“We will do as you say, father,” the clone said, “The Grand Goal will continue. We will learn from this.”
“Of course you will,” Carlson said.
He gave them a cool smile. They didn’t realize that he had already begun moving his assets, preparing his new identity. And they had just willingly handed themselves over to him. He just needed to put a bow on it and hand it to the authorities.
Forty-Four
Graves’ boss, Parker, did not look happy to see them. Technically he was Harley’s boss, too. Though since she didn’t expect to be under his thumb for very long, she didn’t feel any need to act like it. Since he didn’t act like he had any respect for her, she wasn’t going to go out of her way to make life pleasant for him, either.
For example, at the moment he was perched behind his big, oak desk, giving her a look that would have made any ordinary subordinate piss himself. But then, most subordinates wouldn’t have taken off their prosthetic leg and dropped it on aforementioned desk and start scratching the stump it was just removed from.
The only thing that could have made it better was if she had stepped in dog shit earlier. The grounds around the FBI headquarters was kept remarkably clear of canine fecal matter, though.
She could almost feel the waves of heat coming off Graves' face. He sat primly, hands folded on his lap, lips pressed in a thin line. The boss man's eyes flicked from the leg to Graves. She saw Graves stiffen under the ocular assault. Can’t you keep her under control?
She let her gaze wander around the office. It was done with nice wood paneling. A bit dark for her tastes, but maybe Parker was going for the manly look. Framed pictures of Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush hung from the wall. A U.S. flag stood on a pole behind Parker. His polished dance floor of a desk was mostly bare. A black laptop and a thin file folder were the only things on it. Seemed like a shame to waste all that space. Though it probably wasn't wasted in Parker's mind. For him, the desk no doubt had an intimidation factor that helped him keep subordinates in place.
My desk is huge and made of the murdered corpses of ancient trees, therefore my importance is far greater than yours, who, if you're lucky, have a pitiful Formica-topped desk made of flimsy metal. Bwah, ha, ha, ha!
It even smelled old and stuffy in the office. Like Parker was the formaldehyde stuffed, reanimated corpse of bureaucracy everywhere. Small minded people who thought order was more important that people’s lives.
Which was why her fake leg, with its worn and dirty shoe, was sitting on the jerk's shiny desktop.
Parker’s eyes went back to her leg. His jaw worked. She could almost see the thoughts grinding out behind those furrowed brows. If I tell her to take that disgusting thing off my desk and she doesn’t, what do I do then? I don’t want to touch it? Could I order Graves to do it?
She let him stew for a few more seconds, then pulled it off the desk. He winced as the shoe scraped on the shiny desktop. She pulled the cup back over her stump.
“Ah, that’s better,” she said, “Those things itch like hell after a while.”
Parker folded his hands in front of him and tried to compose his face into a stern expression. Rather than just pissed off and annoyed. She knew a lecture would be coming from Graves later–You’re pissing this opportunity away, Kam–but she didn’t care. Walt knew as well as she did that she didn’t have any permanent place in the FBI. Once this case was done, so was she.
“Agent Harley,” Parker said, “What progress have you and Agent Graves made on the Grim Reaper case?”
She studied him for a moment. The bastard knew exactly how much progress they were making. Which was zilch. Even with the corpse, they had next to nothing. She settled back in the chair, feigning a relaxed pose. Was it finally coming? Was he going to kick her out now?
“Well, as you know, sir, we don't seem to have diddly-squat," she said, "The body hasn't yielded anything useful. Fingerprints and DNA aren't on file anywhere. The guy's face doesn't match any known criminal database. In fact, his face is so nondescript, that the NSA computers are coming up with all kinds of false matches. They're running all publicly available video feeds through their software and coming up with nothing. Of course, the Reaper–and his clones as well–are apparently masters of disguise and misdirection."
“Do you have any indication of how many clones there actually are?” Parker asked.
Harley shook her head. Her damned toes tingled on her lost leg. She hated it when they did that. She resisted the urge to scrape her fake foot against the desk.
“We haven’t received any information from Reaper Prime,” she said. It was a stupid name, but the fibbies seemed to like it, so it stuck.
“It’s been two weeks since we acquired the corpse,” Parker said, “And he hasn’t made contact with you. Why is that?”
She couldn't keep herself from frowning. Idiot. “The Reaper didn’t exactly leave us his phone number,” she said, “He said he’d be in touch. Right now we’re working off a couple theories.”
“And those are?” Parker asked.
She raised her hand and held up an index finger. “One, the clones have already killed him–in which case, we’re probably screwed. Or–” she raised her middle finger, “two, he still thinks he can figure out how to keep himself from getting caught. In which case he’ll contact us once he has the details worked out.”
“I don’t understand why he doesn’t just try to work an immunity deal with us,” Parker said, “Under the right circumstances, we could set him up with a new identity if he turned over the clones to us.”
