chapter 40
DARK
“Think I’ve got a contender here,” Natasha said.
She’d been hunched over her tablet computer and cell phone for a solid thirty minutes while Dark continued to examine the riddle and clues. Now he looked over her shoulder at the image on her tablet screen, which displayed DMV info for one Shane Wesley Corbett, twenty-eight, who had a penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side as well as a six-bedroom home in Scarsdale. Smug, handsome, fit, clean-cut.
“Who is he?”
“Corbett’s a Wall Street liaison to the U.S. Federal Reserve—one who brokered the bailout of a commodities corporation that built the system with cooked books and bilked their investors and the public out of billions. But because a total collapse would have been catastrophic to the economy, the Fed had no choice but to help. Corbett was the inside whiz kid who helped broker the deal. His name was never made public. So the only people who knew he was involved were the other insiders, of course, and my friend at the SEC.”
“Labyrinth’s good at knowing people’s dirty secrets,” Dark said. “That just doesn’t sound dirty enough. Hell, there are probably dozens of assholes who fit that description.”
“I agree. And that is not Corbett’s dirtiest secret.”
With Deckland O’Brian’s help, Natasha found that Corbett also had a set of juvenile criminal records dating back thirteen years, to when Corbett was still a sophomore in high school. Sealed by the court, but Natasha had encountered sealed records before. Seals had a funny way of opening when Global Alliance made the request.
“Twenty-seven counts of statutory rape,” Natasha said. “You were right about keeping things in the dark.”
“And Labyrinth knew about this, too. Damnit. Can we find out who else may have cracked open these records?”
“That’s O’Brian’s department. He’s doing some more digging on the plane back from South Africa.”
“Let’s find Corbett now.”
“One thing in the riddle makes sense now.”
“What’s that?” Dark asked.
“The riddle talked about ladies’ blood. Well, according to victim testimony, Corbett had a thing for virgins. It was a fetish with him. He only raped virgins, and never raped the same girl twice. One victim said he got off on looking at his own penis after the act, when it was slick with his victim’s blood.”
chapter 41
DARK
A call to Corbett’s secretary—along with the threat of immediate arrest—yielded Corbett’s top-secret lunch plans. He was meeting a potential client at the Epoch Hotel, directly across from the World Trade Center site. Dark and Natasha took a cab to the hotel lobby, where a confused hostess said that yes, Mr. Corbett had been here, in fact she still had his umbrella—but he disappeared after sitting down.
Natasha said, “Time’s almost up, Dark. Where is he? Where did he go?”
“He’s gotta be somewhere in the hotel,” Dark said, then ran toward the front desk, showed the nervous clerk the Global Alliance badge on his cell phone, then moved around to the back and commandeered the registration computer. Dark wished O’Brian were here—computers were not his strong suit.
“Can I help?” the clerk asked.
Dark nodded.
“Do you keep records of guests who asked not to be disturbed?”
“The maids might know. They keep a cleaning schedule on their carts.”
Within minutes Dark and Natasha were in touch with the head of housekeeping, who in turn was compiling a list of rooms that had not been made up yet. Dark reasoned that Labyrinth would choose the biggest rooms available, so they narrowed down their search to suites, starting with the top floor, knocking on some, bursting through others to find either confused occupants or empty rooms.
“Is it possible he took him somewhere else?” Natasha asked.
“Possible, but why meet in a hotel?”
The search continued until something in Natasha’s bag dinged. A new push notification. She pulled her tablet out and looked at the screen.
Natasha said, “There’s already a new video posted.”
Open on: high school yearbook photo of Shane Corbett. A voice tells us: “This is the man in charge of the American economy.” Cut to: Corbett now, in the hotel room, being confronted by the trio of angry women. “Shane Corbett. He’s a man overcome with lust. For money. For material possessions. For even the most intimate of possessions.”
Cut to: a woman, blond, twenties, slicing the adult Corbett across his outstretched palms. Blood begins to seep from the wound as he screams.
“Shane Corbett thought he could take it all . . .”
Cut to: another woman, brunette, stabbing Corbett in the back with a broken champagne glass. Corbett falls to his knees, pleading for his life, trembling.
“Witness the corruption of business. It is easier for a rich man to walk through the eye of a needle than to enter the kingdom of heaven. The politicians sold you out . . . to men like Shane Corbett . . .”
Dark and Natasha watched the video in the hallway of the thirty-sixth floor, with Natasha rewinding the footage whenever a new detail appeared.
“Look at the digital clock on the bedside table,” Dark said. “This video was shot just a few minutes ago.”
“He uploaded it from his camera,” Natasha said. “Must have prerecorded the yearbook photo, but he’s doing the narration almost live.”
The women, Dark thought, must be the women Shane Corbett raped in high school. The ones who promised their silence in exchange for a payoff. Somehow Labyrinth had found them, just like he found his other delivery boys and stand-ins. Found them and messed with their minds and brought them to this hotel—where they could exact their revenge upon Corbett as Labyrinth taped it.
