Guilt Game_The Extractor Read online

  That was her fear as well, but also the reason she had to go alone. What if she freaked out and started crying for the first time in her adult life? She couldn’t bear to let Marty see it. “They say the effect could take a few days to fully kick in.”

  “And it could be immediate. I’ve been reading up.”

  The magnetic pulse stimulated nerve cells in the brain. It was more commonly used to treat depression, but it was also sometimes effective in helping people on the autism spectrum deepen their emotional intelligence as well as think and function in a more neuro-typical way. Part of her hoped for a miracle, and part of her expected to be disappointed.

  “I’ll be fine. Time to get going.” She hurried toward her bedroom and called over her shoulder, “I’ll tell you about a possible new case when I get back.”

  Marty followed and talked nonstop while she put on makeup. When he moved on from the treatment to the need to replace her countertop, she tuned him out. One of the small blessings of being neuro-atypical.

  Thirty minutes later, Rox walked into the small office she rented under her Karina Jones name. In the year and a half she’d been a private investigator, she’d done four extractions and broken only minor laws, but she never wanted to face a kidnapping charge, which carried a minimum sentence of seven and a half years in Oregon. It was even longer in other states, such as Utah, where she’d traveled to take an assignment.

  She passed through the foyer—which held only two comfortable chairs and a desk with a monitor—and entered the next room, her office. Rox locked the door behind her, grateful for the second exit that led into a narrow alley behind the building. She hoped to never have to use the back door to avoid a client or law enforcement, but she had to be ready. She turned on the communication system at her adjustable desk, which she kept at standing height. She wouldn’t be here long enough to worry about getting comfortable. Online research could be conducted at home, and everything else was fieldwork. All she did here was meet with clients, including for some routine PI cases such as missing people and tracking cheating spouses.

  The Carsons weren’t due to arrive for another ten minutes, but she heard a car pull up. Good. She hated when people were late, especially herself. She turned to the monitor, where she watched the outer door open and the couple enter. Rox leaned toward the speaker. “Hello. This is Karina. Have a seat, and we’ll get started.”

  The woman, a heavyset bleached blonde, looked confused, but her husband—taller, leaner, and gray—quickly sat down. Dressed in a suit, he looked like the businessman he was.

  “Where are you? Why aren’t we meeting in person?” Jenny Carson stood behind the other chair, biting her lip. Her pretty face pulled attention away from her ample hips, and her black cashmere sweater was fashionably long.

  “Because I have to protect myself.” Rox worried that Mrs. Carson might not be able to handle the arrangement, but Rox couldn’t compromise on her protocols. On their monitor, they could see her at the desk, but her face was pixilated to obscure her identity. She tried to reassure the couple. “I’ll do everything I can to extract your daughter legally, but my fee is twenty thousand because I’m prepared to take her physically and bring her to you. That’s also known as kidnapping. If it goes down that way, you won’t be able to identify me or testify against me.” She knew the Carsons had the money because she’d checked them out. They lived in Lake Oswego, and Dave Carson was an investment banker.

  Mrs. Carson finally sat down. “I understand.”

  “Did you bring cash?”

  Dave lifted a satchel to the table. “Yes. Do you want to see it?”

  “No, that’s fine. Tell me what you know about the Sister Love charity.”

  “Not much. They’re very secretive,” Dave said. “Other than the soup kitchen address, the website doesn’t have contact information, except for an email link. The state office for charities doesn’t have a residential location for them either. So we don’t even know where Emma is.”

  Rox googled the charity’s name and landed on a bare-bones website. “You said Deacon Blackstone was the founder?”

  “Yes,” they said together.

  “Give me a minute.” Rox accessed a federal database—with a password supplied by a friend inside the agency—and found a brief file. Normally she did some research right away, but after yesterday’s extraction and drive home, she’d eaten a late meal and crashed, so she was just getting to it. Scanning the text, she learned Blackstone was an army veteran with a handful of medals. But a year after his discharge, he’d spent four months in jail for assaulting a girlfriend, then disappeared off the radar. No address or employer was listed. Rox felt a flash of fear for the Carsons’ daughter and a shiver of worry for herself. The cult leader was a potentially violent opponent with military training.

  “Can you even find her?” Jenny grimaced and bit her lip.

  “Most likely.” Almost everyone was traceable. If some of the young women were coming out of the cult residence to work in a soup kitchen, Rox might be able to simply follow them home in the evening.

  Dave cleared his throat. “Even if you can’t get her out, at the very least we need to know she’s alive. We’re worried that Emma might have left the cult and become a victim of the I-5 Killer.”

  Oh god. In the previous six months, three young women—all blonde, thin, and estranged from their families—had been found dead along the interstate corridor between Salem and Portland. “Did you bring the pictures? Hold up the big one for me, then leave them both on the desk.”

  With shaking hands, Jenny held up an eight-by-ten color photo.

  Emma Carson had long white-blonde hair and a narrow pretty-doll face. Damn. Rox hoped she’d never have to tell these people their daughter was dead. She tried to reassure them. “The odds of her being a serial-killer victim are very slim. But I should be able to determine if she’s still with Sister Love. Even if she’s not, I’ll help you find her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What else do you know about them? For example, where is the soup kitchen?”

