After climbing into his rental car, he entered the address for the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum into his phone’s GPS app. It was an easy drive from the airport. Penfield thought about Jenna McMahon along the way. Marcus had given him three days to bring Angela back to Central State. This was the second day. If they were to make the deadline for keeping Jenna alive, Penfield would need to find Angela by the end of the day.
The attractive museum building was modeled after the adobe architecture made famous in the southwest. Penfield had to circle the block a couple of times before finding parking. He looked at himself in the car’s rearview mirror. He was tired, and the dark circles under his eyes testified to that. He poured some of the cool water from his bottle into one of his cupped hands and splashed it onto his face. It did little to wake him up.
He opened the photo applications on his phone. He found the photo of him, Angela, and Marcus and enlarged it to remove Marcus. He slipped the phone into his pocket and climbed out of the car. Penfield walked down the red brick sidewalk to the entrance of the museum. He walked inside and made his way to the ticket counter.
A young woman, maybe only twenty years old, was behind the counter. She had short blonde hair and was dressed in a white polo shirt and khaki pants. The shirt had the name of the museum in the upper left corner.
“Good morning or is it good afternoon yet?” Penfield said, and he gave her his best smile.
The woman looked at the time on her phone.
“It’s good morning, but just for a few more minutes,” she said, and she smiled back at him.
So far, so good, Penfield thought.
“I was wondering if you could help me. I was supposed to meet a friend here a while ago. My flight was late, though, and I don’t see her. She told me her phone battery was dying when I last talked to her. I was wondering if you’ve happened to see her. Here’s a photo of us,” Penfield said.
He removed his phone and showed the museum attendant the photograph of him with Angela. The woman looked at the image for a few seconds.
“She looks familiar. I haven’t seen her here today, but then again, my shift just started a few minutes ago.”
The young woman looked past Penfield.
“Hold on a second,” the attendant continued. “Claire might know her.”
“Did I just hear my name?” another woman asked.
Penfield turned and saw a woman dressed in the same white polo shirt and khaki pants as the museum attendant. This woman looked closer to fifty. She had long black hair that fell to the middle of her back.
The woman walked over to Penfield and shook his hand.
“I’m Claire Haskins. I’m the museum director.”
“Yes, Ms. Haskins. I’m hoping you can help me,” Penfield said, and he repeated the story he’d told the young attendant.
Claire looked at the photo on Penfield’s phone.
“Oh, Renee. No, I haven’t seen her here today. Were you supposed to meet her inside the museum?”
“No, she told me she’d meet me by the entrance. I thought she might have come inside since I’m so late,” Penfield said.
“Are you a fan of Georgia O’Keeffe?” the director asked.
“I am, thanks to Renee. That’s why we were going to meet here. She promised to give me a tour of this place,” Penfield said.
“She certainly knows it well enough. How late are you?” Claire asked.
“Almost an hour. I feel horrible about it, but like I said before, her phone died. I can’t reach her,” Penfield said, and he hoped the museum director wouldn’t try to call Angela herself.
“You may want to try Renee at her gallery. She probably went back there. It’s only a few blocks away,” Claire said.
“Really? For some reason I thought it was farther than that. Of course, this is my first time to Santa Fe, and I don’t know my way around.”
“Your first time? I’d give anything to see this town again for the first time. It’s such a magical moment.”
“It is. I can see why Renee moved here. She always talked about the New Mexico light. I hate to admit this, but I thought she was exaggerating. Now I can see that she wasn’t,” Penfield said.
“There’s a reason Santa Fe creates so many great artists. You’re going to love your time here.”
“I’m sure I will. Well, I think I’m going to take your advice and head over to her gallery. Could you do me another favor and point me in the right way. I have no sense of direction and I always get myself turned around,” Penfield said, and he laughed at himself.
“No problem. Just turn left when you exit the museum. Walk straight for three blocks. Her gallery is on the right. Look for the bright blue door. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much. You’ve been of tremendous help. I’m sure I’ll see you later when Renee brings me back for that tour,” Penfield said.
He gave the two women another smile and then headed for the exit.
Renee Rankin pushed the sandwich away from her. She knew she should be hungry, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat anything. She’d barely started her lunch hour, but she considered walking back into the gallery and telling her assistant she could take her break early.
Renee hesitated a long moment. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her desk. She removed the small leather bag and placed it on top of her desk. She opened the bag and pulled out the leather journal.
She wasn’t sure why she was looking at it again. She couldn’t read the old language and Father Greco had provided her with an English translation, which she’d copied onto her work computer.
There was a big part of her that felt like she should throw the journal away. It had brought nothing but pain. She’d thought it could offer her answers. Instead, it had only brought more questions.
She was more convinced than ever that the writer of the journal had been Marcus’ grandfather. Yet the priest in Florence had said that the man he knew as David Lombardi had been incapable of writing such a lengthy text in Aramaic. If Lombardi hadn’t written it, then who had? Furthermore, why would someone else write it and then pretend to be David Lombardi?
She shoved the journal back into the bag and placed the bag back into the desk drawer. She was angry with herself for even pursuing the case again after all of these years and it had all been because of some stupid dream.
