Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  “First, you did not hear anything from me on this professor cluster. If this ever gets back to me, I will spend the rest of my career shoveling phone receipts for a two person Homeland Security office in Fargo.”

  “Fargo, the center of international intrigue?”

  “I’m serious, Greg. I will be totally screwed if this gets back to me. So here’s the sit rep. About twenty-four hours ago our BATF group received an email from an anonymous author at Harvard. A researcher from the Physics Department there.” BATF was Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, a division of the FBI.

  “I thought you said it was an anonymous email.”

  “Anonymous in the real world, but that world doesn’t really exist anymore for most Federal investigators. This research assistant, Rupinder Gupta, female, sent a note to a general FBI email address. It got transferred to our Militia division.”

  Militia division, thought Hyde? What did this have to do with dead professors?

  “This special ops is keeping an eye on some private militia groups. The hardcore fanatics. This investigation started right after the Oklahoma City bombing was linked to one such group.”

  “Jann, are we talking about the same thing? What the hell does a militia group have to do with dead professors? And a student from Harvard?”

  “Good question. She was working with all the people you mentioned. Gridley, Bugloski and Nates. Also Ezrah Kaufmann from Stanford. That’s a million in one match right there. She had a number of documents she sent that builds a pretty interesting connection to a cult slash militia group situated in our very own area code. Virginia.” I swallowed hard. I was getting that fight or flight feeling and I knew Jann was too.

  “And now it looks like Kaufmann is missing too,” I added.

  “Damn, Hyde. This kid may be on to something. Sounds really bright. It wasn’t easy to crack her firewall. And she was Chapertah’s right hand on his research.”

  “So why couldn’t you just tell me all this before?”

  “Hyde, you don’t get it. It just so happens this researcher at Harvard hit gold. Our team has had this militia group under heavy surveillance for over five years. They think they’re close to closing in and the last thing they want is some heads-down homicide dick to come lumbering into their net.”

  “Thanks, Jann. That’s a flattering picture.”

  “Sorry, Greg. But you’re not a legend in DC because you’re subtle.”

  “So where does this leave us? Can you share?”

  “Did I mention Fargo? No way. But I can give you enough to get you started.”

  “You think the professors were killed by this cult group?”

  “That’s what Gupta thinks. We haven’t had time to follow that lead up yet. But you could. ”

  “She’s at Harvard. I would never get approval on the travel.”

  “Take a day off. Harvard is beautiful this time of year.”

  Her idea really surprised me. Not standard operating procedure for a tall dark rule-follower like Jann. “If you come with me,” was all I said.

  Then I waited. And waited, perspiration soaking my shirt collar.

  “This would have to be quick, Greg. I’m only open tomorrow afternoon. If I can get sign off. After that I’m up to my armpits.”

  “I remember being quite fond of your armpits.”

  There was a pause, which quite a few large trucks drove through based on the sounds coming through the landline. “Greg, before this goes any further, uh, you need to know that I’m seeing someone right now. So if I can get the go ahead on Harvard this would be strictly police business. You understand?”

  “Police business. Got it. My favorite kind.” Jann could probably tell by the tension in my voice I was lying my ass off. My right hand had already formed a fist involuntarily. Who was this someone? I had built a suspect profile already. A tall Fibbie with a firm jaw and blue eyes. Pretty soon I’d be getting a police sketch artist to draw a portrait.

  She added “OK.” Which of course meant nothing was OK. She was thinking of a way to get me from heavy boil down to simmer. “In the meantime, you can grab some info on this group. But you need to be careful who you talk to. They are very wealthy and powerful. Not too many militia groups have a billion dollar slush fund. These guys do.”

  “And where does all this cash come from?”

  “Well, you might be tempted to list off the usual suspects – bank robbery, drugs and coercion, but we think it’s far more sophisticated than that. Like Internet fraud, identity theft and the real freakin’ surprise – legitimate businesses.”