  Dave gave the address, a location on the edge of Portland’s Chinatown and not far from a huge riverfront park. “We’ve been to the Sister Love mission a few times to ask about Emma, and they say she’s fine. But we don’t believe them. And they won’t talk about the founders. When we tried to press the girls for answers, they called the police.”

  “I can try a different approach.” She may not have been a field agent, but she’d worked with enough to know their tricks. “Tell me about Emma, about her personality. I particularly need to know what she likes. I may be able to draw her out with an appealing offer.”

  “But how? There’s no way to contact her!” Jenny held back tears.

  Rox tried to will the other woman to keep herself together. “I’ll find a way. Just tell me everything.”

  “She loves horses,” the father offered. “But she gave up riding after the accident.”

  “She gave up everything!” Jenny blurted. “She was so distraught. She talked about suicide all the time.”

  At least the Sister Love charity had kept her alive. Maybe. “What else does she like besides horses?”

  “She loves music, especially Adele and Taylor Swift.” Mrs. Carson glanced at her husband. “Emma’s also an artist. She draws the most beautiful fantasy images.”

  “Maybe I can work with that. Did she ever talk about attending art school?”

  Jenny Carson seemed to know more about her daughter than her husband did. “She was enrolled at Portland State, but never went to classes after the accident.”

  “What did she take with her when she left home?”

  “Not much,” Jenny said. “The charity makes the girls turn over all their belongings, so she doesn’t even have her cell phone anymore.”

  That sounded more like a cult, and a sting-type extraction might be tough with Emma. She’d been raised with money, so luring her out with a financial reward probably wouldn’t work thi
s time. Especially if she wanted to punish herself by living without luxuries. Plus, the girl was emotionally unstable with suicidal tendencies. Maybe the only option was to go in gangster style and just take her. Either way, Emma would need serious counseling to keep her from going back. “Have you thought about deprogramming? I mean, if I get her out?”

  Dave stiffened. “Yes, of course. We’ll get an expert lined up.”

  “Okay. I’ll come up with an idea for reaching her. But I won’t share it with you. The less you know, the better.” Rox wanted to protect them from potential prosecution as well. Also, she didn’t actually have a plan yet, just an idea. She would brainstorm with Marty, and maybe call her friend in the agency. They would find this girl. And bring her home. “I need you to deposit the second ten thousand in the Pacific Crest Bank.” Rox rattled off the account number. “The bank will only release the cash to me when I bring them a photo of you reunited with Emma. If I don’t produce the photo within a year, they’ll return the money to you.”

  Jenny scowled again. “Why is all that necessary?”

  “It guarantees my payment.”

  They still looked confused.

  “That way you don’t forget to pay me after you have your daughter back.”

  “Oh, I see.” Mr. Carson nodded. “So this is our only in-person meeting?”

  “Yes. Unless I need operating expenses beyond what I expect, or unless I need one of Emma’s personal items to use as part of a ruse.”

  More confusion from the Carsons. Rox added, “That’s not likely. Leave the cash, and do not talk about our arrangement with anyone. I’ll be in touch.” She clicked off the camera feed, worried she would be late for her treatment.

  She’d left her office with forty minutes to spare, but being nervous and distracted, she still missed a few turns and had to backtrack. In Portland rush hour traffic, that could be a nightmare, but this morning she lucked out and there were only minor incidents. She arrived at the neurology clinic fifteen minutes early and checked in with a medical assistant.

  “The first appointment canceled, so they’re ready for you now. I’ll take you back.” The assistant stood, and her head came only to Rox’s shoulder. She looked up at Rox and smiled, then started down the hall. Rox followed, her stomach clenching for the first time.

  “Everything still the same?” the assistant asked. “No new implants?”

  Rox shook her head.

  “Any new medication?”

  “No.”

  They entered a room at the back of the building.

  “Have a seat in the chair, and the doctor will be right with you.”

  Rox paced the room instead. This would be the easiest medical appointment she’d ever had. No need to get undressed. No strange, cold hands probing private parts. No uncomfortable discussions. Yet, it might change her life . . . though maybe for only a while.

  The chair was really a padded lounger, like in a dentist’s office. Except instead of an overhead light at the end of an arm extension, this setup featured a metal coil that would attach to her head. Did she really want to mess with her brain chemistry?

  Yes. Being able to read people’s expressions and emotions would make her more effective at her job. A lot of her private investigative work was small-time stuff that required her to gain information from people. Subtlety and deception were often necessary. Those skills would make her better at the big extractions too. Her neuro-atypical quirks had made her superiors think she was unsuitable for fieldwork at the CIA, and she was eager to prove she could be an effective operative. Her unusual brain, which loved numbers and patterns, made her an excellent analyst, but that wasn’t enough.

  The door opened, and she turned to face the doctor, an older woman with a loose gray bun and purple-framed glasses. They’d met at a previous appointment to evaluate her for the treatments. “Hello, Rox.”

  “Hello, Dr. Benton.”

  “Do you have any more questions before we begin?”

