Phantom Prey

  ALSO BY JOHN SANDFORD

  Rules of Prey

  Shadow Prey

  Eyes of Prey

  Silent Prey

  Winter Prey

  Night Prey

  Mind Prey

  Sudden Prey

  The Night Crew

  Secret Prey

  Certain Prey

  Easy Prey

  Chosen Prey

  Mortal Prey

  Naked Prey

  Hidden Prey

  Broken Prey

  Dead Watch

  Invisible Prey

  Dark of the Moon

  KIDD NOVELS

  The Fool's Run

  The Empress File

  The Devil's Code

  The Hanged Man's Song

  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Publishers Since 1838 Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia),

  250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2008 by John Sandford All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

  ISBN: 1-4362-2798-4

  BOOK DESIGN BY NICOLE LAROCHE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  SOMETHING WRONG HERE, a cold whisper of evil.

  The house was a modernist relic, glass and stone and redwood, sixty years old and gone creaky; not all haunted houses were Victorian. Sometimes at night, when she was alone, she'd feel a sudden coolness, as though somebody, or some thing, had just slipped by. This was different. She couldn't pin it down, but it was palpable.

  She thought about stepping back into the garage.

  "Who's there?" she called. She got nothing back but an echo.

  THE HOUSE WAS DARK, except for desk lamps in the front room and in the study, which were triggered by photocells at dusk. She could hear the furnace running. Nothing else—but the hair on her forearms and the back of her neck stood upright. Some atavistic sense was picking up a threat.

  She looked to her right. The arming light on the security panel was steady, so the security system had been disarmed. That was decisive. The house should be empty, the security system should be armed.

  She stepped back, moving quickly, around the nose of the Jaguar to the Mercedes. She yanked open the driver's-side door, reached under the front seat to the storage bin, popped the lid, and lifted out the Ladysmith .38.

  Stood listening again, the gun cool in her hand, and heavy. Couldn't even hear the furnace, now. The Mercedes's engine pinged, cooling down. The overhead garage lights were still on and she watched the door to the house. Something wrong, but the house felt empty.

  Her nose twitched. She could smell exhaust from the car, but when she'd stepped through the door to the house, there'd been something else. A subtle stink that shouldn't have been there. Not sweat, not body odor, not perfume, not flatulence, but something organic. Meat?

  She had her purse over her shoulder, her cell phone right there. Call the police? What would she tell them? That something was not right? That something smelled a little funky? They'd think she was crazy.

  She put her purse on the hood of the Jag, held the gun in front of her, like the handgun instructor had shown her. She was an athlete, and a professional athlete at that: swimming, dance, martial arts, weights, Pilates, yoga. The hard stuff: her body control was nearly perfect. She'd shot the eyes out of the gun-instructor's bad-guy target.

  He'd been mildly impressed, but only mildly. A cop for most of his life, he'd told her that every shooting he'd ever seen had been a screwup.

  "The question is not whether you can hit something at seven yards. The question is whether you can sort out all the problems, when you've got a loaded gun in your hand," he'd said, a rehearsed speech that might have been written on a 3x5 card. "You have no time, but you have to figure out what's happening—what's going on. To shoot or not to shoot: it all comes down to a tenth of a second, in the dark. You don't want to shoot your kid or a neighbor. You don't want to not shoot a junkie with a butcher knife coming for your throat."

  THERE WOULDN'T BE a neighbor in the house. The neighborhood was private, standoffish. People drew their friends from their businesses, from their schools, not from the street. The housekeeper was long gone.

  Her daughter? Frances had the security code but she always called ahead.

  She called out: "Francie?"

  No response.

  Again, louder. "Fran? Are you there?"

  Starting to feel foolish, now. Then she remembered what the gun instructor had told her. "About the time you start to feel like an idiot, that's when they'll get you. If you're scared enough to have the gun out, then the situation is serious enough that you can't be abashed.."

  She remembered the word. Abashed. Was she abashed?

  SHE WAS BACK at the door. Kept the muzzle of the gun pointing straight ahead, called out, "Frances, I've got a gun, because I'm scared. Don't jump out, if this is a joke. Frances?"

  She let go of the gun with her left hand, reached around the door-jamb and flicked on the lights. The entry was clear, and as far as she could see, the kitchen. She was inside now, the house still giving off the empty feel. Edged forward.

  The hair on her arms was up again and she reached inside the kitchen door and hit another block of lights. They came on all at once, three circuits' worth, fifteen lights in all, the kitchen as brightly lit as a stage. She glanced behind her, at the garage, then back toward the dark door beyond the kitchen.

  Not right; a few lizard-brain cells were screaming at her. Not right.

  "Frances? Fran? Are you there? Helen? Are you still here, Helen?" Helen was the housekeeper.

