by A J Rivers
“I didn’t need to have it narrowed. This killer is tracking me. Everything he does is about me and what I’m doing. He already chose that place. When the train stopped there, the spot was chosen. It’s possible he didn’t have a plan at the time, but when he chose Martin as the next set of clues, that place came to mind because he’s familiar with it, and he knew I would be, too.”
“And you’re confident he was murdered?” Mayfield asks.
“People don’t slit their own throats and then hang themselves, Detective.”
“That isn’t the only injury, Detective,” another voice says.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Andy Gallmeyer, ma’am,” a very young-looking man says as Mayfield turns the phone toward him. “I’m on the team evaluating the scene.”
“You said there are other injuries? I only got a very brief glimpse of Martin’s hanging corpse, not enough to give me any real insight into anything other than the gash on his throat.”
“His back is a bloody mess,” Andy says. “It looks like it’s been flayed. An entire section of the skin is missing.”
“Can you explain that, Griffin?” Legends asks.
“Are you asking for my help, Legends?” I ask. “A feeble attempt at humility isn’t a good look on you.”
“I’m far from asking for your help,” the detective grumbles. “At this point, I just want to know why you keep showing up around dead bodies.”
“I’m nowhere near that one,” I tell him. “And since it will show up in the reports anyway, I’ll let you know that when it was living, that particular body tried to kill me.”
“This is the same killer from the train?” Mayfield asks.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure it is,” I confirm. “At the very least, he’s affiliated with the killer from the train. This man tried to kill me in a hospital in Quantico, as well.”
“Then where’s the note?” Legends demands, almost like he’s daring me to answer him. “You had your little escape room going on the train with all the riddles and clues. How about this one?”
“I don’t know. It might not be a note this time. The clue could be something else. I need more information about the location. I know you’re near the train station, but what else?” I ask.
“That’s classified information we are choosing to withhold from the public at this time as it is part of an ongoing investigation,” Legends spews out, giving a canned spiel just like he would at a press conference.
“I am part of your ongoing investigation,” I say through gritted teeth. “The only solid information you have on a serial killer who has so far wiped out nearly twenty people when you include the bombing is thanks to me.”
“The way I see it, those twenty people are dead because of you.”
My hand tightens around the phone until I’m afraid it will snap. Sam glances over at me from the driver’s seat.
“Emma….” he says, both a warning and an effort to calm me down.
“Screw you, Legends. When you have an arrest warrant for me, let me know. Until then, happy hunting.”
I end the call with the sound of Mayfield calling my name in the background. Any twinge of guilt I might feel about abandoning him with his distasteful partner is outweighed by the surge of disgust, sadness, and anger flooding me.
“Emma, you can’t stop helping them,” Sam says. “We’ve already cooperated with the investigation.”
“I’m under no obligation to help him. It was a professional courtesy. But I’m done with that now. He can try to figure it out on his own. And while he’s walking around in circles, I’ll actually get it done,” I tell him.
We get back to the station, and Sam unloads the box of my father’s files into the backseat of my car. He gathers me into his arms, and I rest my head on his chest, closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of him as he presses a kiss to my hair.
“I’d feel better if you stayed here in town so I can be close to you,” he says.
“I know. But I can’t. Another person is dead, Sam. And this one isn’t random. He had a direct connection to both Jonah and Catch Me, which means they are converging. We know what they’re capable of separately. I don’t want to find out what will happen if they crash into each other.”
Chapter Thirty
I’m ready to crash by the time I get back to Quantico, but I can’t just go to my house and sleep. Almost on its own volition, my car goes straight to the hospital, and I make the all-too-familiar trek up to Greg’s room. I called Dean on the way to fill him in on what was going on. He’s already waiting for me when I get out of the elevator. A cup of coffee in one hand and food in the other is a welcome sight.
“Did you get much out of him?” I ask.
“Some,” he shrugs. “But it’s mostly just scattered bits of information that don’t make much sense to me yet. Greg says he was mostly kept isolated. Only saw other people when he was taken out to be involved in events.”
“Events?” I ask.
“Apparently, that’s how Jonah liked to refer to the… attacks, he had planned,” Dean tells me.
I nod as I take a sip of the strong coffee. It is not hospital lounge coffee. This is real, from a coffee shop brew. I am deeply grateful. One day I might have to wean myself off of coffee, but for now, it’s my lifeblood. The taste keeps me focused, and the caffeine keeps my body moving, even when sleep is far from my grip. I can think back to when it was merely nightmares that chased away the rest at night. Now I’d welcome the nightmares darkening the door of my eyelids. They would be better than what’s keeping me awake.
“How revisionist of him,” I comment. “Of course, that’s probably how he actually sees it. In his screwed-up mind, all the crimes he commits and destruction he causes are good. I wonder who does his catering.”
