A Date with Danger Read online
Page 5
We pass no ticket machine or toll booth on the way in, and I notice as we travel down the row looking for a free space that all the cars are exactly the same. All black and navy blue SUVs. What kind of place has the exact same car parked in every space?
Now I’m hearing the X-Files theme in my head.
Our car slips into a vacant space near a stairwell. Shades comes around to my door to open it. He doesn’t put a hand on me or try to restrain me as I get out, and I realize that this is my opportunity to run. But I’ve seen the movies. Chases in parking garages never end well. So I wait as he shuts my door and his buddy arrives, the two of them flanking me again. Shades motions a hand toward a bank of elevators, and I start to walk. They keep exact pace with me, not touching me but clearly an alert escort, ready to react at any moment.
When we reach the elevators, the other guy pulls some kind of key card from his jacket and swipes it over an electrical reader beside the elevator door, the type of device that unlocks the pool at my apartment complex—but I’m guessing this card probably has a much higher level of clearance.
Shades flashed a badge back at the store, I suddenly remember. In the haze of terror, I’d forgotten, but he did show some kind of official identification. Maybe the elevator doors will open and Mulder and Scully will be waiting for us.
Sadly, the elevator cab is empty when it arrives, and I step inside obediently. They remain at my sides and press a button for the fourth floor. There are only five floors and two parking levels. No secret underground chamber that runs forty floors below the surface. Surely the X-Files people wouldn’t be housed in some regular, five-story building. Would they?
No plucky elevator music accompanies our ascent, and I’m half tempted to make some bad joke. I have a habit of using humor to defuse awkward situations. But the closer we get to our destination, the more my mouth fills with bile. I can hardly swallow over it.
On the fourth floor, the doors swoosh open and reveal a rather drab office space. On the left sit endless rows of open cubicles. Suited, severe-looking men and women type away at computers, consult files, and converse on landlines. To the right, a glass wall encloses a chain of personal offices. Here, too, professionally attired men and women are on phones and at computers. Periodically one stands before a bulletin board or at an incongruous piece of equipment, but there’s nothing instantly identifiable about what people are doing here. No shackled women clustered in dirty cages or glowing aquariums encasing alien remains. So I guess human trafficking and Area 51 are both out.
We proceed up the hallway, though by now my legs are more jelly than solid. Some look up as we pass, their faces impassive and humorless. I think of appealing to one of these people for help, but they don’t seem alarmed or even surprised by my arrival. I’m guessing they’re all on the same team here.
Halfway across the floor, another corridor curves off to the right, and Shades points, indicating that I should take that branch. This hallway is even barer. Gray paint, closed doors on either side. A few doors down, both men stop. One of them opens the door and leads me inside.
There’s nothing here but a metal table and two metal chairs. And a mirror, which is probably two-way like they have in police stations. I take a few steps into the room and hear the door close behind me before I realize they’ve left.
And locked me inside.
6
Kidnapped. Brought to some kind of strange facility. Locked in an interrogation room.
Not my best Monday.
I spend the better part of half an hour banging on the two-way mirror, demanding someone talk to me, to tell me where I am, to let me out. No one comes or responds, but I can imagine them on the other side of the mirror, watching.
After a while I circle the metal table like a restless animal, chewing obsessively on my thumbnail. Panic has made my knees weak, but I’m scared to sit down. The chairs frighten me, mostly because I’ve seen what happens in interrogation rooms. They always start by sitting you down and strapping you to the chair. Then come the questions and the beating and the ripping out your teeth.
I’m not built for torture. I’ll crack like an egg.
Finally, when I can pace no more, I plunk resignedly into one of the chairs and put my forehead down on the cool metal. Please, Father, please, I’m praying again. Please get me out of whatever this is.
I hear the hinges of the door squeaking open and jerk my head up.
The guy struts in.
“You!” I gasp, jumping up from my seat.
He ambles to the table and holds out his hand. “Damon Wade.”
“Of course you’re here!” I cry, ignoring his hand. “It’s a conspiracy—I was right! And I’m not paranoid, by the way. I’ve been abducted, and you’re part of it!”
“You haven’t been abducted,” he says calmly. “Please, sit.”
“I was taken from my place of work by Hostile 1 and 2, dragged here, held in a room against my will, and you want me to sit?”
