Every Wicked Man

by Steven James

  “Listen,” I said to her, “let’s head home. I have some work to do, but I think I can do it there as well as anywhere.”

  “Okay. But it’s only fair if I drive.”

  “How is that fair?”

  “It’s the least you can do for going all NSA on me. You need to make it up to me.”

  “Nice try.” I gazed at the small indie bookstore across the street not far from us and had an idea. “Do you have any homework?”

  “None that I really need to do. Most of my classes are mind-numbingly easy anyway.”

  I rarely saw her studying—reading, yes. Just not doing homework per se.

  “Then how about I make it up to you by buying you a book.”

  “A book?”

  “Sure. You like to read, don’t you? Let’s get you something you normally wouldn’t buy. Most of the books you buy are used. We’ll get you something new so you don’t have to sit around with nothing to do the next time I bring you to the Field Office.”

  “You’ll bring me again?”

  “Someday. So, do you want one?”

  She thought about it. “Well . . . you know that bookstore I’m always hanging out in?”

  “The Mystorium?”

  “Yeah. There’s this author who’s doing a signing there tomorrow night. I normally never go to book signings because the people I read are usually way dead by the time I read their books, but this guy is actually still alive.”

  “Okay, great.” I led her toward the bookstore. “You know his name?”

  “Timothy Sabian. He’s good. A little out there, but good.”

  26

  Christie tried attending the afternoon prayer time with the monks, but the service was in Latin and she didn’t understand any of it. Tessa had studied Latin last year in school, so at least she would’ve had some idea what the monks were saying, but Christie was lost—she hadn’t picked up any of it, even while her daughter was taking the class.

  Thinking of Tessa made Christie worry again about how to tell her and Pat about the cancer.

  Quietly, she slipped out of the church and went to her room to work on the letters she was hoping to give to the two of them. When she’d started writing them, she’d thought that by doing it this way she could really get the words right, but it just wasn’t happening.

  No.

  Words on a page would never be enough. She finally had to acknowledge that.

  This was something a note couldn’t handle. Not to people this close to her. She needed to tell them in person, even though she had no idea how to actually pull that off.

  The Bible says that in marriage the two shall become one, so even though she was close to Tessa, it felt right to tell her soul mate first before telling her daughter.

  Tomorrow’s schedule: breakfast, Mass, and then—and she could hardly believe she was going to do this—confession.

  Evidently, one of the monks was a priest—she wasn’t entirely sure how that worked—but he offered confession and, as uncomfortable as it made her feel, she decided that as long as she was here at the monastery she would take advantage of it.

  Yes. For the first time in her life, she was going to confess her sins to a priest. Who knows? It couldn’t hurt.

  Then afterward she would drive to the airport, return the rental car, and catch the one-thirty flight back home.

  Where she would tell her husband and her daughter that she was dying.

  * * *

  +++

  “Sasha, I want you to watch. This is what happens to someone when he betrays me.”

  “Who betrayed you?”

  “A man named Aaron Jasper.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He’s been stealing from me, my dear. And then he also broke one of my cardinal rules: those who work with me do not visit the Matchmaker.”

  “The Matchmaker? Who’s that?”

  “Someone you don’t need to concern yourself with.”

  Blake’s security team led two people into the room. Mannie still hadn’t arrived, and even though it might have made sense to wait for him, with Aaron and Ibrahim here now, Blake decided to move forward without his associate.

  He greeted the two men who’d been led in. “Ibrahim. Aaron.”

  “Hello, Fayed,” Ibrahim said.

  “Oh, let’s keep it as Blake today. Less formality.” He gestured toward the chair. “Have a seat, Aaron.”

  Somewhat hesitantly, he obeyed. “Good afternoon, Blake.”

  “Good afternoon. We have a few things to discuss here today.” Then Blake addressed Sasha again. “Loyalty is important to me. I need the people I work with, the people who work for me, I need them to be loyal. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s good to be able to trust people.”

  “I agree, Sasha.”

  Aaron eyed the tarp and swallowed uneasily.

  Blake turned to him. “I have reason to believe that someone in my organization has been taking things that aren’t theirs. Do you know who that might be?”

  “Taking things?”

  “Sticky fingers. Stealing. Purloining.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure? You look nervous. Are you nervous?”

  “No, I just . . .” He gulped. “I’m good. I’m fine.”

  “And visiting the Matchmaker. Do you have any idea who I’m talking about?”

  “No, I—”

  “Aaron, you spoke with the Matchmaker. How could that’ve possibly seemed like a good idea to you?”

  Blake drew his 1911 MC Operator .45ACP. “Ibrahim, I want you to watch. This is important.”

  “Blake,” Aaron said. “You have to understand, I—”

  “You know how, in the movies,” Blake continued, “when someone is threatening to shoot someone else in order to get information, perhaps to try to get him to confess to something or to give up his secrets, whatever it might be—my point is—he has the gun near that man, but as the scene escalates, he brings it closer and closer to frighten or intimidate the person even more. Sort of like this.”

