Dark Prophecy

by Anthony E. Zuiker

  What tripped Riggins up were the whys.

  Why the fuck was Dark doing all of this?

  On some level, Riggins understood. He’d been through a living nightmare not once, but twice. Two families slaughtered, essentially, in front of his very eyes. Anyone could snap. Let alone someone with Dark’s genetic makeup.

  So why?

  Why wait five years to launch this spree? Was he just playing along, catching minor monsters while plotting his own masterpiece when the time was right?

  All the beers they’d drunk together, food flipped on grills, late-night talks about life and God and fate and everything else . . .

  Fuck it.

  The whys could wait.

  The mission now was to take Dark off the board.

  Let someone else psychoanalyze him, study him, poke and prod him, whatever. The only thing he owed the world was putting Dark somewhere he couldn’t hurt anybody. If you looked back at the balance of their lives together, the people they’d saved, the monsters they’d caught—it would be enough. It would have to be.

  chapter 61

  Dark leaned away from the image on the flat-screen monitor as if she could reach out and slice his throat.

  It was Abdulia. The second tarot card reader. Five bucks, tell you your fate. There is no escape from your fate. It’s bigger than you. “I know her,” Dark said quietly.

  “The killer?” Graysmith snapped, reading over his shoulder. “Who is she?”

  “I think her name is Abdulia. She was in a tarot card shop in Venice Beach, but I’m sure that she’s moved on by now.”

  “She must have been tracking you, too, just like Paulson,” Graysmith said. “Your name, after all, has been all over the news.”

  “Damnit,” Dark muttered as he realized it was true. He’d even given Abdulia his whereabouts when he called to Hilda the night before and left her a voice message. He’d even left an exact time. Dark felt a knot of unease in his stomach. By merely visiting Hilda’s shop on a whim, he’d put the poor woman in the crosshairs of a psychopath. How long had Abdulia been watching Dark? Since his visit to the Appalachian Mountains? Since Philadelphia? D.C.? Apparently she had watched Dark just like she’d watched Jeb Paulson. Saw him at one of the crime scenes. Followed him back to L.A. ...

  But how? How could she follow Dark and still pull off this series of murders?

  Graysmith began typing furiously on her laptop. Dark assumed she was plugging the name “Abdulia Maestro” into every secret search engine she could, and within minutes she’d have the woman’s complete history on the screen—date of birth, social security, education, immunizations, voting records, tax filings, medical, dental, vision records, everything. Everything except the most important thing.

  Why.

  “I’ve got it,” Graysmith said. “Finally, a real connection.

  Dark turned around, snapping out of his reverie. “What is it?”

  “Abdulia Maestro and the nurse—Evelyn Barnes. They met each other, at least once. Barnes cared for Maestro’s sick child. A boy, terminal case of bone cancer. He died last year.”

  “In Wilmington?”

  “Yeah. The children’s hospital.”

  “If Abdulia believed that Barnes was to blame for her boy’s death, then there’s our motive.”

  “But what about the previous cards?” Graysmith asked. “What’s the point? Why Martin Green? Why Paulson? Why the girls in that bar? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Abdulia’s telling a larger story. Everyone she killed was for a reason.” Dark remembered her words in Hilda’s tarot shop. Abdulia had told him directly she was embracing her fate.

  Then he remembered his original theory about the killer working as part of a team. Abdulia couldn’t be doing this alone. There would be too many miles to cover.

  Dark asked, “She had a boy—is she married?”

  With a flurry of keystrokes, Graysmith started cracking open files. Indeed, Abdulia had a spouse: Roger Maestro. Graysmith downloaded sealed military records, juvenile criminal records, all based in Baltimore where he’d grown up an angry, mean dude. Construction worker. She speed-read the basics to Dark. Roger had married Abdulia seven years ago; had their only child, a boy, one year later.

  “I’m pulling up everybody connected to the boy’s death—doctors, other nurses, case workers, everybody.”

