by M. Z. Kelly
He regarded me. “The three essentials: beer, crossword puzzles, and a little sports on TV. Everything a guy needs.”
I knew that he’d been divorced a couple of times. I brushed a hand through Bernie’s fur and decided to ask the question that was on my mind anyway. “What about a woman?”
The lines on his heavy brow came together as he looked at me. “There’s all kinds of trouble in this life, Buttercup. Murder, mayhem, and everything in between. I’ve had enough of the in between to last me a lifetime.”
“It’s nice to know that women have their place, right between murder and mayhem.”
“What about you?” he grumbled. “Anybody bringing you wine and chocolates these days?”
I thought about my date with Dillon Walker. I decided that I wasn’t ready to discuss that with him. “Only when I see my favorite clerk at Trader Joe’s.”
His lips turned up. “Men are overrated anyway. You might be better off finding yourself a good woman.”
I chuckled. “I don’t think you should give up, either. Maybe there’s a guy out there somewhere for you.”
He laughed. It was the first time I’d seen him relax since we’d been working together again. “Guys are a pain in the ass and, believe me, I’m an expert on the subject.”
I decided to tread into deeper water. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about your brother?”
He looked away from me. “Not going to happen.”
I was frustrated, wondering if I’d ever know what had happened between them. I gave up on the subject, glancing up the street and seeing that Tyler Linden’s run-down little house was dark. The streetlights were taking hold now. It seemed odd to me that there were no lights on inside the residence.
I turned to Dawson. “Did we ever get Linden’s mugs from parole?”
He reached into a folder on the console. “Yeah, but they’re from when he was convicted in Florida a few years ago. Nothing recent.”
I’d only had a glance at one of the mug shots that Ted had shown me a couple of days earlier, so I asked to see them. My mouth fell open when I saw the young man staring back at me in the photographs. “I’ve seen him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Bernie and I were at Plummer Park a couple of days ago and ran into him.” Then I remembered that he’d introduced himself. “Damn. He even said his name was Ty, but I never made the connection. He has shoulder length hair now.”
“You sure?”
I took a final look. “I have no doubt about it.”
Dawson opened the door. “Let’s go have a chat with the little ham sandwich.”
“You sure that’s a good idea? We’re supposed to just do surveillance.”
He turned to me. “Did I ever mention that I don’t do surveillance?”
“Why am I not surprised?”
When we got to the house, we decided to go up the driveway and into the backyard to see if there were any lights on inside. We were met by the Golden Retriever I’d seen in the park with Linden. The little dog did a tail wag and wanted to romp around the yard with Bernie. My big dog was on alert, all business, despite the invitation.
I pulled my weapon out of my bag, turned to Dawson, and said, “You want to try the door?”
I saw that he was already turning the knob, finding it was locked. He then stepped back and used a foot, breaking it in.
“I guess you still don’t believe in warrants, either,” I said, remembering that he’d broken into residences before when I’d worked with him.
“The guy’s on parole, he must have search terms. I’m using them.” He had his gun out and called out, announcing us. There was no response.
“I’ll follow you in with Bernie,” I said, coming over to him.
The house was small, just two bedrooms and one bath. It was messy, with lots of dirty dishes in the sink. After a quick look around, I didn’t see anything remarkable. I then glanced out the kitchen window and noticed the garage.
Dawson was mumbling something about Linden being a dirty ass wipe, when I said, “Let’s take a look out back.”
Bernie led the way as we made our way into the backyard and over to the small garage. We stopped on the driveway and waited as Dawson went over and tried the door, finding it unlocked. We moved inside with our guns drawn and found a light switch. The big FBI agent immediately went over to a workbench.
Dawson turned back to me. “He’s our guy.”
I saw there were photographs of girls pinned to the back of the workbench. I’d seen the photographs enough times to know that we were looking at the victims in the Georgia and Florida cases, along with Jenna Collins.
Dawson took the final photograph off the board and held it up. “Wanna make a bet our boy is busy with her right about now?”
I sighed and brushed a hand through my damp hair. The girl looked to be about the same age as the other victims, young and full of life.
I then realized that Bernie was whining. I bent down to him. “What’s the matter, buddy?”
The whining grew louder and I saw that his eyes were fixed on a doorway at the back of the garage. I motioned to Dawson, giving him the signal that we needed to check it out.
When the door creaked open and my FBI partner found a light switch, I heard him say, “Son of a bitch.”
I came up behind him but couldn’t see around him into the room. “What is it?”
“Wasps,” Dawson said. “Hundreds of them.”
THIRTY FOUR
We spent part of the night at Tyler Linden’s house, along with a dozen techies from the department’s SID division. Other than the photographs of the girls and the wasps in the glass cages, we didn’t come up with anything worthwhile.
Selfie called around eight, telling us that a report had come through about a girl named Riley Miller who had disappeared last night while leaving the Glendale Community Church.
