“That’s understandable.”
“Seriously, consider joining. Just putting it out there.”
“All right.”
“You don’t look very impressed.” Conor lowered his voice. “How about I let you in on a secret?”
Gabriel squinted. “What secret?”
“The position I just told you about? It’s in a new wing that’s gonna be created under NCAVC. It’s called Biscuit.”
“Biscuit?” Emma said.
“No. It’s an acronym. B.I.S.K.I.T. Stands for Bureau’s International Serial Killer Investigation Treaty.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Emma said. “Are you high?”
“Not currently, no. Listen to me. The purpose of this wing is to lend help to countries that ask for our assistance in catching serial killers. We will have international authority. Once the Secretary of State signs the treaty, which should be any day now, we will be the first organization in the world to investigate serial killers across the globe.”
Gabriel was awestruck, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “Why would they come to us?”
“Because, like Hollywood, obesity, and Rascal mobility scooters, the USA is also famous for serial killers.”
Gabriel stared at Conor. “I don’t get it.”
Conor sighed. “Almost all the countries in the world have a serial killer problem. But most of them don’t have the same level of expertise in catching them as we do, simply because we have the most serial killers. The FBI receives dozens of requests from our friends in the UN, wanting our help to catch repeat offenders in their countries. So the Department of State, which, as you know, deals with foreign affairs, finally had enough with the pestering and caved in and decided to create a small team under NCAVC. And the first head of BISKIT is yours truly.”
“That’s… wow.” Gabriel extended his hand, and Conor shook it. “Congrats.”
“Thanks. And you’re going to be our first field agent.”
“I am? Don’t remember agreeing to it.”
Conor flashed a knowing smile. “You are now investigating a criminal that didn’t commit a single crime in your jurisdiction. You are doing it because you believe in fighting evil, no matter the grounds. It’s your principle that drives you, not the obligation of your designation as a detective of the 122nd precinct. So I say you’re tailor made for this new job with BISKIT. It’s too perfect for you to let go.”
“Yeah, Detective Chase,” Bill said. “The FBI has BAU and ViCAP, too. It’ll be thrilling.”
“No, Bill. Unlike what they show on TV, people working in BAU and ViCAP are mostly scientists and analysts. They don’t investigate international serial killers, let alone go after them with guns. What Agent Lyons is asking me to do is join BISKIT as a field agent for that particular purpose. To fight the crème de la crème of evil across the planet.”
Conor smiled. “Fun, right? We’re gonna make history, Chase.”
Gabriel nodded. Devil’s temptation.
His phone vibrated and he unlocked it. A message from Lloyd, with the name of the snail farmer and his phone number. Gabriel took a drag from his new inhaler and then made the call. After four rings, it was answered.
“Hi, man. This is Lloyd,” Gabriel said, his voice more nasal and less formal. “You used to send us crates of snails to Apex, North Carolina.”
“Yeah, I know you. Thought you guys relocated a year ago?”
“We did.”
“Are the shipments reaching you okay at your new address?”
Bingo!
“They were getting delivered fine, but we haven’t received them for the last two months. Just to make sure, can you read me the address where you’re sending them now?”
“You haven’t had a problem until today.”
“I know, right? But my stupid boss wants me to double-check.”
“Amen to that. Bosses can be pretty unreasonable. Give me a minute. Let me boot up my computer.”
Gabriel memorized the address. “Thank you. Know what? This is the correct address. I’m gonna have to check with our local delivery guy, then.”
“You do that. Bye, now.”
When he hung up, Gabriel beamed his gaze around the table. Any worries he had about Joshua had vanished.
“We got the location?” Conor said.
“We did. Fairfield, Kentucky.”
“That’s awesome,” Bill said.
“Don’t pop a champagne bottle yet,” Conor said. “It means another long drive for you guys.”
“You have a jet. Give us a lift,” Emma said, voicing Gabriel’s thought.
“Whoa, hold it right there. I need to brief my boss back in New York.” Conor leaned closer and lowered his voice.
