Gallery of the Dead

Ninety-Three

Several hours earlier

On Wilshire Boulevard, somewhere on the short stretch between Beverly Hills and Westwood Village, was a canyon of high-risers one row deep. The buildings seemed a little out of place in Los Angeles, as though someone had stolen a piece of Manhattan’s Upper East Side and placed it inside LA’s suburban grid. The apartment the FBI had allocated to Special Agent Erica Fisher was situated on the sixth floor of one of those buildings.

Agent Fisher had left the FBI Headquarters late and driven to a little Vietnamese café she had discovered just a block away from her building, but instead of having her food at the café, just like she had done the three previous times she’d been there, tonight she got her dinner to go. She still hadn’t spoken to her daughter today and she wanted to give Heather a call before her bedtime.

Agent Fisher had just placed her food on the kitchen counter when the video intercom by her front door rang, which made her frown. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, though Agent Williams sometimes dropped by unannounced.

‘Hello,’ she said into the microphone.

The person she saw on the video screen was a young and clean-shaven man, wearing a brown baseball cap.

‘Parcel for Erica Fisher.’

Agent Fisher wasn’t expecting any deliveries, but the FBI had a habit of sending her files without forewarning her.

‘Can you leave it with the concierge?’

‘I need a personal signature, ma’am.’

The agent studied the man through the small screen. ‘Which courier company are you with?’

‘Deliver LA, ma’am.’ The man raised his credentials so the camera could pick it up. ‘We deliver at any time. Day or night.’

‘Stay there, I’ll come to you.’

It took Agent Fisher less than a minute to get downstairs again.

‘Erica Fisher?’ the man said as the agent met him in the building’s lobby.

‘That’s me.’

The young man handed her a square cardboard box — twenty inches by twenty inches and about seven and a half deep.

She looked at it with intrigue. It was clear that that box hadn’t come from the FBI.

‘Could I please get a signature, ma’am,’ the man said, handing her an electronic sign pad.

‘Who is this from?’ she asked, searching the back of the box for a sender. There was none.

The man shrugged. ‘I simply pick them up from the depot and deliver them, ma’am.’

‘And the company you work for is called Deliver LA?’

‘That’s correct.’ He handed the agent a calling card.

Agent Fisher signed the pad and handed it back to the man.

‘Have a nice evening,’ he said, before exiting the building and getting back on his bike.

Back in her apartment, curiosity got the better of Agent Fisher and she quickly used a kitchen knife to break the seal on the box. She pulled the lid open and paused, confused. Inside it was a cellphone sitting on top of a black leather coat.

‘What the hell?’

All of a sudden, the cellphone inside the box rang, frightening Agent Fisher and making her jump.

‘Motherfucker.’

She stared at it for a few seconds.

‘What is this? Am I in the Matrix now?’

The phone was still ringing.

She regarded it for a few more seconds before finally picking it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Special Agent Erica Fisher.’ The voice that came through the earpiece was male; he sounded middle-aged — perhaps somewhere between thirty and forty-five years old. The man also spoke in a boring monotone and with a slight accent. One that Agent Fisher couldn’t quite place.

‘Who is this?’

‘Well, this is the person you called “just another pathetic loser”. A psychopath. The person who you said blames society for his downfalls. The person who, to make up for his many inadequacies, decided to go around playing God.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, Special Agent Erica Fisher. Remember the press conference back in Tucson? I’m the one who isn’t intelligent, or smart, or talented, or creative, or gifted, or artistic, or anything else. Those were your words, were they not?’

It finally dawned on Agent Fisher who she was speaking to and she felt sweat beads starting to form on her forehead.

‘If you remove the coat from the box,’ the man continued, ‘you’ll find an envelope under it. Inside the envelope there are some photographs, which I’m sure you’ll find very interesting. Why don’t you have a look at them?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Have a look at the photographs, Special Agent Fisher.’ The man’s tone was firm.

She removed the coat from the box and reached for the envelope, quickly tearing it open. There were five Polaroid photographs inside it. As she looked at them, her heart stopped.

All five photographs showed Heather, her daughter, tied up to an uncomfortable-looking bed. The girl didn’t look hurt, but her eyes were cherry red and the skin around them was raw from so much crying. Agent Fisher had never seen her daughter look that sad.

‘Wha...? The agent tried to breathe. ‘What is this?’

‘This is exactly what it looks like, Special Agent Fisher. I have your daughter. The reason I used a Polaroid camera is so that you know the photos aren’t a trick. No editing whatsoever. This is real and this is happening.’

‘You sonofabitch,’ Agent Fisher yelled down the phone. ‘I swear to God that if you hurt one hair on her head I will kill you, do you hear me? I WILL KILL YOU.’