In the dream, Renee had been awakened in the middle of the night by her son’s screams. She’d jumped out of bed and rushed into his bedroom, only to see Marcus Carter standing in the corner of the room. He’d reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver. It was then that Renee had realized she’d left her own gun in the top drawer of her nightstand. She’d charged Marcus and he’d fired his weapon. Renee had been shocked when the bullet hadn’t hit her. Instead, Marcus had shot her son.
The nightmare had come to her for several nights in a row. It had been the exact same dream each time. No details, no matter how insignificant, had been different. Renee began to believe it was some sort of premonition – a warning that something horrible was about to come her way again.
That’s what had ultimately driven her to book the trip to Vatican City. She needed to know the real reason behind Marcus’ murder spree. It had alluded her all of these years and the truth was, she still didn’t know what had caused him to take those people’s lives.
She’d read Father Greco’s translation several times. It read like a true crime novel, a detailed account of Father David Lombardi’s murderous rampage across Rome and Florence. The madness that had possessed Lombardi was impossible to understand. He’d somehow believed that he was communicating with a demonic entity of sorts and that entity had ultimately been what influenced him to take another person’s life.
Renee did her best to push her dark thoughts of David Lombardi and Marcus Carter out of her head. She reached across her desk and grabbed the framed photo of her son. The photograph had been taken on his ninth birthday a few months prior. In the photo, he was straddling his ne
w bicycle. It had taken her a few months to save for the bike, especially since she’d put away most of her funds for the long trip to Italy.
She couldn’t believe how much she’d missed him, and she’d wanted to take off a couple more weeks after she got back to Santa Fe to spend every minute with him. Unfortunately, she couldn’t afford to bring on extra staff to cover her absence any longer at the gallery. Her business was one of several galleries in the arts district, so competition was fierce. Every customer needed to be treated as if they were the only ones to enter the gallery that day.
Her part-time help was good, but sometimes she felt they were a little too willing to give up on a potential sale. Sales was an art unto itself. You had to influence the customer without them feeling like they were being pushed into buying something they didn’t want. The artwork she sold wasn’t cheap. It wasn’t like she was hustling Santa Fe t-shirts, coffee mugs, and postcards. On the other hand, one sold painting could cover her expenses for the entire week.
Renee had just put her son’s photo back in its place on her desk when the door to her office opened. Her assistant stuck her head in.
“Excuse me, Ms. Rankin, but there’s a gentleman out here to see you. He says he’s an old friend.”
An old friend? Renee asked herself. The phrase set off all kinds of warning bells in her mind since she had no old friends in Santa Fe.
“Did you get his name?” Renee asked.
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be right out.”
Renee waited for her assistant to leave. Then she opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a Glock 43. Renee stood and slipped the 9mm handgun into the back of her pants. She covered the pistol grip with the tail of her shirt.
Renee left her back office and walked into the gallery. There was only one other person beside her assistant. He was a tall man with a shaved head. His back was to her and she could tell that he was looking at a desert landscape painted by one of her more popular local artists.
She walked across the gallery until she was about six feet from the man.
“I’m Renee Rankin. I understand you wanted to see me.”
The man turned around to face her.
“Hello, Renee Rankin. It’s been a long time,” Penfield said.
25
Do You Know What You’ve Done?
Luis Vargas lived in Hopewell, Virginia, which was a short drive from Central State in nearby Petersburg. The house was registered to Vargas’ mother. It was a ranch-style home, maybe twelve hundred square feet at most, with white vinyl siding and faded burgundy shutters.
McMahon saw the BMW X5 in the driveway, along with the Honda Civic. The brand-new luxury German sports car stuck out in a neighborhood where pick-up trucks and older cars were more the norm.
McMahon had parked his SUV a few houses down from Vargas’ home. He climbed out of the vehicle and walked to the back where he’d just popped the hatch. Porter was already putting on her bulletproof vest.
Agents Granier, Santos, and Webb parked their dark sedan behind McMahon’s SUV. They walked up to McMahon and Porter as McMahon put on his Kevlar vest.
“Okay, just like we planned,” Granier said. “Santos, McMahon, and I will go to the front door. Porter, you and Webb go around back in case he tries to make a run for it. Remember, Vargas has a .38 registered in his name. He probably has other weapons beyond that. This guy is dangerous, so keep your eyes open and don’t underestimate him.”
McMahon, Granier, and Santos walked down the street to Vargas’ house while Porter and Webb moved behind a nearby home. With any luck, they would make their way into Vargas’ backyard without him realizing it.
McMahon took a quick glance at Santos as they walked up the sidewalk to the front porch. McMahon envied the young agent. Santos looked alert without a hint of fear in his eyes. McMahon hadn’t been able to push his anxiety away no matter how hard he’d concentrated. Vargas was their only lead in finding his daughter. If the Central State security guard didn’t know anything, or if he wouldn’t talk, then McMahon didn’t know where he’d turn next.
McMahon, Granier, and Santos walked up the porch steps. Fortunately, the steps were made of concrete, so they didn’t make any noise. Granier stood to the side and then pounded on the heavy wooden door.
