Pitch Black

1

Nine Days Later

From the outside, the Hoover Building looked like every other D.C. government facility built in the sixties. Square and boxy, with limestone-tinged concrete walls, it lacked the crisp, white grandeur of the monuments farther down on Pennsylvania Avenue or ringing the Mall.

In fact, to Alec Lambert’s slightly jaded eyes, it looked a little like a prison.

Considering his feelings more resembled a convict’s than a special agent’s on this cold winter morning, that wasn’t inappropriate. Because walking through the doors of FBI headquarters for the first day of his new assignment felt like the start of a sentence for a heinous crime.

Yeah. A heinous crime: trusting the wrong woman. And getting shot for the privilege.

It had been a hard lesson, but he’d definitely learned it. Because his error in judgment had not only landed him in the hospital with a couple of bullet holes in him; it had come at a much higher cost.

Another agent’s life.

The incident in Atlanta had wounded him physically and crushed him emotionally. It had destroyed his chance to nail the serial-killing bastard he’d obsessed about catching for the last three years, because it had also cost him his position in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. And it had cost him a friend, Dave Ferguson, whom he’d known since his academy days.

That was what kept him up nights.

He could have been tossed out of the FBI altogether. Maybe the higher-ups had figured it would be better to keep him close, saturated in the memories so he could torture himself over it even more. Round-the-clock atonement.

Which was, perhaps, why he’d so desperately wanted his job back.

“Last chance. Don’t blow it,” he kept reminding himself as he worked his way through security, finally arriving on the fourth floor. It was time to report to his new boss, the guy who’d saved his ass from having to work as a department store security guard. Wyatt Blackstone.

“Special Agent Alec Lambert,” he said when he reached the outer office of the FBI’s newest Cyber Action Team, or CAT, as someone with no imagination had started calling them. After a widely publicized case last summer, the media had taken things a step further, picked up on an in-house nickname, and started calling Blackstone’s team the Black CATs. Wonderful.

The receptionist, a dour middle-aged woman with graying brown hair and drawn-on eyebrows, studied his ID. “You’re expected.”

Rising from behind her government-issue metal desk, she gestured for him to follow. Alec did, keeping pace as she led him down a narrow hallway. Lined with groaning bookshelves and dented file cabinets, the dimly lit corridor also boasted a few framed black-and-whites of the Hoover glory days. They were smeared with dust, some lopsided. Everything combined to provide a dull backdrop that was probably invisible to the people who worked in this place from day to day. But to newcomers, it was like stepping into a time machine and coming out in 1970.

Each staccato click of the woman’s heels on the dingy tile floor stabbed into Alec’s brain, an audible emphasis of his change in status. No longer a hotshot agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, about which TV shows and movies were made, he was the black sheep now. Far from being a respected, experienced criminal investigative analyst, he was a newcomer to an already established team, the members of which had to have heard everything about him.

Well, everything except the truth.

Forcing himself to focus, he noted the small, cluttered offices they passed. Each office had another of those old metal desks buried under stacks of files and paperwork. But they also had state-of-the-art computer equipment. Way better than the POS laptop he’d been using for the past few years at the BAU.

That was probably a perk of being a part of the Cyber Division. They might be stuck in offices that hadn’t been renovated since the Carter administration, but the Black CATs got good computer equipment. Even if they were new and on probation. Kind of like him.

“You’ll be in there,” the receptionist said, not even slowing her stride as she pointed into a shadowy, empty office. Or closet. He couldn’t be sure which.

“Great,” he muttered.

She must have heard the tone in his voice. “We hear they’re going to move us to better quarters if things pan out.”

Alec had been briefed by Wyatt Blackstone during his interview down at Quantico. He was well aware that Blackstone’s team’s future, like Alec’s, was up in the air. Apparently the supervisory special agent had pissed off the wrong people, though Alec didn’t know the details.

“How’s that looking so far?” he asked.

She gave him a tight, impersonal smile. “We manage to keep busy.”

