“My psych profile?”
“That’s way too big a box to unload tonight,” Simmons said.
Nick couldn’t tell from her flat facial expression if she’d just tried to make a joke.
“You keep referring to this guy as the Ferryman. Why?” Nick asked.
“The killer leaves a coin in the mouth of his victims. It is a symbolic gesture.”
“Symbolic of what?”
“A reference to the boatman, Charon, from Greek mythology, who ferried the dead across the river Styx. The coin is his calling card or token,” Simmons said.
“And I’m involved in this how?”
“He wrote a message to you!” Simmons said bluntly.
“What did it say?” Nick asked.
“I was waiting for you to ask me that question.” She paused and pulled an 8x10 glossy out of the file folder closest to her. She pushed the picture across the shellac finish of the table toward Nick. “Take a look for yourself.”
Nick unfolded his arms and reached over, pulling the photograph the remainder of the way over to him. He picked it up and took a second to study the image.
“Is this written in blood?” Nick asked.
“Pentlow’s.”
Nick said nothing and squinted hard, reading the message again. Where the system fails I prevail. Nick, what stands up tall but reaches low?
“Any thoughts on why he’s naming you in his message?” Simmons asked.
“Not a clue. You?” Nick said, laying the photo back on the table between them.
Now it was Simmons who sat silently.
“I’m guessing the doer, the Ferryman, knew Pentlow was released on bail. Maybe even posted it. I’d start there,” Nick said.
“It’s being looked into.”
Simmons reached across the table and plucked the photograph from the table, returning it to the brown leather of her satchel.
“And we’ll get into the details of the case at a later date. Right now I want you to focus your thoughts on why the Ferryman would name you in the message,” she said.
“Like I said, I’ve got no idea.”
“The Ferryman seems to have some sense of connection with you. Whether it’s real or imagined, we’ll have to find out,” Simmons said.
Nick allowed the thought to marinate and he didn’t like the taste it left. Catching the interest of a serial killer couldn’t have much of an upside.
“Why me?” Nick asked more to himself.
“Whatever the reason, it’s not good,” Simmons said.
“No shit.”
“Get some rest. I’ll be in touch,” Simmons said.
Nick watched as she stood and turned her attention back to her boxes. She began shuffling a pile of files into a frayed cardboard box on the floor. A wave of anger flooded him.
“That’s it!? You’re done!? You flew me back for a fifteen-minute conversation that we could’ve had over the phone? You are some special breed of asshole!” Nick spat the words.
“I don’t do phone interviews,” Simmons replied.
The lack of emotion in her response only fueled his fire. Nick sat seething in a barely controlled rage.
“You don’t do phone interviews? That’s the best answer you’ve got? I guess you don’t give a shit about my former partner who died on the table today? She was one of us. Ten times the agent you are!”
“I’m doing my job. I don’t allow anything to get in the way of that.”
“Well, that’s crystal freakin’ clear. I hope you don’t have a family because I’m sure you wouldn’t put them before your godforsaken cases!” Nick said in a low growl. He immediately realized the hypocriticalness of his comment, but anger stopped him from making any attempt to refute it.
Simmons’s eyes narrowed, darkening the brightness of the green. Nick realized he’d struck a nerve and was satisfied by his effective deliver of the blow.
“Have a good night,” Simmons said curtly.
The glimmer of anger that had enveloped Simmons seemed to recede as quickly as it had come, like a passing storm cloud.
Nick stood up. His six-foot frame towered over Simmons. His fists clenched and released in sync with the pulsing of his increased heart rate. He gritted his teeth, grinding hard and sending a ripple along his jawline. Simmons stopped organizing the files and faced Nick.
“Is there something else? If not, I’d tuck that weak attempt at intimidation back wherever you found it,” Simmons said contemptuously.
Simmons seemed to be unaffected by Nick’s rage. He thought, at some level, it actually appeared she was enjoying it. He noticed the corner of her lip begin to bend upward into a hint of a smile.
Nick exited the conference room without saying another word. He moved quickly to his desk, the vortex that trailed him tossed papers from a nearby desk. Without looking back, he grabbed his backpack and keys to the government-issued VW Jetta and made for the elevator.
As the doors were closing he heard Simmons call out to him. “I wouldn’t go too far Agent Lawrence!”
Nick slumped against the cool metal wall of the elevator. His eyes felt heavy and seemed to droop at the same rate as the descending elevator car. He exhaled slowly and took stock of the past two days. At its start, he’d learned he was going to be a dad. The joy of that moment had been stolen from him by Izzy’s tragedy. Her death was still incomprehensible, and he pushed away the thought of it. And now he was the target of a serial murderer.
A killer had taken interest in him. It wasn’t the first time, but the last almost cost him his life. Nick rubbed his left side. The impression of the wide raised scar could be felt beneath the thickness of Declan’s sweatshirt. It served as a constant reminder of that terrifying night. Sleep had not come easy before, and now it rarely came at all. This new threat would undoubtedly add to his perpetual insomnia.
