by Ethan Cross
They found nothing.
Marcus, his deranged father, and his estranged son had all simply vanished.
PART TWO
46
SIX MONTHS LATER
MAGGIE WOKE UP ON THE FLOOR OF MARCUS’S OFFICE IN ROSE HILL, VIRGINIA. An empty bottle of Scotch rolled away as she tried to stand. Her mouth felt as though she’d been eating sandpaper, and the room smelled of body odor. The smell made her stomach lurch. She leaped to her feet and ran to the bathroom. Flipped up the toilet lid and puked and dry heaved for a half-hour.
Then she walked back to Marcus’s desk, popped two of his headache pills, and lay down on his old futon.
A ringing phone brought her out of her daze a few moments later. She answered with a rasping, “Hello?”
From the other end of the line, Andrew asked, “Maggie, where are you? You were supposed to meet me for lunch.”
She checked her watch. It was two in the afternoon. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Brown-bag flu?”
“Who are you, my mother?”
“That sounds like something Marcus would have said. I’m worried about you. He was my best friend, but you have to accept—”
“Mind your own business. I’m going to see Ackerman later today. I’ll call you if he says anything new.”
She hung up without saying goodbye and pulled herself up to a sitting position. The room felt like it was spinning, and she saw white spots in her vision. She closed her eyes and pressed a palm to her forehead. After a moment, she regained focus and stared down at the case files that littered the floor of the office.
Maggie grabbed up one of the files and started reading. Nearly every inch of the floor and desk were covered by the files. All of them organized according to her own system by the type of lead and then alphabetically. She had taken down Marcus’s movie memorabilia and replaced them with whiteboards and maps. She had charted the disappearances of every missing person within fifty miles of Kansas City in the past two years, searching for some kind of pattern. She had contacted top geographic profilers to help create maps predicting the location of Ackerman Sr.’s home base. Nothing had proved fruitful.
She placed the case file neatly back in place atop its stack and straightened the row of files. A place for everything and everything in its place.
She checked the time again. Her meeting with Ackerman was in a few hours. She needed to get cleaned up and then undergo the CIA black site’s insane security procedures. She didn’t even know exactly where they were keeping Ackerman. All she knew was that he was at a secret site for high-value targets somewhere within an hour’s drive of DC. Every time she visited, she had to be drugged and blindfolded. Maggie had undergone the process three times now, but she still held hope that this would be the time when Ackerman would provide some insight that would blow the case wide open.
She had to maintain hope. The alternative was unthinkable.
47
THE ROBERT F. KENNEDY DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE BUILDING SAT BETWEEN PENNSYLVANIA AND CONSTITUTION AVENUES IN THE HEART OF WASHINGTON DC. It was a neoclassical building similar to others in the Federal Triangle with its Indiana limestone facade, red-tile hip roof, and colonnades. An inscription on one side read, “Justice is founded in the rights bestowed by nature upon man. Liberty is maintained in security of justice.” The sixth floor housed Trevor Fagan’s office. The walls were a basic white. The fixtures were all of an art deco design. A picture of Bobby Kennedy hung on one wall. The Director didn’t see any family pictures or anything of a personal nature. The whole place felt cold and generic.
As Fagan showed the Director to a leather chair in front of his desk, he said, “I never had a chance to apologize properly for everything that happened in Kansas City. I want you to understand that I’m very sorry for the loss of Special Agent Williams. He was a good man. And I’m glad that everything worked out with your gunshot wound. I hope you understand that I couldn’t allow anything to jeopardize the Shepherd Organization. Looking back, I probably didn’t handle the situation all that well.”
“You’re not a field agent, sir. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the Director said.
“I’m glad that you understand. The reason I asked you to come here today is that I wanted to tell you personally about Francis Ackerman Jr.”
“Has something happened?”
“No, but he’s put me in a bit of a compromising position. The facility that he’s in is usually reserved for terrorists and prisoners held for reasons of national security. It’s not a prison. Hell, it’s a temporary holding facility with only six cells. The CIA has been all over me to get him out of there. He’s costing the taxpayers a lot of money.”
The Director sat forward in his chair. “You can’t transfer him into a regular prison. We’re not even supposed to have him in custody. I guess we could stage a capture and create a cover story, but where would we put him? He’s escaped from some of the tightest security facilities in the country and killed who knows how many guards and personnel in the process. Innocent people, just doing their jobs.”
Fagan sat back in his desk chair and steepled his fingers. “You’re absolutely right. We’ve come to the same conclusions, and the decision’s already been made. We can’t keep him where he’s at, and he’s too dangerous to be transferred elsewhere.”
“You’re going to kill him,” the Director said.
“Mr. Craig and his men are going to stage it to look like he’s still free and attacked someone and was killed in the process. It will be clean.”
“He can still be useful. He helped a lot in Kansas City. And Ackerman Sr. is still out there. We need him.”
Fagan raised a hand. “This isn’t a discussion. It’s a notification. I know that Agent Carlisle is going to see him today. Let’s hope she learns something useful, because this time tomorrow Francis Ackerman Jr. will be dead.”