He’d like to know how. This particular CAT was unlike any other in the agency, and it focused on a new type of Internet-related crime. Rather than ferreting out weak, pimple-faced college students who liked to unleash viruses into the world’s computers, or perverts who exchanged vile pictures of little kids in pedophile chat rooms, this team investigated murder. Internet-related killings.

It sounded very limited. Besides, most of the cases would probably involve interaction with the BAU and ViCAP-the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program-some members of which were notoriously territorial with their files. As he had been mere months ago.

He’d been driven and focused, working seventy-hour weeks and not often accused of playing nice with others. While doing his own job to the best of his ability-and the detriment of his personal life, as most women he’d dated could attest-he’d sought to learn everything he could about profiling. The next coveted supervisory special agent position to become available should have had his name written all over it.

Until Atlanta. The screwup, the shootings. After that, the only thing his name had ended up on were a slew of hospital reports and disciplinary actions.And a Dear John e-mail from his girlfriend, who’d decided the glamour of dating an FBI agent faded when bullets started flying.

Alec’s chance to become a senior profiler in the BAU was over. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be using his profiling skills, however. Because he suspected they were the reason he’d been plucked from the verge of termination and thrown into the Black CATs’ den. Blackstone had enough computer geeks, it seemed. He needed a behavioral analyst, his own unofficial pet profiler. And Alec had fit the bill, even if he was an outcast.

He wasn’t complaining. It sure beat civilian life or practicing law with the degree he’d obtained a month before applying to the bureau.

“Excuse me, sir?” The receptionist knocked on a partially closed door. “Special Agent Lambert is here.”

Alec entered, realizing Blackstone’s entire team was present, which explained the empty offices he’d passed. Judging by the frowns on their faces, the meeting was an intense one.

Lucky for them, he’d provided a distraction. Which wasn’t so lucky for him. Because as soon as the receptionist nodded and bowed out, every voice silenced, every head turned, and the six people sitting around the table focused their attention solely on Alec.

He maintained his stiff, aloof stance, offering a brief nod to one agent he recognized from the publicity on last summer’s Reaper case. Then he focused on the team leader, who was rounding the table, his hand extended. “Glad to see you, Lambert. Your timing is appropriate, given the topic of this morning’s briefing,” the man said, his voice smooth and solid.

That smoothness had impressed Alec during his interview. Blackstone seemed very calm, even tempered, and eminently professional.

Alec shook the extended hand. “This morning’s briefing?”

“We’ll get to that. First, introductions.”

Gesturing toward the conference table, which dominated the small room, he pointed to each team member, introducing them in rapid succession. Alec put the names together with the faces as Blackstone ran down their backgrounds.

“Dean Taggert,” Blackstone said, gesturing toward the agent Alec had recognized as the one who’d helped bring down the Reaper. He remembered the man’s history-a hard-nosed former street cop, he’d recently been in ViCAP working the most violent of crimes. Had a temper. Tough and intuitive.

“Brandon Cole.”

A punked-out blond who would never have gotten away with the hairstyle in any other bureau office. Young and good-looking, he should have been wearing a neon sign over his head proclaiming, I’M A REBEL WITH A BRAIN AND DON’T YOU FORGET IT. Alec wasn’t surprised to hear he’d been a hacker as a teenager, which probably hadn’t been more than a half dozen years ago.

“Lily Fletcher.”

A pale-haired, fair-skinned programmer who’d been lured over from cyber crimes. He’d heard of her, too. Something about a tragedy in her family, though he couldn’t remember the details. She was probably in her late twenties, and appeared quiet, serene. He’d lay money she didn’t have field experience, but the intensity in her eyes said she was devoted.

“Kyle Mulrooney.”

A stout, middle-aged bureau man all the way. From the side-parted, slicked-down hair to the loose-fitting suit and the too-narrow tie, this guy had probably been on the job for a few decades. He was old-school and probably as tough as a week-old steak.