Greg already looks tired when I get into his room, but when he sees me, he sits up straighter, his eyes opening wider with anticipation.
“Anything?” he asks. “Any new information?”
“No,” I say. “But I don’t think there’s going to be. This is on me.”
“It’s on us,” Dean says. “You’re not in this alone.”
I smile at him as much as I can manage and put down the box of files.
“Greg, I know we’ve been grilling you, and it can’t possibly be pleasant to have to relive everything, but I have a few more questions I really need to ask you.”
“Ask anything you want,” he sighs. “I’m slowly feeling better. The memories are there. There’s nothing I can do about that. I might as well let them out so they can do something good,” he says. “He needs to be stopped. You can’t let him get his hands on you.”
“I won’t,” I promise him. “We’re not going to let that happen.”
“What do you need to know?”
“How much about his past did he tell you? He said that you were one of his honored ones at the beginning, and he gave you some details about his life. You figured out he thinks he’s my father and that Dean is his son. You knew about my mother’s funeral. You knew about some of the things that he’s done. How much of it?”
“I don’t know exactly. He likes to tell stories. When there’s someone he’s willing to tell them to, he will happily regale them with tales of his accomplishments,” he says.
“How many was he willing to tell?”
“A few. Some because they believed what he believes, or at least he thought they did, and he was preparing them for more. Others because he knew they would never be able to tell anyone once he was done with them. He wanted their last thoughts to be the knowledge of what he’d already done,” Greg says.
“He killed people. Not just in the disasters he orchestrated,” I acknowledge.
“’Disposed’ of them, was how he would put it. When they used up their value or went against him, he made sure they weren’t a problem anymore. But it would be almost impossible to link him to any of the deaths.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He didn
’t use a consistent method or dumping ground. He removed all features that connected him to the victims.”
“What kind of features?” Dean asks.
“Did the doctors give you many details about my injuries?” he asks.
It seems like an odd departure from the rest of the conversation, and I glance over at Dean. He gives a subtle nod like he’s nudging me forward.
“Not many,” I admit. “I know that you were beaten. There was evidence of cuts and a few burns. But they wouldn’t go into specifics.”
Greg nods. “What about my back? Did they tell you which of those injuries are on my back?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“My back was cut and burned. When investigators have looked at bodies they’ve found, they would have found similar injuries. Not in the same patterns, not always with the same techniques. Some would have chemical burns. Some would look like they were dragged across the road. Some were mangled by machinery. But it all had the same purpose. To remove the mark of Leviathan.”
“What mark?” I ask.
“When new recruits first join, they are given tests to prove their strength and loyalty. It starts with a tattoo on the back. Marking you for life. At first, it’s a very basic pattern. Only a few lines. And as you progress through the tests, more details are added. It’s considered a privilege and reward to earn extra features of the tattoo. The highest members have extremely elaborate tattoos.”
“He tattooed you?” I ask.
“Not with my permission,” Greg says.
Letting out a breath, I let that idea roll through my head. I’ll never know what really happened to him in those two years he spent with Jonah. He’ll tell what he has to, but he will probably always keep some details locked inside.
“So, removing the tattoo was a final act of dismissal,” I muse. “He doesn’t want these people linked to him in any way; he doesn’t want anyone being able to uncover Leviathan. But it’s also cutting them off, figuratively and literally, from the rest of the organization. It’s a tangible act of retribution. For doing something wrong. For disappointing him. For no longer having value. I would assume it usually happens before death?”
“For those who are being punished, yes,” he confirms.
“It ensures they experience the full suffering, both physical and emotional, of the entire experience. A hallmark of cult behavior. Being disavowed from the group is a humiliation that many find as brutal and intolerable as the physical attacks.”
I’m not really talking to either of them. The words just come out from where my experience and knowledge has them stored. Cold rushes to the tips of my fingers, making me grip the cup of coffee tighter. I glance down at it for a second before meeting Greg’s eyes again. “The skin on Martin’s back was removed.”
He nods. “He was disposed of.”
My mind starts spinning, something rising up to the surface. I set the coffee down and move the still-unopened bag of food off my lap so I can get my satchel and take out my computer.
“What is it, Emma?” Greg asks. “I know that look. You figured something out.”
“Not yet. But I did remember something. Before you woke up and we were trying to figure out what Martin was talking about on those videos, I had Eric dig into the databases.” I click open the file I made with notes about the cases and references Eric found. “There didn’t seem to be very much. He searched for Lotan and Leviathan and different variations.”
“But he didn’t find anything,” Greg says with resignation in his voice. “The organization has been going on for a long time. It’s never been identified by any of the agencies.”
“You’re right. We didn’t find anything that said Leviathan or any reports that mentioned Lotan. But he did find a cold case that mentioned tattoos on the backs of the victims. The bodies weren’t in good condition, but the investigators were able to piece together the images with what was left to figure out what they were. Sea monsters.”
