Lancelot: Abby Chilton Novels, #3

By Doug Romig

Lance Limni is Lancelot, a forgotten Soviet sleeper agent from the Cold War era, who killed his patients for decades without remorse. As a psychiatrist, his knowledge of pain and mind games are put to the test when he faces a new victim – FBI profiler Abby Chilton. The mind games begin as Lancelot and Abby face off in her most dangerous mission.

Seneca Jenks, Abby’s partner at the FBI, recruits an array of specialists from around the world as they search for the missing profiler. Jonas Lange, Abby’s boyfriend and Interpol agent, uses his skills to find the clues others miss. The mysterious Rikka Veilleux, the spymaster of Interpol’s Special Assignment Team, joins the hunt with contacts no one else can fathom. The enigmatic tracker, Zima Tobola, has the skill to follow the trail left by Lancelot.

Jonas hopes Abby can withstand the torture and twisting of her psyche until they can find her. Abby hopes for the same thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Romig
• Release date: Mar 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780990330363

Doug Romig

Doug Romig lives in the mountains of east Tennessee with his wife and their children. He loves to read, play guitar, cook the meals he writes about in his books, and spend time with those he loves. If you liked this book, please leave a Five-Star review on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple or wherever you buy your books. Even a few words goes a long way.

Book preview

Dedication

To Kathy, my sister and friend

Keep fighting like you did with me when we were kids

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Nemesis - Prologue

Chapter One

About the Author

Prologue

THE AGONIZING SCREAMS were more soothing than a lullaby to Lance. Hearing someone begging for the pain to stop, knowing he held the key to their release, was the only thing that gave him euphoria. It was better than sex. This time was better than the dozens before. She was special, harder to break. Lance knew she would succumb. They always did. She was simply going to take a little longer.

Here, have some water, said the sadist. You need to stay hydrated.

Lips moved but no words escaped the parched throat of his victim. Their eyes met. She was glorious as defiance shone through the tears. She took a drink from the proffered straw and spit it in Lance’s face.

Now that was a mistake, said Lance. He walked over to his keyboard to tap a command. Want to know the worst thing about pain? You can’t control it. He hit enter and her body writhed on the near vertical gurney. The primordial scream resounded around the vast room, its sound-dampened walls absorbing the echoes which still bounded around Lance’s mind. It’s impressive she can still scream as raw as her throat must be. He hit the spacebar and she went limp. He examined his victim. She had passed out again.

You really need to stay awake to appreciate all of this, he said to her unconscious form. Stimulating your pain sensors without causing any real damage is truly cutting-edge. The sadist walked to the deep sink on the far side of the room. The bucket sitting in the fiberglass basin was quickly filled to the brim with icy water. Grunting, he lifted the pail and whistled a happy tune as he walked up to his victim. He poured the liquid over her lower extremities being careful to not get the leads wet. They would be expensive to replace and he had a budget to consider.

Jerking awake at the shock, the woman’s glazed eyes cleared as she recognized her nemesis holding the empty bucket. Defiance. Anger. Hatred. Fire burned within this one. This was their fourth day of pain and she showed no signs of weakening. How he loved a challenge. The details he could learn about breaking points could be life changing for many people. Lance had already begun writing a scholarly paper on the issue, but this one would give him much more. Names and facts would need to be altered slightly, but it was no major concern. There was only one question on his mind: Will she break before her heart fails? All the others had broken first. The heart attacks came after they lost all hope. He wasn’t sure if her will to fight was stronger than her heart’s ability to keep up with the level of pain she was about to endure.

Tell me, Abby. Did you think your stay at the mental hospital would be this much fun? You are truly impressive. Lance laughed as Agent Abby Chilton tried to kill him with a stare. Lance stopped laughing. The look made him shudder as he tapped keys on the laptop which sent her into waves of suffering.

Chapter One

SENECA JENKS PACED. He walked when he thought, worried or analyzed a troubling puzzle. Today he was doing all three things at once. The operation had been his idea which made it ultimately his responsibility. At that moment, he was at the mercy of his partner, Abby Chilton.

A month earlier, the two FBI agents had met with an old friend of Seneca’s, Milt Hathaway. Milt was an old buddy from his college swim team. Being one of the few black guys on the team, Seneca endured some chiding from his teammates – including Milt. Once Jenks proved himself in the water, the two became friendly without really becoming friends. That didn’t happen until junior year when Milt had been locked out of the dorm after having too many beers and whatever was in the blue shots he enjoyed at the club. Jenks helped Milt sneak back in, passed the resident assistant, and onto the jock’s floor. A shared, rule-breaking experience can bond men. This was such an indiscretion.

