Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 2: 15 Seconds, Killing Hour, The Blue Zone - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 37

“My father …?”

Kate blinked back at him, wide-eyed, and shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to him since the trial. Why?”

Cavetti shot a glance to the Justice lawyer. Then he cleared his throat. “We have to show you some things, Kate.” He took out a manila envelope from under his raincoat and stepped over to the kitchen counter. His peremptory tone had Kate a little scared.

“What I’m going to show you is highly confidential,” he said, unfastening the clasp. “It may also be a bit distressing. You might want to sit down.”

“You’re making me nervous, Agent Cavetti.” Kate looked at him, lowering herself onto a stool. Her heart began to quicken.

“I understand.” He started to lay out a series of graphic eight-by-ten black-and-white photos on the counter.

Crime-scene photos.

Kate held back a start, convinced she was about to see her father there. But it wasn’t. All the shots were of a woman. Stripped down to her underwear. Tied to a chair. Some of the photos were full body and others were close-ups—her face, parts of her body, covered in wounds. They were gruesome. The woman’s head hung to the side. There were bloodstains—her shoulders, her knees. Kate winced. She could see they came from multiple gunshot wounds. She put a wary hand on Cavetti’s arm.

There were marks on both the woman’s breasts, deep discolorations. The next shot was a close-up of one breast. Kate saw now what the marks were. She’d been burned. On her breasts and nipples. Charred. Her right nipple had been entirely removed—cut off.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” Phil Cavetti said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Why are you showing me these?” Kate looked at him. “What do these have to do with my father?”

“Please, Kate, just a couple more.” Cavetti spread out two or three more photos. The first was a stark close-up of the left side of the victim’s face. It was totally swollen and discolored, bruised from the eye to the cheek. Whoever she had been was barely recognizable.

Kate pushed back a surge of bile in her gut. This was sickening, horrible. What kind of monster would do this?

“The wounds you’re seeing”—Cavetti finally laid down the envelope—“weren’t meant to be fatal, Kate. They were meant to keep the victim alive as long as possible, to prolong her agony. There was no sexual abuse. All her belongings were in place. This woman was simply tortured.”

“Tortured …?” Kate felt her stomach turn.

“To extract information, we believe,” the Justice lawyer put in. “To induce her to talk, Ms. Raab.”

“I thought you were here about Tina.” Kate stared up at them, confused.

“We know about Ms. O’Hearn,” Phil Cavetti said. “And we know how that must be for you, Kate, in all regards. But please, I’m sorry, one more …”

The WITSEC agent removed a final photograph from the envelope and placed it on the counter in front of Kate.

It was even more disturbing. Kate averted her eyes.

It displayed the far side of the woman’s face. Her bruised and swollen eyes were rolled back under her lids. Her matted brown hair fell forward, slightly covering her face.

But not enough to conceal the dark, dime-size hole in the right side of her forehead.

“Christ!” Kate sucked in a sharp breath, wanting to turn away again. “Why are you showing me these? Why are you asking about my father?”

But then something stopped her. Her eyes grew wide, transfixed.

Kate went back to the photo. She saw something. She slowly picked it up and stared.

“Oh, my God …” Kate gasped, the blood draining from her face.

I know her.

At first she couldn’t see it—the poor woman’s wounds were so disfiguring, but suddenly the features—the mole on the side of her mouth—came clear.

Kate turned back to Phil Cavetti, a cramp of revulsion gripping her abdomen.

The woman in the photo was Margaret Seymour.