“It’s all easily explained.”
“Then explain it! Because so far,” I shout at the window, “no one will even tell me where I am!”
He sits. “You’re in a secure facility.”
“Secure facility,” I snort. “What are you, FBI?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
That takes the wind right out of me. For several seconds I just blink at him and then manage, “Oh.”
Gaze steady on mine, he wordlessly indicates the chair, and I sink despondently into it.
He straightens his tie. “As I was trying to say while you were ranting, I’m Agent Damon Wade, and you’re at an FBI field office.”
“This has got to be some kind of prank. Did Jen do this?” I have sudden inspiration and jump to my feet again. “Is she this mad about the blue cardigan? For crying out loud, she got it at a thrift store!”
His mouth twitches. “Not a prank.”
“Then a hallucination? Some kind of fever dream? I thought that orange chicken tasted a little fishy. Well, not fishy like fish. Fishy like . . . suspicious.”
Damon cocks his head. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Panic makes me ramble.” The adrenaline fueled by my fear is starting to die down, making the shakes in my hands worse. I take a deep breath and clench my fingers together to stop the trembling. “By the way, if you are the good guys, you should all be shot for handling this like you did. You scared the crap out of me. I thought I was going to die!”
“No need for panic. If you’d just . . .” He motions for me to sit, and when I deliberate he presses, “You do know how, don’t you? You bend your knees and kind of sink down.”
I glare at him and perch on the edge of the seat. The cold of the metal seeps through my jeans.
He folds his hands. “You’ve been brought here because we need your help.”
“My help?” I chuckle nervously. “You sure you have the right girl?”
Damon flips open a file on the table between us. “Jacklyn Wyatt, aka Jack.” His gaze flicks up to me. “Interesting. I wouldn’t take you for the masculine name type.” Looking back to the file, he continues. “Born September 18, 1989. Attended elementary, junior high, and high school in Pleasant Grove, Utah. College at Utah Valley University. Studying English literature. Employed at Forever 21 in the University Mall.”
“My record of mediocrity.” I nod.
“Shops for necessities at Walmart. Often buys eggs, ice cream, and sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. Watches a lot of old movies. Favors Hitchcock and classic murder mysteries. Frequents the Orem Library more often than the library on campus, probably because the Orem facility rents out movies. Frequents the dollar theater once a week or so. Always has lunch in the university cafeteria and reads Elizabeth Peters.” He looks up.
I’m thrown. “How do you know all that?”
He closes the file. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”
r /> “Creepy,” I say.
“Necessary,” he counters.
“Why?”
“I needed to know what kind of person you are.”
I lean back. “And?”
Damon shrugs. “Predictable. Nonthreatening. You seem fairly reliable, if a little dull.”
“Is insulting the prisoner a normal thing with abduction?”
“You passed a cursory inspection, which is why I approached you.”
“Yeah. If you’re actually FBI, you’re the most non-ninja agent ever. I totally saw you.”
“Saturday,” he nods. “What about two weeks before?”
I wet my lips. “No, I did not see you then.”
“Saturday and yesterday you were supposed to see me. I needed to know how you react when threatened.” He looks up. “You stayed calm.”
“Not exactly.” I tuck hair behind my ear. “I put furniture in front of the door.”
He makes a small sound that might be a laugh. “Regardless, you didn’t run to the police.”
“Fat lot of good it would have done me. So you were at the Chinese place?”
“Yes.”
“And outside my apartment? You were the sinister shadow?”
“Wasn’t exactly going for sinister, but I was there.”
“And why me? Why do you need me?”
“Do you know a Natalie Paul?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
He opens another file and pushes a photo across the table to me. “She’s a student at the University of Utah, and she disappeared five weeks ago.”
The girl in the photograph is blonde, trim, and laughing, posing against a tree trunk. “Disappeared?” I say. “How—where?”
“Just gone from her apartment. The last person to see her was the cashier who rang her up at Albertson’s. She bought bananas and butter. Somewhere between there and home, she disappeared.” He slides another photo to me—a silver car in a parking spot. “Her car was in its assigned space at the complex, and there were no signs of a break-in there or at her apartment. There has been no ransom note, no communication at all. Her parents—both teachers—live comfortably but aren’t rich by any means. Natalie lived on student loans, so money doesn’t seem to be a motive. Near as we can tell, she had no enemies, no one who would want to hurt her.”