We decided it was worth checking out and headed to Glendale. On the way, we were told that the girl’s mother had gone to their church to meet with her pastor, so we went directly there. I called Oz on the way to fill him in on what was happening. He said that he’d taken a personal interest in our case and would meet us there.
We found Jennifer Miller, the missing girl’s mother, in the church’s rectory with her pastor and a reporter from the Herald-Press who had somehow learned of the girl’s disappearance and beat us there.
“What does it mean?” the missing girl’s mother said after we introduced ourselves. Her eyes were red-rimmed and it looked like she was on the verge of falling apart.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, looking from her to the pastor.
“There was a note left,” Mason Palmer, the church’s pastor, said.
“Where is it?” Dawson demanded as Oz came through the door and joined us.
Palmer turned to the reporter for the Herald-Press, a woman named Haley Tristan who I’d had several run-ins with in the past.
“I’ve already made a copy and sent it to our offices,” Tristan said before Palmer could respond. “The public has a right to know what’s happening.”
Joe Dawson stepped closer to her until his big mug was inches from her face. “I’m only going to say this one more time, then I turn you inside out and upside down until I find the god-damned note. Where the fuck is it?”
Tristan blinked and pulled a piece of paper out of her purse. Dawson snatched it away, brought it over to me and Oz, and we all examined it together. There were only two lines, just like all the other poetry left by The Prophet. I read the lines out loud.
“A spider and a wasp, go out to play
At the hour of death, what can we say?”
I looked at Dawson and then lowered my voice so that the others couldn’t hear. “I think these lines fit with the others, I’m just not sure what the hell it means. All I do know is that we don’t have much time.”
We began the questions, Dawson leading off. “Did anybody see Riley leaving the church
last night?”
The pastor answered. “She was with some friends in her youth group. They said a police officer stopped her outside as she was leaving and said that her mother had been injured.”
“Did anyone get a description of the man?” I asked.
I got back a vague response, nothing worthwhile, and then asked her mother, “Could Riley have left with one of her friends, or maybe a boy?”
Mom was coming unglued now. “No, she always waited for me…and she never went anywhere with boys.”
“The Prophet has her,” Haley Tristan said, the tone of her voice verging on hysteria. “You’ve got to do something.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, taking her by the arm and leading her outside. When we were on the portico I blasted away. “You say one more thing about that child being taken by The Prophet in front of her mother and I will personally lock you up.”
“For what?”
“Impeding a murder investigation.” I pointed to the parking lot. “You have exactly two minutes to get in your car and leave or…”
“Or what?” Tristan demanded. “I know the chief of police.”
I stepped closer to her, every nerve in my body on fire with anger. “I don’t give a shit if you know the police chief, God Almighty, or even George Fucking Clooney. Leave now or you go to jail.”
After a brief stare down, the reporter finally left and I went back inside. I went over to Dawson and the lieutenant. “Where do we go from here?
Oz looked at the big FBI agent and then back at me. “I think you need to go back and talk to the only person who knows anything about this case—Lucas Caufield.”
***
Dawson drove Bernie and me to Caufield’s house. Time was of the essence now. I stared at him as he drove and let him have it. “I need to know about your brother—everything.”
“There’s nothing…”
“Stop.” I yelled. Bernie came up from the backseat and started to growl. “We have another missing girl, probably already in the monster’s hands. You know as well as I do that sometimes it’s the little things that can break a case. I need to know everything that you know—now.”
Dawson exhaled and brushed a hand through his hair but didn’t respond.
“I’m waiting, God-damn it.”
“Alright,” he grumbled. It took almost a minute for him to pull his thoughts together and continue. “As you already know, Lucas is my half-brother. He took his mother’s maiden name when he was older. When Lucas was a baby, Dad divorced his mother, and then remarried. A couple of years later I came along.” Dawson found my eyes. “My father worked for the Agency.”
I said what I’d already pieced together. “He was a profiler.”
He found my eyes. “Yeah, but back then the term actually meant something. He was one of the best there ever was. He’s still a legend in some circles. I guess you could say that Lucas and I grew up as part of the agency. We studied at the feet of the master. As we grew older, Dad told us everything about his cases, the crimes, the victims…” He met my eyes again. “And how he profiled the offenders.”
“Not your typical childhood.”
“Dad ended up divorcing my mother and was gone a lot. His work with the agency was all Lucas and I had. It’s the one thing we knew.”
“And you both eventually became agents.”
“Yeah, but we took different paths. My brother was the straight arrow, the smart kid who got good grades, and always said and did all the right things. I, on the other hand, was a first class David Adam.”
“A what?”
“A dumb ass. I was the fuck up who took a lot of knocks along the way, made some bad decisions. It took me awhile, but I eventually found my own way to the right side of things.”
We pulled off the freeway and entered the Encino city limits where Lucas Caufield lived. “And, so what happened between you and your brother?”