“Jackie Stokes.”

Also from cyber crimes. The attractive African-American looked tougher, more street-smart than the blonde. Probably in her early forties, maybe ten years his senior, she’d been with the bureau for fifteen years. She’d also been one of the first people Blackstone had brought in. The man apparently wanted agents who were experienced but open to new things.

Like him.

He would bet Jackie Stokes hadn’t landed on the team because it was Blackstone or the unemployment line, however.

“Please take a seat, Alec. We were just getting started.” Blackstone returned to his position at the head of the table and tapped on the keys of a laptop. Behind him, on a portable screen, two yearbook-type pictures appeared.

“Those are the boys?” Lily Fletcher asked, shaking her head slightly, her mouth pulled down at the corners. The blonde wore her emotions on her face. Not a good trait to have when working violent crimes.

“Yes,” Blackstone replied.

Like everyone else, Alec stared at the bright, smiling faces of the all-American teenagers enlarged on the screen before him. Their ordinary appearances gave not the slightest indication of whether they were victims or suspects. Knowing from experience they could be either, Alec waited for a hint.

“Poor kids,” Fletcher murmured.

Victims. Though of what, he did not yet know.

Blackstone swiveled in his chair to stare up at the screen with the rest of them. “Jason Todd, age seventeen. Ryan Smith, sixteen, both from Wilmington, Delaware.”

The picture changed, a collage of images appearing. Mostly joint photos of the two boys, side by side, mugging for the camera. In a few, the bigger boy, blond-haired Jason Todd, had his skinny friend in a mock choke hold and was noogeying him on the head.

Alec began analyzing the details, seeing a picture of the boys’ relationship. Jason was undoubtedly the ring-leader, Ryan the follower. Did the loyal friend follow his buddy into danger this time?

“High school juniors, good students, lacrosse players, best friends from childhood.” Blackstone ticked off the details in that smooth, calm manner, betraying no emotion. “They disappeared nine days ago.”

Knowing better than to ask Blackstone to back the meeting up and go over familiar ground just for him, since he’d always been annoyed by latecomers himself, Alec figured he’d do what he always did and leap into the action. It was time to dive into the deep end rather than safely tread water on the sidelines.

He’d been treading on the sidelines for months, trying to recapture his health, his job, his life, maybe even his sanity. Play it safe, go slowly, be careful-they were words of advice he’d heard from everyone, including his doctor, his bureau-ordered therapist, and his friends. But he’d realized something: The longer he played it safe, the lower his self-confidence went. For someone used to accomplishing anything he set out to do, self-doubt was simply unacceptable. Period.

Clearing his throat, he asked the obvious. “Kidnapping?”

It was a reasonable assumption. The FBI would have been brought in by the locals. Blackstone’s team could have been made a part of the investigation because the ransom demand had come in electronically. Of course, Blackstone’s involvement probably meant the boys were already dead. Damn shame.

Blackstone shook his head. Then he tapped his keyboard again, not elaborating. The man apparently thought Alec knew enough to keep up. Meaning the team hadn’t heard much more than the basics-like that the two kids pictured on the screen were dead.

The next set of images confirmed it.

“Jesus,” Taggert muttered.

Everyone at the table stared, taking in the awful visual.

The two boys had been turned into a single crystallized statue. Their bodies were upright, back-to-back, one sitting, tied or taped to a chair, the other on his knees. They appeared to be naked, their skin a uniform bluish white from their foreheads to their feet. Judging by the grainy outdoor backdrop-a slushy shoreline dotted with spiky trees and dead brush-the victims had been pulled out of a lake. A pretty fucking cold one.

And judging by the openmouthed expressions of horror frozen on their faces, they’d been thrown into it alive.

Blackstone confirmed as much, his tone matter-of-fact. “I don’t have copies of the reports yet, but the coroner says drowning is the cause of death.”

Exposure had obviously come in a close second. Alec honestly couldn’t decide which was worse.

