Fear No Evil (5 page)

He’d doubled his prices.

“Once you register, you’ll be able to vote on how our lovely guest will be treated. Isn’t Lucy just perfect? Fiesty. And I have it on very good authority that she’s a virgin.

“For your enjoyment, and for a limited time, you can download highlights from our past shows for a small fee. Simply click on the box in the lower left-hand corner of your screen.”

Kate swallowed. She didn’t want to see them, but she had to force herself.

She clicked on the box and bought the compilation, saving the server information to analyze, though she knew he would keep this particular server at a location far from his hideout.

The video was ten minutes long.

Play.

Meghan was first. Her humiliation of being stripped and put on all fours. Kate knew Meghan had been told that if she cooperated, she’d be spared.

She had cooperated but hadn’t been spared.

Trask didn’t show Meghan’s death. Kate didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

She dreaded the thought of watching Paige be stabbed to death, but her guilt would force Kate to watch if he showed it. She hadn’t seen Paige’s death; she had been just minutes away in the woods, desperately trying to reach her in time. She had failed. She’d only seen the aftermath, touched her partner’s blood, smelled her fear.

Trask didn’t show Paige. Of course he wouldn’t, Kate thought. Paige had been his one mistake, and hers. He couldn’t show her death again because of who she was, an FBI agent who most certainly didn’t consent to the so-called fantasy rape role-playing. Her death connected him to the murder game, and he couldn’t pretend there weren’t people still looking for FBI Agent Paige Henshaw.

Rayanna was next. There she was on-screen, her chest marked by cigarette burns. Her eyes terrified, her lips quivering, her expression fighting with the need to give in. A knife came down toward her, her mouth opened to scream…

Cut.
One of Trask’s men was raping another victim. Joanna. They’d spliced the tape, making it appear that Joanna enjoyed her assault. It was all part of Trask’s tightrope walk: to make everything appear somewhat legitimate.

Other girls flashed by, Angela and Carol and Christy. Over time the photography improved, but Trask’s cruelty was the same. He’d started in snuff films—DVDs—but technology had given him a boost with webcams and untraceable downloads. Kate didn’t know how many young women Trask had actually murdered before Paige, filming their agony to share with other sickos, but he’d been at his grisly task for years. She may have only identified a fraction of his victims, and they had so little evidence they’d never been able to build a solid case. That’s why she and Paige had come up with their plan five years ago. The plan that had ended in death and failure.

The “sample” ended. Kate slapped the tears off her cheeks. She had no right to cry. No right to suffer for the women who had died at his hands. The emotional pain she harbored was nothing compared to what they’d endured: the humiliation and torture. Their deaths were probably a relief.

Consensual role-playing? Who did Trask think he was kidding?

Unfortunately too many people. Including many of her superiors back then. Now they believed her, but only because Paige had died.

If only Kate hadn’t acted so soon…

If only she’d followed her instincts…

If only Paige hadn’t lied to her…

A lot of good all that did her now. And how could she blame Paige? Kate couldn’t very well yell at her partner about backup that never arrived. Because Paige was dead.

If Kate saw Trask again, he would die.

Even if she had to die along with him.

His first kill had been an accident.

It was early morning. Far too early for the sun, too early for the birds. The time he liked best, alone, to think.

Remember…

They’d been sixteen, two young lovers exploring as only eager amateurs could. Not really knowing what they were doing, but enjoying the thrill of being sexual, of tasting forbidden fruit.

He’d wanted her forever, and he always got what he wanted. He was the son of wealth and power; few dared to say no. And Monique had loved being his girl. She had a mouth on her that wouldn’t quit, knew how to use it. He’d suspected she’d practiced giving blow jobs on other boys—or maybe men—because she was too good to be a novice. But in bed, she had been a virgin, her telltale blood marking his sheets.

For six months they joyfully had intercourse, and were inseparable. But for him, it was never enough. He pushed Monique for more. Role-playing. Pain.
Her
pain. At first she was amicable. Anything to please him.

“Not like that,” she told him that last time, panting. They were in the pool house at his family’s estate. He had her on all fours, wearing a leash. He wanted her from behind. Her ass was so firm, so round, so perfect.

