Fortunately, Dark remembered hardly any of it—even under polygraph and hypnosis. A fire, when he was a kid. A lot of yelling. Being in his room, alone.
Later, Dark was sent to a loving foster family in California. His new parents, Victor and Laura, thought they would never be able to conceive. They adopted Steve. Not long after, Laura got pregnant. Twin boys. Still, they treated Steve no differently from his younger siblings.
Years later, a monster who came to be known as “Sqweegel” butchered Dark’s foster family in the most brutal way Riggins had ever seen. Dark left Special Circs and crawled into seclusion. He only came out when Riggins forced him to—and together, they caught the maniac responsible.
And for the past five years, Dark had been back to work at Special Circs. But it wasn’t the same. How could it be? He’d lost his wife and foster family to a monster, and been pushed to the edge of sanity. The only thing that held Dark back from the brink, Riggins thought, was his daughter. Sweet, innocent little Sibby. Whom he never saw.
Now Riggins had a choice. Appease Wycoff, or fuck Wycoff.
The decision didn’t take long. He dialed Jeb Paulson’s extension. “It’s Riggins. Got a minute?”
Riggins had been at Special Circs longer than anybody. He’d seen eager new recruits—crime scene investigators who were at the top of their games back home—burn up and flame out within months. Sometimes it only took a few weeks. He hoped Paulson wouldn’t be one of them.
Riggins wasn’t exactly an optimistic man. Life had pressed his face into too many piles of shit for years now. Still, he had some hope for Paulson. He was the best he’d seen since . . . well, if he was honest with himself, since Steve Dark. The two had a lot in common. The brains. The intuition. The no-nonsense approach to their jobs.
Paulson appeared within seconds. “What’s up?”
“Agent Paulson, grab your go-bag.”
chapter 5
University of California-Los Angeles
The girl took her time approaching Dark, taking great care to not seem obvious.
Ten minutes into the faculty mixer, she started throwing glances at him. Not a lot. Just enough for him to know she existed. Then she gradually made her way across the conference room, feigning small talk with this professor, that assistant. She lingered at the carving station, where a bored pair of undergrad student workers were robotically slicing up roast beef under a heat lamp. When she pretended to finally notice him it was a fake collision—nudging his shoulder with hers, cheap chardonnay splashing around the plastic cup in her hand. “Oh! So sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Dark said.
A look of fake recognition bloomed in her eyes. “You’re Steve Dark, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“You know, I gotta say I’m surprised to see you here,” she said. “These things must bore you to death.”
Dark lied: “Not at all.”
Truth was, he stopped by as a courtesy to the department chair. If he wanted to keep teaching, he had to at least make an attempt to fit in. The last place on earth he wanted to be was in this stuffy classroom, making small talk. It was like being a returning war vet, used to the cut of the sand and endless hours of patrol and the pounding of heavy artillery—suddenly dropped back into the civilian population. But that’s what the university expected of its teachers. Even the part-time adjuncts, like Dark.
So Dark had positioned himself in a corner near the door, counting down the minutes until he could leave, when he saw this girl, making her awkward approach. Most of the faculty ignored him, seeming vaguely annoyed by his presence. Was a member of the department actually going to speak to him? Dark had seen her around the halls—her name was Blake, or something like that. Grad student and teaching assistant, here at UCLA on a full ride. Tall, fiery red hair, a spray of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. She often wore knee-high boots—the kind that looked vaguely professional, but could also fit the dress code at any SoCal S and M parlor.
“Come on,” Blake said now, smiling. “This must be like watching paint dry compared to your old job.”
“It’s a welcome break, believe me.”
“Well I don’t believe you, Mr. Dark. I’ve read a lot about you. I’ve taught you, in fact. Studied the kinds of monsters you’ve chased. And while I’m sure some of the students here give you a run for your money, there’s no comparison, is there?”
Blake smiled as she talked. Her eyes lit up—hungry for details. Go on, her eyes said. Shock me with something.