“A farmer spotted the submerged car in a pond on his property two days ago, during a warm spell that melted off some of the ice. The bodies were pulled up yesterday.”

“Were they held elsewhere, then brought to the lake to be killed?” asked Stokes. The frown on her brow and the tightness of her lips indicated she wasn’t quite as dispassionate about what they were seeing as her boss.

“Judging by the evidence gathered so far, we believe the boys were killed the night they disappeared. We know they were lured to this particular spot. I think it’s safe to assume they were not brought here by someone else but arrived of their own volition.”

The program continued to flash thorough, detailed images, which everyone silently studied, looking down occasionally to take notes.

Alec never looked down. He kept his attention focused on the photos, waiting for something about them to click with him. He’d spent three years as a profile coordinator in the Richmond field office before transferring up to Quantico last year. And one thing he’d learned was that every murder scene had a story to tell. Once he’d spotted the right opening into that story, it often unfolded in his head with remarkable clarity.

In this one, it was the victims’ vehicle. It had been photographed as it was being removed from the lake, as well as once it was onshore. There was something about it, something unexpected.

“I’d say we’re looking at a single unsub, acting on his own,” Alec murmured, realizing what had been bothering him.

Six pairs of eyes shifted in his direction.

“Quite a leap, don’t you think, based on nothing but some crime scene photos?” Stokes said, one brow raised in skepticism.

“They were lured to the scene and killed almost right away.”

“So?”

“So the unsub wasn’t sure he could overpower and manage a pair of strong, lacrosse-playing teenage boys for any length of time.”

“We think he was expecting only one of the boys to be there, and the other might have been an unexpected complication,” Blackstone said. “But please continue, Alec. Jason Todd was, indeed, a big, strong young man, so your reasoning could still be correct.”

More certain now, Alec said, “That makes it even more likely. Our suspect caused an accident to surprise or incapacitate his intended victim, Jason, again suggesting he wasn’t sure he could handle a single boy for long, and he didn’t have assistance.”

“An accident?” Stokes wasn’t giving up. “How do you figure? You can see in the pictures of the car there was no air bag deployment. For all we know, the kids parked, got out, and walked into someone with a gun and he pushed the car in the lake.”

Alec shook his head. “Look at the damage. The car impacted something on the side.” He narrowed his eyes, studying the picture harder. “That’s a Riviera. They stopped making them in, oh, 1999, I think. No side air bags.”

“Now he’s a car expert?” the woman mumbled.

Alec ignored her, figuring he was getting a little new-kid treatment. “The suspect could have blocked the road, forcing the driver to swerve to avoid the obstacle. From there, the car probably spun sideways into one of those trees near the shoreline.”

“Maybe our suspect didn’t have anything to do with the crash,” offered Mulrooney. He leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Coulda stumbled across it, pretended to be a bystander, then whammo.”

“Whammo? You’re saying some random psychopath stumbled across two helpless, injured crash victims and murdered them because he didn’t have anything better to do that night?” Taggert shot back. He rolled his eyes in irritation. “Who are we looking for here, Freddy Krueger? That shit only happens in teenage slasher movies and Girl Scouts campfire stories.”

Mulrooney chuckled, which was when Alec pegged their relationship. The older agent was blustery and obviously liked to taunt bears. The bear, in this case, being Dean Taggert.

“If we could continue,” Blackstone interjected smoothly. Everyone quieted down, if not convinced of Alec’s assertion, at least no longer arguing about it. One thing Alec noted: Nobody questioned whether his point made a damn bit of difference. Because they all knew it did. Knowing whether they were dealing with one unsub or multiple ones could mean the difference between a weeklong investigation and a six-month-long one.

Surprisingly, it was the single-suspect situation that could drag things out. Accomplices tended to talk to somebody, so pairs or groups were usually easier to catch.

“I believe Special Agent Lambert could be correct,” the team leader said. “Judging by some residual paint discovered on a tree near the water, the car might have crashed into it.”