“You’ll like it.” He pushed her down.

“No, I won’t.”

Defiant. A bubble of anger surfaced. He would not let her say no.

“Are you jerking me around?”

“Of course not, I—”

“If you don’t want to play, get out.”

“You don’t mean that!” Monique’s voice quivered. She glanced over her shoulder, hurt, a little fear in her eyes. He stared, his entire body reacting to that faint panic on her face. He wanted more of that.

“Please,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know what love is.”

“Maybe
you’re
the one with the problem. Can’t you get off without stupid games?”

How dare she talk to him like that! He had no problems getting off. She had liked the games, until they became too much for her, and then she had the nerve to say
he
had a problem?

She stood up, naked but for the collar and leash. She looked around for her clothing.

He slapped her. A red welt rose on her cheek. It didn’t surprise him that he’d hit her. What surprised him was that he felt no regret.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. His penis was rock solid again.

She glared. “Don’t
ever
do that again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He kissed her. Touched her where she liked. At first she protested feebly, but he knew what she wanted, knew the words that made her bend to his will, and soon she was all over him. He pushed her down to the floor and fucked her the way she asked for it. She moaned.

“Just. Like. That,” she begged.

His eyes fell to her smooth, white neck. He stared at the silky skin, a sheen of sweat glistening in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The dip in her throat, her muscles straining as her hips met his, working herself up to an orgasm, the sleek outline of her clavicle as she arched her back.

“Don’t stop,” she panted.

Her neck looked so good.

His hands went behind her head and he kissed her. Then he moved them down, brought his thumbs around. Caressed that hollow of her neck.

Slowly he squeezed. She didn’t know what he was doing at first, didn’t know until it was too late.

She grabbed at his hands but couldn’t speak.

The fear that had touched her face earlier now exploded, her terror real. He watched her eyes as his hands maintained the pressure. He continued fucking her, his orgasm building, her eyes panicked, her fists pounding on him.

He held on too long. Later he had tried to tell himself that he didn’t do it on purpose, that it had been an accident. That he had just wanted to maximize his pleasure. And he had. He’d never experienced such a high. Every inch of his skin radiated with power, as if every cell orgasmed as one, his entire body immersed in a forbidden pleasure.

She was convulsing beneath him when he finally let go, his body one with the universe. He saw everything with a clarity he knew he’d attempt to re-create. By then it was too late for Monique. He’d crushed the bone in her neck.

He watched her die.

Trask found it ironic that Monique’s death all those years ago had come around full circle. He’d enlisted the help of his friends to dispose of the body. He should have known Trevor Conrad was weak. He’d had to kill Trevor, too, but Trask couldn’t make Trevor disappear as easily as Monique.

And now “Trevor” had brought Lucy to him. Lucy, who looked so much like Monique that Trask felt sixteen again.

He couldn’t wait to relive the experience.

FOUR

D
ILLON PACED
the small room the task force had set up to find Lucy. Special Agent Joseph Garcia was working with Patrick to pore through code on Lucy’s computer, as well as the feed that was coming in from an unknown server. The feed that showed Lucy in her bra and jeans, tied to the floor, terrified. Though he wanted to, Dillon couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Connor had left the room immediately after Lucy’s shirt was ripped off. Carina went after him. That was nearly an hour ago. Time was not on their side.

It was a countdown to murder.

They had less than forty-five hours to find Lucy. Though saving her life was their number one priority, Dillon wanted to find her
now,
to save her from what was about to happen—what his sixth sense, his experience, told him would inevitably happen.

Dillon turned when the door opened, expecting Connor and Carina to return. Instead a tall, lanky cop entered the room. Special Agent Quinn Peterson’s professional attire was rumpled and he carried a jacket over his shoulder and a thick file folder under one arm.

Nick Thomas made the introductions. Nick had worked with Peterson on the Butcher investigation in Montana. It helped that Nick trusted the FBI agent, but Lucy was not
their
sister. They didn’t have to face Rosa and Pat Kincaid and tell them that their daughter was about to be raped in public for the sick pleasure of everyone who ponied up the money to watch.

