Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 20

"Hes standing next to the mixer, talking to Jake, but he keeps staring at me. Hes smiling but he looks, he looks angry. Angry at me," she said, sounding puzzled. She paused, moments pa.s.sed, and then she visibly relaxed. "Oh, its nothing, I guess. Jakes talking to him."

"Whats he doing now?" Dorin asked.

"He took something out of a bag. Hes bending down, looking under the equipment. It looks like hes fixing the mixer. Funny theyd do that during the show, but Jakes showing him something, and the guy looks like hes brought a part. Jakes hardly paying any attention to him. Everythings okay. He looks familiar. Maybe Ive seen him before?"

"Ask her to describe him," I wrote on the top sheet of my sketchpad with a charcoal pencil. Dr. Dorin and I had talked about this earlier, but I wasnt taking the chance that shed forget. Along with sculpting clay faces on the skulls of unidentified victims, in a pinch, I sometimes use my art training to draw composites of suspects. Thats what I intended to do now, with Ca.s.sidy, to draw a picture of the man she saw in Atlanta, only Dr. Dorin had to ask the questions.

"Tell me about the shape of this mans face, the strangers," Dr. Dorin instructed, reading off my list of questions. "Describe this man, as you look at him."

"Hes a big guy, not old, pretty young. His hair is a mess, thick and dark. Really stupid looking. Bushy. And his face is wide, like he has big cheeks," she said.

"Go on, Ca.s.sidy," Dorin said. "Tell me in detail what this man looks like."

"His eyes are dark and pushed back in his head kind of, or they look like it because his eyebrows are heavy."

As she talked, I drew, trying to keep up with everything she said. Beside me, David had a tape recorder running. Dorin said that depending on how the session went, we might play it for Ca.s.sidy later, to see if she remembered even more. But as the teenager described the man, the details came though remarkably clear. It sounded as if she were still in the Atlanta concert hall, as if she were at that very moment looking at his face, not resurrecting a memory.

"Is there anything remarkable about this man, a tattoo or anything that sets him apart?" Dorin asked. On my pad, the face of a young, heavyset man with dark brooding eyes took shape.

"He has a scar," Ca.s.sie said. "Theres a scar on his face."

"Where?" Dorin asked.

"On the right side. Its running up and down, ending just above his lip," she said, tracing the path with her right index finger. In my mind, I saw the face of a man Id met less than a week earlier, who had just such a scar. The man I remembered sat at a piano, composing a song.

"Do you know this man?" Dorin asked again. "Why does he look so familiar?"

Ca.s.sidy didnt answer the doctors question.

"I know who this is," I wrote. "Wake her up."

Dorin nodded. "Ca.s.sie, Im going to clap now, and when I do, I want you to open your eyes. Youll remember everything weve talked about, and youll feel refreshed and happy, not at all frightened. Im going to count now then clap on three. One. Two. Three."

Dorin clapped, but on the bed, Ca.s.sie remained silent.

"Do you hear me, Ca.s.sie?" the therapist asked. "Im going to clap and youre going to open your eyes. The session is over."

"I feel like I know him," Ca.s.sie whispered. "Why do I feel like I know him?"

"Listen to me, Ca.s.sie," the therapist instructed. "Im going to count to three."

"Maybe I saw him once, someplace?" Ca.s.sie mused. "Maybe I saw him before the concert sometime?"

"One, two, three," Dorin said again, then clapped her hands.

Ca.s.sidy lay still, as if waiting. "You can open your eyes now," the therapist said, and slowly the kid did. She rubbed her face with her hands, and then focused her wide green eyes on me.

"Did I do okay?" she asked. "Do you have enough?"

Twenty-nine.