Except for Shane, no one in town knew why they were visiting or what they’d found. Tyrel’s ranch was too isolated for a passing pair of ears to catch the ruckus going on inside.
“Remember the ton of bones we found? I need to get an authorization for analyzing them all. So you’re on your own. And I know that’s never been a problem for you.”
“No problem at all,” Gabriel said.
But he wished he could fly over the mountains in a jet. The idea was irresistible. Maybe he would join the FBI just to take the plane for a fun ride, and then resign the next day.
Part IV
Chapter 35
March 24, 2019. 12:35 A.M.
Tyrel, donned all in black, with gloves and a ski-mask, couldn’t help feeling like a ninja. He was sitting on his haunches, above the peripheral wall of the house where his target lived, while his arms hung at his sides. The streetlights on this part of the road had been rendered inadequate by a few well-aimed shots from a pistol fixed with a silencer. Now he need not worry about people calling the cops on a weirdo perched atop their neighbor’s wall.
Tyrel looked down at the lawn. The drop was about fifteen feet. He jumped. Lush grass and pricey sneakers, along with a maneuver using his legs as springs, absorbed the shock and the noise. Except for the distant sounds of crickets and horny frogs, the night was quiet. It would likely continue to be so because the target owned no guard dogs.
Didn’t mean the house was unguarded, though. There was a security station at the front gate, a mere ten feet to his left. It was inaccessible from the street, but since Tyrel had already breached the perimeter, it would be easy for him to go there unseen. He crouched and crawled to its narrow doorway. As he neared the station, he heard a mild snore emanating from within. Thanking his lucky stars, he continued on.
The mild snore turned into a steady rumble as he entered the tiny space. When he came face to face with the wheels of a revolving chair, he propped himself on his forearms and looked up. A thicket of blond hair sprouted from the top of the backrest.
While slowly getting up on his feet, Tyrel pulled the pistol out. With his foot, he pushed the armrest and swiveled the chair. When it spun around, he nudged under the sleepyhead’s nose with the tip of the cold silencer. The shirker jolted awake.
“What the—?” He scrambled to get up, but Tyrel shoved him back onto the chair and shushed him.
In under two minutes, he had threatened the man and squeezed out of him information about the house’s layout. The guy had also volunteered other useful information, such as where the motion sensors were and which doors were rigged with alarms. Tyrel then knocked him out and tied him up.
After locking the booth, he sneaked across the lawn to the side of the house, which led to the back, where there were two motion sensors. Fixed over windows, they acted as a deterrent to potential burglars. Tyrel kept close to the peripheral wall, moving between the shadows of shrubs and tall palm trees.
When he reached the back, he took a flight of stairs descending to what the guard said was a basement. There he found a standby generator loafing in the corner and switched it off. For good measure, he also unplugged it from the electrical panel. He turned his attention to the b
reaker boxes on the wall. With a pocket knife, he pried open the doors. Then he unbuckled a pair of night vision goggles dangling from his belt loop and put them on. He flipped the switches off one by one, and the property darkened one section at a time. As the basement’s light went out, too, he switched on the headgear, and everything around him was doused in luminous green.
The soothing color made him more confident. He slipped into the house through a door in the garage and climbed up. He tiptoed along the steps and walkways, which guided him to the master bedroom on the second floor. That’s where the target would be at this time of the night, the guard had told him.
He pressed an ear against the wooden door and closed his eyes. A drop of sweat slid down his cheek and was absorbed by the strap of the headgear under his chin. He took a few moments to ignore the heartbeat thumping in his chest, and to hear what was happening inside the door. He detected a feeble giggle.
This must be it. Tyrel stood straight.
Well, that wasn’t hard. Thanks to Mr. Bunny’s lessons, breaking into houses had become slick and exciting.