Peterson dumped his jacket and paperwork on the table and turned to Garcia. “Any developments?”

Garcia shook his head. “Just what I told you on the phone. He raised the ante.”

“Any headway on the feed?”

“He has better security than the Pentagon. But Kincaid here is a pro.”

Dillon spoke. “Agent Peterson, what do you know about the man who has my sister? You’ve obviously dealt with him in the past.”

At that moment, Carina walked in with Connor, who saw Peterson and made a beeline for him. “What the hell is going on? Where’s my sister? Why was she taken?”

Dillon tried to give his brother a look to steady his temper, but it failed. Connor was acting out what Dillon felt inside: a deep rage and sense of failure in protecting their youngest sister.

“Sit down, Mr. Kincaid,” Peterson said, unfazed.

“I’ll stand.” Connor crossed his arms.

Dillon sat, wanting answers. Peterson seated himself across from him. “You’re the forensic psychiatrist, right?” Peterson asked Dillon.

“Correct.”

“This is for you.” Quinn pushed over the file folder. “A copy of everything we have on Trask.”

“Trask?”

Peterson nodded. “That’s the name we know him by. He’s calling himself Trevor Conrad now. His name has changed a half dozen times that we know of, but his real identity remains a mystery. We have his prints from a case five years ago, but they haven’t matched anything on record. He’s not in the system.”

“He’s been doing exactly
what
for how long?”

Peterson took a deep breath, glanced at everyone in the room, then focused on Dillon. “I’m not going to lie to you. Trask has killed at least nine young women over the past ten years. Before he went underground five years ago, he was a semilegitimate businessman running an online porn website.”

“How’d you get his prints?”

“Off a murder weapon. We have no name, but we have matched them to a long-standing snuff-film distributor who ran a company called Achilles Film Distribution.”

“Arrogant,” Dillon said. “He knows he’s not in the system so he doesn’t even try to hide his identity.”

“Trask is the walking definition of arrogance,” Peterson said. “We know he still runs—through shell corporations, fake identities, and some real people—legal pornography websites. Live webcam sex acts, stripping, pornographic downloads, things like that.”

“And you haven’t been able to track him from that?”

“A task force worked for a solid year trying to unravel his network after one of his actresses disappeared and it appeared she’d been killed online. There was no proof, however, and the employees of his company claimed she’d just quit.

“The task force was dismantled, but two agents continued to investigate on their own time. Trask’s organization came apart when he abducted one of those agents during an unsanctioned sting. He made a federal agent part of his show. He and his crew raped and murdered her live on the Internet, knowing the FBI would see it. Then he disappeared. Our team was”—he gestured helplessly with his hands—“torn apart. And because Trask went into hiding for two years, every trail we had turned cold.

“He popped up three years ago with another live murder and has killed five more women since Agent Henshaw died. The bodies of three earlier kills—April Klinger, Denise Arno, and Erica Gomez—have never been found, but we have evidence that they are in fact dead.”

“And you can’t find him?” Connor leaned over and put his hands on the table. “That doesn’t say much about our federal law enforcement, does it?”

Peterson dipped his head in partial acknowledgment, but his clenched jaw told Dillon he was angry. “We lost two good agents five years ago. We’re not going to lose more.”

“But you’re willing to sacrifice my sister!” Connor pushed himself away from the table and ran a nervous hand through his hair.

“We’re not
willing
to sacrifice anyone,” Quinn responded.

“So what is the FBI doing?” Dillon kept his voice composed while his stomach churned. He was trying to keep things calm even when he felt anything but.

Peterson slapped a hand on the thick folder now in front of Dillon. “
This
is who we’re up against. A man without remorse, a man who gets his kicks from raping, torturing, and murdering women. But make no mistake about it, he’s in it for another reason, too: to make money. The legal porn industry is a multi-billion-dollar business; the illegal porn industry is worth even more. He thrives on the risk, on taunting us, on being smarter than anyone else. You read his file, Dr. Kincaid, and let me know what you think.”