My sketch of the man Ca.s.sidy saw in Atlanta looked convincingly similar to Justin Petersons drivers license photo. It was a formality, a comparison pulled together for the captain and David, who hadnt had the privilege, as I had, of meeting our prime suspect in person. Wed ruled Peterson out because he hadnt physically gone to Ca.s.sidys concerts, believing the experts who told us he had no other way to infiltrate the sound systems. No one considered the option of bugging Ca.s.sidys own sound equipment. I called Jake, and he confirmed that a guy in Atlanta pa.s.sed himself off as a factory rep there to fix a recalled computer circuit. Whatever Peterson installed, it appeared, gave the young genius the power to hijack the mixers output at will.

Now that we knew Peterson was our stalker, David had the FBI pulling every record they could find on the pianist, rounding up all the information they could lay their hands on.

Meanwhile, Dr. Dorin watched over Ca.s.sidy, who rested upstairs in my bed, while more troopers arrived to guard the ranch. David, the captain, and I had another job: serving a search warrant on Justin Petersons apartment. With a little luck, we would find evidence that proved Peterson was Argus and, at the same time, take him in for questioning, hours before Ca.s.sidy walked onstage. But the clock kept ticking, and all we had left were four hours before we transported the kid to the rodeo. Meanwhile, a cobbled-together squad of two hundred officers was scheduled to descend on the stadium. No matter how this went down, we needed to be ready.

"Lets go," the captain called out. "Were rolling."

Early on a Monday afternoon, traffic was light, and we soon stood outside Justin Petersons apartment near the Rice University campus, search warrant in hand. The captain knocked, once then again.

"Police," he shouted. "Open up, Mr. Peterson." Wed been unable to find a manager with a key. When no one answered, the captain stepped to the side, and four officers manning a battering ram pummeled the oak door with number 35 stenciled on it. The lock gave way, and the door snapped open. Id wanted to enter Petersons apartment the day Id met him on the campus. Now I found nearly every wall covered by posters of Cas-sidy Collins. My body felt a sudden chill, as I scanned the walls and saw what Peterson had done. In some hed "X"ed out Ca.s.sidys face, in others just her eyes. Over others, hed painted red, horror-movie lips dripping blood.

"h.e.l.l of a tribute to his favorite recording artist," David said, sarcasm overflowing. "Wonder what the guy does if he doesnt like someone?"

"Lieutenant, over here," Gilberto Torres, the computer expert, called out from another room. David and I found Torres hunched over a keyboard in what was little more than a closet, a kind of hidden bedroom desk unit. The shelves held three computers, and all the screens flashed rotating images of Ca.s.sidy, many with the symbol of one Web site or TV program or another stamped in the corner. In some, she performed onstage, but most were candid shots, taken in restaurants, at parties, and clubs. Video streamed on one, rotating footage from street sightings, on a Web site called "Ca.s.sidy Collins in Real Time."

Underneath the video display, a banner read: WHERES Ca.s.sIDY? JOIN THE SEARCH. FIND THE SUPERSTAR AND POST YOUR VIDEO HERE.

"Does real time mean real time?" I asked. "Are we talking about live images of events as they happen?"

"Yeah. I think so. My guess is that these are private feeds, where viewers pay a fee to gain access," Torres said. "Looks like this particular one is a Web site where fans share cell phone video of Collins twenty-four/seven, from concerts to sightings on the street. They score a photo or video and immediately post it via PDA or cell phone." Torres clicked a few keys and images of Ca.s.sidy on the stage in Vegas popped up. Torres scouted around more and a cell phone photo showed the kid on the day of another of Arguss e-mails, this time meeting with her agent over lunch.

Perhaps the most disturbing Web site was one run by an unidentified agency that called itself "Hollywood Eye," where paparazzi photos were displayed within moments of shooting. An entire section featured photos of Collins, doing everything from shopping at Chanel to working out with her trainer on the patio of her L.A. mansion, a shot that appeared to have been taken by helicopter.

"Well, now that explains the Argus name," David said.

"What?" I asked, stunned at the extent of the cottage industry around Ca.s.sidy, the fans and paparazzi that recorded her every move. One site scanned the kids estate with a live feed from a camera that appeared to be housed in a neighbors window or a tree.