Have you seen Seneca drunk, too? Did he puke all over the place? asked Abby during the reminiscence. I’ve never seen Jenks even buzzed. What’s he like drunk?

Milt smiled evilly as Seneca gazed unhappily at the ceiling, praying for God to strike his friend mute. He is more Jenks-like. I saw him scribbling notes about the patterns of the bartender. Something about shorting the till.

The lanky agent pointed his finger at his friend. In my defense, he was shorting the till.

So, you needed a few drinks to see it? taunted Abby.

He shrugged. Not all of us were born doing psychological dissections.

Milt eyed Abby warily. Psychological dissections? What the hell do you do around here?

It was Seneca’s turn to smile evilly. She is our local, superstar profiler. After ten seconds, she already saw everything worth knowing about you. Milt paled. And I didn’t even tell her about Mary and Kerry. Jenks believed his friend would turn transparent if he lost any more color.

I-I don’t buy it, stammered Hathaway. No one’s that good. Abby jumped at the challenge.

Jenks laughed. Big mistake, Milt. For the record, I have never even mentioned you before today.

You work in banking, began Abby, where you use your height as an advantage to intimidate people who do not agree with you. She had seen him unconsciously using the same tactic when greeting her. Your second marriage is happier than the first even though there are some complications with your ex-wife when it comes to parenting techniques. It was obvious to Abby by his avoidance when Jenks had asked about Emily and the kids. Overcompensation by a perceived failure at your first marriage tells me your current wife is likely shopping at Turkey Creek since she came with you on the trip. It was a stretch but his wide-eyed response confirmed her suspicions. By the way, hotels are notorious for being baby factories. I hope you two kids used protection last night. She grinned while pausing to watch Milt’s color transform from pasty to crimson in an instant.

Now about the Viagra... Abby said, intentionally trailing off.

Okay, stop! You win! Milt raised his hands in surrender. How the hell does she do that? he asked Seneca.

Jenks put on his best FBI agent face. I’m sorry but it’s classified.

Meaning he doesn’t have a clue either, translated Abby. But I didn’t get to the best part. Her looked turned serious. You are here because of the death of someone close to you.

Hathaway blinked at the profiler. How do you know all this... he tried to find the best word but gave up, stuff.

Jenks supplied the answer. You asked to meet with me and to bring Abby. We both figured you have read about some of our recent work so it was an easy guess. He let it sink in for a moment before asking, What happened?

Milt’s face turned a shade of red which Abby read as anger instead of embarrassment. It’s Lonnie. He died six months ago. Turning to Abby, he explained, Lonnie was my younger brother.

Seneca raised an eyebrow. Little Lonnie? How old was he?

His anger-filled gaze moved to Jenks. Thirty-seven. He died of heart failure. Shaking his head, he declared. There was nothing wrong with his heart. It gave out. At thirty-seven! It’s impossible.

Abby was in counselor mode. Tell me all about it. Something’s fishy, isn’t it?

They said he escaped. It doesn’t make sense. He wanted to be there. He really wanted help this time.

The FBI agents were confused. Where was he? Rehab? asked Seneca.

No. Greenview State Mental Hospital in Hendersonville, he said flatly.

Jenks glanced at Abby. North Carolina. Outside of Asheville. Having a PhD in psychology, Abby knew about all the mental hospitals in a two-hundred-mile radius. She had consulted with most of them at one time or another. Greenview was only known to the profiler by reputation – a bad reputation.

What was his diagnosis? asked the counselor using her most soothing tone.

Milt looked at Jenks who gave him a reassuring nod. Lonnie struggled with depression for years. They say it’s a chemical something in his brain that makes him either depressed or hyperactive. There is never any middle ground. I thought it was called being manic-depressive, but I heard it is bi-poplar disorder.

Bipolar disorder, corrected Abby. It is a more psychological descriptive name for someone who is manic-depressive. She could use all the correct terminology if the situation called for it, but this was not the moment for a debate about proper jargon.

Hathaway shrugged. Whatever it’s called, my sister and I committed him when he hit a really bad low. He tried to... The trailing off told both agents more than they needed to know.

Lonnie was a danger to himself, stated Seneca with more tenderness than he would normally show an old college buddy.