The truth was, Dark thought teaching was strange. The last time he’d stood in front of a classroom was when he’d briefed a room full of cops in Florida. An organized group of elementary school teachers had sexually molested dozens of five- and six-year-olds. The predators ensured the children’s silence by teaching them a lesson about death—taking classroom pets and slitting their throats before the kids’ stunned eyes, telling them: This is what death is. If you tell anybody what we do here, we’ll do the same to your parents.
Is that the kind of detail Blake wanted to hear? Would that pass for polite faculty-mixer conversation?
Instead Dark told her: “I like it here.”
Still, teaching had a surprising side effect: It forced him to analyze what he used to do for living. For years he’d operated on instinct. Sure, he’d had training—first the police academy, then Special Circs. Dark had studied forensics until he was mumbling about blood splatter patterns in his sleep. But the textbook stuff had no real impact on how he caught killers. When he accepted the adjunct gig at UCLA, and sat down to write his first syllabus, Dark was forced to ask himself: How do I go about catching monsters?
In the classroom, just a few hours ago, he told his students: It’s not about finding that one magic clue that will crack open the case. It’s about listening to the story the clues are telling. If you can’t solve a case, that means you don’t have enough of the story yet.
Dark knew Blake’s story right away. At the start of the faculty mixer she had been wearing an emerald engagement ring. Now the fourth finger on her left hand was bare, leaving a band just a shade lighter than the rest of her creamy skin. Soon, Blake would look for a pretense to meet with him in private—a request for help on a paper, or something.
“What brought you here, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asked.
Dark glanced over at the meat-carving station and recited the canned answer he’d come up with a few months ago. “One day I realized I’d been chasing monsters for close to twenty years, and maybe it was time to start seeing what I’d missed.”
Most people wanted a pat, easy answer. They didn’t want to think about what Dark did for a living. What it had done to his soul.
Like the fact that when he looked over at the undergrad cutting the meat, focusing on the gleaming blade dancing across flesh, all Dark could think about were the countless bodies he’d seen carved up in the same way. Men. Women. Children. Too many children. The butchers he’d chased didn’t care . . .
Stop it, he told himself. You’re not thinking like a normal human being.
You’re in a school, for fuck’s sake.
Dark was at UCLA as an adjunct—teaching an upper-level course in their criminal justice department. From elite manhunter to undergrad lecturer, all in the span of a few months. The university claimed to be thrilled to have him, but most of the criminology faculty dismissed his presence as a desperate publicity stunt. Dark was still infamous from the Sqweegel case five years ago, and the two would be forever associated in the public mind. Even the student paper had taken a jab at him, suggesting his students add a “full-body condom” to their order at the campus bookstore. Otherwise, he’ll grade your DNA, the joke went.
“Would you have some time later this evening?” Blake asked now. “I do have something I wanted to run by you—if it’s not too much of an imposition.”
“What kind of something?”
“For my doctorate. I promise, just a few minutes of your time. Di
nner’s on me.”
Dinner now. She was really stomping her boot down on the accelerator. Dark wondered if she’d already made up an excuse for her fiancé, or if she’d step aside and make one up on the spot. As she waited, Blake twirled her fingers around her hair, made her lips look the tiniest bit fuller, opened her eyes slightly wider. Dark wished he couldn’t read people so easily.
“Dinner’s out,” Dark said. “But I do have office hours after my twelve thirty this Monday.”
Blake started to move as if she didn’t hear him. “I’m going to have a little more wine. Care for some?”
Like she was trying to get him drunk at a kegger.
Dark handed her the cup. “Sure.” However, it would take a lot more than cheap chardonnay in a paper cup. Dark knew how the afternoon would play out: Ms. Blake here would go home to her fiancé, and he would go home alone. Sometimes, Dark longed to turn off the manhunter part of his brain. Even for a little while. Just drink the wine, give Blake the freak show she wanted, and blank out everything else in a blur of sex and alcohol.