  He aimed the gun at Aaron.

  And began to walk toward him.

  “Please,” Aaron begged. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “See?” Blake said. “Amazing. That’s exactly how it works in the movies. Then the person starts sweating and worrying, just like Aaron here is. They get more and more unsettled the closer the gun comes, until at last, the end of the barrel is pressed right up against the person’s forehead—like this . . .” He demonstrated. “Or even angled up into his mouth. It’s time, Aaron.”

  “No. I’m begging you!”

  “Honey,” Sasha said. “You made your point. Don’t hurt him.”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Then to Aaron: “Open up.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “I heard about the Matchmaker. I just wanted to find out for myself. I was just curious. I didn’t pay anything. I didn’t see anything.”

  “You wanted to watch.”

  “I . . . Yes, but—”

  “Open up, now. Go on.” Blake eased the barrel into Aaron’s mouth, and the man began to tremble. A tear squeezed out of his left eye.

  Sasha took Blake’s arm. “He’s scared. You’re scaring him.”

  “It’s alright, sweetheart.” Blake held her hand reassuringly for a moment, then lifted it aside. “It isn’t any more dangerous, any more deadly, than being shot from six inches away or a foot away or even five feet away. It’s silly, really, when you think about it—this whole bit with getting the gun closer, insinuating that it’s more of a threat. But I suppose that’s what you have to do in a film to make things more dramatic.”

  He carefully removed the gun barre
l from the man’s mouth and backed up.

  Aaron let out a huge breath of relief. “You’ll see. I’ll fix things. I’ll—”

  “I mean, watch.” Then, without another word, Blake shot Aaron Jasper directly in the forehead.

  Aaron’s head snapped back, and the momentum carried the chair backward. It crashed heavily to the floor, where his body slumped limply across it, a dark, seeping circle indicating where the bullet had entered his skull, no doubt a larger, more pronounced hole in the back where it had exited.

  Eyes and mouth open in surprise.

  Everlasting surprise.

  Sasha stared aghast at the body, hands clamped over her mouth.

  “See, Ibrahim?” Blake nudged the corpse’s leg with the toe of his shoe. “Just as dead as he would’ve been if I’d held the gun pressed up to his forehead or kept the barrel between his teeth. It might be less dramatic to shoot someone from five feet away, but it’s just as effective, so why should the potential victim be any less scared?”

  “You killed him,” Sasha muttered in disbelief. “You killed him. You killed a man. You killed him.”

  “It’s okay,” Blake assured her. “He deserved it. You see? If someone deserves to die, then there’s nothing to be sad about. It’s justice. That’s all. Isn’t that right, Ibrahim?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said softly, staring at the corpse. Then he muttered a quiet prayer in Arabic.

  Blake turned to his men. “Clear the chair. Let’s let Ibrahim have his turn. Keep the plastic where it is.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Ibrahim begged. “Please, sir—”

  But Blake quieted him by patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  Sasha’s eyes widened. “Sweetie, you’re not—”

  He put a gentle finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  She looked like she was losing her balance so he supported her, helping her to the bed in the adjoining room. “Take a little time. Lie down. I know watching that was hard.”

  “You’re not gonna kill me too, are you?” she gasped.

  “Why would I kill you? You haven’t betrayed me.” He kissed her forehead tenderly, the way a father might treat his daughter. “I’ll be back to check on you later. I want you to stay here with me today. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you double for your time.” He eyed the two mannequins standing nearby in the room. “I have something for you, something special to help you forget what you just saw in there.”

  “What is it?”

  “A treat, darling. One to carry you away.”

  Then, he returned to the plastic tarp and directed the gun at Ibrahim. “Now, we could do this Hollywood style, up close and personal, but that isn’t really necessary, is it?”

  “No, no, Fayed.”

  “Like I said, we’re just going with Blake today. Now. You were responsible for getting the Tranadyl to the greenhouse and, as far as I’ve heard, the canisters have not yet been shipped.”

  “I’ve been trying to arrange things.”

  “Trying to. Are you keeping any secrets from me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are the canisters on their way?”

  “That’s what I needed to tell you. The chemist. He’s not cooperating.”

  “The one in Phoenix.”

  “Yes.”

  “Reese.”

  “Right. Yes. Reese.”

  “He was your responsibility.”

  “I know. But he wants to pull out. I had nothing to do with that. I swear!”

  “We need his product shipped and ready to go by Tuesday morning.”

  “That’s what I told him. He is aware of the deadline.”

  Blake knew some people in Phoenix. They were experts at smuggling people across the border. But they also had other skills.

  “And you had nothing to do with it? With his hesitation to cooperate?”

  “I swear it by my mother’s grave!”

  “Well then, let’s resolve this. Do you have his authorization code?”

