The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross 25)

“They can wait.”

“No,” the priest said, standing. “You’ve given me much to pray about, Dr. Cross. I appreciate it. I really do.”

I shook his hand. “You’ll let me know what you decide, Father?”

“I will,” he said. “And say hello to your grandmother for me.”

I followed him into the hallway and to the door. When I opened it, John Sampson was standing there. The two men nodded to each other, then Father Fiore climbed the stairs and left, and John came in.

“You here for counseling?” I asked Sampson, shutting the door behind him.

“Got that covered,” he said, going into the office and taking my chair. “I’m here off the record—way off the record. Not supposed to be talking to you about cases at all, per order of your wife and Chief Michaels. But my new, uh, temporary partner is driving me up the wall, and I needed your perspective.”

“Honored to give it,” I said, glancing at the scar on Sampson’s forehead, remembering how he’d looked in the moments after he was shot by a follower of the late Gary Soneji. It was a miracle I was even talking to him.

John brought me up to speed on the crimes that appeared related to the disappearance of Gretchen Lindel. Then he logged on to my Wi-Fi and said, “My partner, Ainsley Fox, was in a chat room where people were discussing the kidnappings and murders, and she found this hyperlink.”

He showed me the screen and a link that read XRAYBLOND.BIZ.

He clicked it, and it took him to a site called Killingblondechicks4fun.org.co. I studied it several moments before asking, “Is this for real? I read that fake sites often use a double thing like that, dot org and then dot co.”

“Hold that thought,” Sampson said.

He showed me several pages on the website dedicated to kidnappings and killings. The writing was atrocious and, according to John, had many of the facts wrong. But each page did contain links to legitimate news articles about the cases, as well as clips from local TV broadcasts.

“Why does the original link not match the name of the website?” I asked.

Sampson smiled. “You noticed. There’s more. When you Google either site, or use any other search engine, you get nothing. No results.”

I thought about that. “So it’s part of, what, the dark web?”

The dark web was a secret part of the Internet accessible only via encrypted software.

“Hold that thought too,” Sampson said, clicking on Reenactments. The screen jumped to a page of MPEG thumbnails.

He clicked on one titled “Delilah Goes Down.” A picture of Delilah Franks, the Richmond bank teller, came up, a photo I’d seen on the web page dedicated to her disappearance.

The image dissolved into a poorly lit, shakily shot video of a blonde being chased through the woods; it was taken from a camera mounted on her pursuer’s chest or head. You could hear footsteps that matched the jerking motion of the camera, which quickly got close enough to the woman to show the back of her filthy, tattered dress and reveal that she was barefoot and bleeding.

She seemed to sense how close her pursuer was; she looked over her shoulder and screamed hysterically before jumping down the side of a steep embankment. She slipped, tumbled, and sprawled in the mud at the bottom.

“Don’t,” she wept, pushing herself up on all fours in the muck, shaking her head back and forth. “Please, not that. Haven’t I been through enough?”

The camera focused down on her, and a computer-altered voice said, “It’s never enough, Delilah. Once is never enough.”

CHAPTER

10

A KNIFE BLADE appeared in the camera frame, obsidian black and curved tightly back toward an ornate knuckle guard and the fingers of the cameraman’s gloved right hand. The wicked-looking blade began a slow, sinewy dance in the air. The chest-mounted camera jiggled as it moved even closer to the shaking woman.

The woman looked up, saw the knife, shrieked in terror, and tried to scramble away. The camera swung crazily after her and blurred the action for several moments.

When it stilled, a gloved left hand had the hysterical woman by her blond hair, and the right hand held the knife so the curve of the blade’s cutting edge was poised just above the crown of her head.

“Do blondes have more fun, Delilah?” the computer-altered voice said.

Before she could respond, the screen froze on the image of the two hands, the knife, and the back of her blond head. Superimposed over the image, an icon of a lock appeared.