“Maybe she ran away—”
He nods, indicating this has been covered. “She was two semesters away from graduating and had been accepted to medical school. She had a lot of family in the area and was well-connected in the community. There was nothing missing from her place. All her clothes were still there, and we found a few hundred dollars cash in the sock drawer. Her purse was there, her car—nothing to indicate she’d run away.”
“That’s definitely weird.”
“In five weeks, we’ve had only one lead.”
“What?”
“Natalie had recently begun online dating. From her profile, we have a list of suspects based on the men who contacted her.”
“Good for you.” I nod slowly. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“We need you to help us vet the suspects.”
I chuckle. “How could I help with that?”
Damon hesitates. “Are you currently a member of Eter-knit-ty Online Dating?”
Realization dawns. “Oh no,” I say. “Oh no, no, no, no. I’m not—
no.”
He consults my file. “You joined about four months ago—”
“No, I didn’t join. I did not join. My sister Jen signed me up, created my profile, everything.”
“But it’s still your name on the profile.”
“I haven’t touched it since she signed me up. I haven’t even looked to see who contacted me.” I pause. “Okay, that’s not true. I did look once. But I got spooked after this gardener guy asked me to be the mother of his prize squash.”
Damon’s eyebrows rise. “Well, there are all types out there. We’ve narrowed it down to eight suspects, all men who contacted Natalie through Eter-knit-ty.” He produces a stack of e-mails. “Six of those eight men have also contacted you.”
A chill scales my spine as I flip through the e-mails—greetings, offers for lunch or dinner. “You’re saying one of these guys made Natalie disappear?”
“It’s a possibility. But we need a closer look at them. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” A hysterical laugh bursts out of me. “W-what are you talking about? I’m not a spy or whatever; I’m a regular girl.”
“A regular girl is exactly what we need to get close to these guys. We need to know more about them.”
“Then do your creepy stalker thing like you did with me.”
“We’ve been watching them for weeks, but there’s only so much you can learn from surveillance.”
“Then . . . check out their histories.”
“Done.” He tosses a fat sheet of papers towards me. “Six of them are Mormon, all claim to be religious. Five of them are Eagle Scouts and returned missionaries. All are employed, nothing more serious on their records than speeding and a little high school vandalism. No red flags. Phone records have no commonalities with Natalie’s except the few who phoned to set up dates. At this point we need contact, which leaves us with you.”
I flounder. “There’s got to be someone else.”
“The most our suspect list was lined up with another girl was three—three who’ve e-mailed her. If you contact the two who haven’t e-mailed you, they might respond. But she would have to win over six others. We don’t have the time.”
“Then”—I snap my fingers—“use one of your female agents! I see it on shows all the time.”
“Again, no time. If we set up a new profile now, she’d be nowhere with these guys. The clock is ticking on this. Natalie’s been missing five weeks. That’s a century on the kidnapping time line. We have no evidence of foul play, which, to the Bureau, means no case. I’ve been granted a very small window in which to investigate. And if it is one of these men, their ability to contact all these unknowing women is cause for concern. It may happen again.”
“Then use my name—have one of your agents pretend to be me.”
“Your sister plastered your profile with pictures of you. Believe me, Miss Wyatt. We’ve run every scenario. You’re the only option.”
“So you want me to jump right in with some guy who may be a kidnapper or worse?”
“Your entire job would be gathering intel.”
“I’m not trained for something like that!”
“You don’t have to be,” he insists. “All we really need to see is how these guys react to women: who gets attached too quickly, who shows warning signs when he doesn’t know he’s being watched.”
“And by too attached,” I bluster, “you mean what guy would be so enchanted he’d taxidermy me for his mantel.”
Damon cracks a minuscule smile. “The threat to you would be minimal.”
“See there? I’m concerned by the word minimal and how it’s not the word zero.”
“You’ll be protected at all times, and your protective watch will double during the dates.”
“Dates?” I echo. “Wait, wait—you said gather intel like answer an e-mail, not go physically to meet them in person like in the field.”
He chuckles low. “See? You already have the jargon down. You’re perfect.”