Harley somehow managed to keep the rage that boiled up from bursting out. Immunity deal? The fucking son of a bitch wanted to work out a deal with the Reaper? It left a taste like ashes in her mouth. They were actually contemplating letting the guy get away with the things he did? Set him up in some nice, quiet suburb like an ex-mafioso?
“You do remember that this man is a serial killer, don’t you?” Harley asked through clenched teeth, “Possibly the most prolific serial killer in history.”
Parker’s expression didn’t change. He still looked like a condescending prick. “We are aware of it, agent Harley,” he said, “We’re also aware of the consequences of having thousands of his clones running amok. It comes down to simple math and what will produce the greater good.”
“You want to get into bed with the devil to save the world,” Harley said.
Parker nodded. “If that’s what it takes to save more lives, then yes,” he said, “If he were to take us up on the offer, then he would have to be monitored the rest of his life. We couldn’t have him randomly killing citizens on our watch. But we think it would be a small price to pay for his life. And perhaps he might be useful for overseas operations.”
Harley sat, blinking in stunned silence. Not only were they thinking of giving him a new identity, but they wanted to use him as an assassin, too?
“Holy crap,” she whispered, “I don’t know who’s more evil. Him or you.”
Parker’s frown deepened. He leaned forward, pressing his hand flat on the shiny desktop. “What I do is for the protection of my country, Ms. Harley,” he said, “Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
She glanced at Graves, but he stared straight ahead, his face like stone. Did he feel the same way? His heart couldn’t be as cold as this bastard’s, could it?
“You people think you can contain him, but you can’t,” she said, “He said it himself. He’s smarter than all of us. He won’t make a deal with you–or if he did, he wouldn’t honor it. He doesn’t see us as equals. He sees us as cattle. Amusements or annoyances, depending on his mood. And I can guarantee you one thing. He will never stop killing. Ever.”
Parker shrugged. And with that shrug, he crystallized the resolve in Harley. They weren't working together for a common purpose anymore. No matter what he said or did from every following moment, she would know what was in his heart.
“We have to do what we have
to do to secure our country,” Parker said, “One of him is less of a threat than an army of him.” His hand moved to the folder in front of him and patted it. “This is the final forensics report on the clone.” He opened the folder.
Harley stifled a sigh. There wasn’t anything in there she hadn’t already seen. She’d badgered the lab techs into giving her the reports weeks ago. She settled back into the chair and listened to him drone on.
“There was nothing useful in the clone’s stomach. His diet seemed to consisted of fruits and nuts, no meat. Quite healthy overall.”
“The benefits of clean living,” Harley said.
Parker gave her a look. Probably looking for sarcasm. She didn’t try to hide the contempt on her face. Yes, asshole, you are wasting my time. Parker’s eyes narrowed, then he looked back down at the thin report.
Parker ran down a list of other things she already knew. She shifted in her chair. Dude needed to get to the damned point. She shot at glance at Graves. He was sitting stiff as a board. The muscles along his jaw were working, though. He was getting pissed too. What was Parker working himself up to?
Parker finally ran out of things on the forensics report. He closed the file folder. The thinness of it was a testament to the Reaper’s skill. Most serial killers had entire file cabinets devoted to them.
"We've sent composite photos of the subject–with and without the facial prothesis–to every law enforcement office in the country," Parker said, "They've been told this is the highest alert possible. Every cop and two-bit sheriff from coast to coast knows this guy's face by now. What I want to know is: why haven't we caught even a single one of these clones?"
Harley clenched her jaw. Dickhead wasn’t asking a question. He was making an announcement. And taking his sweet time getting to it.
“We need one of these clones,” Parker said, “We need him alive and talking.”
“You think one will rat out the others?” Graves asked.
“I know he will," Parker said, "That was our boy's big mistake. Serial killers don't play well with others. It's very rare for serial killers to work in teams. For a long time, we thought the Reaper was more than one individual. Even a group."
“He is now,” Harley said.
Parker gave her a glare. She returned it. If Graves hadn’t been sitting beside her, she might have given Parker a middle finger to go with it. But for the sake of whatever career Graves hoped to salvage, she’d play nice. Sort of.
Parker placed his hands flat on the desk. “From your report, we know that the clones are likely conspiring against Reaper Prime,” he said, “And it will only be a matter of time before they’re conspiring against each other also. Somewhere they’re going to surface. We’ve had an alert out for unusual patterns of disappearances, unusual deaths. These individuals enjoy killing. They’re not going to stop hunting.”
“So what are you wanting us to do?” Harley asked, “Graves and I have been tracking down every lead we could. So far nothing. So what now?”
Parker steepled his fingers. His eyes were glittering and a slow smile spread across his lips.
“It’s time to set a trap,” he said, “And we have the perfect bait. The kind that will be catnip to these guys.”
It was very clear in those wicked eyes of his what he was thinking. Harley sat up straight. “Now just a dang minute,” she said.
“I have a new assignment for you, Agent Harley,” Parker said.
Shit.
Forty-Five
The call came at three in the morning. The phone on Harley’s nightstand sang a snippet of a George Thorogood song at full blast, while buzzing across the scratched pressboard top. She rolled over, fumbling for the blasted thing. Her arm got tangled in the sheets and she cursed, flinging them aside.