  There was silence on the line as I gauged the value of the information. “What are you going to do with this, Hyde? All this silence is beginning to worry me.” I could hear another eighteen-wheeler roar by on her phone and then it hit me.

  “You didn’t even trust your cell phone?” I blurted out.

  “That’s the last thing I would trust in this state. You’ve got the CIA, my FBI buddies, Homeland Insecurity and the NSA, just to start. Who knows what other alphabet soup tribe is listening in.”

  “So how do we communicate?”

  “I’ll stick with public land lines until we meet. If you need to use my cell, keep it light on details. I wouldn’t have given you this info if I didn’t think you would follow up. You’re Gregory Hyde for God’s sake. But this did not come from me. You found this on your own. Google the group. Use that as your lead, if you need one. We will just happen to run into each other at the University.”

  “Great. So who’s this group I’m looking up?”

  “The Soldiers of Patmos. They have a very professional web site and a lot of online references. Go crazy. Their headquarters are in Hanover County near a town called Ashland. They call their compound Parkhurst. This is not a little splinter group, Greg. There are five thousand of them at Parkhurst. Very heavily armed. A town full of true American terrorists.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kam O’Brien’s gold colored Toyota Van, the weight of the rear engine throwing it hard against the side panels of the Jeep at a little over 100 kilometers per hour, folded itself into the stationary vehicle, locking the two together in a marriage of steel and plastic and broken glass. The coupled vehicles spun, flipped over the embankment and rolled clumsily into Lake Muskoka.

  The Toyota, entering the water last, tipped up nose down. Claude Gauthier’s Jeep, the driver’s debt now paid in full, acted as an anchor to pull the whole mass down into the black liquid.

  Kam was slammed against the seat back, snapping the mounting brackets and throwing him into the rear. Then, as both vehicles flipped over the embankment, he was jettisoned back to the front, where he collapsed under the dash. He awoke suddenly, only seconds before the cold lake water enclosed him.

  Kam came to, convince he had been unconscious for hours. His room was darker than usual – inky black – and he rolled over to reach for the lamp on his bedside table. He was surprised to bump his arm against the steel under-structure of the dash. And he was freezing – a numbing cold had swallowed his body up to his waist. He yelped and tried to kick, realizing again that somehow he was trapped, but not understanding where. Then the freezing water hit his mouth. Before he could gasp, the water filled his ears. His whole universe was now an airless, dull, throbbing echo chamber of pain.

  He reached out again and felt his body float away from the dash. He tried to clamp his mouth, struggling to save what air he had left in his lungs and every second fighting the urge to cough. When his hand found the steering wheel, his brain made the connection with the Toyota, but it was a soggy unsatisfying realization. Kam reached for the door, but it didn't appear to be where it should be. He banged his head against the roof trying to right himself. His lungs were screaming at him now – he needed to get out of this watery nightmare and soon. He scraped the floor with his fingernails. Now he was pushing himself toward the rear of the van, to the tailgate, which seemed to be just above him. But he could find nothing in the inky b
lack.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My daughter finds it mildly embarrassing that her father doesn’t own a personal computer or a big screen TV or even a tablet. When she stays with me on weekends, she brings her Apple Air, so it’s not like she is totally digitally deprived. My next-door neighbor, a young single guy named Jimmy, lets me tap into his WiFi if I need to and I pay half of his monthly Internet bill. So he’s happy. Of course, that means if I want to do Internet research, I sit down in front of my computer at work, where I live twelve hours a day anyway.

  I was researching The Soldiers of Patmos online, which led me to a couple of news stories on Gideon Lean. There were a few dated photographs. I checked; he had no criminal record and no driver’s license that I could find in the database.

  There seemed to be a lot of speculation on his wealth on the web, but that’s all it was. He wasn’t a director of any large company, had no holdings listed. He clearly took pains to separate himself from his financial interests which one so-called blogging expert felt was pretty significant. As in billions. But he’s a blogger. If I put that juicy quote in the police report, I’d be laughed out of the bullpen.

