Apocalypse Journeys (Book 2): Finding AJ

by Melrose, Russ

  Holding a press conference was an excellent sign. He felt a degree of satisfaction, though he refused to be overconfident. No question the press conference had been a desperate move. It meant they had no evidence and were forced to resort to an obvious trap. Their intention was to anger him by the suggestion that he was sexually impotent. He was supposed to act impulsively and make some kind of foolish mistake.

  That wasn't going to happen.

  Amanda Chandler, as head of the Vegas office, had led off the press conference. She'd stood behind the podium, rigid as a steel rail. He knew who she was. She had iron gray hair neatly imprisoned in a netted bun. She had the appearance of a cranky old maid. Her role was twofold: to ask for the public's assistance and to introduce Agent Henry Stohl.

  The press conference was Agent Stohl's show.

  Stohl came off as smug and self-important, the type of Fed that rarely solved crimes. His main interest would be in advancing his career. He knew Stohl was second in command to Beckerman. But Stohl was no Noah Beckerman. No doubt Stohl was hoping the press conference would be a springboard to bigger and better things.

  For an FBI agent, Stohl was hardly fit. His dark gray suit struggled to hide his walrus-like body. Stohl's face was pink and baby pudgy. As he approached the podium, he removed his glasses from his inside suit pocket and set them very precisely on his nose at the exact moment he arrived at the podium.

  This was Agent Stohl's show, and he wanted everyone to know it. He spoke in serious tones as he looked straight into the camera. His arms were extended, and he gripped the sides of the podium. He needed the illusion of authority and control, and controlling the podium gave him that. He held his head high though his body had a natural sag to it, a characteristic he tried to overcome but failed. He implored the public for its assistance in helping to apprehend the unknown subject as he kept referring to him. He mentioned a few details but left the bulk of it to the new agent. The woman.

  He felt he had a good read on all of them except the young woman.

  Stohl was of no concern to him, neither was Chandler or Coleman. Coleman stood behind the podium in the background with three other agents. Fitting, since he was little more than a background player. An accessory. As the local liaison for the FBI, he was affable enough, useful, but not extraordinary in any way. The only real investigator on the task force was Beckerman. And possibly the woman. She was new, and he had yet to make up his mind about her. Agent Jules Vandevelde.

  He watched her closely. She nodded stiffly to Stohl as she passed him on her way to the podium. No love lost there. She held a vanilla folder with the profile she'd put together.

  She was wearing a shark gray suit with a white silk blouse, the top button unbuttoned. The matching gray skirt hugged her hips and thighs before dipping below her knees. Conservative and demure. He liked that. She wasn't beautiful but was nice to look at. Slender and fit. He liked that too.

  The Vandevelde woman spoke clearly in a professional tone, her delivery concise and on point. Nothing flowery but not boring either. Most of the details she presented were mundane, hardly worth a mention. The Feds weren't here to give anything away.

  When she talked about him likely being sexually impotent, he noticed a subtle shift in her stance. Hardly noticeable, but it was there nonetheless. And while she'd hardly glanced at the folder, she looked down at it for several seconds as she talked about his purported sexual impotence. Her voice remained steady, no stumbling, but she didn't appear comfortable looking into the camera and lying. She didn't appear comfortable at all. That's what he gleaned from it. The previous times he'd watched the news conference, he'd sensed a reluctance on her part. Now he was certain of it.

  He understood Agent Vandevelde was intended to be the focus of his anger and outrage, perhaps even a target. But he wasn't angry at her. He wasn't angry at any of them. His only goal where they were concerned was to understand them better. That way he could anticipate their moves and manipulate them when necessary.

  He doubted Beckerman had played any role in the press conference idea. If he had, he'd have been at the presser instead of spending the day in Gideon. He didn't like Beckerman being in Gideon. He didn't like him getting this close. He'd have to do something about it.

  The seed of an idea began to form in his mind. If he could pull it off, it would all but kill the investigation. He would take aim and kill two little birdies with a single stone. It would have its risks, but he knew he could pull it off. And he would use the Vandevelde woman. Without being aware of it, she would help him. He liked that idea. He liked it a lot. More misdirection. She would help lead them further away from him without realizing she was doing it.

  Everything had been going perfectly till George managed to get himself picked up and questioned. Silly, stupid George. Now he'd have to adjust. He'd have to make a play.

  Chapter 19

  The Mackerel

  "You want to go search George Albrecht's house now?" Heath asked, incredulously.

