“Right. Like I didn’t see you escorting him from the crime scene.”
“You’re seeing things.”
“I saw him walking next to you, Lee. Talking to you. So come on—why are you denying it? Fill me in here or I’m going to have to make something up.”
Knack knew Lankford from a series he’d written last year about a Philadelphia cop who’d gotten loaded late one night and decided to take his service revolver and clean up his neighborhood, one thug at a time. The only problem: This cop considered a bunch of thirteen-year-olds playing a rowdy game of pickup to be “thugs.” One dead kid, two wounded, and a media shitstorm that followed. Knack, looking for a contrarian angle, focused on the insane stress on the average inner-city cop. The piece made him a lot of cop pals, including Lankford, and had resulted in a surge of goodwill that Knack was still riding.
None of that seemed to matter now. Lankford wasn’t giving up a damn thing.
And now the detective was standing up, stuffing a bunch of papers inside a manila folder, and pushing his way past Knack. “Look, Jon—you’re a nice guy. Maybe I can give you an update later, okay? Just not now.”
Knack nodded, pretending to be hurt. Not too much. Just a little.
Not too hurt to step into Lankford’s office and poke around his desk a little.
If Dark were here officially, there had to be some paperwork to that effect, right? Maybe Lankford left it out on his desk. Knack got his cell phone ready in camera mode, just in case he needed to snap something on the fly, then sat down in Lankford’s chair. If the detective happened back in, Knack could just claim to be making a call. Reception was better over here, his legs were tired, blah blah blah.
After a quick minute of flicking and pushing papers, Knack saw nothing of real interest on Lankford’s desk. But his browser on the other hand . . .
People never erased their browser histories. Knack credited at least three major scoops to a quick look at some CEO’s or cop’s Internet usage. He clicked on the history and his eyes went wide.
Knack had his serial killer handle.
chapter 28
Philadelphia International Airport
When Dark returned to the airport just before noon, he was mildly surprised to see that Graysmith was already waiting for him on the plane. She sat on a plush creamy leather seat with her legs crossed, pile of manila folders and loose papers in her lap. Graysmith must have followed him out East on another flight while he was analyzing the scene in the bar.
“You get everything you need?” she asked.
“It’s a start,” Dark said.
“What do you think about the suspect the police have in custody—this construction worker?” Graysmith asked.
Dark sat down in a seat across the aisle from her, let his head tilt back, stretched his fingers, closed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep. “Jason Beckerman? Doesn’t feel right. Wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe even a fall guy the real killer put in our path. Philly doesn’t have anything to hold him on. Plus, Beckerman seems to have a solid alibi for the night of Jeb Paulson’s murder.”
“So who’s doing it?”
“I don’t know. Don’t have enough to work with yet. I didn’t see the first two crime scenes, and I didn’t have much time with this one.”
“I think you have some ideas.”
Dark looked at her, hesitated, then said: “The killer might be imitating images on tarot cards.”
Graysmith’s eyes lit up. “I knew you had something. Okay, walk me through it, starting with Green.”
At first Dark seemed to ignore her. He took a laptop computer from the seat next to him and opened up a browser. After a few keystrokes, he turned the screen so Graysmith could see. “The Hanged Man,” Dark said. “Martin Green.”
“Jesus. It’s just like the crime scene.”
More tapping. Another tarot card image appeared.
“The Fool,” Dark said, “Jeb Paulson.”
“I’m not seeing it.”
“Rewind the murder scene a few seconds,” Dark said. “Imagine him up on the roof, ready to take a step out into the unknown, white rose in his hand ...”
Then Graysmith seemed to understand. “So he’s mocking Special Circs. Calling them fools?”
Dark shook his head. “I don’t think so. The little I do know about tarot cards is that they’re never meant to be taken literally. The Fool doesn’t mean idiot, according to this Web site. For a lack of a better term, I think it means newbie.”
Graysmith nodded. “As in, new to Special Circs. Eager, ambitious, headstrong, hungry.”
“And the girls tonight were ...”
