Dark Prophecy

by Anthony E. Zuiker

  “He is,” Riggins said. “But I think he’s not quite able to leave the job. The Tarot Card Killings have put the hooks in him. Only problem is, Wycoff’s not happy he’s involved. So, for our friend’s sake, we need to find him, and keep him out of harm’s way.”

  “Isn’t he in Los Angeles?” Banner asked. “So, like, he’d be easy to find, right?”

  Riggins ignored Banner and turned to Constance. “You remember Wycoff’s special little friends, right?”

  No matter how much he drank, Riggins certainly couldn’t forget them—even five years later. To Wycoff, they were probably no more meaningful than his landscapers or the people who cleaned his bathroom. But to Riggins they were nightmares personified. Five years ago, Wycoff had threatened to have Riggins killed unless he performed a certain “favor” for him. He’d backed up that threat with a black ops unit comprised of men in black silk masks and sharp needles. Wycoff called them “Dark Arts.” They were men who would kill upon demand.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Constance said. “Charming guys.”

  “Well, I don’t want them making Steve’s acquaintance. But that’s exactly what’s going to happen unless we rein him in ourselves.”

  “Right. So what do we do?”

  “Find Steve. Put him in protective custody until this tarot bullshit blows over, and Wycoff forgets about him. Catch the Tarot Card Killer.”

  Riggins thought, but didn’t say out loud: Pray to God that Dark and the TCK aren’t the same person.

  Banner paused, fork full of pancake. “So you want us to hunt the world’s best manhunter?”

  “That’s the idea,” Riggins said.

  chapter 52

  Venice, California

  The streets of Venice Beach were unusually quiet—a morning storm was gathering itself off the coast. As Dark approached the shop, paranoid thoughts raced through his mind. Maybe he should have had Graysmith do a background search on Hilda. His gut told him to trust her, but his gut was a weird little organ sometimes. Dark knew he might be walking into a trap.

  Still, Dark opened the door and stepped inside. Only this time, a strange face waited for him inside at the circular reading table. Dark hair, haunting eyes, and a narrow frame.

  Dark said, “I’m looking for Hilda.”

  “Heeeelda,” the woman repeated, turning the name around in her mouth. “I’m sorry—I don’t know whom you are speaking about?”

  “The woman who owns this place?” Dark asked. “She was just here a few days ago. I came in for a reading.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Steve Dark.”

  The strange woman’s expression changed. So did her accent, which vanished instantly. “Sorry about that. You had the look of a cop about you. Hilda called me up the other day. She didn’t say why, just that she needed me to mind her shop for a few days.”

  “Did she leave a number? It’s very important that I reach her.”

  “No,” the woman said. “But maybe I can help you. I am very skilled with the cards. Hilda herself guided me during my earliest readings.”

  She took Dark by the hand, practically pulled him into the shop, guided him to a chair, sat him down, started shuffling the cards. Somehow the shop looked different without Hilda inhabiting it. The candles seemed like mere props. The counter? Full of junk to sell to tourists. Suddenly Dark was in just another tarot shop in Venice Beach. Five bucks to tell you your fortune, your future. Then you could wander back out and hit a college bar on Abbot Kinney, do some shots, ponder your fate.

  “What’s your name?” Dark asked.

  “I am Abdulia. Don’t you want a reading? I told you, I am very skilled.”

  “No, I don’t want another reading. One’s plenty. I just need answers.”

  “Then please, sit.”

  This woman wasn’t Hilda. She didn’t recognize him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

  But Abdulia surprised him by saying, “You’re wrestling with fate.”

  “Yeah,” Dark said. “You might say that.”

  “I don’t know what Hilda may have told you,” Abdulia said, “but let me give you some advice. On the house. Many men have driven themselves insane trying to fight their fates, to change their destinies. But that’s foolish. Fate is bigger than you can possibly imagine. You cannot veer from the path it has assigned you.”

  “So what then?”

  “You do your best to embrace it. That is the only way to peace, my friend. The only way.”

  chapter 53

  Dark climbed behind the wheel of the Mustang and rocketed through the streets of Santa Monica feeling more confused than ever. The peace that Hilda had seemed to have given him was shattered. Even more troubling: Where was Hilda? What caused her to suddenly bolt from Venice Beach? Dark called Graysmith.

  “I need you to find someone for me. Her name is Hilda.”

  “Hilda what?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you have a phone number or a social?”

  “Just a business address. She owns a shop on Venice Beach. At least I think she owns it. The place is called Psychic Delic. If you can check the lease on the property, you might dig up an owner’s name, and then—”

  Graysmith sighed. “Please don’t tell me you’re consulting a board-walk tarot-card reader on this case. Because you know, we can do a whole lot better. I can put you in touch with tarot experts at the best universities. Experts who have been studying the world of the occult their entire professional lives.”

  “That’s nice and all, but I like to work it street level.”

  “Who is she? What did she tell you?”

  “Just help me find her. Trust me, she’s important.”