But Dark couldn’t. Not with his daughter’s half-finished bedroom waiting for him.
chapter 6
West Hollywood, California
As Dark drove home from UCLA he had every intention of calling his daughter up in Santa Barbara and talking to her about paint for her new bedroom. But by the time he pulled up in front of the house, Dark realized he couldn’t just ask what color. There were thousands of varying shades; Sibby would want to see samples. So that meant going to the store, picking up a handful of paint chip palettes, then driving up to Santa Barbara. He was long overdue for a visit anyway.
Dark keyed into his front door, though, and realized it was probably too late in the evening for that. The faculty mixer had gone on too long; traffic along Wilshire sucked. By the time he made it up to Santa Barbara, his little girl would be getting ready for bed.
So instead, Dark decided to do a little studying in his basement.
Not many California homes have basements. But Dark’s home, which he’d purchased in July, was the former home of William Burnett, an infamous 1940s-era surgeon. Infamous, that is, to a handful of people in retirement homes. The rest of L.A. had completely forgotten about him.
Burnett had owned a couple of clubs on the Sunset Strip, kept the LAPD greased, and trafficked in prescription narcotics. Which made him very popular on the strip. However, such schemes rarely last forever. Dr. Burnett’s life fell apart when he started taking too many of his own pills and ended up killing a patient on the table when he clamped down on the wrong artery. The investigation lead to a dozen wrongful-death suits, and, finally, criminal charges.
Dark had discovered Burnett’s secret basement the first time he was alone in the house. The real estate agent was outside, taking a call; Dark had gone exploring. He wanted a home that could be quickly fortified, sealed up. He’d faced off against too many monsters who liked to hide in crevices.
Dark found something strange in the master bedroom. Ancient scuff marks, stained over and over again until they were almost imperceptible. Dark dropped to all fours, felt between the boards with his fingers. Definitely something off there.
But then the real estate agent walked into the room, and was instantly alarmed. “What are you doing? Is something wrong?”
“Just checking to make sure the floor is level,” Dark said. “A house this old, in earthquake country—sometimes the floors can warp.”
The agent huffed and hawed about how the house was certified level, and in total compliance with the regulations of the City of West Hollywood. Dark had let it go . . . for the moment.
Later that night, Dark returned, broke in. It wasn’t difficult. All real estate agencies used the same chunky lockbox—which was easy to pick. Dark searched the master bedroom for almost an hour before he found it—the secret latch hidden on the side of the closet light switch. Flip the latch, and the faceplate sprung open. Inside, a white plastic button. Press the button, and you heard the thump of a lock opening, under the floorboards. A hatch swung open, leading down to a secret room.
Dr. Burnett, you kinky bastard.
Nobody knew about it. Not the real estate agencies. Probably not even the previous residents, going all the way back to Dr. Burnett, who moved out in the early 1960s. If by “moved out” you mean awaiting arrest, stark naked and sweating, in the middle of your empty home.
Dark went down into the basement. It looked like a medical examiner’s office, 1950s style. Steel exam tables with drains. White metal cabinets. Tile floor with a drain. You could hose the room down easily. Dr. Burnett probably kept his stash down here.
But the exam tables?
Dark did more research. According to files buried deep within the LAPD archives, Dr. Burnett was the suspect in at least five prostitute murders in west L.A. and Hollywood during the 1940s and 1950s. Whole bodies were never found. Just parts. Dr. Burnett, a prominent Los Angeleno, was never officially charged. His name was buried in the files. No one knew. No one except Dark.
So of course he had to buy the place.
Dark flipped the latch now, headed downstairs to his research lair. He’d improved the entry system, replacing the worn old floorboards with new pieces of wood, and strengthening the doors and stairs. Yes, he’d told Riggins that he wanted to stop thinking about monsters and murders. Get on with his life.
Truth was, he couldn’t.