Dark tapped, then showed Graysmith the screen. The Three of Cups card appeared. “Celebrating. Drunk with life.”
“Goddamn. How did you figure this out?”
Dark shrugged. “The girls holding their drink glasses at the crime scene was too forced, too on purpose, you know? It was a detail screaming for attention.”
“If this killer is screaming for attention,” Graysmith said, “why not make it easy and leave a copy of the card or something?”
“The victims take the place of the cards.”
“But the victims themselves don’t make sense. Take these college girls—why them? What’s the connection? First Green, then Paulson, the agent who was investigating Green. But where do these college girls fit in? What’s the next logical step?”
“I don’t know,” Dark said. “I’m not an investigator anymore. I have no idea what you want from me.”
Graysmith smiled, then moved across the plane and sat next to Dark. He looked up at her, breathing in her perfume—fresh and intoxicating. The animal part of him wanted to take her in his arms and fuck her, then sleep for days, only waking when he wanted another fix. He suspected she knew this.
She leaned forward, almost whispering in his ear. “You’ve seen, firsthand, what kind of resources I can offer you.”
“But what do you want in return?” Dark asked.
“I want you to catch the monsters.”
“Special Circs does that.”
“But Special Circs isn’t as good as you. And they’re not able to follow the job through—to give the monsters out there what they deserve.”
“Which would be what?”
“Death.”
Dark looked away. The plane was already beginning to taxi onto the tarmac. Lights streaked across the windows. Everything was beginning to make a little more sense now.
Graysmith wasn’t interested in law and order or due process. Which was why she didn’t funnel her considerable resources through the usual channels—even a division like Special Circs. No matter how clandestine, you always have to account to someone for your actions. Histories, even secret histories, had to be compiled.
She could give Dark the keys to his old life. Make him a manhunter once again. Only this time, he’d have unlimited access and a blank check. All Dark had to do was say yes.
Dark turned to face Graysmith. “What do you get out of this?”
Her eyes bored into his. “The monster who tortured and killed my sister is sitting in a climate-controlled room, eating three meals a day. He is clothed and given medical treatment, dental care. He has access to books. Writing implements and paper. He is allowed to exercise. To think. To dream. Meanwhile, my sister’s scarred body is decomposing in a cemetery somewhere. Believe me, not a day goes by that I don’t think of sending someone into that prison to slaughter that son of a bitch.”
“Why not?” Dark asked. “Maybe it’ll help you feel better.”
“It would be a selfish act. If I’m going to sell my soul to the devil, I’m going to make it worthwhile.”
“Have you made the deal already?”
“Look,” Graysmith said, “I’m simply offering you the chance to do what you do best. You found the boogeyman once, and you erased him from the face of the earth. You can do it again. And again. And again.”
“Until whe
n?”
“Until the world is safe for your daughter.”
“I can’t stop the evil.”
“Maybe not, but you can make a difference. One killer at a time.”
Dark wouldn’t admit it out loud, but that was exactly what he wanted, too.
“So what’s your answer?” Graysmith asked. “Are we in this together?”
“Yeah,” Dark said quietly, trying to push the image of his daughter out of his mind. “We are.”
IV
ten of swords
To watch Steve Dark’s personal tarot card reading,
please log in to Level26.com and
enter the code: swords.
TEN OF SWORDS
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
Sure, the guy was deep into middle age, but there was some muscle beneath a layer or two of fat. His skin scarred in places, like he’d been in combat, but strangely pale in others, like he’s had time recovering in hospitals. He was facedown on the table, and soon he would have no secrets from her.
Nikki liked that.
She liked hanging on the poles above her clients, like a nightmare goth fuck angel descending from the secret basement of heaven, ready to make their dreams come true.
This was her little theater; she was the star.
Friends would ask her, How can you touch gross old men like that? And yeah, that was the typical clientele for this place—gross, old, disgusting, rich white men, away from their wives, wanting a little rubdown from a near-model, complete with happy ending. But Nikki’s friends didn’t understand. She wasn’t out on some street, offering hundred dollar handies. She was in complete control. For thirty minutes, she totally owned these old saggy bitches. They kept no secrets from her. Not on their bodies. Not in their minds.