  Graysmith sighed, like she was disappointed, but resigned to the task at hand. Find this woman named Hilda, who could be pretty much anywhere in Southern California

  “Hilda, Psychic Delic. Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  The line stayed open for a few more seconds. Dark didn’t know what else to say, and apparently neither did Graysmith. Finally the cell disconnected the call. Dark tossed the phone into the passenger seat, pressed down on the accelerator. Graysmith would find Hilda. She’d no doubt compile a deep, invasive profile in no time. Which was good. Because Dark had a feeling that Hilda was the only one tapped into the real story. Graysmith may have the secret world at her fingertips, but she couldn’t tell him what Hilda knew.

  Dark thought about the cards she’d so casually laid down on the table. In all of the cases he’d ever worked, never had it been laid out so clearly, so simply. Hansel and Gretel were dead. Here were the bread crumbs.

  Of course, he had more than bread crumbs.

  He knew the next card:

  The Wheel of Fortune.

  Think like the killers. You’ve dealt the card, and you’ve interpreted it. Just like Abdulia said: Embrace your fate. So how would the killers interpret the next one?

  The Wheel of Fortune, Hilda had said, was one of the trickier cards in the Major Arcana. The card about destiny, a turning point that could swing either way at a moment’s notice. Like when Dark met Sibby, at random, in a Santa Monica liquor store. The Wheel of Fortune, Hilda argued, was at play there. A chance meeting that had changed both lives forever.

  Did that mean trying to guess the killer’s next move was as futile as trying to guess the next number on a roulette wheel?

  No.

  The killers were working on some kind of pattern. These were not random. These meant something to them.

  Dark’s mind went back to Graysmith’s computerized map of the country, on which she’d pinpointed the murders so far. There was no discernable geographic pattern, no focal point from where the killers would strike. Dark tried visualizing the killers, whoever the fuck they were, slapping the cards down on a giant map of the United States, nodding at each other, murmuring in agreement as they—

  And then it hit him. Son of a bitch.

  Why hadn’t
he seen it before?

  VII

  wheel of fortune

  To watch Steve Dark’s personal tarot card reading,

  please log in to Level26.com and

  enter the code: fortune.

  WHEEL OF FORTUNE

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Kobiashi wanted room service now. He dropped enough coin in this place to have simple requests such as a pile of fresh towels, a magnum of Cristal, and a stack of pornographic DVDs to be delivered to his room immediately. But it had been five minutes; two minutes longer than he’d expected and three minutes away from the order becoming pointless. Kobiashi was restless. When you reach your seventies, every moment counts. He was about to pick up the room phone when there was a timid knock knock knock at the door.

  Good. He would have someone to yell at in person.

  But when the door opened, a woman was jabbing a gun at the side of his head, forcing him back into the room. She kick-slammed the door behind her.

  “You’re a gambling man, aren’t you,” she said.

  Kobiashi was in shock. “Wait . . . what?”

  “I said, you’re a gambling man. True?”

  Immediately Kobiashi understood. He’d been too public. Someone had taken note of him. He was being robbed. Oh God, he was being robbed.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Kobiashi stammered. “I won’t say a word. I can make it worth your while.”

  “Shhh, now. You’re a gambler, yes?”

  “I’m a businessman ...”

  “Who visits Las Vegas at least a half dozen times a year,” the woman finished for him.”

  “Please.”

  “Do you recognize this type of gun?”

  “No, no, please.”

  “This is a .44 caliber Smith and Wesson. An American weapon. We’re in all-American Vegas, so I figured we’d need an all-American weapon.”

  “Please leave my room, I beg of you. You can have the cash in my wallet. I have a lot in there.”

  The woman shook her head. “No, no, no, Mr. Kobiashi. You don’t understand. The management sent me. I’m here to help you play the ultimate high-stakes game. You like to take chances, no? That’s why you attract all of those crowds. They love to watch a high roller.”

  “Please—”

  She was moving around him, fingertips touching his shoulders, gently sliding across the area between his shoulder blades, gun still in her other hand. “You’ve heard of Russian roulette, right?”

  “No ...”

  “Haruki. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “Take off your pants.”

  “What?”

  The woman frowned. Moved the gun closer to Kobiashi’s face. Ran the barrel up his nose until it was pointed directly at his right eye. Kobiashi shuddered. He’d never seen something so deep, so fearsome. He knew he’d forever associate the smell of oiled metal with the smell of death. That is, if he was to live through this night.

  “Okay, okay, I’m taking them off. I’m taking them off!”

  As he unbuckled his pants, the woman continued speaking, massaging Kobiashi’s face with the gun.

  “Did you know there’s a Japanese version of Russian roulette? Sounds crazy, but it’s true. High school kids play it. Only it’s not bullets. It’s sex. The kids get together and have sex with each other—no condoms, no pills. They don’t stop until each boy has done every single girl, and vice versa. Every prick in every different hole.”

  “Please . . .”

  “Now the thing is,” the woman continued, “some of the girls will be fine. It’s their time of the month, or they’re not ovulating, or whatever. Unless these boys have given them crabs or the clap, they’re totally fine. But some of the other girls—the ones whose cycles are lined up just right . . . well, they might get pregnant. Bang. They lose. Thing is, these kids aren’t dumb. They’ve prepared for it, actually. They all put in a bunch of yen, like five thousand each, and they call it insurance. If one of the girls becomes pregnant, they take some of the insurance and use it to pay for an abortion. Do you believe that? And this is your country, Haruki.”