Yes, whispered Milt. But he was getting better. I know the reputation of Greenview. They medicate more than talk. It was what he needed. The drugs were helping. Lonnie was happy. Maybe it was the drugs. He fought back tears as he explained.

Abby came to his rescue. Often, a combination of antidepressants and antianxiety drugs can do wonders for someone struggling with bipolar disorder. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Abby gave him a moment before pressing on. You said he escaped from the hospital? Why would he do that?

The tall man became defensive. He wouldn’t. There’s nothing those bastards can say to make me think he did. They’re trying to cover their asses.

Seneca raised an eyebrow. If they are admitting he escaped, they would have to be covering up something much worse. Do you think they caused it somehow?

Milt nodded slowly. I think they did something. Gave him the wrong drug. Maybe another psycho hurt him? For all I know they scared him to death. Something is wrong but no one wants to consider it. They hear Greenview and dismiss his death as a nut-job offing himself. A detective in Asheville said that to me. ‘A nut-job offing himself’. Can you believe it? Milt was the one who sounded manic. Abby wondered if it was a genetic condition in the Hathaway men.

This really isn’t our kind of case... began Jenks, trying to find a way to let his friend down easily. He wanted desperately to help, but knew it was likely a wild goose chase.

But we can check to see if there is anything suspicious happening, finished Abby. She had been watching Seneca read his desire to help. One look from his partner and she understood both his surprise at her words, plus his gratitude for the help.

Milt was stunned. You will? Abby could tell he hadn’t expected this outcome. He was prepared for another rejection.

We’re not making any promises, but we can do a little bit of snooping. Jenks did his best to sound reassuring without offering undue hope.

Hathaway was on his feet, moving toward Jenks. He embraced his old friend. Anything you can do. I understand, but you have no idea how much it means to me to have someone finally listen.

Abby patted the man on the back only to be surprised by his pulling her into the hug. Abby was not a hugger but tolerated the affection. Tears filled Milt’s eyes as he backed away. Pleasantries were exchanged and Jenks promised to meet the Hathaways for dinner. Abby and Seneca found themselves alone in his office.

Thanks Abby. I owe you one.

Chilton smiled. Buy me some decent coffee and we’ll call it even. Do you think Milt is paranoid, manic or on to something?

Two of the three for sure. The question is, which two? Jenks gazed at the ceiling tiles, admiring the patterns which reminded him of constellations. Give me a couple of days to see if there are any odd patterns of patient deaths over the past few years.

Abby folded her arms, watching her partner. You think he’s paranoid, not onto something, don’t you?

Don’t you? He’s grieving and needs someone to blame.

Abby arose from the chair. Unless you find something, I have agent fitness interviews scheduled for the next three weeks. Pausing at the door, she winked. Please find something so I don’t have to listen to Brenda talk about how many conquests she had this year.

Jenks set at his task with his normal efficiency but with little hope of helping his friend. He had a gift for finding patterns in crimes others missed. It was an unusual combination of logic and creativity allowing him to discover things no one else could see. A genius level I.Q. didn’t hurt, either. By the end of the day, he was staring at his screen, disbelief etched on his features. A knock at his open doorway startled him back to reality.

Hey, Seneca. Didn’t mean to scare you. I need to update a couple programs on your laptop, said the smiling computer tech. Marcus Shon was the affable computer guru of the Knoxville Field Office. He and Jenks had become closer over the past year due to Abby’s inclusion of Seneca into her inner circle of friends. Marcus, Abby and Tina Jacobs were the people closest to him.

Jenks rose quickly. Help yourself. I need to talk to Abby. He blew passed Marcus with a high-five.

Marcus smiled, muttering to himself. I know that look. Here we go again.

Abby’s door was closed. It was unusual for the profiler to close the door unless she was meeting with someone or in a bad mood. He guessed it was the latter. Seneca thought for a moment and, throwing caution to the wind, he knocked.

Abby was at the door faster than he had expected. Oh my god, am I late for our meeting? I’m sorry, Jenks. She winked at her partner then rolled her eyes. One moment, please. Opening the door wide, she turned her back on Jenks. I’m sorry, Agent Kilgrew. We will have to continue this another day. I forgot I have a case briefing.

But... began the raven-haired woman.

Don’t worry. I’m sure you are fit for duty. Please, don’t shoot anyone else until we talk again. Bye, said Abby, ushering her out as she pulled Jenks in.