But where were they?
Was Corbett still alive? And could he identify Labyrinth?
“Look,” Natasha said, freezing the image. Behind the mayhem you could see the outline of a building. Construction on the new Freedom Tower, still under way across from the Epoch Hotel. Which meant the room was facing west. And though the sun was bright through the window, almost blotting out the details, you could still make out some beams and half-finished floors. You could pinpoint the position of the room.
“Let me see that for a minute,” Dark said. Natasha handed over her tablet, then Dark put a boot through the nearest doorway and ran to the window, much to the shock of the occupants of the room, who were engaged in an act you might describe as biblical.
“Sorry,” Natasha said, then followed Dark to the window. He drew back the curtains, looked out on the construction scene, down at the tablet, then back at the construction scene again.
“Who are you people? What are you doing in here? I’m going to call security.”
Natasha, with her back to the bed, tried to calm them down.
“We’re the police, there’s been an incident, just stay where you are.”
“Police? You can’t just kick down the door, this is America!”
Dark grabbed Natasha’s arm and said, “I know where they are.”
“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”
They were two floors up, three rooms down. By the time Dark kicked down the door and drew his gun, it was too late. Shane Corbett was on the floor, bleeding out from countless gashes and wounds, the worst of which centered on his groin. Dark kneeled down to check the vitals, but already his skin was cooling. His body felt like death. Your fingertips know it better than your brain. They immediately sensed that something was . . . missing. Blood splattered the carpet in every direction. On the bed and the couch were the women, dazed, looking out at the construction.
Natasha ran to the nearest one—a blonde—and eased the half-broken champagne glass out of her hand before asking, “Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“No, the man who brought you here. Where is he?”
“I came here to take it back.”
“Listen to me. A man brought you
here. Checked you and the others into this room. He had a camera. Where did he go?”
Dark knew it would be no use. Whenever Labyrinth used a stand-in, he messed with their heads and their memories. Confused them into believing they were in some alternate reality, one that Labyrinth himself controlled.
They’d come within minutes of catching him—but as usual, Labyrinth had left just enough time for himself to escape.
Of course, that was assuming it had been Labyrinth in the room, recording the brutal murder of Shane Corbett.
The monster himself might be thousands of miles away, preparing his new package.
chapter 42
Brussels, Belgium
Seconds after the phone rang, Alain Pantin realized he had fallen asleep in his office.
He’d been so keyed up the night before, surfing Labyrinth clips and videos deep into the night, wanting to prepare for the next morning’s wave of interviews and appearances. People were already starting to build elaborate Labyrinth-related Websites, including a Wikipedia rundown of his victims, linking to documents that “proved” their guilt. Other sites expanded on Labyrinth’s nuggets of “philosophy” from his YouTube video clips. There were also sites dedicated to guessing Labyrinth’s identity, and Pantin was more than a little amused to see his own name floated as a possibility.
Midday, after a crushing round of interviews, Pantin retreated back to his office. He’d leaned back and closed his eyes . . . and simply never surfaced.
Until now, an hour later, to a phone call from Trey.
“You’ve got a flight reservation, leaves in two hours.”
“Oh?” Pantin asked, rubbing his eyes. “Where am I going?”
“Edinburgh. I’ve secured a time slot for you at the WoMU summit this weekend. You can thank me later.”
“I want to thank you now. I almost want to kiss you.”
A speaking slot at World Minds United—a much-ballyhooed global think tank summit scheduled to begin tomorrow in Scotland—was huge. Pantin hadn’t even been able to secure a seat at the session, let alone the chance to appear before it. The eyes of the world would be on Edinburgh; political careers were born at events such as these.
“Look, I wouldn’t recommend mentioning Labyrinth overtly, in this case—you’ve already established yourself as on the record as condemning his acts, and you don’t need to rehash that.”
“So what, then?”
“Take advantage of the world stage. Everybody claims to be wanting to hear from the rest of the world, but the truth is, the American representative will try to dominate. This is your chance to pull some of the spotlight away from him and promote your agenda.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Cancel the rest of your media appearances and start working on your speech on your way to the airport.”
Adrenaline banished all signs of fatigue. Pantin stood up, stretched until his fingertips nearly reached the ceiling. Sleep was overrated. Sleep too much and you miss your chance to rule the goddamned world.
chapter 43
RIGGINS
Quantico, Virginia / Manhattan
All of these years had gone by and Tom Riggins was still doing the same thing. Rushing to crime scenes. Not getting enough sleep. Not eating right. Popping antacids. Thinking about the crime, as well as thinking about his next drink. Wondering where all of the years had gone and wondering why he was still doing this.
The moment the news broke about the latest “Labyrinth” attack, Riggins had an assistant booking a Metroliner to Penn Station in New York City. The roads along I-95 were unpredictable—the train was the fastest way to go.
Not that Special Circs had any official reason to be poking its nose into the case—the FBI and Interpol had made that clear, a former colleague even telling Riggins to back the fuck off. His requests to travel to Dubai and South Africa—denied. Special Circs was not welcome.