  His pants were off now. “I agree, it’s horrible.”

  “Playing stupid games with a potential life like that . . . a total innocent . . . God, it’s just ...”

  “Horrible. Please ...”

  “No, it’s not horrible. You know what it is, Haruki? It’s cheating. That’s not the way you play Russian roulette. You play for keeps. Put all of the money in the world in the pot, it doesn’t matter. The ultimate gamble is where you put your own life on the line. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Good,” the woman said. “Then let’s play.”

  The woman guided his old, naked body into a chair, then pulled a desk chair up close so that she could sit merely inches away. She cracked open the revolver and showed him that the cylinder was empty. Kobiashi felt himself flush with anger. All this time . . . an empty gun?

  But before he had a chance to react, she pulled a single bullet from a pocket in her maid uniform, slid it into a chamber, then slammed the cylinder shut and pressed the barrel up against Kobiashi’s forehead.

  “One bullet. Five chances to live. You ready?”

  “No! Don’t do this!”

  But the gambler in Kobiashi weighed the odds. They were in his favor. He could strike this crazy bitch in the face and even if she managed to pull the trigger, odds were she’d click on an empty chamber.

  Was he willing to take that risk?

  She took the choice out of his hands.

  She pulled the trigger and—

  Click.

  Nothing.

  A million beads of sweat broke out on Kobiashi’s forehead. He exhaled, and it was the sweetest, most exhilarating sensation in the world. But once again, before he could make a move, the bitch had the gun open and now added a bullet to the mix.

  “You’re a lucky man,” she said, spinning the cylinder. “So let’s up the ante.”

  The gun went to his forehead. Kobiashi couldn’t help but freeze in terror at the gaping hole before him. Two out of six. A one in three chance of death. Those were not good chances at all with so much on the table. Namely, his life. And then—

  Click.

  No relief this time. Only rage and fear and a sick feeling that his life was slipping through his fingers and there was nothing he could do about it except watch as she loaded yet another bullet into the cylinder, spun it, clicked it shut.

  “Now the game gets interesting,” she said. “But you like these kinds of odds, don’t you? You like living on the edge. But who cares what you’ve laid on the line? You’ve got plenty money where this came—”

  Click.

  “STOP IT, GODDAMNIT!” Kobiashi screamed. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”

  As she added still another bullet, the woman said, “It’s not you, my dear Kobiashi. You’re just an example. Could have been anybody. You just came to our attention.”

  The barrel of the revolver returned to his sweat-slicked forehead.

  “Four bullets now. The odds are suddenly in the house’s favor, wouldn’t you say? How lucky do you feel, Mr. Kobiashi? Are you in your comfort zone yet?”

  “PLEASE DON’T, PLEASE DON’T, PLEASE DON—”

  Click.

  The adrenaline was nearly blinding him now, rendering him deaf. He hardly saw her load the weapon with a fifth bullet, barely heard the spin of the cylinder, the awful horrible sickening click of it snapping back into place. Hardly felt the cold steel pressed up against his face.

  But Kobiashi was able to see the cylinder, and the empty chamber outside the gun, away from the firing pin. You didn’t have to be able to count cards to know that this meant only one thing.

  There would be no more clicks.

  Haruki Kobaishi knew that any moment now he could die. And as it turned out, he didn’t even hear
the cl—

  chapter 54

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Dark looked up at the towers of the old Vegas hotel. They tried to blaze bright in the night sky, but it was no match for its brighter, gaudier, louder, slicker cousins. Dark knew that back in the day—the Howard Hughes days, the days between RFK buying it at the Ambassador and Watergate—this grand old Egyptian-themed casino was an elaborate CIA front. What better way to funnel money to various operations around the world than a casino? You had a constant drunken swirl of tourists, sex, slot machines, drugs, gluttony, and nothing but sand and mountains as far as the eye could see.

  Many people thought Vegas was a glitzy mirage-turned-real, powered by cold, hard American cash and sheer can-do American spirit.

  But Dark knew the truth. It was just an awfully convenient location for an amazing number of deals, white and black, overt and covert—then, just like now.

  Which was why Graysmith had little trouble making a few phone calls and laying the place wide-open for Steve Dark. Her colleagues had their fingers all over the Strip; it didn’t take much to gain access.

  The amazing part was that Dark’s hunch had been right. The Wheel of Fortune card, laid down smack dab in the middle of the American Southwest. Where else but Las Vegas? Just thirty minutes ago he’d told Graysmith over the phone: “I’m taking a charter to Vegas. I think that’s where this Tarot Card Killer is going to strike next.”

  “How do you know that?” Graysmith asked.

  “The guy’s working geographically. Like he’s laying the cards down on a map of the United States. He’s already worked through the cross on the East Coast. Now he’s headed west.”

  “That’s shaky—at best,” Graysmith said. “Even if you are right, each tarot reader uses a different layout. How can you be sure he’s laying those cards down in Nevada? Maybe he’ll strike next in Europe while we’re dicking around in the desert.”