  “Did you say he was a construction worker, based out of Baltimore?”

  “Yeah.”

  The mention of Baltimore tripped a circuit in Dark’s mind. He thought about his trip to Philadelphia. “Has Roger Maestro ever worked a job with someone named Jason Beckerman?”

  “The suspect in Philly,” Graysmith mumbled. “Goddamnit. Let me check the union records ...” More frenzied typing. “Yeah. For most of the past year.”

  That was it, Dark thought. Roger Maestro had killed those girls in the West Philly bar posing as his coworker Jason Beckerman. The two men probably had an almost identical build; Maestro could easily have hand-picked him out of the whole construction crew. Before heading out to the bar, though, he’d stopped by Beckerman’s room (at around nine, just like the second witness had reported), dosed him, taken some of his clothes, then headed out. Beckerman would be out until morning. By that time, the Philly PD would be knocking down his door, and Roger Maestro would be long gone.

  They had the names of the killers. They even had the next card:

  The Devil.

  The image on the card was of two lovers, stark naked, heavy chains looped around their necks, both of them tethered to a pedestal, on which sat a cloven-hoofed, winged, and horned monstrosity. One hand raised in a strange split-fingered salute; the other lowered with a flaming torch in its grasp.

  So if the naked lovers were Roger and Abdulia—who was their tormentor?

  “Do you see any religious affiliation?” Dark asked.

  Graysmith tapped more keys. “Roger was raised Catholic.”

  “The son’s burial?”

  “Catholic cemetery. Last rites given by a priest—Father Warren Donnelly.”

  “In Wilmington, Delaware, right?”

  Dark thought about the layout of the tarot cards on a map of the United States. The Celtic cross in the East was finished; no reason for the Maestros to return. The next three cards—the Devil, the Tower, Death—would be placed out here, in the West.

  “Wait . . .”

  “What?” Dark asked.

  “He’s since been transferred—to Saint Jude’s in Fresno, California.”

  And then the back doors of the van suddenly popped open.

  chapter 62

  Constance and Riggins had made a promise to each other: No matter what, they wouldn’t kill Steve Dark.

  Both of them had chased fugitives long enough to realize that when cornered, people could be utterly unpredictable. Not a single member of Special Circs would admit it, but the best policy was to shoot first, let the lawyers sort it out later. This unspoken policy took effect not long after the Sqweegel murders. Many suspects were brought in dead. Riggins was forced to publicly question each case, but privately applauded them.

  More than five years ago, such a thing would have horrified Constance. But she had lived through Sqweegel. And to be honest—by the time Constance and her colleagues had a monster cornered, they were assured of its guilt.

  With Dark, however . . .

  Constance didn’t know what to think.

  As usual, Riggins was keeping his mouth shut. But he didn’t need to say a word. Constance was good at connecting the dots on her own. The Steve Dark she knew, the man who had trained her—and for a brief while, had loved her—well, he was gone. Something else was inhabiting his body now. Maybe it had happened when he watched the monster kill his wife. Maybe a little of the monster got out of Sqweegel and made its way into Steve.

  Constance held her Glock in the standard two-hand grip, playing everything according to the manual.

  But there was nothing in the manual about forcing
open the back doors of a van and fully expecting to shoot a man you loved

  —once loved—

  in the arm or leg, hoping it was enough to put him down, but not make him bleed out.

  “Ready?” Riggins asked.

  Constance nodded.

  They found the van thanks to Banner, who’d tapped into the Vegas traffic cams and pinpointed Dark’s rental vehicle, which was parked on the same level as this white van. Cameras inside the parking garage showed Dark bypassing his own rental and stepping into the van with an unidentified female. Constance couldn’t help but burn a little at that. He’d found someone else to team up with him on this insane investigation.

  There had been no time to call reinforcements—no FBI, no Vegas PD, no SWAT. Doing things by the book could give Dark the time he needed to slip away. Constance and Riggins had a silent understanding. He was their mess. They needed to clean it up.

