking his body makeup in the mirror, her and Mac in the elevator, buying an air gun, shopping in the adult shop, buying handcuffs, and then Angela. Isabelle sucked in a breath as Angela died.

Prentiss had been disappointed because the suffering had ended.
 

Angela
, thought Isabelle.
At least it was over for her.

Suddenly, Prentiss was on the sand looking up at a ferris wheel. Angela shrieked as the stethoscope seared into her hand and Isabelle’s arm jerked in response. The images began to flow faster. Esme now, barely conscious as the tip of the blade pressed past her skin. The utter delight that flooded through Prentiss. There was another victim, in a dark bathroom. She was screaming. It echoed from the tiles and glass. Isabelle’s throat burned with Prentiss’s screams of joy. One victim after another, their pain, his euphoria, until Isabelle felt the room spin. But suddenly, there she was–Prentiss’s mother.
 

The woman lunged at him with a small, kitchen knife and Isabelle felt it land in Prentiss’s leg. She heard cartilage rip, felt the thudding vibration as the blade sank to the hilt, and then the pain–excruciating, unending.

“
Mother!
” she wailed, the sound impossibly high, at the top of her lungs, as the sensation of ripping flesh traveled up her thigh. “
My leg!
”

“Yes!” Prentiss yelled behind her. “Yes!”

• • • • •

Mac skid to a stop and spun toward the sound.
 

There could be no mistaking it.

“
Isabelle
,” he muttered.

• • • • •

Prentiss barely heard the pounding of feet over Isabelle’s wail. But at the end of the long corridor, an agent with a gun appeared. Prentiss immediately ducked and, when his fingers stopped pressing into Isabelle’s palm, her scream died away.

“Step back,” the agent yelled and Prentiss could see that he had his gun drawn and his run had slowed to a walk. Prentiss nearly jumped and ran at the sight but now he froze, transfixed. The gun was pointed at him but,
luckily
, he’d been behind Isabelle, who slumped forward in the chair such that Prentiss had to cower. “I said,
step back
,” the agent yelled, still advancing.

Prentiss quickly swiveled his head this way and that but there were only empty cells, the corridor in front of him, and a dead end behind.
 

He was trapped.

But as he crouched behind the chair and looked down at Isabelle’s wrists, handcuffed to the chair, he couldn’t help but think of the the most intense, exciting, and beautiful moment of his life. He looked up at the agent who held his gun with both hands, out in front, slowly advancing.

Wait. I recognize him. This has to be Mac.

Prentiss squinted at him around Isabelle’s shoulder.
 

He can’t shoot because she’s in the way.

“Step back from her,” Mac yelled.

Wait, wait, wait,
Prentiss thought, calming down.
Who is the actor here?

Slowly, Prentiss moved his hand to the holster, unsnapped it, and withdrew his weapon. As he stood, he pointed it at Isabelle.

“Drop your gun,” he ordered, his voice firm and resonant.

Mac came to a quick stop, some twenty feet away. Prentiss smiled at the fast reaction and realized his mustache was slipping from the sweat pouring from him. He pressed it back into place, all the while keeping his eyes on Mac, waiting to see what he would do. Prentiss didn’t have a lot of experience with improvisational theater but he had a little. It wasn’t exactly his favorite.