  Ibrahim’s voice was tremulous and faltering. “Get a pen. It’s long. You’ll want to write this down.”

  “I’ll remember it. Go ahead. Tell me.”

  27

  It was going to be a tough night.

  The team had found five other suicide videos along with half a dozen live-streamed homicides that had taken place over the last few months that had the possibility of being related to the video Jon had made of his death. One of them had been aired live on YouTube, the others on the social networking giants Facebook and Krazle. And tonight, I got to study them all.

  After putting on some coffee, I set up shop at the kitchen table facing the living room where Tessa was reading the Timothy Sabian novel The Nesting Dolls that I’d bought for her.

  Feeling parentally solicitous, I was concerned for her not bursting into tears again. By using my headphones out here, I could watch the videos and also keep an eye on her to make sure she was doing alright, and I could do it much better than if I were sequestered working in my bedroom.

  Next to my laptop, I placed a photocopy of the cryptogram Mannie had written down. I decided that in between watching the videos I would try my hand at cracking the code.

  Normally, I study victimology—the links that victims of crime sprees have with one another. When you’re tracking serial offenders, the better you understand the victims, the better you’ll understand the offender. Then you can focus on why he was there at the times when the crimes occurred, and maybe discern where he might have gone when he left the scenes.

  In this instance, however, I didn’t know if or how the victims were linked to each other.

  Time to find out.

  Headphones on so that Tessa wouldn’t hear any of the sounds from the footage, I cued up the first suicide video and pressed play.

  * * *

  +++

  Sasha was on the veranda grabbing a smoke when Mannie arrived.

  Through the window, she watched nervously as he spoke with Blake inside the condo. Although she couldn’t hear them, it looked like their conversation was cordial enough.

  The night had turned cold, and she was wearing a wool shawl over her shoulders. The tapped ashes from her cigarette glowed and curled their way downward, becoming dark, forgotten cinders as they descended from the fortieth-floor balcony and were swallowed by the night.

  Inside the room, the plastic tarp was gone. At least Blake hadn’t killed that second man. At least there was that.

  She took a long drag from her cigarette and used it to try to calm her shaken nerves as she stared out across Manhattan.

  Mannie slid the French doors open when she was nearly ready to snub out the cigarette.

  “Hello, Sasha.”

  “Hey.”

  “How long have you been out here?”

  She shrugged. “A while. I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Stop him?”

  “From shooting that man.”

  “No one could have.”

  She’d been crying. She couldn’t help it. And now Mannie was looking at her tear-streaked face.

  “Don’t stare.” She wiped a finger across her eye. “It’s not polite.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  She scoffed lightly. “Did you come out here to throw me off the balcony?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Where’ve you been? I figured you’d be in there helping him kill people.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She shrugged again, dropped the butt beside her foot, and rubbed the life out of it with the toe of her shoe.

  Mannie slid the door shut, isolating the two of them. She eased away from him as far as the railing would allow.

  “I saw you there on Amber Road,” he said. “Yesterday morning during the funeral. What were you doi
ng out by the graveyard?”

  “Keeping an eye on a client of mine.”

  “Who?”

  “The senator.”

  He considered her words.

  She gazed back inside at Blake, who was standing beside one of the mannequins, softly caressing her chin and then trailing his finger down her neckline.

  She turned to face Mannie. “What does he want with me?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.” She heard something in his voice. It might have been concern.

  “Blake told me he was gonna give me a treat to carry me away. Do you know what that is?”

  “It has to do with his silent ladies.”

  “You don’t mean . . . what—the mannequins?”

  “Yes. But you’re not going to want to accept that gift.” He reached into his jacket, and she tensed, expecting him to pull out a gun or a knife or something, but instead he produced a roll of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Come up with an excuse to leave—a family emergency, a health issue, it doesn’t matter, just make it convincing. Get out of here and don’t come back. I’ll take care of things with him. I don’t want to see you again.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because I can.”

  * * *

  +++

  It didn’t take me long to realize that the homicide videos weren’t going to be helpful. In nearly all of the cases, the offenders had eventually been apprehended, and there was no sign of a surreptitious observer. So instead I focused on the suicides.

  They ran the gamut.

  One young man hanged himself from the roof of his house, tying one end of the rope around the chimney and cinching the other end around his neck.

  He found a way to level his phone on the rooftop and then stepped off the edge. Although you couldn’t see him die, you could see the downward sloping rope snap taut as it caught him when he fell.

  A twenty-two-year-old woman sat cross-legged in a tire, drenched herself and the tire with gasoline, and then set herself on fire. A teenage girl stabbed herself in the brain with a foot-long screwdriver jammed in through her left nostril. A grandfather poured bleach into his eyes and then down his throat. A mother of two overdosed on sleeping pills. Although less viscerally disturbing, that was actually the hardest to watch because her four-year-old daughter showed up and must have thought her mother was asleep because she tried in vain shaking her to wake her up.