Discretion was highly prized at a “retreat” such as this one—a few minutes outside Myrtle Beach. Management made it clear that if one breath of what happened inside these walls made it to the outside, the penalty was instant termination, with the veiled threat of criminal prosecution.
That was okay. She liked to keep these things to herself anyway.
In return, her regular clients would reward her with lavish gifts—glittering chokers, expensive perfume, rare liquor. Nikki loved to sit up late, jacked up on cable TV, watching C-SPAN of all things. It was a strange kind of power, knowing what a U.S. senator’s face looked like when he shot off a load. Or which ones liked fingers inserted in certain orifices.
She was part of the secret power structure of the United States, the way she saw it.
And now it was showtime.
Nikki looked at herself one last time in the mirror. She loved how the kimono hung from her body, accentuating her tits and hips and promising everything, yet revealing very little. The revelation could come later. She loved when her men, lying facedown, turned their heads to steal a glance. Their reaction was priceless.
The door behind her opened. A woman stepped inside the dressing room.
“Hey, you can’t come in here.”
Nikki turned and saw that the woman was completely naked and wearing a gas mask. Long dark hair flowed down to her shoulders, and big inquisitive eyes stared through the slightly fogged-over lenses of the mask. Nikki barely had time to register the bizarre sight before the woman lifted a can and sprayed something. The mist was cold and wet on Nikki’s face and began to work immediately.
On the floor, Nikki was paralyzed, fading fast. She stayed conscious enough, however, to feel the horrible sensation of her silk robe being stripped from her body, leaving her completely naked . . . U.S. Senator Sebastian Garner, naked on the table, prepared for the only moments of bliss left in his miserable life. The only place he could relax. He breathed in the warm musk of the lit candles and waited for his girl. She always wore a silk kimono—one he bought her, in fact. Reminded him of the war. The girls of the war, that is.
Garner heard the door open behind him and smiled. He wished he could freeze time and live in the next thirty minutes forever. Let everything else fade away. The Muslim holy warriors were promised an afterlife of milk and figs and virgins. Didn’t a tireless holy warrior of Almighty Capitalism deserve something similar?
The door clicked shut. Here we go. Turn your mind off, you old fool, Garner told himself, and focus on the moment. Enjoying the living hell out of this session. He waited for Nikki’s warm smooth fingers to work their way up his back, dancing along his tired spine, working the muscles into a state of blurred relaxation.
“Hi, Nikki,” he purred.
He could hear the gentle flapping of the silk robe as it slid down Nikki’s body and fell to the floor in a soft heap. Oh, that was the best. The anticipation drove him wild. Right now he was naked on the table, and she was naked just a few feet behind him. In a matter of seconds they would come together. No need for begging, or coy bullshit like gee, my inner thighs are sore, would you rub them? Garner and Nikki had a long-term understanding. She knew what was expected of her, and he knew exactly what to expect.
Garner waited for the first touch between them.
Instead there was a pinch at the top of his neck, like a bug bite.
Garner instinctively tried to lift his hand to swat away whatever it was that had bit him, but found that he couldn’t. His right arm felt thick, rubbery, lifeless. This made no sense. He couldn’t move his right arm at all. The first frenzied thought that went through Garner’s mind: stroke. A motherfucking stroke, here of all places! How was he going to explain this? He tried his legs, his toes . . . nothing. No, no, no . . .
“Shhh,” someone whispered.
“Nikki” was the name he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring his lips together. Not in any way that could form a syllable. If he could, he’d be screaming right about now. Nikki, what the hell are you doing? Can’t you see I can’t move? Can’t you see I need help!?
Garner could still see, though. Not much. Just a tiny sliver of peripheral vision.
He saw a flash of silver. And the blur of a robe—not a kimono. This wasn’t Nikki here in the room with him. Was it a medic? Had he passed out? What was going on?
Why couldn’t he move, damn it?