He inserted a hand into his front pocket and pulled out a sachet which contained half a dozen lockpicks. Having selected two apposite tools, he began operating the keyhole with the diligence of a surgeon performing a bypass. While practicing at home, picking a lock with a pair of slim metals was child’s play. But doing it while wearing gloves and seeing everything in glowing alien green proved challenging. A criminal like Mr. Bunny would have included such practical training in his prep, but not myopic Tyrel. However, since the techniques involved feeling minor clinks of tumblers inside the lock, he was able to disengage it without much trouble.
Tyrel nudged the door open and was welcomed by a pleasant whiff of scented candles, but no light. It must have been a while since they had been lit.
Through his goggles, he located his target—Barnabas, a killer of babies. Bile rose as Tyrel saw in radioactive green that Barnabas was fondling with his young wife’s tits.
The Internet told Tyrel that the wife, an ex-beauty pageant participant, had been twenty-three when she found true love in the sixty-one-year-old. Him being a millionaire just happened to be a coincidence. Thanks to the consumers of his veal products aka colossal sins, he had everything anyone would ever need.
How did people decide not to buy blood diamonds, but have no reservations against blood food? How addicted were they to their stomachs that they could shut their ears to the wailing mothers when their newborns were dragged away from them? Robbed just hours after entering this hell called earth, to be incarcerated until they were shoved into death chambers?
But when it came, death was merciful oblivion, because Barnabas locked up these innocent calves in small cells, often smaller than their soft, tiny bodies. They were tied to the ground, never allowed to even stand, let alone run and play or have physical contact with one another.
Back in 2014, Kentucky had become the eighth state to ban veal crates. Oh, but Barnabas was too tough for pesky laws. When the Humane Society of the US got wind of the monumental violations of animal rights taking place at his free range farm, they came down on him with everything they had. But the worst repercussion Barnabas had to deal with was he had to fire a few employees, and the court had absolved him of all wrongdoing.
The worst repercussion, until Tyrel caught his story on PETA’s website. And now he was here, waiting in the threshold and watching the demon make love.
Barnabas was having sex with his wife with the fervor of an adolescent dog humping a leg. And she reciprocated with the passion of a leg that was being humped. She rolled her eyes, stopped responding, and shook Barnabas.
“I feel creeped out. You called the utility company yet?”
“Why?” Barnabas said, still smooching. “We have a backup.”
“Then why is it still dark? Can you go turn it on?”
“I don’t pay that rent-a-cop for nothing,” Barnabas tried to clamber up on her.
“Quit it, baby.” She pushed a flabby arm away. “Please call him.”
“All right, all right.” Barnabas rolled away from her and fumbled on the table for his cell phone.
While he dialed, Tyrel smiled, unable to help himself from feeling hyper.
“He is not answering.” Barnabas frowned. “You should go check it out.”
“What? Me? No way!” the wife said, in horror.
“I don’t keep you around just for nutting you, woman.” He switched on the flashlight on his cell phone and handed it to her. “You think I’m a foolish old sugar daddy? Screw you. Go see what’s up with the security guard.”
The wife got down from the bed and walked toward Tyrel, too mortified to speak.
“Before that, bring me some water,” Barnabas said.
Tyrel tiptoed to the end of the corridor, where the kitchen was. A grandiose room, on par with the rest of the house. He huddled behind the island, ducking out of the line of sight from the door.
A pair of bare angry feet clapped on the marble floor, and a second later everything around him was illuminated by the cell phone flashlight. Tyrel pushed the goggles up on his head and waited while his pupils adjusted to the blackness. After craning his head over the edge, he saw the wife standing in front of a refrigerator with a water bottle in hand. The cell phone was on top of the island, its light projecting a radiant blob onto the ceiling.
He crept to her, avoiding her peripheral vision and the beam of light. She was uttering a colorful range of profanities under her breath as she spat into the bottle. Tyrel slowly lifted his right leg off the floor and aimed the heel at the center of her back, just below her neck. Using only a fraction of his strength, he kicked her. She hugged the refrigerator with a thwack, and the water bottle spun out of her hand. Not giving the dazed woman time to understand what had just happened, he grabbed the side of her head and shoved her temple onto the aluminum door. She was unconscious before she hit the floor.