“About four years ago, I was working cases in the south, a series of kidnaps and killings, when I heard about the Decatur, Georgia case. As it turned out Lucas, who at the time was part of a specialized unit, was already working the murder. I told him I wanted in. He said the girl’s case didn’t fit the profile of my cases. When there was the second murder in Florida a few weeks later, I still thought it was a fit for my crimes and we clashed again. Lucas said that, while the Georgia and Florida cases were linked, my case didn’t fit and I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. We argued and had a falling out behind everything. End of story.”
“Do you still think the other murders you were working on at the time were linked to your brother’s cases?”
He shook his head. “We got a DNA match on the uncle of one of the victims a few weeks later.” He found my eyes. “Lucas, as usual, was right.”
I looked at him for a long moment as we drove through his brother’s neighborhood. “Why is it that I think there’s something you’re not telling me?”
Dawson pulled to the curb in front of Caufield’s house. “It’s all I’ve got.” He motioned to the backseat. “I’ll watch the mutt.”
I took a breath and regarded him for a moment longer, deciding that I wouldn’t get anything more.
It was late, and the only advanced notice that Caufield’s aunt had about my visit was a phone call from Oz as we left Glendale. I saw that Karen Taft was wearing a robe when she opened the door.
“He’s already in bed for the night, but I told him you were coming,” Taft said, not bothering with greetings as we walked down the hallway toward the bedroom. She stopped at the closed bedroom door. “I don’t know why this couldn’t wait until the morning.”
“A girl was taken last night. Her abduction ties to an old case your brother worked. Time is of the essence.”
She opened the door. “I’ll be in the living room.”
I entered Lucas Caufield’s bedroom and closed the door behind me. The room was hot, just like before. The only illumination was from a lamp in the corner that cast a soft light over the bed. The steady thump and swish of machines was the only sound in the room.
I walked over to the bed, and saw that Caufield was awake, his bed slightly elevated. The electronic screen that spelled out words when he used the hand-held device was in front of him. His pale blue eyes, that I realized for the first time were the same color as his brother’s, shifted and found me.
“I’m here about The Prophet again,” I said. “He’s taken another girl and left a note.”
I waited for the electronic voice but heard nothing.
I tried again. “Can you help me? I need to know anything you can tell me about The Prophet.”
Caufield’s hand moved as he began typing his response. A couple of minutes passed before I finally heard the modulated voice. Maybe it was my imagination but it seemed darker, more ominous than before. “Why are you here?”
Our eyes were locked on one another. My voice took on a pleading tone. “As I said, there’s been an…”
“Do you…believe in…fate?”
My brows came together. “I…I don’t know. What does that have to do with The Prophet?”
A minute later, I heard, “Fate…it has brought us…together.”
I was frustrated and made no effort to hide it. “The Prophet has brought us together.” I purposely softened my voice. “Please, help me. I’m afraid the girl doesn’t have much time.”
There was another hand movement before I heard the electronic voice again. “Touch me.”
“What?” I exhaled. “I’m not here for your entertainment.”
After another minute, the voice came back. “Just my…cheek…please.”
I brushed the hair out of my eyes, feeling conflicted. I desperately wanted his help, but, at the same time, I realized that I felt sorry for him. Lucas Caufield was asking for human contact, something that he probably didn’t usually get.
I reached out, hesitated, but then brushed my hand over his forehead. His skin was soft and warm. I then lowered m
y hand, tracing the outline of his jaw. I did it twice. Caufield’s eyes closed before I pulled back and said, “Now, please help me with the girl.”
I saw his fingers move, his hand working the speech modulator again. “We have been…chosen…” I waited as he continued to click away. “The Prophet…has brought us here…together. That is our fate.”
I wasn’t sure that what he’d said had anything to do with our case. “What about the girl?”
After a few moments, I again heard the electronic voice. “She is…with an…apprentice. One who…works for The Prophet.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
More typing and the voice said, “Read…the note…to me.”
I pulled a copy of the latest handwritten message out of my purse and read The Prophet’s two-line message. “A spider and a wasp go out to play. At the hour of death, what can we say?”
It took at least a minute to hear his response. “Do you know…what it means…to be a spider?”
I shook my head. “No…except that…I guess it’s food…for the wasp.”
More typing. “A spider…is sometimes…menacing…poisonous…not in this…case.”
“What do you mean?”
“The spider…it is…white…”
What he said, matched what the Quantico profilers had told us. “Yes, but…”
“The girl…she’s the spider.” After a pause, he asked a question. “Do you think…she is evil?”
“No, she innocent…untouched.”
“You…are…wrong.”
I felt the dampness on my face and chest as I said, “What is she, then?”
He hesitated but finally began typing. After what seemed like an eternity I heard the strange, modulated voice again. “The spider…is food for what is evil…in this world.”
What he’d said, again matched what the profilers had told us. He then spoke again, his words causing a jolt of adrenaline to shoot through my blood stream. “The danger is growing…those closest to the investigation…are not safe.”
“You’re talking about me.” His finger didn’t move. Finally, I said, “Why was I chosen…as his adversary?”