Hands touched him. Rough hands. He could feel that much at least. Someone trying to help him. Thank God. Because Garner couldn’t move a muscle. He felt like a slab of beef on a butcher’s steel counter.
Where was Nikki? Who’d moved him? Garner tried to squint, to clear his vision, but he couldn’t move his eyes, either. Everything was too bright. Too loud.
Fingers moved along his spine. Poking. Searching. Pinching for a moment, then releasing. Finally the fingers seemed to find the spot they wanted.
“Hold still,” voice said. It wasn’t Nikki.
No! he wanted to scream. But couldn’t.
The first jab was brutal—painful. His muscles and bones may have been locked in place, but Garner could feel everything. The sharp tip of the dagger. The steel as it slid past his skin and muscle and worked its way deep into his body. His own warm blood bubbling up and running down the sides of his back, along his ribs.
The thing standing next to him seemed to be laughing. And it had another dagger. The thing showed it to him, sweeping a slender hand beneath its sharp tip, as if to demonstrate. “Ready?”
No, no, NO.
The fingers began searching again. Poking. Prodding. Tapping. As if counting the vertebrae.
Please no . . .
Garner heard a soft laugh. He tried to claw at the table, but couldn’t. His pain—off the charts. He was helpless as a baby. Goddamnit, why didn’t his mouth work? Why couldn’t he scream? At least a scream would be some kind of release. But there was no release. There was no escape. Only the steel pushing its way into his helpless body.
No. No more. He couldn’t take this anymore. Garner willed his eyes to move. Not much. Just a fraction of an inch to the left. If nothing else, he wanted to see who was doing this to him. He knew it couldn’t be Nikki. Not his sweet angel Nikki. Someon
e else. Some evil bitch who’d lost her damn mind, got off on this kind of thing. Garner blinked hot tears from his eyes and tried to focus, his eyeballs straining in their sockets.
He couldn’t see who was torturing him like this.
But he could see a small table, on which rested a clean white towel.
And on top of the towel were eight more daggers.
chapter 29
West Hollywood, California
Dark tore off the plastic wrap, opened the flimsy cardboard box, and shook the glossy tarot cards out onto his kitchen table. He’d picked up a set at a bookstore in Westwood on the way back from LAX. If the killer was working with tarot, then fine. Dark would immerse himself in its language. He hated working blind.
The instruction book included with the deck made great pains to state that tarot was “not fortune-telling, nor religion.” It was merely a symbolic language.
Still, the choice struck Dark as odd. Usually, leaving a tarot card was the kind of thing teenagers did at vandalism sites to panic authorities—to be all spooky. You draw a pentagram, you stab a cat, you leave a tarot card. Kid stuff. Still, Dark knew that some serious killers had tarot on the brain. He could recall two major cases. The infamous Beltway Sniper—John Allen Muhammad, along with his underage partner, Lee Boyd Malvo—left tarot cards for investigators at the scenes of his attacks. One of them was the Death card, along with a message scrawled on the back:
For you Mr. Police.
Code: Call me God.
Do not release to the press.
This card was found where Muhammad had shot a thirteen-year-old boy as he was walking to school in Bowie, Maryland. The media quickly dubbed the sniper “The Tarot Card Killer,” but it became clear that Muhammad had his fevered mind on jihad, not fortune-telling. In essence, Muhammad was acting exactly like a teenaged kid trying to be spooky.
A few years later there was the so-called Hierophant, who named himself after one of the Major Arcana cards of the tarot. He didn’t leave behind tarot cards. Instead, he took on the moral crusade of a hierophant, finding “sinners” and then executing them so that they would be discovered along with their sin. Tax cheats were found sliced up and surrounded by paper evidence of their misdeeds. Adulterers were found butchered together, in their hotel rooms. Pedophiles were found with DVDs and printouts of kiddie porn. The Hierophant killed himself before he could be apprehended. Predictably, the killer on a moral crusade was covering up for a host of his own sins, including forcible detention, domestic abuse, and embezzlement.
Dark Prophecy Page 10