Though not surprised, Alec was relieved his instincts hadn’t dulled with the months of inactivity. He also couldn’t help wondering why Blackstone had let him theorize if he knew all along the car had crashed. But hell, the guy was whispered to be almost supernaturally perceptive. Maybe he just knew Alec needed to start believing he was any damn good at this job anymore.

“And yes, we are looking at one suspect, and he typically acts alone.”

The tension in the room rose, everyone realizing Blackstone had more to tell them.

“This is somebody we know?” asked Brandon Cole, who’d been silent until this point.

Nodding, Blackstone clicked a few keys again, changing the image on the screen to an enlarged shot of a single-spaced page of text. An e-mail. Alec read it quickly, wondering what some Internet scam that had landed in his in-box a hundred times had to do with their case.

Confirming everyone had finished, Blackstone typed again and the image flashed forward. Several e-mails appeared now, many of them signed, “Jason.” And a few, “Your friend, Dr. Waffi.” The doctor reminded his friend to come alone to their meeting.

Hence the unexpected complication-Ryan Smith.

It was the “your friend, Dr. Waffi” that got Alec’s instincts sizzling. He shifted in his chair, leaning forward to drop his forearms onto the surface of the broad, pitted oak table gouged with the shadows of decades’ worth of handwritten notes. He tried to catch the random thoughts winging through his head but was unable to do it right away.

“These e-mails were retrieved from Jason Todd’s computer during the days before the bodies were discovered. The local police had at first assumed they were dealing with a pair of teen runaways, which is why the media hasn’t been all over this.”

Two kidnapped teen boys would have made national news. Two runaways not even a blip on the radar.

“Once Jason’s parents discovered these messages, the police began to take things more seriously. You can follow the e-mails sequentially and see he was taken in by a get-rich-quick scheme.”

It appeared Jason Todd truly believed some foreign diplomat was going to give him millions of dollars to help him get to hidden bank accounts. God, it was hard to believe anyone, even a teenager, would fall for one of the oldest scams on the Net.

“So the e-mails are directly tied to the murders,” Lily said. “Which is why we’re in?”

Blackstone nodded. “Yes. They were used to lure Jason Todd and his friend Ryan Smith to their deaths. Exactly the kind of thing we’re supposed to be involved with. I’ve already been in touch with the local authorities, who would be grateful for the help.” Casting a level stare in Alec’s direction, he added, “These aren’t his first victims. I believe the same unsub lured a young woman to her death using an online help-wanted ad five weeks ago.”

Talk about a bombshell. The entire team, who obviously hadn’t known, reacted to the news, spewing questions and speculation.

“We aren’t officially part of that investigation yet,” Wyatt explained. “Though I’ve talked to the lead detectives. I had a suspicion and have been watching it.” Those intense eyes gleamed. “Let’s just say the murders of Jason and Ryan have increased my suspicions.”

Everyone continued talking. Everyone except Alec, who still felt his boss’s attention solely on him. Those quick, random thoughts continued to click away in his head, connecting the pieces, adding one more.

It had been five weeks ago, before Alec was even medically cleared to go back to the job, when Blackstone had approached him to come work with his team.

Blackstone held one hand up, silencing the voices. “The national media hasn’t gotten hold of the discovery of the bodies yet, but the story did hit the Wilmington press yesterday evening. Last night another e-mail came into Jason’s account. Obviously the person writing it knew it would be intercepted, because it was addressed to Jason’s parents. And to the FBI.”

The whirring of the computer the only sound in the room, the picture changed again. The message on the screen was simple. Such a stupid boy. You are quite welcome for the service I provided in giving him the chance to prove his worth. Unfortunately for him, he failed. Which, I must say, is perhaps not so unfortunate for the rest of us trapped in a world populated by utter fools. Signed, Your Friend.

And suddenly Alec got it. Why Blackstone had come to him, had plucked him up from certain termination and given him a place on his team. Why he hadn’t been kicked on his ass out of the bureau.