  So here’s the big question. Why would the leader of a religious sect want a bunch of University professors dead? Science vs. religion? I couldn’t find anything online that suggested any acrimony between these Patmos people and the University intelligentsia.

  Captain Ipscott happened to be in his office late so I thought it would be a good time to update him on the Gridley case. As usual, he was practicing his putting on the worn green industrial carpeting that covered his office.

  “I think you’ve got the lie just right, Cap,” I said, poking my head in the doorway.

  “Yeah. But then you show up, and I have to deal with all that wind.”

  “You wanna hear about Gridley’s wife?” I asked.

  “Somebody likes her upstairs, Hyde. She’s probably the niece of some heavyweight. So do what you can and then let’s just quietly close the file.” He putted and missed by a foot. “Besides I heard once that teachers have one of the highest suicide rates. Second only to beat cops.”

  “I think she’s got a point,” I said. He looked up for the first time. I gave him my theory. “Rich guys don’t gas themselves in a garage the size of a big box store. Three hours in there with all of his SUVs running and you might just get a headache.”

  “What does the ME think?”

  “He’s overworked. But he said that given enough time, the carbon monoxide level would rise to deadly levels.”

  Ipscott laughed. “That’s like saying if I could keep playing golf for the next few centuries I would eventually get my score south of 80.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly what he said. He’s seen you play.” Ipscott put the putter against the wall and flopped down at his desk. He looked a bit depressed.

  “So what’s next?” he asked.

  “I have five dead or missing professors all tied into Gridley and some cult group in Ashland. That’s a lead I got from the Fibbies …”

  “Oh shit” growled Ipscott.

  “This is not official yet. They’ve been following this group for years, and they’re prepared to feed us what they know. ”

  “The FBI gets their canines into this and you’ll be tagging along like their comedy relief sidekick for months. You’ll be fetching coffee on our dime.”

  I gave Ipscott my most severe stink eye. “I don’t do coffee, Captain. You know that. But I do need to go to Harvard for a day to follow up.”

  “You’re a funny man, Hyde. How you snuck that request in like that. Didn’t you have a wild weekend in Boston once in your wasted youth?” I didn’t answer.

  “Listen, if the FBI wants to blow their budget and do a cross country alma mater tour, then let them burn their jets,’ said Ipscott. “But we don’t have budget for that. In fact, word from on high is not to spend dollar one on this case. So you’ll just have to reminisce from your desk.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tommy McDane was undoing the front button of a pair of designer jeans, his tongue on the young girls neck, when he heard what sounded like an aerosol can exploding in a bonfire.

  There was a sharp explosion of glass, then the dull thump of gas igniting. It was close, like Gideon said it would be. He heard the local girl gasp slightly at the sound, then gasp again when he quickly untangled himself from her bra.

  He quickly slid across the bench seat of the new truck to the driver’s door. He swore. He wished he had ten more minutes with this local tramp but now it was too late.

  Tommy jumped out of the truck, landing on the cold grass in his stocking feet. Melanie, he couldn’t remember her last name, was halfway through asking him something. Her sleepy and tequila-laced voice was already drowned out by the sound of something big and ungainly hitting the surface of the lake. Tommy didn’t know why yet, but the sound he heard unnerved him – threw him into a kind of panic that had far more power over him than a pair of soft lips. And it occurred to him that that was saying a lot when you’re only twenty-five years old.

  What Tommy saw at the lake edge in the moonlight, a mass of steel that was at least one car, perhaps more, sliding noisily into Lake Muskoka, filled him with a kind of pure anxiety he had never known before. And he was no stranger to fear. Was it the dark shape at the lake edge moving through its wake like some underwater beast? Or the ragged cauls of cloud sliding across the moon? This all seemed so unreal, so unlike the Hollywood disaster movies he had grown up with. Where were the bursting gas tanks filling the night sky, the billowing flames, the jarring soundtrack.

