Free Cold Jade by Dan Ames Page A

headquarters.
    “Rarely do they engage in sexual activity,” Mack continued. “Maybe mutilation, but it’s usually on a male who’s wronged them, or that they’ve perceived has wronged them.”
    He imagined the woman carting off these kids in the laundry cart, like dirty linen.
    “Maybe she’s gay,” Kunzelman said.
    Mack had thought about that, and dismissed it. Abduction and murder weren’t crimes committed because of homosexuality. There was always a deep streak of psychopathy involved.
    No, whoever this woman was in the video, she wasn’t a serial killer with gender issues, or rape issues.
    “She’s not the killer,” Mack said.
    Kunzelman looked at him.
    “She’s the collector.”

35
    T he very moment he decided to kill himself, Charles Starkey felt several things. The first and most powerful emotion was a profound sense of relief. It washed over him like a gentle warm wave, soothing his reeling mind and body. For the first time in days, months, years, he felt like himself.
    But he also felt a calm acceptance that he had done some very bad things. Awful things. Despicable, deplorable things.
    And finally, inside the core of this new and virginal being, a small resolute wish to do something about it took hold. It was the last true part of himself that still remained after the swath of destruction left by his unchecked addiction.
    He sat now at his desk in the only big office at his plumbing company’s building and turned to the computer. It had been a gift from the owner of The Store, just before his first major purchase. Starkey didn’t know a lot about computers, but the owner of The Store had told him he needed to use it for all of his transactions, that it was loaded with all of the necessary encryptions, whatever those were, so that they could “do business” without any authorities learning about it.
    Now, Starkey launched his Internet browser.
    No one had ever accused him of being an intellectual giant, but Starkey knew he was smart in a more base way. Cunning, like a rodent. And like most rodents, he had a strong instinct for danger, so he knew, as his fingers hit the keyboard, that what he was about to do would not go unnoticed by the very man who had provided him the computer in the first place.
    So when he typed in the web address for the FBI, Charles Starkey knew that he was doing more than just acting on his last, final wish.
    He was signing his own death warrant.

36
    B ernard Evans disembarked from the private jet, walked down the portable staircase, collected his bags, and made his way to a rented Cadillac. He was following the directions given to him by the people from The Store. He did not intend to deviate in any way.
    Nothing would prevent him from enjoying the greatest weekend of his life.
    He stowed the bags in the trunk and drove away from the airport, the route ahead clearly mapped in his mind.
    Evans felt confident that he’d concealed his tracks up to this point. The forging of a flight manifest had taken some effort and required the involvement, albeit unwittingly, of others. But it had been necessary.
    He was taking no chances on this one.
    In fact, he nearly beamed with pride at all of his safeguards. He was so thorough, it had always been the hallmark of his work. What made it so much more impressive was that no one would ever discover that a crime had taken place.
    The Store made guarantees to its customers and Evans had no reason to doubt them. It had worked wonderfully so far.
    Any smart business person knew, the big money came not in the occasional big purchase. But steady purchases over time by repeat customers.
    That’s how the rich got richer.
    The car, however, was simply rented under a third party’s company name, and could not be traced back to Evans, at least on paper. He had no doubt that when he was done with it, the car would be “cleaned” of all traces.
    In any event, Evans followed the road ahead. He felt relaxed and excited, a slight warm buzz from