  Riggins did the honors. Hand on the silver handle, silently mouthing a count—

  One . . .

  two . . .

  chapter 63

  “It’s over, kid,” Riggins said, aiming his Sig Sauer at Dark’s chest. “Step out quietly, hands locked behind your head—you know the drill.”

  Dark had a hard time believing what he was seeing. His ex-boss, pointing a weapon at him. Constance, by his side, her Glock 19 trained on Graysmith. He’d been on the other end of this kind of thing hundreds of times in the past. Now Dark knew what it felt like to be pinned down by the FBI, trying to explain yourself to people in bulletproof vests, fingers trembling on the triggers.

  “Riggins, what the fuck are you doing?” Dark asked. “Trust me, this is not the time.”

  “Out of the van, buddy. Don’t make this something ugly. We can talk on the flight back home. There will be plenty of time to explain.”

  Dark said, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “No need for the tough guy act in front of your girlfriend here.”

  Graysmith put her hands up and glanced over at Dark. “Let’s all calm down, okay?” Then, turning back to Riggins: “Look, we’re all working for the same thing. You’ll see that if you give us a chance to explain.”

  “Oh, you’re going explain it to me?” Riggins asked. “Yeah, that’ll be great. I can’t wait. Maybe you’ll want to start with who the fuck you are.”

  “You don’t understand,” Dark said. “We know the identity of the Tarot Card Killer. We traced her here to the Egyptian. She’s working with an accomplice.”

  Graysmith glared at Dark—the look a wife gives a husband when he’s said too much. Dark was genuinely puzzled. Fine, they wanted to operate without red tape or the usual departmental nonsense. But the gig was up. And the two best manhunters Dark knew were standing right here. If he could just explain the situation, the four of them could work together. The TCK would be history.

  “Let’s just go with them,” she said.

  As Dark and Graysmith climbed out of the van, Riggins and Constance kept them covered. Would they actually shoot if he made a break for it? Dark wasn’t sure about Constance, but he knew Riggins would. There was hurt and sadness in the man’s eyes, and Dark had no idea why. Couldn’t still be about leaving Special Circs, after all of this time . . . could it?

  “We don’t have time for this,” Dark said bitterly. “The killers are still out there.”

  Riggins pulled on Dark’s shoulder and then shoved him against the van, cuffs already in his hand, Glock in the other.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Dark reluctantly put his hands behind his back. It didn’t matter now. He could tell Riggins about Roger and Abdulia Maestro, and then Special Circs could call in the cavalry to apprehend them before they put the Devil card into play.

  Then he heard something snapping—and a sharp cry.

  As Dark turned, he saw Graysmith slam a flattened palm into Constance’s throat. Constance struggled to breathe but held on to her weapon, staggering backward. Riggins turned and pointed his Sig Sauer but a second later it was flying out of his hands.

  “No!” Dark screamed.

  Graysmith was doing it all—disarming both of them with quick, violently efficient moves that left both Riggins and Constance on their knees, gasping for air, clawing at the ground.

  Strands of hair fell into her face. “We don’t have time for this,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “You can’t ...”

  “Let’s go. There’s a reason I went to you, Dark, and not Special Circs. They’ll never catch these bastards, and you know it. Can you live with more innocent blood being spilled while you’re debriefed in some conference room in Virginia? Come on.”

  Dark gave one last glance to his former partners on the concrete floor as the van peeled away, locking eyes with Constance. The pain she was feeling was probably bad—but it was nothing compared to the look of utter betrayal in her eyes.

  chapter 64

  Fresno, California

  After torching the van and switching cars three times, swapping license plates each time, Dark and Graysmith drove through the night—six hours, nearly four hundred miles. South on 15, then 58 West and 99 North. Dark steered the stolen SUV in stony silence through the shadowy California desert while Graysmith used her laptop to continue compiling dossiers on Roger and Abdulia Maestro. After a few hours she finally looked up, as if she’d just tuned into his anger.