48
MAGGIE’S EYES ADJUSTED TO THE DIM LIGHTING AS THE GUARD PULLED OFF HER HOOD. She still had no idea where the facility was located, but it seemed industrial. Like a defunct manufacturing plant that had been repurposed. Ackerman’s holding cell was a box within a box. The outer box was a tall concrete square with a catwalk along which a constantly circling guard armed with a futuristic-looking assault rifle patrolled and a lower level which held two guards armed with shotguns. In the center of the concrete box was a clear cube containing a cot, a blanket, a pillow, and a chair. There was nothing else inside other than Ackerman himself. He was allowed to read, but the book sat on a stand outside the clear cube. The guards would occasionally turn the page for their prisoner.
Ackerman had pulled up his chair in front of the reinforced glass or acrylic or whatever indestructible material composed his cell. He wore only a light cotton jumpsuit similar to the scrubs worn by hospital workers, but the fabric seemed less substantial. He gave Maggie a big smile. “It’s good to see you, little sister,” he said.
She wasted no time engaging him in small talk. She didn’t want to be there any longer than necessary. “Your last request was denied.”
He shook his head. The muscles in his jaw clenched. “How do they expect me to help you find Marcus without showing me all the evidence? We’ve wasted months playing this game, while Marcus is ...” His voice trailed off. He took a deep calming breath and shut his eyes. “If I don’t have all the details, I’m of no use to you. I want to help, but your bosses have tied my hands. Literally and figuratively.”
Maggie knew that every word was being recorded and reviewed by Fagan. He wouldn’t like her sharing too many details with the killer. He had said that it was disrespectful to the victims to allow Ackerman to “get off” on their deaths, and therefore he had refused to allow Ackerman to view nearly all the files and evidence.
“Fagan said that he won’t allow you to watch the videos or see any pictures from the crime scenes. He said that it’s not fair to the victims or their families.”
“I’m sure you’ve
watched them all many times. Did he say that you can’t describe them to me?”
“Not specifically, but I’ve been over every aspect. There’s nothing there.”
“Humor me, little sister. There’s always nothing there, until you realize that there is.”
Maggie hesitated, but if there was any chance of Ackerman providing information that could lead to Marcus, she had to do it. She closed her eyes and tried to recount every horrific detail from the videos, the photos, and all the evidence.
When she had finished, Ackerman sat still as a statue for a long time. He seemed to be considering his next words very carefully and analyzing the new information. “You should have told me all this sooner. I think I may be able to help, but not from here. You need to get me out.”
Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious.”
“Sure, I’ll just sprinkle you with fairy dust, and we’ll fly off to Neverland.”
Ackerman leaned up against the glass. “If you want to save Marcus, then get me out of here. This isn’t a game.”
“Just tell me what you know!” She stood and slammed a fist against the clear barrier separating her from Ackerman. One of the guards rushed forward, but she stepped back and raised her hands in surrender. She sat back down.
Ackerman waited for the guard to back off and then said, “There’s really nothing for me to tell you. I’m going off a vague memory. Just a ghost from my childhood. I can’t tell you where to find him, but if I were there, looking at the streets, the shops, then I think I could find his old place.”
“Find who?”
“My grandfather. Louis Ackerman.”
49
MAGGIE SLAMMED A FIST ON MARCUS’S DESK AND SWEPT A STACK OF FILES ONTO THE FLOOR. The papers scattered and flew into the air as an explosion of white. “You’re not listening to me!” she screamed.
The Director stood up from his chair and said, “You need to calm down, Maggie.”
“Ackerman said that his grandfather was a talented mask-maker in New Orleans. There’s a big market for that kind of thing there, with Mardi Gras and costume balls. Ackerman says that his father always had a strained relationship with Louis, but that Louis might have been the one who showed Ackerman Sr. how to make the masks and could even be the one who’s providing him with materials.”
“I understand perfectly. If you can find where he’s sending the raw materials for the masks, then you may be able to track that back to Ackerman Sr. and then to Marcus. If he’s still even alive.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s something you may have to accept. And you also need to accept that Ackerman isn’t going to be able to lead you anywhere.”
“Dammit, sir. If I can’t take him there, maybe we could set up some kind of video conferencing. That way he can help us without ever leaving his cell.”
The Director walked over to Marcus’s futon, navigating past the stacks of files, and dropped onto the makeshift bed. The metal supports creaked beneath his weight. He picked up a half-empty bottle of Scotch from beside the bed, popped the cork, and took a long swig. Maggie walked over and joined him. He handed her the bottle, and she took a swig of her own, the liquid burning her throat like cinnamon candy.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
“They’re going to kill Ackerman.”
“What? When?”
“Tomorrow. They’re too scared to transfer him, and they can’t keep him at that black site forever.”
“They can’t do that.”
“Sure they can. They’ll make it look legitimate. It’ll be clean. And I’m not even convinced that it’s not the right thing to do.”
“But what about Marcus? We’re just going to abandon him?”
“Of course not, but let’s face it—Marcus is probably dead ... or worse. We know that Ackerman Sr. has been brainwashing people, and he’s already tampered with the brain of one of his sons. Even if we found him, the Marcus we got back might not be the same one that went in.”