The wind whipped hard as he stepped out into the cold of the Texas night. He sat in the Jetta and looked up at the building he’d just left. The third floor was still lit. Agent Simmons would apparently be burning the midnight oil. As much as he hated her right now, he realized that under a different set of circumstances he’d have appreciated her tenacity.
Chapter 12
What bends but does not break? What weeps but does not cry?
A whistle sounds as the air coils around the fast-moving branch cutting through the thick warmth of the southern night. The sound is an early warning of its impending arrival. Then comes the pain, a sensation like that of being burned and cut at the same time. Each strike is more painful than its predecessor as old scars are reopened, marking deep the history of this violence. No sounds emanate from the inflicted. No satisfaction will be given to the vicious blows. No begging for it to stop, punishment will not be his reward. It ends as abruptly as it started.
Then the whispers follow, weighted heavy with the scent of sour of whiskey and cheap aftershave, “I’m sorry. It’s for your own good. I’ll make you better. I promise.”
The memory fades, but will resurface again, as it always does on these nights.
The cold air would keep most people indoors tonight. But there are those who don’t have places to go, some by choice and some by circumstance. These creatures scurry about in search of scraps, feeding off the discards of others. Human cockroaches digging through trash and sleeping in alleyways. Most pass by without seeing them, intentionally erasing their existence from view. It’s easier that way.
It’s always tough to make the selection. There are so many to choose from, but tonight’s had been one of design rather than random opportunity. In the soft yellow of the street light’s glow a man appeared from behind a dumpster. The cold apparently had no effect on him because he was only clothed in a white tank top tie-dyed in a swirl of stains. The vagrant completed his ensemble by wearing black basketball shorts accented by his white socks pulled up high, cresting the bony knees.
The man ran his dirty hands through his greasy hair, painting the gray with grime like a poor man’s v
ersion of Just For Men Touch of Gray. The long hair and unkempt beard would’ve been considered a grayish white, but the lack of hygiene had given it a yellow-brown tint. He protectively cradled the contents of a brown paper bag. The cylindrical shape denoted his drink of choice for the night was some variety of canned beer. Mostly likely a 40-ounce of malted liquor, ensuring the most bang for his hard-earned buck.
Watching someone who doesn’t know they’re being watched is always fascinating. A person’s truest self is exposed during those moments when they think they’re alone. What if someone were watching me? What would they see?
The bearded man walked on toward an alleyway that was poorly lit. He paused only briefly to warm himself on the steam spewing up from a sewer grate. Then he disappeared back into the shadowy recesses of the narrow space between the closed shops.
Following someone who doesn’t know they’re being followed is a thrill in and of itself. Following the bearded man was more of a challenge because of the deserted street. Movement can be masked in a crowd, but much more difficult absent of such. It’s essential to move quickly once committed. With speed comes noise and therefore it has to be tempered with external conditions. The wind proved to be an ally and its wild gusts masked each pursuing step. The light of the street no longer captured the bearded man’s silhouette as the Ferryman slipped into the pitch blackness of the alley.
The vagrant was balancing on his tip toes hunched over an open dumpster, examining the object of his treasure hunt. The Ferryman stood directly behind the unaware man, absorbing the seemingly timelessness that existed before the chaos. His left hand rubbed the coin, a reminder of purpose.
Less than a foot away the knife slipped silently out from the tightly strapped, worn marbled leather of the sheath. The force of the first blow buried the blade deep between the cockroach’s lower ribs and drove upward until the hilt’s contact with the man’s flesh stopped the momentum.
The Ferryman anticipated the man’s reaction as he grabbed at the first wound. The blade had already been torn free and the whistling wheeze indicated the lung’s puncture, reducing the stabbed man’s scream to a raspy hiss.
The bearded man spun to face his attacker, his eyes widened in terror. The Ferryman seized this opportunity. The second thrust of the blade struck hard into the man’s neck. Horror gave way to shock, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground.
Watching someone as they take their last breath is unlike anything else. So unique that most people have never experienced the twisted magic wherein life transitions into death. The beauty is that each person accepts death differently. The Ferryman watched as the man died, absorbing the elixir of the last seconds of anguish. The Ferryman inhaled deeply, imaging he was taking in the dead man’s essence. Soul eating.
The man on the ground twitched, his right hand clawed hard into the cracked concrete of the alley floor, and then all movement faded away. His yellowed beard was now dark with his blood. The gloved hand of the Ferryman spread open the dry, cracked lips of the dead man and placed the coin under his tongue.
The ritual complete, the Ferryman walked back into the light.
I am good. I am better. Without me they’d be lost. I carry them away.
I am the Ferryman.
Chapter 13
Nick sat at his kitchen table. He looked at the clock. It read 7:30 a.m. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to get a fresh perspective on yesterday’s events. The clock clicked, taunting him with each passing second. He picked up his phone to call Anaya. She was an early riser too, and he wanted to make sure that she’d settled in.
He’d never worried about her before, but with a baby on the way he was suddenly filled with a constant sense of worry. Izzy’s death was a tragic reminder of how life can change in the blink of an eye.
A knock at the door disrupted his train of thought. He grabbed his pistol from the counter near the sink and bootlegged it behind his back. He didn’t think a serial killer would come knocking, but at this point in his life he didn’t know what to expect. He peered through the peephole.