  She’d already asked a dozen. “No.”

  “Then have a seat and get comfortable.”

  Rox eased into the chair. This would be the first of a ten or so treatments—depending on how she handled them—and she had to let go of her anxiety.

  The doctor handed her a pair of soft earplugs. “First, I’ll have to determine the right dose of magnetic energy. I’ll pulse you with greater doses until your fingers twitch. Then I’ll set the level, and we’ll begin the treatment, which should take about forty minutes. You’ll hear clicking sounds as I do the pulse.”

  Dr. Benton pulled the extension arm next to Rox’s head and gently placed the attached coil on her forehead. “Ready?”

  Rox laughed. “Yes, but is the world ready for the new me?”

  An hour later, she was driving home, feeling exactly the same, except for a soreness on her forehead where the magnet had pulsed. She decided to have lunch with Marty to discuss her new case, then stop by the Sister Love soup kitchen to scope it out. Emma’s situation challenged her, and Rox was eager to get rolling. She exited the expressway and stopped at a traffic light, noting the roadwork ahead. Time for a little music. Rox grabbed her phone and clicked on a favorite song, “Higher Love” by Steve Winwood. Except for all of Queen’s songs, it was about the only music she listened to that didn’t have a heavy dance beat. After a moment, the melody engulfed her, its haunting beauty filling her heart with sadness and longing. She was so overcome, she pulled over and shut off the song. Warm tears began to roll down her face.

  Oh god, what had she done?

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time Rox arrived at home, she felt fine. Her response to the music must have been a fluke. A one-time reaction to the new neural connections she was making. Her brain would adapt. She stepped out of her Nissan Cube, bought to accommodate her height, and rain pelted her as she ran for the house. Spring in Oregon—seventy and sunny one minute, fifty and wet the next. By the time she’d finished a quick blow-dry of her hair and blouse, Marty was back with his familiar knock.

  “Clear,” Rox yelled as she headed up the hallway. She met him in the kitchen. “Lunch?”

  “Sure. What are we making?” Smiley and lighthearted, her stepdad was an odd matchup with her. As he had been with her mother. But Marty had been the one who raised her and Jolene on his own after Georgia had left them.

  “Let’s keep it simple,” Rox decided. “I need to start working the new case this afternoon.”

  “PB&Js it is.”

  Rox laughed. Marty could eat peanut butter sandwiches every day of his life. She’d had her fill long ago, but she wouldn’t argue with him. Often she had lunch by herself at the food cart outside the Woodstock branch of the county library, where she volunteered a few hours a week. They loved her speedy cataloging ability, and she loved the smell and feel of books, even though she did most of her reading digitally now.

  Watching Marty spread peanut butter as though he were creating art put her in a good mood, so she poured two glasses of milk and added dark-chocolate syrup—a favorite from her childhood meals with him. They sat down at the small round table in the breakfast nook, rain beating on the nearby window.

  “Okay, I waited.” Marty looked at her expectedly. “What was it like? How do you feel?”

  As she finished a bite of sandwich, Rox thought about how to describe the treatment. “A little weird, but painless. I could feel and hear the magnetic pulses, but it’s not something I can articulate.” She tried anyway. “Sort of like a gentle pressure.”

  “How do you feel now? Any different?”

  “I’m good. Happy.” She didn’t plan to tell him about her first time crying over a sappy song.

  Something in his eyes shifted, and she realized he was disappointed. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  Now he looked startled. “Of course I do. Nothing is wrong. I was just hoping you would notice a difference.”

  “I have.” She put down her sandwich, suddenly not hungry. “I ju
st saw in your face that you were disappointed, and it made me feel bad. I’d never experienced your disappointment before.” She had disappointed her mother plenty, but Georgia had always said it out loud.

  “You must be reading facial cues better.” He grinned. “I’ll have to be more careful around you.”

  “Really?” Marty had always seemed so obvious and easy to read.

  “I’m joking, for Pete’s sake. I hope the magnets don’t ruin your sense of humor.” He downed a slug of chocolate milk.

  “Not with you around.”

  They laughed, then finished their sandwiches.

  “Now tell me about your new client.”

  “Dave and Jenny Carson. They want me to get their daughter back from the Sister Love charity, which may be a cult.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Rox summarized what little she knew and added, “I plan to stop by their soup kitchen this afternoon and get a sense of how many young women work there and how many are on the residential property, wherever it is.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Help me brainstorm a ruse. Emma is motivated by guilt, and I think the way to bring her out is to offer her another way to atone.”

  “Like another cult?”

  “Or another mission, such as an opportunity to travel somewhere and feed the poor in another city.”

  “But you would have to offer it to the other girls too, or it might be suspicious.”

  He had a point. “Any other ideas?”

  “The inheritance thing worked well.”

  “Not this time. The Carsons have a lot of money, so Emma won’t be motivated by it.”

  “But the cult leader will.” Marty cocked his head to the side. “Where do they get their funding?”

  “Good question.” Rox thought about other cults and how they operated. “They usually make the members turn over whatever cash and belongings they have. Some groups, like the Moonies, send their followers out to beg in the streets.”