“I’m not giving up on him. Just find out where they’re going to take Ackerman. I’ll do the rest.”
The Director ran a hand over his shaved scalp. “If you go down this road, you’re walking it alone. I won’t be able to help you.”
“I know.”
He took another swig of the Scotch and then headed for the door. He said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
50
DARKNESS. The black that surrounded him was so thick and heavy that he had nearly forgotten the light. He could barely recall the sensation of the sun’s warmth on his skin. He could feel his memory slipping. And his memories were all that he had left.
In this place, there was no light. There was no comfort. No companionship. No mercy. No hope.
Marcus didn’t even try to do a workout every day now. In the early days, he had done push-ups and presses upside down against the wall and had run in place. Now he couldn’t find the energy to do even that much. He figured every other day or even a couple of times a week would be enough to keep his muscles from atrophying.
Although he had no concept of time. He didn’t know what a day was. Or a week. He didn’t even know how long he had been in this hole. It felt like an eternity, but time had little meaning in the darkness.
His father fed him the bare minimum to keep him alive and spoke to him through a speaker in the ceiling. The old man wouldn’t respond to questions. Marcus wasn’t even sure if it was a live broadcast or if his father had just recorded his insane ramblings and played them back for his son. They did repeat. Or at least, he thought they did. He couldn’t be sure of much anymore. Beyond his father’s occasional words, there was no stimulation. He couldn’t hear anything from the world beyond. Which also meant that no one out there could hear him scream, either. The only sounds came from what he presumed to be other cells, but even those were soundproofed enough so that he wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone who was trapped with him. If there was anyone else. It could simply have been his imagination.
His mind had begun to question his existence. Marcus couldn’t shake the feeling that he had died, and this was hell. He sometimes wondered if he had ever been alive at all. But then his father would initiate an electrical shock, and the agony would make him realize that if he could suffer, then he had to exist. But that still didn’t rule out the possibility of hell.
He had tried to escape many times, but there was no way out. After he’d learned that, he had tried to kill himself. But he couldn’t find a way out like that, either.
He had banged his head against the stone walls, but he had only succeeded in knocking himself out. He had tried to stop eating, but his father had just knocked him out and fed him intravenously for a few days. He had tried to bite into his own wrists, but his father had rushed in, treated his wounds, and punished him severely for the attempt. He had no clothes or bed sheets or blankets or anything to hang himself with. His only piece of clothing was the shock collar around his neck. The ceiling was about six feet high, but it was a large sheet of metal with holes drilled in it as points of access for his father’s speaker and whatever else was on the actual ceiling—he presumed an overhead light and probably a night-vision camera documenting his descent into madness. His entire world was a stone floor, his father’s monologues, and his memories.
Marcus was thinking about Maggie, trying to keep a perfect picture of her in his mind, when a voice cut through the darkness.
“Fear is truth. Fear is the only real emotion. Love, hatred, jealousy, loyalty, happiness. These are not real. They are merely the shadows of fear. Think of any emotion. At its core, you will find fear. Happiness. It is merely the absence of pain. Emotional pain is caused by fear. A person may be afraid that their spouse is cheating on them. Afraid that they’ll lose their job. If these things are confirmed, they are afraid of how these changes will affect their lives. We hate what we fear. We love things that take away our fear. W
e may be afraid of being alone, so we seek companionship. We love the one who assuages that fear. There is no good or evil in the world. There is only fear. Fear of failure. Fear of consequences. Fear of your fellow man.”
Marcus hated himself for the comfort he found in his father’s talks. He hated it even more when he caught himself thinking that maybe his father was right.
“Think of the ultimate figure of evil in the world. The Devil. Satan. As the fairy tale goes, why did Lucifer rebel against God? Out of fear. He was jealous of God’s other creations for fear of being replaced, of being forgotten. He was afraid that he wasn’t loved anymore. This is why he tortures souls who turn from God. Because he fears them.”
Marcus curled into the fetal position and tried to cover his ears, but the blaring sound of his father’s voice couldn’t be shut out.
“Fear is the only true emotion, but it is also what keeps us shackled to mediocrity and keeps us from realizing our potential. This is what I want for you, my son. To live without fear. This life is all that we have. The only chance we have to make a mark on the world. Don’t be afraid to act upon your carnal desires and live out your deepest fantasies. That’s what I do. Your desires may be different from mine, but the concept is the same. This is the secret of existence. A life without fear. A life without boundaries.”
51
FRANCIS ACKERMAN JR. LISTENED TO THE HUM OF THE ROADWAY AND TRIED TO HEAR ANY SOUNDS OUTSIDE THE VAN THAT WOULD GIVE HIM AN IDEA OF HIS LOCATION. He couldn’t hear anything specific, but he could make some extrapolations from the absence of certain sounds. He couldn’t hear any other traffic. They hadn’t stopped at any lights. He gauged their speed at a minimum of fifty-five miles an hour from the moment they’d pulled away from the gates of the holding facility. An isolated location in the countryside. Probably southwest of DC.