Closing the door and leaning on it, she shot Seneca an exasperated expression. Don’t ask.

Don’t tell.

Abby looked him up and down. You found something? Really?

Jenks had been working with Abby for a year and still could not understand how she read people as well as she did. Most of the time, she let others tell her what she already knew so they wouldn’t be uncomfortable around her. Early on in their partnership, Jenks had told her to be brutally honest with him. He didn’t care how well she could read him, if it made the work flow better. Still, once in a while...

Really, he replied, sitting on the loveseat in the conference area of her office. In the past five years, there have been fourteen heart attacks of patients or former patients of Greenview. Five of them were people who had heart conditions prior to going there. One other was attributed an accidental overdose of some narcotics which were smuggled into the facility. That leaves eight dead in five years.

Abby considered the abstract art on her walls as she pondered his words. Unusual, but it doesn’t sound nefarious. She looked back at Jenks. What is it? Something has your knickers in a twist.

You’ve been watching too much British television again, said Jenks, noticing her vocabulary.

Benedict Cumberbatch is hot and Jonas has been on assignment for too damn long again. So, what have you found?

Jenks walked over to her computer and called up a file. Abby joined him, looking over his shoulder. Are you serious?

Yes. I suspect someone at Greenview falsified the documents to make it appear as if all eight of them either escaped or were released.

And how many of bodies were discovered outside of North Carolina? asked Abby, a gleam in her eyes.

The smile on Seneca’s face told her all she needed to know. Three in North Carolina, two in Tennessee, two in South Carolina, one in Georgia.

Abby reached for her desk and handed him a file. He opened the dossier and began to read. The woman had paranoia and borderline personality disorder. She had been in and out of mental institutions since she was fifteen when she suffered a miscarriage. The girl blamed her parents for the loss of a baby she had never known. The next twenty years had been a series of unrequited relationships with the wrong kinds of men leading to her dependence on alcohol and prescription painkillers. After getting sober two years ago, her paranoia returned making her a danger to herself and others. After firing shots at some Jehovah’s Witnesses, she was committed to psychiatric care at Greenview State Mental Hospital. Commitment date would be in three days.

What’s this? asked Jenks.

My cover, said Abby, smiling. She turned the page to reveal a picture of herself, looking like the patient described. I had a feeling you’d find something.

Nice touch with the JWs.

The profiler’s grin widened. I thought you’d like that.

A month later, Jenks paced. Abby had missed her past two check-ins. Something was wrong.

Chapter Two

ABBY WASN’T SURE HOW she got away. She didn’t even know where she was. All she knew was she had to run. Run as fast as she could. The direction didn’t matter if it was away from the pain. Everything was a blur as she sprinted and stumbled with every ounce of strength in her body. Faster was the key. Run faster so the bastard wouldn’t catch up to her.

It had to be a forest. Branches hit her face, but she kept moving. The thorns and brambles ripped at her legs, but she didn’t stop running. The racing of her heart was deafening in her ears, but she didn’t slow her pace. Even the ache that began in her side and spread throughout her body would not keep her from making good on her escape. If only the pain radiating everywhere would ease up.

A splash of cold water and Abby was sure she had fallen into a mountain stream or maybe a spring-fed lake. The icy liquid had to be runoff from mountain snow. The prickling sensation made her forget the other pain. Her eyes flickered open. Disappointment creased her face as she recognized her surroundings.

The grin of Lance greeted her. It was neither malevolent nor cheerful. It was the smile of one who was joyful his work could continue. Her captor had roused her once again from her dream of getting away. She could tell he enjoyed the experiment, but appeared to really relish the pain. The agent knew he was about to continue the torment. What she did made no difference. The past few days had taught her that.

Abby had tried playing possum. Pretending to be out for the count made him pause before continuing. Lance needed her awake for the experiment for some reason known only to him. As well versed as Abby was in psychological experimentation, she wasn’t certain why he needed to see her response. She watched him surreptitiously but could detect no pleasure in the pain he inflicted. He wanted to watch her reactions. What the hell is he typing when he watches me in agony? Each time she tried pretending to be unconscious, he either doused her in icy water or – if he thought she was faking – send a river of pain into her body which made pretense impossible.

She took on a different role: the pleading victim. She had begged him to stop the torture, pretending to be much weaker than she was. As he watched her begging for release from her restraints, Lance had not even considered easing the torture. It only made matters worse.

Fascinating, he muttered, typing away on the insidious laptop.