“What did they look like?” Greg asks, his voice rising slightly in that way it always did when things started cracking on a case.
“Let’s find out.”
Chapter Thirty-One
It takes more than two hours from the time I call Eric until he gets to the hospital room. I got a few bites into the breakfast Dean had waiting for me, but the anticipation filling my belly makes it hard to push anymore into it. Before he even steps into the room, I hear his footsteps approaching the door
“Did you find the case files?” I round on him the exact instant he walks in.
Eric holds up two thick folders and flashes me a smile.
“Right here.” He walks up to the edge of the bed and gives Greg a fist bump. The interaction would make me laugh if I wasn’t so on edge I could peel my skin off. “Looking good, man.”
“Thanks,” Greg says.
“The cold case, Eric,” I say.
He hands the files over to me as he rattles off the details of the case.
“The bodies were discovered fifteen years ago at a shuttered hotel that was undergoing renovations. Two men, both in their mid-thirties, one white, one black. The medical examiner estimated they were murdered several days before they were discovered.”
“At the same time?” I ask.
“That’s what they think,” Eric nods. “They were found in two different parts of the hotel. The details are pretty gruesome.”
“What happened to them?” Greg asks.
Eric looks hesitant.
“I don’t think you need to hear all the details,” he says.
“I know this man and this organization far better than any of you do. I might be able to give you some insight. But I need to know what happened to them.”
Eric nods. I find the crime scene photos as he starts carefully describing what happened.
“The first thing that tipped the construction crew about something being wrong was a grappling hook hanging from the roof of the hotel. They went up to see if somebody might have broken in and found blood. A lot of it. That’s when they called the police. Investigators followed a blood trail on the pool deck to the edge of the pool. It hadn’t been drained when the hotel was abandoned, so it was too dark to see through the water, but they used a pool net to probe the water. The corpse floated up to the top after it was dislodged from netting tangled at the bottom of the pool.”
“Did he drown?” Greg asks.
“No,” I say, staring down at the picture of the man dragged up out of the filthy pool water. “He was tortured.”
Eric nods.
“His body showed evidence of prolonged physical assault with a sharp instrument. Likely the grappling hook. He used it to puncture and claw him until he bled to death. It wasn’t quick.”
“What about the other one?” Greg asks.
I take out another crime scene photo of a wooden box.
“Is the other body in this box?” I ask.
“Yes,” Eric nods. “After discovering the first body, the team combed the entire hotel. They found this box in the basement.”
“There are chains on it,” I observe.
“They attach to shackles,” Eric says.
Dean gets up and comes to stand beside me so he can look at the photographs with me. The next one shows the box opened. The image of the bloated, waterlogged corpse from the pool was grotesque, but what’s inside the box makes Dean cover his mouth and take a step back.
“What the hell is that?” he gasps.
“The second man was shackled inside the box. Hairs and bite marks suggest live rats were put inside with him. He was likely covered in food of some kind. His hands and feet were initially through the holes in the box but slipped inside as the rats ate through him. They were able to get out of the box.”
“Good god,” Dean mutters.
“I can see why you said the tattoos weren’t well preserved,” I note.
“To say the least. But there was enough. The one on the guy in the pool was stretched, and some of it had
already sloughed off, but the one in the box had most of it intact. He was lying on his back, and the dimensions of the box didn’t allow for a lot of movement. Something must have spooked the rats, and they got out before totally consuming him.”
“The exterminator,” I say.
“Are you giving the killer a nickname?” Eric asks.
“No. He already has one of those. I mean an actual exterminator. That’s what scared the rats away. It says right here in the report traces of insecticidal poisons were found on the box and the body. Canisters of industrial-strength foggers were in the basement. The construction crew weren’t the first people to go to the hotel after these men were murdered,” I say.
“So, an exterminator went into the hotel without noticing the grappling hook and tossed foggers down into a basement where a horde of rats were making this man into their midnight snack,” Dean offers. “Hell of a job, guy.”
“That’s what it looks like. The pool is at the back of the hotel, so it would be easy not to notice it.” I flip through the papers more and find the pictures of the tattoos. “Can’t say the same for these. There are pictures of the tattoos on the bodies and sketches of what they might look like complete.”
I look at Greg, who reaches for the papers. “Let me see them.”
He draws in a breath and squares his shoulders when he looks at the paper.
“That’s it,” he confirms. “I haven’t seen all of the different versions, of course, but I recognize details. I can draw the one that was on my back if you think that’ll help. But that’s definitely one of his tattoos.”
“But they’re still there,” Dean says. “You said Jonah removed the tattoos of the people he disposed of. Why would these men still have them?”
“I don’t know,” Greg says. “Like I told you, the only person I know of who got out of Leviathan alive other than me is Finn. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, to be honest. He would be the only person who would still have the tattoo and not be active in the organization. Mine was removed.”