Riggins never let that stop him before.
So he took the Metroliner to Penn Station, caught a cab down to the World Trade Center site to the Epoch Hotel, where the NYPD already had barriers. Riggins remembered the Epoch from the news reports during 9/11. The luxury hotel had been finished just a few weeks before the attacks. While it had been left standing, the entire place had to be gutted and remodeled. Just across the street, the Freedom Tower construction was well under way, reaching to the upper limits of the sky. About damn time, Riggins thought.
Inside the hotel lobby, Riggins flashed his Special Circs badge and made it about halfway across the room when he saw Steve Dark.
Riggins swallowed his shock just as Dark turned and noticed him.
“Dark,” he said.
A defeated look washed over Dark’s face—as if Riggins were a teacher, and Dark had just been caught writing obscenities on the playground.
“Riggins.”
“I’m kind of surprised to see you here. Here I always thought you hated New York.”
Riggins noticed there was a pretty dark-haired woman standing next to him. More important, it was obvious she and Dark were together. She glanced at Riggins, frowned in disapproval, turned her attention elsewhere.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend there?”
“It’s not a good time, Riggins. We have to go.”
The last time Riggins and Dark saw each other, at the scene of another murder, Riggins and Dark had reached an uneasy peace. The kind that could be shattered in a moment. And this seemed to be one of those moments.
So his former protégé, Steve Dark, was working the Labyrinth case, too. Josh Banner had told him that Dark was working the L.A. bombing and the double homicide in Malibu, but Riggins assumed it was a backyard interest thing. Something Dark, a born manhunter, couldn’t resist. But now he was here in NYC, just hours after news of the threat. He didn’t fly here on a whim. He knew something had been up—in advance.
“So it’s safe to assume you’re still freelancing,” Riggins said. “Still working for that evil shadowy bitch I warned you about?”
“No,” Dark said.
“Well then, who? What, is it a state secret or something?”
“Seriously, Riggins, I’m not messing around, we’ve got a plane to catch,” Dark said, brushing past him. The pretty dark-haired woman with no name followed in his wake.
“Well,” he called out after Dark. “See you next crime scene.”
Riggins couldn’t help but wonder why he was still trying, still doing this, after all these years.
chapter 44
LABYRINTH
I have many things on my checklist to accomplish, but nothing
I can’t do by remote—and this is too great an opportunity to resist.
It’s been a while since I followed a man spontaneously.
I enjoy it.
I decide to follow him while sitting in the comfortable lobby of the Epoch Hotel watching all manner of police officers try to work out the details of my “crime.”
Two investigators, in particular, interest me. They’re not NYPD, they’re not FBI, nor Interpol nor anything else. They’re not the usual suspects. Thinking back on the mental footage I have of the scene of my second gift in Dubai, I realize these two were there, too, picking over the scene. They’re with some other agency.
Could it be . . . the agency? Blair’s secret unit?
As I ponder, an FBI man—you can tell by the ill-fitting suit, the way he hunches, the shoes, the look that practically screams BURNOUT—approaches them and says,
“Steve Dark.”
Why, thank you, Mr. FBI man. Nice to put a face to a name. I’ve read about Dark. Extremely disturbed individual.
Dark himself gives me a name for the bearlike FBI burnout: Riggins.
And a simple search on my phone reveals his identity: Agent Tom Riggins.
Their meeting isn’t pleasant. There’s some salacious history here. They act like parent and prodigal child.
For a few seconds, it’s a coin
toss—follow Dark or Riggins?
My gut tells me Riggins. If Dark is to be my hunter, then it would pay to know as much as possible about him.
Perhaps he can be turned.
So when they leave . . .
. . . I follow.
A cab drops Agent Tom Riggins off at Penn Station, where he catches an Amtrak train bound for Washington, D.C.
On the train I sit across the aisle and one seat back so that I not only have a view of his profile and facial expressions, but the ability to see what he reads or who he calls.
He calls no one, however.
The man just sits there and broods.
Closing his eyes every so often, pushing his fingers into his temples.
The pretty brunette next to me who smells of rosemary tries to chat me up—no doubt my suit and my haircut and the quality of the watch strapped to my wrist arouses her interest. Just like they are designed to do. My sheep’s clothing.
So I engage in mild conversation, nothing deep, just polite chatter about absolutely fucking nothing.
All the while I’m—
Watching Tom Riggins.
Rosemary asks me,
What do you do for a living?
I tell her, smiling,
Insurance.
Thinking,
I could just lean over and start whispering into your ear right now and by the second sentence you’d be stumbling into the Labyrinth and by the third you’d be hopelessly lost and by the time this train pulls into D.C. you’d be totally mine, you fucking whore, ready to do whatever I tell you to whomever I tell you, including yourself. We could settle in for a long evening of degradation and self-destruction.
And the temptation is there, believe me. When you’re on a mission to save the world, you still have the urge to blow off steam now and again.
Dark Revelations Page 13