Tyrel picked up the cell phone and sauntered down to the bedroom. A joyful jingle escaped his lips, but the mask muffled the whistle. On his way, he spotted a door ajar. He nudged it open and found the devil’s offspring, Agnes, inside. She was resting on a little pink bed, unafraid of the dark. Tyrel exited the room and resumed his walk to the bedroom.
At the doorway, he pointed the beam at Barnabas, who lifted his hand in a vain attempt to escape the light.
“Turn the damn thing off, woman.”
Tyrel marched toward the fat fuck, cocking his dominant hand.
“I said—”
Tyrel punched him square in the face. Barnabas covered his nose with both hands, dizzy. Just as he regained clarity, Tyrel hit him again. Then again. He continued shooting his fist out like a piston until the crimson plump of a face dropped, the bloody chin resting on Barnabas’s doughy neck muscles.
Easy part over. Now the hard part—carrying the devil to his car.
Chapter 36
April 12, 2019. 09:51 P.M.
Thirteen minutes after checking out of the hotel, anything that signified the existence of a small town—a street sign, the glowing dome of a city, or even a milestone—had been gobbled up by the black mountains. Only then did Gabriel realize the actual size of Apex. How did such a small place birth one of the deadliest serial killers in the world and harbor nightmare-inducing tales of torture, murder, and cannibalism?
To optimize their collective energy, Gabriel, Emma, and Bill divided the miles, each getting three hours behind the wheel and six hours of sleep. Gabriel chipped in first, and when his turn to get some shut-eye came, he relinquished the dark roads to Emma, reclined the front seat and closed his eyes, his chest empty because Beast lay with Bill in the back. As Gabriel finally tamed his hyperactive thoughts and dissolved reality in the tranquil vacuum of his mind, his cell phone blared and yanked him back.
It was Conor calling with three pieces of information.
The address that the animal transportation had made a delivery to was also in Fa
irfield, Kentucky.
After Conor landed in New York, he’d arranged an emergency meeting with his supervisor and coerced her to wake the judge up. He was pissed to be disturbed at that late an hour, but he agreed to sign the warrant. Conor had faxed it to Tyrel’s ISP and was expecting a correspondence that might come any minute now. Then Conor’s cybercrime unit would dredge Tyrel’s Internet history, and if they were lucky, they’d stumble upon an electronic footprint.
Finally, with Tyrel’s passport photo as a reference, Conor got a forensic artist to render composite sketches of Tyrel and forwarded them to Gabriel’s email. They comprised a dozen drawings portraying Tyrel with different makeovers.
Once Conor had said happy hunting and hung up, Gabriel called Lloyd. The groggy young man informed him that Tyrel had a clean-shaven face and short-cropped hair the last he had seen him. Gabriel isolated the only drawing with those specifics and decided he would use that as a reference when inquiring.
As Gabriel rested, his thoughts began jumping again.
In all his years as a homicide detective, the people he caught—gangsters, robbers, and murderers—never instilled fear in Gabriel. But Tyrel did. Wanting to kill a person was understandable. Everyone felt like that at one point or another. But only a select few acted on the impulse. Still, people couldn’t stand the sight of a dead body. Even someone as evil as Noah had to train himself for months to get used to the gore. This was what distinguished Tyrel as an abomination. He not only killed them, but also sliced up the bodies, cooked and ate them.
Tyrel was a vicious monster running on purest rage. He killed people because he had a taste for it, literally. You put men in prison and punished them, hoping they might seek some sort of redemption and change their ways. But how do you expect to redeem a wolf or a hyena?
* * *
A hand shook Gabriel awake. A ray of the rising sun reflected off the rearview mirror and attacked his eyes. He lifted his hand over his forehead, fending off the light with his palm, and squinted. It was Bill who’d woken him up. Wasn’t Emma driving when he’d nodded off?
Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own Page 22