Head fuzzy with sleep, she finally got a hold of the phone and brought the screen up to her eye. Unknown Caller. Of course. She thought of throwing the phone across the room. The fibbies would probably get pissed though. It was one of their special phones with all kinds of tracking shit in it.
She sighed and hit the answer button. If it was a wrong number, she could have Graves track the person down so she could go beat the crap out of them.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Detective Harley.”
She sat bolt upright, instantly awake. The Reaper. She would never forget that voice.
“You recognize my voice, detective?” the Reaper said.
“What do you want?” she said.
She pulled the phone away from her ear and put it on speaker. She brought up the FBI’s tracking app. Already a signal was on its way to wherever their central computers were. Fancy software was supposedly busy tracing the signal, tracking it back to its source. A green outlined map of the United States appeared on the screen. A blinking red dot indicated her position.
“It’s not a matter of what I want, detective,” the Reaper said, “But a matter of what we want.”
“And what do we want, you piece of shit?” she said.
"It is an interesting question, isn't it?" the Reaper said. His voice was calm and measured. Almost soothing. She knew the phone was recording the conversation, sending it to those big ass computers, too. It would start running the voice through zillions of other voice scans, looking for a match.
“Not really,” Harley said, “Because there isn’t anything we want.”
“Oh, perhaps there is,” the Reaper said, “After all, we both want to stop my clones, don’t we?”
“I don’t really see any difference between them and you,” she said, “So my goal is to take you all down.”
“Yes, you being a law enforcement type, you want to see all the bad guys locked up,” the Reaper said, “But have you ever wondered why?”
She blinked. What? She rubbed at her face and tugged at the oversized Metallica t-shirt covering her. Could she keep the asshole on the line long? She wasn’t going to be able to put up with much of his philosophical crappity crap.
“Do you have some kind of point?” she said, “It’s three in the morning and you’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”
“Hmmm, a little late for that, isn’t it?” the Reaper asked.
She flipped off the phone. “Who’s fault is that? Get to the point you micro-peckered momma’s boy.”
“You’re fishing for insults, detective,” the Reaper said, “But let us get back to the question of what we both desire. Are you ready to begin the journey, detective Harley?”
She ran her hand through her hair. The little map on the screen was still just showing her location. What was taking so long?
“Whatever,” she said, “Are you finally ready to start giving us some actual information?”
A decade of silence and now the jerk couldn’t shut up.
“I didn’t call to socialize,” the Reaper said, “You have something I want. I have something you want. Shall we make an exchange?”
She grew still. Now they were getting somewhere.
“What do you want?”
“I want you and your fellow law enforcement minions to feign ignorance,” he said, “And I need you to protect the fact of my involvement from as many eyes as possible.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Right now I am your link, your lifeline to the clones,” he said, “If something were to happen to me, the task of finding them would become so difficult as to become impossible.”
“You’re fucking asking for protection?” Harley asked, “Like in the witness protection program?”
The Reaper laughed. “Hardly. I will take care of my own protection, detective,” he said, “I am asking you to suppress the events of what happened in Bennie’s Garage that night. Specifically, I am requesting you to spread a false story that removes my presence from the story. My clones are very clever. They are trying to learn more about that night. They want the official reports, which would reveal my participation.”
“So why shouldn’t we let them kill you?” Harley aske
d, “Seems to me we should be shouting all of this from the rooftops.”
“Perhaps, but it isn’t your choice to make, is it?” the Reaper said.
Harley stared at the phone and its stupid, blinking red light. Why wasn't it her choice? She didn't have a career anymore. There wasn't anything that said she had to play by anyone's rules.
“And without my help, it will be much more difficult to capture my clones,” the Reaper said.
The more she thought about it, the stupider cooperating with this jackass sounded. He was just trying to get the FBI and every other law enforcement agency in the country to bend to his will and do his bidding.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said.
“What?”
There was a tone of surprise in the Reaper’s voice.
“I’m not going to help you. So go fuck yourself,” she said, “I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait!” the Reaper said, “What if I could give you all of them, all at once?”
Her hand paused over the phone. Slowly she pulled it back. “What do you mean?”
“Since my home base shall soon be compromised, I am arranging a new location,” the Reaper said, “I am trying to convince the clones to come together for a meeting. All of them, all in one location at the same time. What is that worth to you?”
It’s not worth your freedom, you piece of shit. She bit her lip. Or was it? The original Reaper was still compromised. They knew his face–or a version of it. If they could get all the clones at once…
“Keep talking,” she said.
“I’m offering a once in a lifetime opportunity,” the Reaper said, “The biggest bust ever. It would put your career back on track, take you to the top even.”
“I don’t care about that crap,” she said, “I want you and all of you clones locked up. Or dead. Dead would be even better.”
“I understand,” the Reaper said, “I feel exactly the same about all of you.”
The Devil's Army Page 14