“Luis Vargas, open up, this is the FBI.”
They waited for a response but didn’t get one. McMahon listened carefully. He didn’t hear any movement inside the house.
Granier banged on the door a second time.
“Open up, Luis. This is the FBI. We have a warrant to search your home,” Granier continued.
There was still no reply. Granier nodded at Santos. Santos took a step backward and then slammed the heel of his boot into the edge of the door by the lock. The wood splintered in several places. He kicked it again. This time the door flew open.
Granier, his weapon drawn, was through the door first. He only made it a few steps when the boom of a shotgun rang out. The blast hit Granier square in the chest and knocked him backward to the ground.
Before McMahon could return fire, he saw Luis Vargas run behind a wall at the far end of the room. McMahon took off after him, but before he could get through the foyer, he heard another boom.
McMahon raced through the dining room and into the kitchen after that. He looked out the window and saw Luis Vargas holding a handgun to Porter’s head. She was bleeding heavily from her nose.
McMahon walked to the back door. There was a large hole in it from the shotgun blast. He opened it and stepped onto a shallow cement porch. Webb’s body was lying at the bottom of the porch’s three steps. He’d taken a round to the head. His forehead was a hideous mess of blood, bone, and torn flesh. Vargas’ empty shotgun was lying on the ground beside Webb.
Vargas pulled Porter’s body closer to his chest. He pulled them both backward so that he was halfway between the house and a gray wooden barn at the back of the yard.
“Don’t come any closer or she’s dead,” Vargas said.
His voice was way calmer than it should have been, which scared the hell out of McMahon.
“You don’t want to do this, Luis. Don’t go out this way,” McMahon said, and he walked onto the top step.
“I’ll kill her. You know I will.”
“Where’s my daughter? Where did he take her?” McMahon asked.
Vargas didn’t reply. In fact, McMahon thought he looked confused, as if he had no idea what McMahon was talking about.
McMahon took the second step down.
“You take that last step and I’ll put a bullet through her head. Do you understand me?” Vargas asked.
McMahon held his hands up slowly, but he didn’t drop his gun.
“There’s no need to hurt her. Now, tell me who’s in contact with Marcus. Tell me who’s behind these killings,” McMahon said.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take this pretty little agent and drive out of here. If her life means anything to you, then you’ll let me leave.”
“I can’t do that, Luis. You know that.”
McMahon was about to say something else when he spotted Santos sneaking up behind Vargas. The agent must have been able to get around one of the neighbor’s houses while McMahon had distracted Vargas.
Vargas noticed McMahon’s eyes shift. He started to turn around when McMahon saw Santos’ body shift to a firing position.
“No!” McMahon yelled.
Santos fired twice, hitting Vargas in the back each time. Porter pulled herself free from Vargas and dove to the ground.
Vargas drooped to his knees. He held up his gun to return fire when Santos shot him a third and a fourth time.
McMahon took the last porch step down and jumped over Agent Webb’s body. He ran several feet to Vargas and caught the man before he fell the rest of the way to the ground.
“Where is she, Luis? Where did they take my daughter?”
Vargas went to speak, b
ut frothy blood came from his mouth.
“Where is she?” McMahon pleaded.
Vargas didn’t respond. His breathing slowed over the next few seconds until it stopped completely. McMahon watched as the life went out of the guard’s eyes. McMahon turned to Santos.
“Do you know what the hell you’ve done?” he screamed.
Santos said nothing.
McMahon stood. He walked to the back porch and looked down at the slain Agent Webb. He hadn’t known the man very well. Webb had only been a member of his team for a few short months. McMahon did know that the agent had a wife and a young child.
He walked into the house to check on Granier. The man was on his knees and he was steadying himself with one of his arms pressed against a nearby sofa.
“Are you all right?” McMahon asked.
“Yeah,” Granier groaned, and he peeled one of the top Velcro tabs away on his vest.
“Webb is dead. Vargas is dead.”
“What happened?”
“He got the jump on Webb and Porter. Santos took him out.”
McMahon walked past Granier and exited the house. As he walked down to the street, he replayed the events of the last few minutes in his mind. He’d been so caught up in the search for his own daughter that he wondered if he’d made some crucial mistake.
This had been Granier’s show and not his. But he knew they’d rushed into confronting Luis Vargas because of Jenna. It should have been a routine takedown. Now they had a dead agent and a dead suspect who had been their only lead.
He glanced up to the sky. The clouds were getting thick and it looked like it might rain.
“We cleared the house,” Santos said.
McMahon turned around and saw the agent standing several feet away.
“The only one who’s there is Vargas’ mother. She’s in a wheelchair,” Santos continued.
McMahon didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry, Agent McMahon. I understand how important it was for us to take Vargas alive. I just…” Santos said, and his words trailed off.
“You saw him with a gun to Porter’s head. You also saw Webb dead on the ground, so you knew he was more than willing to take a life. You did the right thing, Hector. It’s good to always question yourself. But in this case, you got everything right.”
Nature of Darkness Page 19