Why are you doing this? whimpered Abby. She tried to reach some level of humanity buried deep within the stoic scientist. I only wanted to get better.

His eyebrows shot up as he sized her up and down. I somehow doubt you. None of you ever really want to. You say such things so we will release you back on society and then you do whatever you want. Nice try though. He typed more notes.

When she stopped begging and shot him the evil eye, her captor smiled. So, you’re not the wilting daisy after all. Excellent. I love a challenge. His smile faded as he locked eyes with Abby, his perceptive abilities noticed the spark of intellect and determination she had kept hidden in their first hours of interaction. Agent Chilton made an appearance in her glare.

Interesting, he muttered, making yet another notation on his computer. You are not who I thought. Who is the real Abby?

I wonder who is the real Doctor Lance? retorted the incognito agent. What drives a noted psychiatrist to torture innocent patients? Some childhood heartbreak? Abby watched him for signs. She saw a slight twitch in the corner of his left eye when he heard the word childhood. Bingo! Perhaps you didn’t get enough love from your mother? No signs. An abusive father, perhaps? Nothing. Maybe it was a perverted uncle who– Spasms of pain caused Abby to convulse involuntarily. There was no way to stop herself as a scream tested the soundproof walls. The walls fared better than Abby as she went limp when the pain ceased.

It was a struggle to stay conscious when every fiber in her body, mind and spirit wanted to escape into the oblivion of senselessness. It was a monumental task to lift her head to ask, Is that a yes or no to the whole uncle thing?

She passed out.

The next day, he woke her with his usual lack of tack. The splash of freezing water brought her to instant alertness. Now, Abby. What did I tell you about sleeping while we are doing such important research? asked the doctor, his twisted humor caused him to laugh at his own joke. Her will to fight against his will to break her spirit had been taken to a new level.

Abby mumbled something inaudible to draw her nemesis nearer. She screamed in his ear, Go to hell, asshole! His startled reaction made the punishment bearable. Today, defiance was the best way for Abby to maintain her sanity amid the torture. Making him jump or shiver was a bonus.

Is this the best you can do, Miss Jonas? asked the torturer. Abby had chosen Abigail Jonas as her cover name. It was always best to use names which were familiar. Using her real first name guaranteed she would never be caught off guard by hearing the wrong name. Using the first name of Jonas Lange – the one man who could give as well as she gave – was another kind of strength. Plus, it was a little wistful, wishful thinking for a future they planned when their lives settled down. Since he was Interpol and she was FBI, it would not happen anytime soon. But she could still hope.

You’d be surprised what I can do, what I know about, spat Abby. He was leery, not thinking she really knew anything. She pressed on. Dr. Lance Limni. MD. Doctor of psychiatry. Fifty-three. Single. No known family. Graduated third in his class from the University of Texas Medical School at Houston. On staff at Greenview since 1997. The shock melted into caution with a trace of fear.

Who are you? asked the man, the curiosity was obvious on his face. Abby was afraid she had played too many cards.

I’m not who you think I am, she replied. Her eyes blazed with a fire which would melt most men to a quivering heap on the floor. I’m your worst nightmare, Lance. Abby’s voice was little more than a breath.

What a coincidence. declared Lance, all pretense of the stoic scientist gone from his voice. I’m not who you think I am either. Who will be the nightmare and who will have the nightmare? Tapping keys on the computer, his stare was icy to balance the heat from Abby’s glare. You are too much fun. The pain exploded throughout her body.

Abby had been trained to cope with torture. She chose to use the tried and true method of going someplace else with her mind to avoid the suffering. The moment before the pain hit, Abby was on a beach in the Caribbean, sitting on a sandy shore. The Bahama Mama in her hand was cool to the touch and tasted amazing as it washed down her throat, cooling the heat from the blazing sun overhead.

Welcome back, came the voice from the chair next to her. How are you holding up? asked Jonas. What did you say to him this time to piss him off?

The agent smiled at the one man she truly loved. I told him to go to hell... She trailed off, knowing he would ask.

And then? inquired the blond German. You never leave well enough alone. He knew her all too well.

I may have tormented him by saying he didn’t know who he was dealing with. I may have hinted at being his worst nightmare, chuckled Abby.

Jonas laughed. You don’t ever hint. You say things.

You hint your way. I’ll hint mine.

The Interpol agent continued, Someday that’s going to get you into real trouble.

Worse than being strapped to a table and tortured? asked the psychologist. She wondered if talking about