“No. I was iffy just at the thought of writing these guys. Actually going on a date is way too much.”
Damon leans forward. “I can promise that you’ll be protected. You’ll be under federal watch twenty-four hours a day.”
“There’s no guarantee with that. Cops can be dirty, or the guy comes dressed like a delivery boy and blows away the security team.”
“Jack.” He pauses. “Can I call you Jack?”
“You’ve already called me dull,” I muse. “Jack’s an improvement.”
His eyes twitch. “We’re not dealing with a professional here. If Natalie was taken by one of these men, he’s not a hit man or a trained killer. He’s just a guy who got desperate and lucky. And it won’t happen again.”
“You can’t be sure Natalie was his first. He could’ve done this before. And you know as well as I do that the best serial killers are the charming, groomed ones.” I list on my fingers: “Ted Bundy . . .” I tap that finger against the table, thinking. “There’s got to be some more . . .”
“True,” Damon concedes. “Sometimes the most twisted men are the ones you’d never suspect. That may very well be what we’re dealing with here. But if it is one of the website guys, we’re on to him. And we will protect you.”
“What if there’s a mole? What if it’s someone in the FBI?” I’m struck with sudden inspiration. “It could be you. Oh, that would be the best twist!” I laugh and then grow sober. “Only, I hope it’s not since we’re alone together.”
“You can trust me.”
“Ho, ho. That’s exactly what the killer would say.”
“Then you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“I don’t have to take anything. Even if I was equipped for something like this, I honestly don’t have time. I have school, my job.”
“You can take a few weeks off,” he presses. “We’ll be sure your job is waiting for you. And I’ve been authorized to offer compensation for your help. A modest sum but still twice what you’re making retail.”
Twice. Not a fortune by any means, but I could stop eating Top Ramen for half my meals.
“It’s tempting,” I admit. “But I’m still too busy. And besides that, it scares the crap out of me. This kind of thing is all cool when I’m watching it on a movie, but in real life I’m a giant chicken and willing to admit it.”
“The fact that you can admit it proves your courage.”
“Yeah, I’ve got self-deprecation down, but put me in a dark alley with Mr. Stabby and I’m useless. I can’t even play tag because I hate being chased. I just curl up and cover my head.”
Now I’m hearing the X-Files theme in my head.
Our car slips into a vacant space near a stairwell. Shades comes around to my door to open it. He doesn’t put a hand on me or try to restrain me as I get out, and I realize that this is my opportunity to run. But I’ve seen the movies. Chases in parking garages never end well. So I wait as he shuts my door and his buddy arrives, the two of them flanking me again. Shades motions a hand toward a bank of elevators, and I start to walk. They keep exact pace with me, not touching me but clearly an alert escort, ready to react at any moment.
When we reach the elevators, the other guy pulls some kind of key card from his jacket and swipes it over an electrical reader beside the elevator door, the type of device that unlocks the pool at my apartment complex—but I’m guessing this card probably has a much higher level of clearance.
Shades flashed a badge back at the store, I suddenly remember. In the haze of terror, I’d forgotten, but he did show some kind of official identification. Maybe the elevator doors will open and Mulder and Scully will be waiting for us.
Sadly, the elevator cab is empty when it arrives, and I step inside obediently. They remain at my sides and press a button for the fourth floor. There are only five floors and two parking levels. No secret underground chamber that runs forty floors below the surface. Surely the X-Files people wouldn’t be housed in some regular, five-story building. Would they?
No plucky elevator music accompanies our ascent, and I’m half tempted to make some bad joke. I have a habit of using humor to defuse awkward situations. But the closer we get to our destination, the more my mouth fills with bile. I can hardly swallow over it.
On the fourth floor, the doors swoosh open and reveal a rather drab office space. On the left sit endless rows of open cubicles. Suited, severe-looking men and women type away at computers, consult files, and converse on landlines. To the right, a glass wall encloses a chain of personal offices. Here, too, professionally attired men and women are on phones and at computers. Periodically one stands before a bulletin board or at an incongruous piece of equipment, but there’s nothing instantly identifiable about what people are doing here. No shackled women clustered in dirty cages or glowing aquariums encasing alien remains. So I guess human trafficking and Area 51 are both out.