Dark had two desktop computers and a laptop set up on a slab with a base that used to be the good doctor’s old exam table. Three of the walls were lined with forensic books and blue binders—copies of old murder books he liberated from the Special Circs libraries over the years. Every book he’d ever read about serial killers was now on the shelves down here. When Dark had first invited his future wife into his apartment, she’d spied his collection immediately.
You got enough books on serial killers? she’d asked, nervous tremor in her voice.
I used to catch them for a living, Dark had said.
That was not long after the first time he’d quit Special Circs, after his foster family had been murdered. When Dark moved in with Sibby, he put his collection in storage. Over the past few months, however, he’d been pulling it out, one box at a time. He told himself it was to help put together his class syllabus, but he started rereading them, too. Obsessively.
The fourth wall was dominated by the doctor’s old desk, and here Dark kept his forensic supplies. There was also a doorway to another small room where Dark kept a small collection of unregistered weapons and other case files. The space, which had seemed so cavernous when he first discovered it, was now drowning in murder files. He was giving serious thought to having more space carved out. The only question was how he could do it undetected. Dark didn’t think Riggins would understand what he was doing with a room like this.
chapter 7
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
Jeb Paulson boarded the plane forty minutes after leaving Riggins’s office—a land-speed record, he thought. As a Special Circs agent, Paulson knew he had a jet at his disposal. But asking for the plane was the wrong move—there were other cases, other priorities. Riggins was expecting Paulson to figure this out himself. He briefly considered signing out a Bureau SUV and driving it down south—which would take about four hours. Three, if he punched it. But it might be faster to book a cheap, last-minute flight online. He did a search, then booked it from his cell phone on the way to Dulles. He made it through security, flashing his Federal badge, and walked up to the gate, bag in hand, with five minutes to spare.
His wife, Stephanie, loved to tease him for preparing his “go-bag,” preprogramming travel sites into his BlackBerry, and keeping a pair of pants and a dress shirt draped over a chair in their bedroom—all just in case. “You’re not James Bond,” she’d said, smiling and poking him in the ribs.
“I know,” Paulson would reply. “Sexier, right?”
“Please. You’re not even Roger Moore.”
>
“You hurt me, Stephanie. Deep inside.”
Paulson paid extra for a seat up front. Last on, first off. Waiting in line, he booked a rental car. In flight, he read everything he could about Martin Green. This was his first real case—solo. He was going to investigate the living shit out of this. Riggins had to know that his faith in Paulson would be rewarded.
You’re not a replacement, they told him. Still, Paulson couldn’t help but dream.
The legendary Steve Dark had left Special Circs in June. Paulson was sitting at his desk by August. Five years ago, while still at the FBI Academy, Paulson had clipped everything about Dark and the Sqweegel case he could find. Even files he probably wasn’t supposed to know existed. The man was fascinating. A born manhunter. Everything Paulson wanted to be—minus the tragic baggage.
But even that fascinated Paulson. To know that a man could thrive in an insanely stressful job for nearly two decades? Many men idolized sports stars—especially ones who managed to make a comeback. Paulson idolized Dark in the same way. Because no matter what, Paulson’s life couldn’t be as fucked up as Dark’s. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d learn from the man’s victories, repeat none of his mistakes. He’d do better.
A while back, Paulson had asked Riggins if they could ever meet up with Dark. You know, unofficially. Over a beer. Riggins had shaken his head and more or less told him no, never gonna happen.
Maybe that would change after Paulson proved himself in this new case.
This case wasn’t a serial killing—yet. But it was strange enough for the Chapel Hill homicide detectives to alert the FBI. At the same time, the name “Martin Green” lit up smart phones all over Washington, D.C.—Green was apparently important to a large number of even more important people. The way Paulson understood it, Green was the kind of name you heard in smoke-filled rooms, not on the evening news. And Riggins had chosen Paulson to be his point man. “That means something,” Paulson told Stephanie.
Dark Prophecy Page 3