He would’ve been as surprised to see the killer as he was to see Cheryl Simmons standing on his stoop looking around nervously. She stood holding a recycled gray cardboard tray containing two Starbucks cups.
Nick stuffed the Glock into the rear waistline of his jeans and opened the door, hugging himself against the cold that was as unwelcome as his visitor.
“Before you say a damn thing, I want you to know that what I did last night was the right thing. I needed to see you face to face. I needed to see your answers to those very simple questions,” Simmons said.
“Did I not answer them to your liking? Why are you here?” Nick said, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.
“I’ve been here all night.”
“You’ve been here all night? What the hell is wrong with you?” Nick asked.
“I had to be sure.”
“Be sure of what?” Nick asked.
“That it wasn’t you,” Simmons said.
“I waited as long as I could before waking you. By the looks of it I could’ve come earlier,” Simmons said shivering subtly. “Are you going to let me in?”
Nick didn’t respond.
“Listen, I brought coffee as a peace offering.”
Nick reached out and accepted the cup, whose warmth could be felt through the corrugated cardboard sleeve. He tipped the cup in her direction, giving an indication of the possibility of a truce, and stepped back from the threshold allowing her to enter.
“What do you mean you had to be sure it wasn’t me?” Nick asked.
“I’ve had a theory for a long time now that Ferryman is in our line of work. A cop, agent, someone who knows how we operate. Someone who can manipulate the system.”
“And you thought that someone was me?”
“It would’ve been a pretty smart move for the killer to name himself in a message. It would derail most investigators,” Simmons said.
“Then why are you brining me coffee?”
“Because it’s not you,” Simmons said bluntly before taking a sip from her cup.
“How do you know that?”
“The Ferryman claimed another victim last night. And because I sat outside your apartment and know that you never left.”
Nick walked into the kitchen and dumped two heaping scoops of sugar into his cup, pondering what she’d said.
“Why not just let me stay in Connecticut? If there was another murder while I was away, then it would’ve given you the answer without dragging me across the country and away from people who need me,” Nick said. The embers of last night’s interrogation started to burn again, and he fought to quell his urge to yell.
“I thought about it, but there is another reason I brought you back.”
“I can’t wait to hear,” Nick said sarcastically.
“The Ferryman has picked you. Taken an interest in you. If you weren’t the killer, then I figured maybe I could use it to my advantage.”
“So, what now? I’m now your bait?” Nick asked.
“Looks that way to me,” Simmons replied.
Nick said nothing and took the opportunity to gulp the sugary liquid, letting it burn its way down.
“It’s only happened one time before,” Simmons said.
Nick noted the seriousness in her tone. “And who was that lucky person?”
“Me.”
“Shit.”
“It started with a simple message, and then it got personal,” Simmons said.
“Personal how?” Nick said.
“He came after my family,” Simmons said, breaking eye contact.
“Jesus. What happened?” Nick asked, concern ebbing from his words.
“My parents. The sick bastard killed my parents.” Simmons’s eyes watered as she spoke, causing them to shimmer more brightly.
Nick noticed that without the false bravado and pit-bull attitude, Simmons was stunning. The subtle humanity evident in her reaction at mention of
the death of her parents instantly changed his opinion of her. He didn’t pity her but could empathize. And from that understanding, Nick realized that he had a new-found respect for Cheryl Simmons.
“Well, your forcefulness with regard to this case makes a hell of a lot more sense to me now,” Nick said.
“I’ve been close before, but then poof. Nothing. Completely off the grid until now,” Simmons said.
“Why now? And why me?” Nick asked.
“Wish I knew. That’s the million-dollar question.”
“What’s next?”
“I’m glad you asked… partner,” Simmons said, giving a half-cocked smile.
“Partner?”
“You and I are gonna be besties!” Simmons said, flicking her hair with feigned enthusiasm.
“I’ve got a ton of case work. I can’t just up and leave my victims hanging while I run off to chase a ghost.”
“You’re officially reassigned.”
“Reassigned? I don’t work murders, especially not serial cases,” Nick pleaded.
“Not that much different than sex crimes except for the bodies.”
“If this guy targeted your family, what’s to say he won’t come after mine?” Nick asked.
Simmons dipped her head and broke eye contact with Nick.
“I agree, it’s a real problem. We need to get a protective detail assigned to your closest family members,” Simmons said seriously.
“My girlfriend is in Michigan. She just got there yesterday. I should fly out to be with her, so I can keep her safe,” Nick said. His mind raced to find acceptable solutions.
“Not sure that’s a wise move. If the Ferryman’s sights are on you, it’s not going to matter where you go. At least here, we can throw more assets at the problem. Best bet is to get her back here as soon as possible. In the meantime, I can coordinate with the Detroit field office to get a security detail to post on her up until then. Any other family close?”
“My mother. She’s at Pine Woods. It’s a retirement community not too far from here. She’s in a ward designed to handle late-stage Alzheimer’s.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Most of those facilities are relatively secure. We can probably get local support for that. Anyone else?” Simmons asked.
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