  No answer. She let the gun drop to her side. Then, remembering what the cop said, brought it back up, and let the muzzle lead her through the house. Halfway through, she knew she was alone. There was no tension in the air, no vibration. She cleared the last bedroom, exhaled, smiled at her own foolishness.

  This hadn't happened before. There was something . . . She got to the kitchen, sniffed, and looked around. Put the gun on the counter, opened the refrigerator, pulled out the bag of pre-cut celery sticks, took out two and crunched them.

  Huh.

  ALYSSA AUSTIN LEANED against the counter, a small woman, blond, fair-complected, but not delicate: she had a physical density to her face and hands that suggested the martial arts, o
r an extreme level of exercise. She looked at the gun on the counter, and half-smiled; it was dark and curved and weighted with presence, like a successful work of art.

  She was finishing the second celery stick when she noticed the dark streaks on the wallpaper at the edge of the hall that led from the kitchen to the dining room. The streaks were broom-straw-length and -breadth, splaying out from a center, dark but not black, like flower petals, or a slash from a watercolor brush. Not knowing exactly why, she stepped over and touched them—and felt the tackiness under her finger.

  Pulled her finger back and found a spot of crimson. She knew instantly and without a doubt that it was blood, and relatively fresh. Saw a small, thinner streak farther down the wall. Backed away . . .

  SCARED NOW. Picked up the gun, backed into the kitchen, groped for the phone, punched in 9-1-1. She did it with a bloody finger, not realizing, leaving red dots on the keys.

  The operator, an efficient-sounding woman, asked, "Is this an emergency?"

  "There's blood in my house," she said.

  "Are you in danger?" the operator asked.

  "No, I don't . . . I don't . . ."

  "Is this Mrs. Austin?"

  "Yes." She didn't know how the operator had gotten her name, didn't think about it. "I just came home."

  "Go someplace safe, close by."

  "I need the police."

  "We are already on the way," the operator said. "Officers will be there in about a minute. Are you safe?"

  "I uh . . . don't know." She thought, The police. I should put the gun away. "Tell them . . . Tell them I'm going to the garage. I'm going to lock myself in the car. The garage door is up."

  "Okay. That would be good," the operator said. "Don't hang up. Just drop the phone and go to the car. We should be there in less than a minute now."

  She dropped the phone and backed toward the garage.

  She could hear sirens in the distance—and not another thing.

  THE COPS WENT in with guns in their hands, cleared the house, looked at the blood and called for a crime-scene crew.

  Alyssa went looking for her housekeeper, and found her. Helen was utterly confused by the blood; it hadn't been there when she left.

  The crime-scene crew, from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, spent two days in the house. They found more signs of blood, on the tiles in the kitchen and hallway, enough that it had apparently been mopped up. Alyssa and the cops spent the next two days looking for Frances. They found her car, found her last grocery list, but they never could find her. Then the blood tests came back from the lab: it was Frances's blood, all right.

  According to the lab techs, there'd been a pool of blood on the floor, which had been cleaned up with a product called Scrubbing Bubbles bathroom cleaner and paper towels—there were little spit-ball, or blood-ball, remnants from the towels stuck in the cracks of the Mexican tiles. The blood spatters on the wall had simply been missed by the killer or killers, who hadn't noticed the thin sprays of blood entwined in the floral pattern of the wallpaper.

  Frances was gone, and probably dead, and they all knew it.

  Alyssa cried, sporadically and unpredictably, for four weeks, caught in the bureaucracy of mysterious death, a slow-motion nightmare.

  No body, just the blood—and the cops coming around, and the reporters, and the cameras, and then the lawyers and the accountants, trying to work through the law. What to do about Frances's car? I'm sorry to have to ask at a time like this but Frances's belongings are still in the apartment, and if she's not going to be able to pay the rent next month we have a young couple who are looking. . .

  WHEN HER HUSBAND, Hunter, had been killed, he'd managed to die with his typical neatness. Trusts in order, will in place, lists of assets and debts, a file of real estate holdings, careful records of stock-purchase dates, garnished with instructions for everybody. He'd been a control freak right to the end. He'd probably never felt a thing, his silly seaplane dropping like a rock into the Ontario woods, witnesses all around.

  When he'd died, she'd been stricken, but had recovered, and knew even on the day of his death that she would recover. They were married, but they'd been psychologically split for years, living separate lives in separate rooms; with a little sex now and then.

  FRANCES, THOUGH, was different.

  She hadn't had her life yet; she hadn't died—if she were dead— doing something voluntarily. And she was Alyssa's blood. Whatever their conflicts—and they'd mostly concerned the father and husband, Hunter—they would have been worked through. They only needed time, and they hadn't gotten it.