Why he was so badly needed.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, every cell in his body going on high alert.

Blackstone had suspected whom he was dealing with at the time of the help-wanted murder and had started working to get Alec on board. Now, on his very first day, the man’s intuition had paid off.

Alec’s heart raced; his pulse surged. Adrenaline coursed through him, as it always did when the chase was on. “It’s him.”

Blackstone nodded once, but Alec didn’t need the confirmation. He’d recognize the tone, the arrogance in the final e-mail, absolutely anywhere. The “your friend” signoff had been used in a note in one of the earlier murders for which Alec suspected this unsub had been responsible. It was only because he’d been focused on the bogus “Dr. Waffi” name that he hadn’t realized it before.

He should have figured it out sooner for other reasons. The unusual crime scene was a dead giveaway, as was the intentional psychological torment of the victims. Jason and Ryan had been put on the ice conscious and aware, intentionally left to spend their last moments in utter terror, wondering when it would break beneath them.

The teens had been lured into a trap that had been well thought out and beyond cruel. Murdered without their killer ever lifting his own violent hand against them. That alone revealed a wealth of information about the psyche of the suspect they were dealing with. Oh, yes. It all fit.

“Who?” Stokes sounded annoyed at being out of the loop. “What’s he talking about?”

Still not quite believing that he was going to get another crack at the criminal who’d haunted his most vivid nightmares, Alec sprawled back in his chair.

“Well?” Taggert asked. Appearing equally agitated that the newcomer was the only other person in the know, he glanced back and forth between his boss and Alec.

“Alec?” Blackstone said.

Not even quite believing he was about to say it, Alec smiled-a determined, dangerous smile holding absolutely no humor.

“We’re going after the Professor.”

InXile: Can u talk?

Wndygrl1: Yes. I was hoping youd b online. I’m lvng for work.

InXile: Wish I could visit you. But hav 2 b careful. Being watched.

Wndygrl1: You must go to the police! They can protect you.

InXile: Police in my own country couldn’t protect me.

Wndygrl1: It is so unfair that you had to leave your homeland. Can I help somehow?

InXile: Being my friend is huge help.

Wndygrl1: I want to do more. What else can I do?

InXile: Cannot trust online conversation. Traceable.

Wndygrl1: What are you saying?

InXile: If we could meet…

InXile: Friend?

InXile: R U there?

InXile: Never mind. Is a lot to ask, helping a stranger.

Wndygrl1: No! I feel like I’ve known you all my life, but we haven’t met in person.

InXile: Of course. You think I am thief wanting your money?

Wndygrl1: Of course not!!!!

InXile: Good. I would never ask for money. I have much of my own. Just cannot go out to spend it for fear of reprisals.

Wndygrl1: How sad!

InXile: If only I could see you and shower you with gifts.

Wndygrl1: You don’t have to buy me a thing.

InXile: Someday I will take you on a shopping spree. For now, though, we could meet somewhere safe, where I won’t be followed.

Wndygrl1: Well…

InXile: What?

Wndygrl1: It’s just… they say you shouldn’t meet someone you met online face-to-face.

InXile: They?

Wndygrl1: You know. Experts.

InXile: Right. You are wise. Don’t trust strangers. I am sorry to bother you.

Wndygrl1: Don’t go! You aren’t bothering me.

InXile: I have offended, though?

Wndygrl1: Not at all. I’m so sorry. You’ve never done anything to offend or bother me.

Wndygrl1: Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who really knows me.

InXile: I am glad. So our friendship will stay as it is. Through computers and wires. You are my only ray of sunshine in these dark days.

Wndygrl1: You say such lovely things.

Wndygrl1: Maybe we could work something out.

InXile: No. Out of question. I don’t want u 2 feel uncomfortable.

Wndygrl1: I don’t.

InXile: So we think about it for now. Is that… how do you say it, okeydokey?

Wndygrl1: lol! Yes, we’ll think about it. That would absolutely be okeydokey.