"Argus is the creature with a hundred eyes," David explained. "Peterson only needed two. The paparazzi and Ca.s.sies fans supplied the other ninety-eight, and they were Argus-eyed, ever vigilant and focused on that poor kid morning to night. She didnt even have privacy in her own home. Except for his trip to Atlanta to install the chip, Peterson stalked her without ever leaving his apartment."

How sad it seemed that in the end Argus wasnt just a mythical reference by a single deluded individual but Justin Peterson bragging about being aided by a celebrity-obsessed culture.

It was then that I noticed a photo in a frame on the top shelf between two of the computers. I picked it up and held it. It was nothing special, just one of those department store portraits, this one of a young couple with two children, the oldest a dark-haired kid, maybe five or six, a boy. He sat on the fathers knee, uneasy. They looked alike, thick-boned and sullen. In her arms, the woman held a small infant dressed in pink. A girl. Like the boy, the womans body language appeared apprehensive, unsure. She was thin, blond, and pale-skinned, with delicate features.

"This is all interesting, but the important thing is that Peterson is nowhere to be found," the captain said. "Doesnt look like hes been here for at least a couple of days. His newspaper from yesterday is still outside, and the neighbors havent seen him. The campus police tracked down his graduate advisor, and she says Peterson missed todays work session and yesterdays. He hasnt checked in at the campus clinic or the hospital where he was treated last year. No sign of him anywhere."

"So, we finally have enough to get an arrest warrant, and hes disappeared?" I said. "Anyone disagree that hes gone underground, preparing to make his move?"

Thirty.

Now, you understand the plan?" I asked Ca.s.sidy. "You know how we want this to come down?"

In Emma Lous shed, the kid knelt next to the tiny foal, brushing Warrior for what must have been the third time in a single day. Maggie wouldnt have anything to complain about when she and Mom got home. Expending nervous energy, Ca.s.sidy had groomed both momma and baby horses until they looked polished enough to be competing at the rodeo. In the driveway, a caravan was a.s.sembling for the drive to Reliant Stadium. It was nearly time to leave.

"Yeah, I know the drill," Ca.s.sidy said, brushing her cheek lightly against Warriors long, thin face. "You told me everything. Ill remember. No problem. Just get that guy. Lock him up and throw away the key."

Ca.s.sidy stood up, and I frowned at the kid, wondering what to tell her. Did she need to hear it all, see it all, or could it wait? Did she deserve the truth? The captain, David, and I had been arguing about it ever since wed figured it out. No one was sure what to do.

d.a.m.n, I thought.

"Ca.s.sie, David and I had a hunch, based what you said while under hypnosis, about why Peterson seemed familiar."

"What are you talking about?"

"We found something in Petersons apartment, something that made me think about a possible connection between you two. So we asked the FBI to pull some records," I explained. I put both hands on her shoulders and looked into her frightened green eyes. She was so young. A tough kid, but at sixteen, how much was she capable of bearing? "Ca.s.sidy, what we learned, well, it fits into whats going on. I need to know if you want to hear it now or later, after this is all over."

"Whats it about?" she asked.

"Like I said, its about you," I repeated. "And its about Justin Peterson."

The kid looked at me, scared. Apprehensive, she nodded.

"Okay, Lieutenant," she said. "Talk."

"Ca.s.sidy, I know this is tough, but youre going to have to just listen for a minute," I said. "First let me tell you about Peterson."

The records were easy to find. It turned out that Petersons biological father was a housepainter and a drunk named Roy. When Justin was born they lived in a small house in Evergreen Park, outside Chicago. The local cops had an extensive file on the goings on at the house, where Petersons mom called nine-one-one on a regular basis. The patrols arrived and found the wife with a b.l.o.o.d.y nose or bruises, once a broken arm. The local uniforms hauled Roy in on domestic violence charges, but each time they had to drop them when the wife refused to testify. The couple had a second child, a little girl, when Justin was five. Not long after, the mother disappeared with both children. The woman was never heard from again. If Roy looked for them, it wasnt for long. Even though there was never a divorce, he remarried. More battering reports came in from the new wife, she eventually left him, and then, four years ago, drunk, he drove his old work van into a tree and died."

