Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 131364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Once at the Enforcement station, it took Eleri only five minutes to get the traffic surveillance up and running on the station’s two large screens. Four feeds, two from either end of the main road in and out of Raintree, the others from the two major intersections in the town.
Seventy-two-hour memory capacity.
The latter pair of feeds would be unhelpful at this juncture—too much local traffic, no way to tell the origin or destination of the vehicles.
Calling Dahlia, she explained the situation. “If we can run and clear all the vehicles heading in or out of Raintree in that critical half-hour window, we might be able to confirm whether Malia is still in town.”
“We have enough people to do all four at the same time,” Dahlia said. “But we can run the data on the intersections after we’ve cleared the main route.”
After a short discussion, they worked it out so the falcons would review the taped section of the feed, which Eleri was able to forward to them; the reviewers would in turn send Eleri the plate numbers as well as the makes and models of all the vehicles they spotted in the relevant window of time. Eleri would then use her J Corps credentials to log into Enforcement’s ID database to run the vehicles.
“We begin from the time of Malia’s abduction,” she said. “We can always go backward later, check for vehicles coming in. Right now, we need to know if she’s here or if we need to be looking for a vehicle on the road.” The girl had been gone for over an hour now, the clock counting down at frightening speed.
The first plate numbers appeared on her phone screen within five minutes of her call to Dahlia, and she started doing her end of the job. Ten minutes. Fifteen. No suspicious hits. Every single one of the departing vehicles belonging to women, or to men at least two decades outside the profiled age range of the Sandman.
It was possible the profile was off or the Sandman had a female accomplice, but they had to start somewhere. As it was, she was sending the names back to Dahlia to see if any of them—all locals so far—threw up any red flags, but the second was also batting zero.
To ensure nothing fell through the cracks, Eleri also forwarded the names to the task force, to be run through every database the team could access. Could be a local had moved in fifteen years ago and kept their nose clean but had a record in another distant jurisdiction.
When her private line rang twenty minutes into the search, she picked it up without looking at the ID code onscreen. Not many people had her number—Adam, Dahlia, Sophie, the three local cops, the Quatro Cartel, the task force, and a very short list of other people with whom she worked regularly.
“Eleri Dias,” she answered even as she ran the vehicle plate Dahlia had sent her just prior to the call.
“Eleri, it’s Malia.” The fledgling’s voice was thick, sluggish, but recognizable.
“Malia, where are you?” Eleri was already at the station’s comms desk, her fingers entering the passcode Beaufort had given her to access their systems.
“That’s enough proof of life.” A genderless computronic voice. “I assume you’re about to contact someone. Don’t. Or I’ll slit her throat. Shame to finish the game so quickly, but oh well.”
Eleri froze.
The game.
No more doubt. This was the Sandman.
“Don’t try the PsyNet, either,” he said. “Any hint of anyone other than you heading this way,” he continued, “so much as a fucking feather in the air, and she dies.”
Why was he using that redundant computronic voice? The task force might not have his DNA, but all circumstantial evidence said he was male. He’d confirmed it in his third letter to her, when he’d referred to a childhood version of himself as a “sad little boy.” While continuing to doubt the veracity of his claims about himself, the task force profiler had been firm in the belief that the serial killer was too concerned with his image to refer to himself by the incorrect gender.
My mother used to call me her sad little boy because I’d just sit in corners staring off into space. She had me tested for neurodivergence, but the doctors said I was normal, probably only trying to act up for attention. But my mother kept asking why I was sad. I wish I could show her how happy I am now—all it took was a murder.
He had to believe she’d recognize his voice.
Eleri tried to think who on the list of people she’d spoken to during her time in Raintree fit the profile—there were too many. She’d been active, had made it a point to talk to all Psy in their twenties that she could reach.
“And no trying to get cute with a teleporter just in case you know one,” the Sandman continued. “I’ve rigged the little falcon’s place of captivity to blow at any unauthorized movement—don’t worry, I’ve already put her to sleep so she doesn’t accidentally move and blow herself up.