We proceed up the hallway, though by now my legs are more jelly than solid. Some look up as we pass, their faces impassive and humorless. I think of appealing to one of these people for help, but they don’t seem alarmed or even surprised by my arrival. I’m guessing they’re all on the same team here.
Halfway across the floor, another corridor curves off to the right, and Shades points, indicating that I should take that branch. This hallway is even barer. Gray paint, closed doors on either side. A few doors down, both men stop. One of them opens the door and leads me inside.
There’s nothing here but a metal table and two metal chairs. And a mirror, which is probably two-way like they have in police stations. I take a few steps into the room and hear the door close behind me before I realize they’ve left.
And locked me inside.
6
Kidnapped. Brought to some kind of strange facility. Locked in an interrogation room.
Not my best Monday.
I spend the better part of half an hour banging on the two-way mirror, demanding someone talk to me, to tell me where I am, to let me out. No one comes or responds, but I can imagine them on the other side of the mirror, watching.
After a while I circle the metal table like a restless animal, chewing obsessively on my thumbnail. Panic has made my knees weak, but I’m scared to sit down. The chairs frighten me, mostly because I’ve seen what happens in interrogation rooms. They always start by sitting you down and strapping you to the chair. Then come the questions and the beating and the ripping out your teeth.
I’m not built for torture. I’ll crack like an egg.
Finally, when I can pace no more, I plunk resignedly into one of the chairs and put my forehead down on the cool metal. Please, Father, please, I’m praying again. Please get me out of whatever this is.
I hear the hinges of the door squeaking open and jerk my head up.
The guy struts in.
“You!” I gasp, jumping up from my seat.
He ambles to the table and holds out his hand. “Damon Wade.”
“Of course you’re here!” I cry, ignoring his hand. “It’s a conspiracy—I was right! And I’m not paranoid, by the way. I’ve been abducted, and you’re part of it!”
“You haven’t been abducted,” he says calmly. “Please, sit.”
“I was taken from my place of work by Hostile 1 and 2, dragged here, held in a room against my will, and you want me to sit?”
“It’s all easily explained.”
“Then explain it! Because so far,” I shout at the window, “no one will even tell me where I am!”
He sits. “You’re in a secure facility.”
“Secure facility,” I snort. “What are you, FBI?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
That takes the wind right out of me. For several seconds I just blink at him and then manage, “Oh.”
Gaze steady on mine, he wordlessly indicates the chair, and I sink despondently into it.
He straightens his tie. “As I was trying to say while you were ranting, I’m Agent Damon Wade, and you’re at an FBI field office.”
“This has got to be some kind of prank. Did Jen do this?” I have sudden inspiration and jump to my feet again. “Is she this mad about the blue cardigan? For crying out loud, she got it at a thrift store!”
His mouth twitches. “Not a prank.”
“Then a hallucination? Some kind of fever dream? I thought that orange chicken tasted a little fishy. Well, not fishy like fish. Fishy like . . . suspicious.”
Damon cocks his head. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Panic makes me ramble.” The adrenaline fueled by my fear is starting to die down, making the shakes in my hands worse. I take a deep breath and clench my fingers together to stop the trembling. “By the way, if you are the good guys, you should all be shot for handling this like you did. You scared the crap out of me. I thought I was going to die!”
“No need for panic. If you’d just . . .” He motions for me to sit, and when I deliberate he presses, “You do know how, don’t you? You bend your knees and kind of sink down.”
I glare at him and perch on the edge of the seat. The cold of the metal seeps through my jeans.
He folds his hands. “You’ve been brought here because we need your help.”
“My help?” I chuckle nervously. “You sure you have the right girl?”
Damon flips open a file on the table between us. “Jacklyn Wyatt, aka Jack.” His gaze flicks up to me. “Interesting. I wouldn’t take you for the masculine name type.” Looking back to the file, he continues. “Born September 18, 1989. Attended elementary, junior high, and high school in Pleasant Grove, Utah. College at Utah Valley University. Studying English literature. Employed at Forever 21 in the University Mall.”
“My record of mediocrity.” I nod.
