“Recall the man in Metairie, Joseph. The one who owned the haberdashery. They know your voice here. Beware.”
Swann smoothed his long gray wig. He opened the door.
“Hello,” he said. His voice now carried the slightest accent. It was a French intonation, but native to Louisiana.
“Hi,” the woman replied. She held up a gold badge. “My name is Detective Jessica Balzano. I’m with the Philadelphia Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Swann steadied himself against the doorjamb. “Of course.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Jake,” Swann said. “Jake Myers. Would you like to come inside?”
The woman made a note. “Thanks.”
He opened the door wide. She stepped in.
“Wow,” she said. “This is some place.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s been in my family for years.” He gestured. “Would you like to sit in the parlor?”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine. This shouldn’t take too long.”
Swann glanced at the stairs. The stairs leading up to Claire’s room. He had given her another ampoule, but that was an hour ago. Just a few minutes earlier he thought she had stirred. Patricia was fast asleep in the basement.
“Get her into the kitchen, Joseph.”
“Would you like something to drink? I’ve just made fresh coffee. Kenya.”
“No thank you,” she said. “We’re talking to everyone in the neighborhood.”
“I see.”
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
“Oh my goodness, no. I live here with my family.”
“Are they home now?”
“My daughters are out, and I’m afraid my wife is a bit under the weather.” He gestured to the sideboard, which held a number of photos. His phantom family. He wondered if she would notice that all the photos were solo.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the detective replied. “I hope she feels better soon.”
“Most kind of you to say.”
“They are going to stop you, Joseph. You cannot allow this to happen.”
The detective produced a photograph. “Do you recognize this girl?”
She presented a photograph of Elise Beausoleil. It was one he had seen before. He gave it its proper time, its owing. “Yes. I believe I do, but I cannot remember from where or when.”
“Her name is Elise Beausoleil.”
“Yes, of course. I remember now. A pair of detectives came around making inquiries. They spoke to my wife and eldest daughter about this young lady. I happened to be in the garden at the time. They stopped and asked me about her as well. I had not seen her.”
“Were these city detectives or private detectives?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. What is the difference exactly?”
“Did they have gold badges?”
“Yes. I believe they did. In fact, I am certain of it.”
“They were the police,” she said. “Has anyone been around here since, inquiring about this girl?”
“She knows, Joseph. You cannot allow her to leave.”
Swann feigned deep thought. “I don’t think so.”
The detective made a note in her book. Swann angled to see it, but couldn’t. He put a hand into his pocket, palmed a chloroform ampoule. He would take her in the foyer.
“Once again, I appreciate your time.” She handed him a card. “If you think of anything that might help us, I’d appreciate a call.”
Swann removed his hand from his pocket. “By all means.”
He opened the front door. The pretty detective stepped out onto the porch, just as the FedEx man arrived. The two of them smiled at each other, made room.
Swann took the package, thanked the deliveryman. The drawer pulls no longer mattered. He closed the door, his heart fit to burst.
Upstairs, Claire screamed. It was an unearthly sound.
Swann closed his eyes, certain that the police officer had heard. He peeked through blinds. The woman was walking to her car, her chestnut hair luminous in the late afternoon sun. She was already talking into her cell phone.
And then she was gone.
SIXTY-ONE
AT JUST AFTER seven o’clock, six detectives and twelve patrol officers returned to the Roundhouse after having done a sweep canvass of the neighborhoods where Elise Beausoleil had been seen the previous January.
They distributed a few hundred photographs, talked to a few hundred people. Some recalled the first time the police came around looking for the girl. Most did not. None admitted to ever having seen her.
Before they got their coats off, a call came in from the communications unit.
They had a break in the case.
THEY GATHERED AROUND a thirty-inch high-definition LCD monitor in the communications center. Six detectives, as well as Hell Rohmer and Lieutenant John Hurley, commanding officer of the unit. Tony Park sat at the computer keyboard.
“We found this about twenty minutes ago,” Hurley said.
Jessica looked at the monitor. It was a splash page, an entry to something called GothOde.
“What’s GothOde?” Josh Bontrager asked.
“It’s like YouTube,” Hell Rohmer said. “It’s nowhere near as big, but it’s ten times more demented. There are videos of every movie murder ever filmed, pseudo-snuff films, homemade perversions of every stripe. I’m thinking GothOde is a play on the word cathode, but don’t quote me. We followed that link and ran the top video. When we saw where it was going we shut it down, made the call.”
Park looked at Byrne. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Byrne said.
Park clicked the entry link. Instantly the browser window opened a new web page. To Jessica it looked almost identical to a YouTube page—a main video on top, with linked videos along the side. Unlike YouTube, the background was black, and the logo, scrawled along the top, was written in a blood red.
Park clicked on the play button. Immediately a soundtrack started. It sounded like a string quartet.
“Does anyone know this music?” Jessica asked the room.
“Bach,” Hell Rohmer said. “J. S. Bach. Sleepers Awake. Cantata 140.”
The screen stayed black for the moment. The music continued.
“Any significance here?” Jessica asked, still unsure what this was all about. “Any relevance?”
Hell thought for a few seconds. “I think it’s about the assurance of salvation.”
“Josh? Anything to add?”
Jessica glanced at Bontrager. Bontrager took his right hand, palm down and sent it slicing the air over his head, meaning just that—this was way over his head.
A few seconds later a title faded up. White letters on a black background, a classic serif type, written in one line.
THE SEVEN WONDERS
“I have seven girls,” Byrne quoted. “I fear for them. I fear for their safety.” He pointed at the monitor. “Seven girls, seven wonders.”
Another fade to black, then a second screen, a graphic of red velvet curtains. Over it, another title.
PART ONE: THE GARDEN OF FLOWERS
Soon the curtains parted, showing a small stage with a spotlight in the center. Seconds later a man stepped into the spotlight. He wore a black cutaway tuxedo, white shirt, red bow tie, a monocle. He stopped center stage. He looked to be in his forties, although the video was grainy and it was hard to discern details. He sported a Van Dyck goatee.
“Behold… the Garden of Flowers,” the man said. He had a slight German accent. He picked up a large woolen shawl, draped it over an arm, and began producing bouquets of flowers from beneath it, flinging them individually onto the stage. The bouquets appeared to be weighted, and have darts protruding from the bottom. One by one they stuck in the stage floor. When he had created a full circle, he gestured offstage. “And behold the lovely Odette.”