"So that Peterson creep had a tough time. Too bad," Ca.s.sidy said, with a smirk. "So did I. Do you want me to feel sorry for him?"

"No, I dont," I said.

"I just want him out of my life," she said.

"Theres more," I explained.

"What?" she asked.

I sighed. Sometimes when cases come together quickly, decisions are made on the fly, and its tough to know what to do. I hoped wed made the right one, telling Ca.s.sidy everything. "Okay," I said, taking the photo from Petersons apartment out of an envelope. "Now I want you to look at something."

The kid stared at the photo doe-eyed, as if not sure what she looked at or, perhaps more important, what it meant. Finally, she put out her hands and took the framed photograph from me.

"Do you know anyone in that photo?" I asked.

The kid nodded. "Why do you have a picture of my mom?" she asked. "And whos the guy and the kids?"

"Thats your father," I explained. "And the boy, hes your brother."

"I dont have a brother," she said. "I dont have any family. No one."

"Ca.s.sidy, the FBI discovered that Justin Peterson was adopted. His biological fathers name was Roy Eckert, and Petersons mothers name was Claire Eckert, just like your mother, and the baby girl Claire disappeared with was named Angie," I said. "Im pretty sure the people in the photo are Roy and Claire Eckert and their two kids, Justin and Angie."

The kid stared at me, processing it all. "You think that Argus weirdo is my brother?"

"Yes," I said. Ca.s.sidys eyes locked on mine. "I do."

"No," she said. "Thats c.r.a.p. Hes not."

"The FBI has confirmed that Justin was abandoned at an orphanage in Chicago just before your mother showed up in California. A year later, he was adopted by a couple whose last name was Peterson," I said.

"Oh, my G.o.d," she said, with a look of utter disbelief. "No. This is all c.r.a.p."

At that moment, the kid whod held all of us at emotional bay turned away from me. Moments pa.s.sed, but soon her shoulders heaved and she broke down, sobbing. I came up behind her and put my arms around her, and she turned and wrapped herself around me, holding tight, tears streaming. "Hes my brother. My brother. My mother abandoned my brother. How could she do that? How could she?" she whispered. "Does he know who I am? Does he know Im his sister?"

"I dont know. I cant be sure," I said. "Maybe not. Maybe your mom left him with that photo at the orphanage, and he doesnt realize the connection, that youre the baby."

"How could my mom have done that, walked away and left him?" she repeated.

"I cant answer that," I said. "But maybe she couldnt take care of both of you? Maybe she thought hed handle it better than you would. You were just a baby."

Ca.s.sidy thought about that, and then shook her head. "Justin doesnt know Im his sister," she said. "If he did, he wouldnt . . . If he knew, he wouldnt be threatening me. He couldnt."

That was an a.s.sumption I wasnt ready to make. "Ca.s.sie, whatever drew Justin to you, hes become obsessed," I said. "We dont know how h.e.l.l react when hes confronted with the truth. We have to a.s.sume that hes still a very, very dangerous man."

"No, youre wrong," she said, her mood changing before my eyes. She no longer appeared frightened, but something else. To my surprise, she began to look excited. "Lieutenant, hes my brother. He wouldnt hurt me. He just doesnt know."

"Ca.s.sidy, please listen to me," I cautioned. "Dont a.s.sume Justin Petersons not dangerous. That could be a very bad mistake."

"Oh, my G.o.d. Think about it. My brother. I have a brother."

"Ca.s.sidy, please, slow down here," I said. "Relax and give this a little while to sink in, to think through it. We dont really know what his motives are. We dont know how h.e.l.l react."

"But hes my brother. My family. You cant hurt him. Promise me you wont," she insisted, holding onto me tightly. Tears still streamed down her face. "Well explain. Once we tell him, this is over."

Thirty-one.