  “You know, I didn’t hurt them,” she said.

  Dark said nothing.

  “Honestly. I’m not Jet Li. I just temporarily removed their ability to breathe. They’ll be fine. We had to get out of there.”

  “You don’t know them. They would have helped us.”

  “I believe that. Tom Riggins and Constance Brielle have done good work over the years. But this is out of their control. Special Circs won’t be able to do shit about the Maestros until this is all over, and they’ve slapped down their last card.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Graysmith smiled. “Why did you leave Special Circs? Don’t answer that. I’ll tell you why you left. Because no matter how hard you worked, you felt like you were wrapped up in procedural bullshit and constant distractions from Wycoff and his peers, right? Sometimes you thought that if only you had a little more freedom, you could put more of these monsters behind bars. Well, let me fill you in on a little secret: It’s amazing you accomplished anything at Special Circs. The moment Wycoff started waving his dick around, Special Circs became a joke. Something to trot out at law enforcement conferences.”

  “We stopped a lot of killers,” Dark said quietly.

  “You weren’t supposed to. The fact that you kept taking these monsters out really pissed certain people off. Steve, there’s a part of the government that doesn’t want you going after some of these killers. Because they don’t see them as killers. They’re potential assets.”

  “Assets,” Dark said coldly.

  “I could show you a report about your nemesis, Sqweegel, that would make you want to storm the Pentagon with a sawed-off shotgun. This report talks about how Sqweegel could have been weaponized . Imagine an agent with his capabilities? Sneaking into any crevice, anywhere in the world? Some guys in my department were practically cumming in their pants thinking about it.”

  “That monster killed my wife.”

  “Yeah, and someone like him slaughtered my sister. Which is about the moment when disillusionment set in for me, personally. Why do you think we’re doing this? Because nobody else can. Not even your friends Riggins and Brielle.”

  By the time they arrived in Fresno, it was late. No time for any rest at all—even thought Dark’s entire body was crying out for just a few minutes of downtime. They had to see this priest and warn him—and figure a way to catch the Maestros in the act.

  Dark agreed that he should be the one to talk to the priest. Meanwhile, Graysmith would scope the church and rectory—for all she knew, the Maestros were already here.

  chapter 65


  Las Vegas, Nevada

  By the time the shock wore off, Knack had already e-mailed it to his editor in New York—the second biggest story of his career:

  FBI STUNNER!

  FORMER AGENT SOUGHT AS “PERSON OF INTEREST”

  IN TAROT CARD MURDERS, INSIDE SOURCES CLAIM

  The first biggest story? Well, that would be when Knack filed Steve Dark’s jail cell confessions—the tell-all to end all tell-alls.

  But no, the shock wasn’t because of the material. It was the identity of his “source.”

  Tom Riggins, head of Special Circs.

  Even more incredible, Riggins had called him. Told him he needed to spread the word about something immediately—on deep background, of course. But Riggins had promised: Help us catch him and you’ll have all of the access you need. The old buzzard had seemed disturbed to discover that Knack was in Vegas, too—but for the time being, he swallowed it. Watch the tough old worm turn. The game was different now, because Riggins needed Knack.

  The details Riggins wanted leaked:

  That a former agent named Steve Dark—famous for the Sqweegel murders five years ago—was now wanted as a “person of interest” in a series of homicides the media (c’mon, Tom, it was us! It was US!) dubbed the “Tarot Card Murders.” Dark is believed to be in the company of an unknown female subject, description attached, also a person of interest in the case. Do not approach. Call the tip line if you see either, mostly likely in the Southwest or California areas.

  Knack also pried some more out of Riggins about the Kobiashi murder—the strange game of Russian roulette the billionaire had been forced to play. The fact that he was buck nekkid when he played it.

  The big question now, though: Should Knack tell him about his Mystery Texter? Or was that a card better off left in Knack’s back pocket?