“Shops for necessities at Walmart. Often buys eggs, ice cream, and sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. Watches a lot of old movies. Favors Hitchcock and classic murder mysteries. Frequents the Orem Library more often than the library on campus, probably because the Orem facility rents out movies. Frequents the dollar theater once a week or so. Always has lunch in the university cafeteria and reads Elizabeth Peters.” He looks up.
I’m thrown. “How do you know all that?”
He closes the file. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”
r /> “Creepy,” I say.
“Necessary,” he counters.
“Why?”
“I needed to know what kind of person you are.”
I lean back. “And?”
Damon shrugs. “Predictable. Nonthreatening. You seem fairly reliable, if a little dull.”
“Is insulting the prisoner a normal thing with abduction?”
“You passed a cursory inspection, which is why I approached you.”
“Yeah. If you’re actually FBI, you’re the most non-ninja agent ever. I totally saw you.”
“Saturday,” he nods. “What about two weeks before?”
I wet my lips. “No, I did not see you then.”
“Saturday and yesterday you were supposed to see me. I needed to know how you react when threatened.” He looks up. “You stayed calm.”
“Not exactly.” I tuck hair behind my ear. “I put furniture in front of the door.”
He makes a small sound that might be a laugh. “Regardless, you didn’t run to the police.”
“Fat lot of good it would have done me. So you were at the Chinese place?”
“Yes.”
“And outside my apartment? You were the sinister shadow?”
“Wasn’t exactly going for sinister, but I was there.”
“And why me? Why do you need me?”
“Do you know a Natalie Paul?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
He opens another file and pushes a photo across the table to me. “She’s a student at the University of Utah, and she disappeared five weeks ago.”
The girl in the photograph is blonde, trim, and laughing, posing against a tree trunk. “Disappeared?” I say. “How—where?”
“Just gone from her apartment. The last person to see her was the cashier who rang her up at Albertson’s. She bought bananas and butter. Somewhere between there and home, she disappeared.” He slides another photo to me—a silver car in a parking spot. “Her car was in its assigned space at the complex, and there were no signs of a break-in there or at her apartment. There has been no ransom note, no communication at all. Her parents—both teachers—live comfortably but aren’t rich by any means. Natalie lived on student loans, so money doesn’t seem to be a motive. Near as we can tell, she had no enemies, no one who would want to hurt her.”
“Maybe she ran away—”
He nods, indicating this has been covered. “She was two semesters away from graduating and had been accepted to medical school. She had a lot of family in the area and was well-connected in the community. There was nothing missing from her place. All her clothes were still there, and we found a few hundred dollars cash in the sock drawer. Her purse was there, her car—nothing to indicate she’d run away.”
“That’s definitely weird.”
“In five weeks, we’ve had only one lead.”
“What?”
“Natalie had recently begun online dating. From her profile, we have a list of suspects based on the men who contacted her.”
“Good for you.” I nod slowly. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“We need you to help us vet the suspects.”
I chuckle. “How could I help with that?”
Damon hesitates. “Are you currently a member of Eter-knit-ty Online Dating?”
Realization dawns. “Oh no,” I say. “Oh no, no, no, no. I’m not—
no.”
He consults my file. “You joined about four months ago—”
“No, I didn’t join. I did not join. My sister Jen signed me up, created my profile, everything.”
“But it’s still your name on the profile.”
“I haven’t touched it since she signed me up. I haven’t even looked to see who contacted me.” I pause. “Okay, that’s not true. I did look once. But I got spooked after this gardener guy asked me to be the mother of his prize squash.”
Damon’s eyebrows rise. “Well, there are all types out there. We’ve narrowed it down to eight suspects, all men who contacted Natalie through Eter-knit-ty.” He produces a stack of e-mails. “Six of those eight men have also contacted you.”
A chill scales my spine as I flip through the e-mails—greetings, offers for lunch or dinner. “You’re saying one of these guys made Natalie disappear?”
“It’s a possibility. But we need a closer look at them. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” A hysterical laugh bursts out of me. “W-what are you talking about? I’m not a spy or whatever; I’m a regular girl.”
“A regular girl is exactly what we need to get close to these guys. We need to know more about them.”
“Then do your creepy stalker thing like you did with me.”
“We’ve been watching them for weeks, but there’s only so much you can learn from surveillance.”
“Then . . . check out their histories.”