  So Alyssa cried, short violent jags at unexpected moments. And she looked for her daughter, the only ways she knew: she called people, politicians, who called the cops, who whispered back that something was going on here. . . . The politicians apologized and temporized and shuffled away. She'd become a liability.

  And she looked in the stars. She did her astrological charts, using the latest software, she talked with a master on the East Coast, who wondered aloud if Frances might still be alive. His chart for the girl showed a passage of darkness, but not death. Nothing that big.

  "Alive?"

  "It's a possibility that has to be examined," he said, in tones portentous even for a wizard of the Zodiac. "I see an instability, a hovering, a waiting . . ."

  The cards said the same thing. Alyssa had picked up the Tarot as a teenager, believed in the cards, used them at all-important business junctures—and she'd done so well. So well.

  And though the cards and the stars agreed that Frances, or some part of her, remained in this sphere, there was never a sign of her.

  THE BURDEN, the insanity of it all, was crushing. Alyssa lived on Xanax and, at night, on Ambien. Then she began to take Xanax to lay down a base for the Ambien; and then a glass of wine as a base for the Xanax, as a base for the Ambien; and still she didn't sleep.

  She rolled and turned and her mind cranked twenty-four hours a day, a long circle of jangled thoughts. Sometimes, during the day, from the corner of her eye, she'd see Frances sitting on a couch. She'd come downstairs in the middle of the night, having heard Fran's music playing on the stereo, only to have it fade as she came closer.

  She felt cool breezes where there should be no drafts, as though someone had walked past her. And she saw omens. Crows on a fence, symbols of death, staring at her unafraid, but mute. A fireball in the sky, when she happened to be thinking of Frances. Fran's face in crowds, always turning away from her, and gone when she hurried to them.

  Was Frances alive? Or dead?

  Or somewhere in between?

  FAIRY HAD SOME of the answers, or believed she did.

  Alyssa was a blond, good-hearted, New Age modern woman. Fairy was dark, obsessive, Pre-Raphaelite—and where Alyssa floundered, trying to comprehend, Fairy knew in a moment what had happened to Frances, and focused on revenge.

  Fairy stepped out of the shower, toweled off as she walked into the bedroom. When she was dry, she threw the towel on the bed and chose Obsession from the row of perfume bottles on the dressing table. She touched the bottle to her neck and the top of her breasts, judging herself in the dressing mirror as she did.

  She didn't call herself Fairy; others did. But it fit—with a pair of gossamer wings, she could have been Tinker Bell's evil twin.

  Then Loren appeared. "Looking good. Really, really good. Your ass is . . ."

  "I don't have time to fool around, I've got to get dressed," Fairy said. "But you can watch me."

  "I know, time to go," Loren said. "I'll watch you undress, later."

  She looked straight into his hungry dark eyes, patted her breasts with the flats of her fingers, fluffing up her nipples, and got dressed: black panty hose, a light thermal vest for warmth, a soft black skirt, a black silk blouse threaded with scarlet, tight over the vest. Back to the mirror, she painted on the lipstick, dark as raw liver, penciled her eyebrows, touched up her lashes; smacked her lips like women do, adjusting everything
. Arranged the fall of the hair: like a black waterfall around her shoulders.

  "Wonderful."

  "Thank you."

  "That's what you get, when you sleep with an aesthete."

  Fairy walked back to the dressing closet and took out the short black leather jacket, pulled it on: the jacket gave her shoulders, and a stance. Two-inch black heels gave her height. Ready now.

  "The knife?" Loren asked.

  "Here." She touched the breast pocket on the jacket; could feel it in there, new from Target, hard black plastic and soft gray steel, sharpened to a razor's edge.

  "Then—let's go." Loren smiled, teeth flashing, his face a white oval above his dark clothing, and Fairy reached out, took his hand, and they went.

  Loren was the one who'd found Frances's killers; together they'd scoured her laptop, her photographs—thousands of them, taken with a cell phone and a point-and-shoot Nikon, some of them stored electronically, but hundreds of them printed out, stacked in baskets, stuck to the front of her refrigerator, piled in drawers: a record of her life, from which the killers emerged.

  There were three: "I can actually feel her hand on their shoulders," he told her. "These are the people who did it."

  The three were scattered through the stacks of photos, but they were all together in one of them. The photo had been taken at a party of some kind, the three people peering at the camera, laughing.

  "You're sure?" Fairy asked.

  "Never more. Blood on their hands, missus," he said.

  "I want them," she said.

  "Revenge," he said. He smacked his lips. "It's so sweet; revenge tastes like orange juice and champagne."

  Fairy laughed at the metaphor and said, "Everything with you goes back to the senses, doesn't it? Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell . . ."