Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

  “Aye, he called me a few minutes back, asking me to look into it,” he explained.

  “Isn’t that what the police is for?” she asked, switching on the kettle and dragging a pair of clean jeans from the tumble dryer. “How is this your concern?”

  Sam leaned against the doorframe and shrugged, “I suppose there is more to it than a straight forward crime spree. At least, that is what Peter was trying to insinuate.”

  “How is that, then?” she asked, jumping into her tight fitting stretch jeans, muttering, “For fuck’s sake, why do they have to go back to super tight every time I wash them?”

  “Well, he said it is probably nothing,” Sam said, “that he was probably jumping the gun. He is of the mind that there is a sort of ritualistic element to the killings, given the timeframes ad locations, et cetera. I have to pick up the dossier from his home office, he says, sometime tomorrow.”

  “Still, how is it your responsibility and not that of criminal investigators?” she persisted, having not found a sound reason in his answer.

  Sam exhaled heavily. “I do not know, honestly. I just know that Peter Carroll will not elicit assistance from people like me if there was not some kind of hidden agenda, hiding behind a smokescreen of crime. He reckons that the killer, or killers, moved by a sort of pattern and that the victims were not merely part of a typical modus operandi, but that there is maybe an older and more obscure reason for the deaths of these children.”

  “I had enough of children,” she scoffed. “The last child I dealt with almost died because of my ineptitude.”

  “Rubbish!” Sam retorted. “Don’t you ever say that again, Dr. Gould. You were their savior and you goddamn know it. That young chap would have been involved whether you advised at his school or not. He, and his family, can thank their lucky stars that you even got entangled in his grandfather’s inadvertent scheme. Think of it as your calling – to save young boys and girls at the peril of the adults who cross them.”

  “Oh, Sam,” Nina sighed. “You sure do know how to romanticize utter bullshit.”

  “You should know,” he snapped. “At least I do not take responsibility for unforeseen fuck-ups because I cannot appreciate victory when I win.”

  Nina’s eyes were on fire. She did not care for his accusation, although she could find no adequate riposte. She had to concede that Sam was correct. Nina knew that deep inside she was still a teenager who never got to settle the score with her family. She knew she was, in mind, still that loser who did reprehensible things to get attention and proved her extended family right – that she would never amount to anything. More than ever, she realized that she was so convinced that she was a loser, that she could not recognize victory when she attained it. Damn, Sam was right again.

  “Your tea is getting cold,” she said blankly, and walked off. Sam smiled, not because he won the argument, but because Nina was such a graceful opponent. Before, she would claw and bristle, just like the feral kitten in the pen. Now she seemed to have matured somewhat, having learned that even an argument with Sam was not meant to degrade and belittle her. Her family had trained her temper well to see every argument as an exercise in belittlement and disdain, therefore it took her some time to adjust to Sam’s rapid wit and logical thinking.

  Coupled with his gentle respect during even the most heated arguments, Nina’s mind was re-trained to believe that opposition did not mean animosity. Then again, Sam was a journalist and a damn intelligent one at that. He was used to analyzing a rival’s knowledge and intelligence within a blink and he had the mental disposition to refute or question such challenges quicker than most people could formulate and assess the facts.

  Nina once hated that about him, even when she won, on occasion. But having seen how Sam’s annoying acumen had served her interests in the past, she soon came to respect his points of view rather than fighting it. Naturally, she would never come out and admit it, given his propensity for boasting until she regretted her compliments, but still she figured that Sam deserved to gloat. Even now, in his hard retort, he was replaying his respect and admiration for her. It was nice, Nina thought, to be revered in his eyes, rather than to be right.

  Sam drank his tea, waiting for her to cool down. He wanted to remark on how fetching her ample ass looked in the snug fit of the denims, but he was wary of her mood. She did not let him fully evaluate her demeanor. The latter, as he learned dearly before, was better to remain quiet until he could figure out what mood she was in. He did not wish to spoil their day together, although he silently wished he could have taken that shower with her.

  6

  Champion of Justice

  With Peter Carroll’s plea to Sam to help him piece together his theory of a serial killer, time was of the essence. It was especially urgent, since the latest child victim was found at the bottom of the Atlantic, off the coast of Portugal, on the same day Peter called Sam. The frequency of the killings was escalating, and it was even more alarming that the killers moved on a global scale. The bothersome case left profilers confounded, with them having no specific area to confine police investigations to, other than jurisdictions and municipalities of the scenes of the crimes.

  This made it impossible to match a pattern to the crimes in order to lockdown on a certain country, let alone cities. With their hands in their hair, authorities could not let the press find out that they had no clue where to begin in trying to launch an effective investigation. All they could do for now was to involve a few undercover and freelance agencies to do the footwork on the ground, underground and in the recesses of the black network. The latter was a worldwide phenomenon of deep web contacts utilized by certain pulse agents, spooks, who remained neutral in their intelligence gathering. They took on the work that paid highest with no moral or law-based prerequisites, making them invaluable to government agencies and high-profile politicians, for instance.

  Peter Carroll knew a few of these agents, although some have disappeared in the last years. He suspected that they vanished for obvious reasons. Their meddling mostly brought them to deliberate obscurity or a messy morgue slab, leaving the esteemed retired inspector with slim pickings. Certainly, he was not obliged to get involved, but he was the old school type of police officer. One who still believed in observing the law and protecting the community, particularly when it involved children.

  A few weeks before it was that half-asleep, half-awake state that presented him with a hazy melting pot of thoughts and distorted images, memories and solutions that brought up Sam Cleave’s face. Peter Carroll was reluctant at first, but the more he had considered the award-winning investigative journalist, the more clear it became that Sam was the man to ask for help. After all, Cleave not only possessed the skill, cunning and efficiency that won him such acclaim, but he had also been moving in more clandestine circles in the past years. He had reverted to darker realms in his reports and publications, touching on conspiracy theories and powerful, dangerous cartels. With the help of the insanely wealthy David Purdue, Cleave had become a bit of a celebrity among his enemies and allies.

  Fearless and relentless, Sam Cleave was the perfect man to help, Peter thought. There was only one problem – Peter Carroll had a good pension, but he could not afford Sam’s fees. On top of that, Peter was not even an officer of the law anymore. If he hired Sam to investigate, assist and compile a proper report for submission to television channels, he would have to spend at least a year’s dosh. And to add to the risk, he might turn up nothing or the killers could be apprehended by another country’s police. All this was clear to the retired lawman, but he was confident that Sam could bring the dark underworld point-of-view to the table, which would broaden possibilities.

  Sam drove from Oban to Benthall in record time. He hardly ever visited this side, the east coast in Northumberland, about two hours southeast of Edinburgh, and he was looking forward to seeing the old cock from the precinct again after some years. With him, in his satchel on the passenger seat, Sam brought some House
of Elrick and a bottle of Loch Ness, just in case his old acquaintance has preferences. He remembered that Peter Carroll had a thing for gin back in the day, so it was only proper.

  Driving down the road, flanked by seemingly endless blankets of green crops Sam did not have the interest to identify, he started thinking about the case files and the grotesque pictures Peter Carroll had obtained through one of his contacts still on the force. It bothered him that it was once again a child’s fate, the fate of children. Plural.

  ‘Last time it was one kid. This time there are many,’ he thought as he neared the large double story farmhouse to the right. It had a thatched roof and walls so white that they blinded Sam. At the gateposts, a sign dangled from a wooden mast.

  It read Mother’s Embrace.

  He thought about the mothers and fathers, the mourning, the loss of losing such young pups in such a hideous and malicious manner. The last child Sam had to help rescue reminded him and his friends how evil men kept no rules. He was one boy and they barely managed to keep him safe, but he was suddenly saddled with the children of the world. They were in serious peril and they were unidentified, scattered over the world. Neither he, nor anyone else could predict which one of these kids would be targeted next.

  As Sam turned into the drive, he immediately saw the cheerful Peter in the garden, completely kitted out in his gardening gloves and wellies. He waved and smiled as Sam’s 4x4 roared into the yard, motioning the directions where Sam could park. He followed the slowing truck to welcome his guest at the car door.

  “My God, Cleave, I cannot believe you came all the way, mate,” Peter merrily. When Sam presented him with the gin, both bottles, his mood escalated even more. “You didn’t!” he laughed.

  “Had no idea which one you liked, so I just brought some anyway. Not a gin man myself, so I am quite inept at what is considered good,” Sam explained.

  “Is it gin, Sam?” Peter asked.

  “Aye?” Sam answered the obvious.

  Peter laughed, slapping Sam on the arm. “Then it is good, dammit! Then it is good! Come inside!”

  The two men never knew each other outside of parties of mutual friends where they used to sit around the same table and converse in general. Sam’s best friend, Patrick, introduced the two at one such party, but they never got to know each other better apart from the light chatter on those occasions.

  “Hope you eat meat,” Peter said, as he led Sam through to his living room.

  “Aye! The bloodier, the better,” Sam replied to Peter’s delight.

  The place was rustic, but lavish. It reminded Sam of Aspen’s posh log cabins, if they could be classified as cabins, since they featured enough rooms to qualify as hotels. Most of the furniture was modest, but the wall decorations were definitely not pawnshop material. Relics similar to that which Purdue usually bought at auctions and from museums, adorned the old wallpapered walls. The gentle cadence of a grandfather clock’s ticking enhanced the peaceful atmosphere set by the large hearth, embracing a large blazing fire.

  After Peter had dished up the already prepared stew for himself and his guest, they sat down at the small dining table inside the living room where the fire was cracking.

  “Gin?” he asked Sam.

  Waving wildly, Sam gracefully refused. “Uh, no, thank you. All yours.”

  “Then I guess correctly that you would like something in a scotch?” Peter inquired.

  “Actually, and I cannot believe what I am saying,” Sam sighed, “I would appreciate some black coffee, if you have.”

  “Of course, mate. I am a copper!” Peter reveled as he paced the floor to the side table. Upon it sat several silver flasks. “Love this brew. You will appreciate the strength of this. From Bogota.”

  Sam kept his eyes on the fascinating landscape outside the window that looked north. Rolling patches of varied greens lines the hills under the hand of the grey sky with not a single taint upon it, save for the occasional raven. The coffee smelled amazing and Sam greedily accepted the hot beverage from his host.

  “Ta,” he smiled.

  “I am really pleased that you agreed to help me with this case, Sam. The case, being none of our business and all, is not conventional, and to persuade Interpol and its affiliates to the contrary, is futile, you see,” Peter started. He looked up at the journalist, sitting opposite him, waiting.

  “What is it?” he asked Sam.

  “Waiting for you before I eat,” Sam replied casually, with a bit of a shrug.

  “Oh, God, man, go ahead,” Peter chuckled. “I live alone, godless and free. There are no rules here, Sam. Dig in.”

  Sam was happy to do so. The food was splendid and the smell of burning pinecones and strong coffee provided him with no small amount of sensory pleasure.

  “Sam, do you mind if we address the reason for our re-acquaintance?” Peter asked shortly into the meal.

  “No, please, go ahead. I have been exceedingly anxious to hear your theories on it since you first told me about it,” Sam admitted. “To tell the truth, Nina found me insufferable the whole time for being preoccupied with thoughts about it.”

  “Alright,” Peter nodded. His demeanor lost a bit of its luster, given the subject he was about to tackle. “I am not going to bore you with specifics. That, you will find in the dossier, should you need to refer to it. First, I wish to clear up the matter of funding your investigation.”

  The issue carried some strain for both men, being awkward to negotiate, but they knew it had to be discussed.

  “What will your fee be in total? Provided you follow the leads I provide accordingly and report back to me as you uncover possible facts,” Peter asked, reaching for his first glass of gin.

  Sam shrugged. “Let us first determine what your theory is, Pete. Based on how you connect the facts in the dossier, I can determine what the costs involved would be. For instance, my travel and my accommodation. Small things. Tell me how far across the globe you think this thing festers. Tell me how you think this serial killer has been active under the radar for what adds up to be over two centuries. That is the bit that will establish my end of your quest.”

  Peter was slurping up his gravy while it was clear that his mind explored a quick way to explain it to Sam. Finally, he looked up, and said, “I believe that the current wave of killings coincide with an older plague of crimes committed in Ireland and England during the 17th and 18th Centuries. Similar crimes have surfaced in random texts uncovered by churches and occult organizations I have worked with throughout my career in law enforcement.”

  “Those are not in the dossier,” Sam remarked.

  “No, they are not. There are too many to trace and I speak mostly from memory when I relay this to you, my lad,” Peter admitted. “Therein lies my theory, and why I cannot bring the suggestion before my peers and their associations. It would sound preposterous, based on stuff I have learned and read in the past thirty years of homicide and violent crimes divisions.”

  “I other words, I am the man to talk to when all others will deem your notions fanciful?” Sam teased.

  “Aye!” Peter laughed. “Dead on, Sam.”

  “Ramble on, then,” Sam smiled.

  “You see, the recent four slayings all left the victims lacking practically all their blood,” Peter said.

  “Aye, it said so on the medical reports you included,” Sam affirmed. “So, are you thinking vampirism?”

  “No, not as such. Tell me, Sam, are you a religious man?” Peter inquired.

  “No,” his guest answered without hesitation.

  Peter looked satisfied. He leaned forward on the table. “Then you might be more open to the idea that a holy relic could be unholy to those who fall prey to its owner, that the act of salvation or redemption could be drenched in blood and suffering of innocents. Am I correct in my assumption?”

  “You would be correct,” Sam nodded, sipping the potent brew in his mug. “I am trained to be objective, and naturally cynical of objects believed to be
agents of goodwill. Only mankind can strive for even an iota of such an attainment, Pete. An object, in my opinion, holds no such ability.”

  At first, Peter Carroll said nothing, but he exhaled long with a warm expression on his face. He lifted his glass of gin and smiled, “I believe I have found my champion.”

  7

  Coveted

  In Glasgow, school was out for the day and the faculty left behind were either coaching sports or marking an overflow of assignments. Gracewill Primary was at the end of the road, encompassing the entire cul-de-sac. Filled until recently with parked cars of housewives waiting for their sprogs, the cul-de-sac gradually ran empty as the afternoon wore on, eventually bleeding dry, save for two vehicles. Those of Principal Willard and Miss April, the history teacher and department head.

  Grinning, as she always did, Miss April nodded her head to teachers leaving for home as her rake thin body craned over the basket of bagels in the staff room. She broke off pieces of the bagel with her slender fingers, having a gander at the newspapers of the day stacked on the side of the table. Her reddish hair was taken up in a ponytail, revealing the grotesque row of vertebrae forming bumps under her skin.

  Little bits of bread vanished between her teeth every now and then, after she rolled them between the tips of her fingers.

  “I do wish you would bite into those,” a man said behind her. “You know that smaller morsels still amount to the same roll, right?”

  “Oh, shut it,” she laughed at Principal Willard, who helped himself to a bagel as well, but proceeded to smear it with thick cream cheese that made her wince. “Ugh,” she grunted.

  “Protein,” he bragged, and took a big bite.

  “And fat, lots of fat,” she added while perusing the Herald Scotland for something of interest.