  The back end of one of the cars was hissing impotently in the cold water now. A slight breeze brought the smell of burned rubber and gasoline, but any fire had already died or been suffocated by the lake.

  Moonlight slithered over the roof of one of the vehicles – a van, Tommy guessed, as it settled down into the glossy black surface of the lake. Inside he saw a movement then, when the light was just right, for a few seconds – something human. He knew there were people inside, but he wasn’t expecting anyone to still be moving about.

  The accident wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Gideon had planned a simple collision on a quiet road. They hadn’t told him about the lake. He hated water at night.

  Tommy pulled off his shirt; the ends already out of his Levi’s and tossed it aside against a pine bow. He pushed up closer to the rocky edge and reluctantly dove in. When he broke the dark surface with his body, the icy water pulled his breath from him and made his ears ring. He took a shaky gulp of air, feeling the still blackness of the lake and hearing the steel wreck hissing as it was swallowed. His legs and arms had turned to putty.

  He moved in closer with hesitant strokes, afraid to touch the steel, thinking it would burn or electrocute him. He heard his name called. When he looked back, he saw Melanie, pale against the trees, the wind blowing her hair in her eyes, her face a mask of shock. That look of hers electrified him. He felt a tingle as if a tongue of lightning had touched the lake surface and passed through his body. Then he heard a thump.

  The van was now nose down – only a quarter of the rear end still above the water line. The brake lights looked black – like the lifeless eyes of a reptile – the water bubbling around the rear door. Then the van slipped under. The next thump was duller, more pronounced.

  Tommy was supposed to retrieve something from the vehicle – if it was still there. A document. Or at least insure the papers burnt in the crash. The vehicle clearly wasn’t burning. What would Gideon think if he failed?

  Tommy reached down for the rear latch, and he felt the weight of the vehicle suck him down. Before he could fill his lungs, he was under, the cold water stinging his eyes and wrapping his head in a dark green shroud. He wanted to let go of the handle, but feared he would never find it again. Then he would fail his mission. He couldn’t imagine that.

  Tommy tried to twist the handle, realizing immediately that it was
locked. Unable to think of any other solution for the moment, he hung on, feeling the heavy lake water swirl around him. All the time the blackness becoming more complete. Then he felt another thump. He bunched his fist and hit the rear door hard, then again. Nothing.

  Tommy’s lungs ached – the urge to cough or breathe impossible to ignore. He imagined for a second giving it all up in one thick, raggedy, inhalation of icy Lake Muskoka. Then the door gave away in his hands. At first he thought the van had begun disintegrating, but before he could let go, he was struck in the chin by something hard and smooth.

  He groaned, the pain filling his head full of bright lights. He pushed away, and his fingers brushed something leaf-like. Cloth. Then he touched an arm. It felt rubbery and lifeless. He wasn’t interested in the arm – he wanted the document. Then it occurred to him, maybe the passenger had the file on him. Following the van down into the depths was a death sentence anyway. Would they be able to collect the vehicle at the bottom of the lake? He didn’t know. He grabbed the limb and kicked upward. There was no sense of movement at all. He felt like he was trapped in freezing molasses. And he was running out of air.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As Gideon worked, hearing his heart pound in his chest as he pulled himself up from the straw mat, then down again, he practiced his speech. It was the world council address, the one he would make to the assembled masses of humanity once his plan had bore fruit. He imagined the faces looking up at him, people eager to understand their new world – a world he had invented for them – Gideon's world.

  "You have arrived," he would say, struggling for the right words, like his father had, standing in front of his ragged band of commune devotees, most of them women in plain dresses with handkerchiefs in their hair.

  "And you have arrived because I have delivered."

  And he would. That was the key. Every religion known to man, making promises they couldn't deliver. Something was always coming, but it never seemed to arrive. Gideon knew he would get their attention if he could deliver. And he would do it on time.