‘I hear you, all right.’ The man’s voice stayed as calm as a librarian’s. ‘Now do you hear me?’

‘She’s fourteen years old, you sick freak, with a mental age of ten, or haven’t you realized she’s got Down syndrome?’

‘Oh, I certainly have, and if you think I give a damn about that, then you shouldn’t have the job you do. I’m a psychopath, remember? You diagnosed me yourself. Psychopaths display no emotions toward other human beings, or have you forgotten that, Special Agent Fisher?’

Agent Fisher couldn’t think straight. All she could think about was her daughter.

‘She’s fourteen years old,’ she said again, this time fighting back tears.

‘If you want your daughter to live,’ the man said, ‘you’d better do exactly as I tell you. If you don’t, I promise you I will skin her alive. I’ll take her eyes, too.’

‘Oh my God... no.’

‘I trust you’ve seen what I can do, so you know this isn’t an empty promise. Rule number one: do not disconnect from this call. If you do, your daughter dies.’ A very short pause. ‘What’s rule number one?’

Agent Fisher did her best to hold back her tears, but her voice was still shaky.

‘Let me talk to her. Let me talk to my daughter.’

The man was already expecting that request. It was only natural.

‘What’s rule number one?’ the man asked again.

‘Do not disconnect from the call,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Let me talk to Heather. Let me talk to my daughter.’

‘Sure, but before I do that, I want you to put on the coat that’s inside the box.’

‘What?’

‘The black leather coat, put it on,’ the man ordered her again.

‘Why?’

‘Put it on, or I will hurt your daughter right now, and remember — do not disconnect from the call.’

As Agent Fisher picked up the coat, she noticed it was heavier than she expected.

‘What is this coat?’

‘Put it on.’

She did as she was told. ‘OK, it’s done; now let me speak to my daughter.’

‘Left internal breast pocket,’ the man said. ‘There’s a small switch there. Switch it on.’

‘What? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?’

‘It’s not a bomb, Special Agent Fisher. I’m not a terrorist,’ the man explained. ‘Four of the buttons on that coat are cameras that transmit using the connection on the phone you’re holding. Those cameras need to be on, so use the switch in the pocket and switch it on... NOW.’

Agent Fisher knew she had no other choice but to trust what the man was telling her. She reached for the switch, found it, closed her eyes and flicked it on.

No explosions.

Agent Fisher breathed out.

‘There we go,’ the man said. ‘Now wave your hand in front of the coat, please.’

Once again, Agent Fisher did as she was told.

‘Now let me speak to my daughter.’

‘Sure,’ the man replied, ‘But keep that left hand in front of the jacket, so I know you’re not using it to dial your phone. If I even suspect that you’re trying to contact anyone about this, your daughter dies, is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mommy?’ Agent Fisher heard Heather’s sweet voice come through the earpiece.

‘Heather, darling.’

‘Mommy, I don’t like this man. He’s not nice. Can you come pick me up?’ She sounded like she’d been crying... a lot.

‘Yes, darling.’ Agent Fisher swallowed her tears. ‘I’ll go pick you up in a moment, OK? You just sit there and wait for Mommy.’

‘Are you coming now?’

‘Yes, honey, I’m on my—’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ the man cut in. ‘But this was getting too soppy for me.’

‘What do you want?’ the agent asked, anger dripping from every word.

‘Right now I want you to listen. Inside your right pocket there’s an earpiece — Bluetooth. It will fit into your ear perfectly. Switch it on and put it in your ear. It will free your hands.’

‘Done.’

‘Now let me see both of your hands. Place them in front of the coat.’

Agent Fisher followed the instructions she was given.

‘Fantastic. Now place the phone inside your internal right breast pocket.’

She did.

‘That phone has a talk-time battery life of twenty hours. More than enough.’

‘Enough for what?’

‘You better stop interrupting me, Special Agent Fisher. It’s very annoying. And KEEP YOUR HANDS IN FRONT OF THE COAT.’

Agent Fisher obliged.

‘If this phone call gets disconnected, your daughter dies. No questions asked. If I suspect that you’re trying to contact or signal anyone at any moment, your daughter dies. No questions asked. If you do not execute the orders I give you through the earpiece immediately, your daughter dies. No questions asked. If you take off the earpiece or the coat, your daughter dies. No questions asked. If anyone notices that you are on the phone to me at any time, your daughter dies. No questions asked. One of the button cameras on your coat points directly at your mouth, so do not try anything stupid or your daughter dies. No questions asked. Is all that clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, are you ready for an adventure?’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘Oh, I forgot. One more rule. You curse at me again, your daughter dies. No questions asked.’

Agent Fisher began trembling from a combination of anger and fear, not for her life, but for her daughter’s.

‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Grab your car keys. We’re going on a road trip.’