“Done.” He tosses a fat sheet of papers towards me. “Six of them are Mormon, all claim to be religious. Five of them are Eagle Scouts and returned missionaries. All are employed, nothing more serious on their records than speeding and a little high school vandalism. No red flags. Phone records have no commonalities with Natalie’s except the few who phoned to set up dates. At this point we need contact, which leaves us with you.”
I flounder. “There’s got to be someone else.”
“The most our suspect list was lined up with another girl was three—three who’ve e-mailed her. If you contact the two who haven’t e-mailed you, they might respond. But she would have to win over six others. We don’t have the time.”
“Then”—I snap my fingers—“use one of your female agents! I see it on shows all the time.”
“Again, no time. If we set up a new profile now, she’d be nowhere with these guys. The clock is ticking on this. Natalie’s been missing five weeks. That’s a century on the kidnapping time line. We have no evidence of foul play, which, to the Bureau, means no case. I’ve been granted a very small window in which to investigate. And if it is one of these men, their ability to contact all these unknowing women is cause for concern. It may happen again.”
“Then use my name—have one of your agents pretend to be me.”
“Your sister plastered your profile with pictures of you. Believe me, Miss Wyatt. We’ve run every scenario. You’re the only option.”
“So you want me to jump right in with some guy who may be a kidnapper or worse?”
“Your entire job would be gathering intel.”
“I’m not trained for something like that!”
“You don’t have to be,” he insists. “All we really need to see is how these guys react to women: who gets attached too quickly, who shows warning signs when he doesn’t know he’s being watched.”
“And by too attached,” I bluster, “you mean what guy would be so enchanted he’d taxidermy me for his mantel.”
Damon cracks a minuscule smile. “The threat to you would be minimal.”
“See there? I’m concerned by the word minimal and how it’s not the word zero.”
“You’ll be protected at all times, and your protective watch will double during the dates.”
“Dates?” I echo. “Wait, wait—you said gather intel like answer an e-mail, not go physically to meet them in person like in the field.”
He chuckles low. “See? You already have the jargon down. You’re perfect.”
“No. I was iffy just at the thought of writing these guys. Actually going on a date is way too much.”
Damon leans forward. “I can promise that you’ll be protected. You’ll be under federal watch twenty-four hours a day.”
“There’s no guarantee with that. Cops can be dirty, or the guy comes dressed like a delivery boy and blows away the security team.”
“Jack.” He pauses. “Can I call you Jack?”
“You’ve already called me dull,” I muse. “Jack’s an improvement.”
His eyes twitch. “We’re not dealing with a professional here. If Natalie was taken by one of these men, he’s not a hit man or a trained killer. He’s just a guy who got desperate and lucky. And it won’t happen again.”
“You can’t be sure Natalie was his first. He could’ve done this before. And you know as well as I do that the best serial killers are the charming, groomed ones.” I list on my fingers: “Ted Bundy . . .” I tap that finger against the table, thinking. “There’s got to be some more . . .”
“True,” Damon concedes. “Sometimes the most twisted men are the ones you’d never suspect. That may very well be what we’re dealing with here. But if it is one of the website guys, we’re on to him. And we will protect you.”
“What if there’s a mole? What if it’s someone in the FBI?” I’m struck with sudden inspiration. “It could be you. Oh, that would be the best twist!” I laugh and then grow sober. “Only, I hope it’s not since we’re alone together.”
“You can trust me.”
“Ho, ho. That’s exactly what the killer would say.”
“Then you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“I don’t have to take anything. Even if I was equipped for something like this, I honestly don’t have time. I have school, my job.”
“You can take a few weeks off,” he presses. “We’ll be sure your job is waiting for you. And I’ve been authorized to offer compensation for your help. A modest sum but still twice what you’re making retail.”
Twice. Not a fortune by any means, but I could stop eating Top Ramen for half my meals.
“It’s tempting,” I admit. “But I’m still too busy. And besides that, it scares the crap out of me. This kind of thing is all cool when I’m watching it on a movie, but in real life I’m a giant chicken and willing to admit it.”
“The fact that you can admit it proves your courage.”
“Yeah, I’ve got self-deprecation down, but put me in a dark alley with Mr. Stabby and I’m useless. I can’t even play tag because I hate being chased. I just curl up and cover my head.”