  "Yes, now," Jules told him. She wasn't about to back down. "I held up my part of the agreement. You said I needed to earn the privilege as you called it. Well, I did that. I went out on two supply runs like you asked. Those were your terms."

  Heath Conway narrowed his eyes. He stood in front of her in his authoritative posture, hands on hips. He was a head taller than Jules, and he was attempting to use his height to intimidate her. "There's an awful lot going on around here with what happened last night, Jules. We've got more important things to deal with than some wild goose chase."

  "Are you a man of your word, Heath, or not? I think it's as simple as that."

  "What?" he asked.

  "Look, Heath. I get it. You have things to deal with. So do I. You might not think what I'm doing has merit. That's fair. But we had a deal. How about I take care of my business and you take of yours. Any problem with that?"

  "You're pretty damn pushy, you know that?" He stared at her as if he were waiting for her to blink. "I suppose that comes with the territory … being a Fed and whatnot." He sighed deeply. "I'm guessing you'll nag the hell out of me till I let you go." A pained look crossed Heath's face. It lingered for a moment, then passed. "All right. What the hell. Just get it over with. Dallin can drive you over to George's."

  He checked the time. "It's almost eleven. Town meeting at 1:30, need to talk over what needs to happen now. Be nice if you could make it … unless you're planning on leaving town when you search George's place and don't find anything."

  Jules could already feel the buzz kicking in. The tiredness she'd felt earlier was gone. Maybe the frigid water had helped after all. Jules felt invigorated. "Good. Two hours should be enough time. And, no, I'm not planning on leaving. Not yet."

  He grinned sarcastically and shook his head. "You're a real piece of work, Vandevelde. I heard about what happened last night. One minute you're gut-punching the hell out of Cole, next minute you're saving his sorry ass. What is it with you, Jules? Can't make up your mind?"

  Jules knew it would be pointless trying to wipe the grin off his face. "I better go find Dallin," she said.

  She heard him chuckle as she walked off. "Yeah," he said, raising his voice to make sure she'd hear him. "Never any doubt you'd be just fine out there, Jules."

  *****

  The cruiser pulled up in front of George Albrecht's house. The white vinyl-sided house was tinder-box small and its lawn was baked dry.

  It was located in a newer tract of homes on the outskirts of Gideon, the section that no longer had electricity.

  "This here's George's place," Dallin said, angling his head toward the house. "If-If it's locked, sh-shouldn't be too hard to break in."

  But the door wasn't locked. Jules wondered if Albrecht had left the door open because he was infected.

  A musty smell permeated the dimly lit living room. Blinds and shades covered all the windows.

  "We need to get some light in here," she told Dallin.

  As usual, Dallin was wearin
g his deputy sheriff shirt along with jeans and cowboy boots. His uniformed shirt was crisply ironed as always. Jules couldn't picture Dallin wearing anything else.

  They went around and opened up all the blinds and shades. "I'm going to start here in the living room, Dallin. You take the bedroom. Check everything thoroughly. Look for hiding places and hidden compartments. Look underneath everything and behind everything. Check the vents too. If you see anything, give a holler."

  "Sure," he said. "Jules, you really think George Albrecht was a serial killer?" he asked.

  "I don't know. That's what we're here to find out."

  Once the blinds and shades were opened, the light revealed a small, bright living room. Jules studied the room closely. The walls were painted a flat guava green. The soft, light color went well with the maple flooring. Beveled white crown molding bordered the juncture of the walls and ceiling.

  For the most part, the room was functionally furnished.

  Against one wall sat a rich brown cloth sofa with half a dozen throw pillows. A matching arm chair nearby was angled toward the television. In front of the sofa, a large cedar chest masqueraded as a coffee table. A wood coaster set and a paperback novel sat atop the cedar chest. At one end of the sofa, there was a cherry wood end table with a lace doily and a lamp on it, at the other end, a wicker magazine basket sat on the floor. Across from the sofa, an HD television, maybe 70 inches, sat on a clear plastic television stand. Next to it, stood a narrow DVD stand filled with DVDs and Blu-ray discs.

  One item stood out to Jules in a bizarre way. It caught her eye the moment light had streamed into the room. A print of Salvador Dali's Crucifix hung above the sofa. Jules thought it an odd choice for the room and for Albrecht. She remembered the painting from a college art class. Beyond the obvious symbolism of sacrifice, the cubist dimensions of the cross were meant to represent the transcendental nature of Christ's journey from one dimension to another.

  The Dali print bothered Jules.

  She stared at the painting and picked up the paperback—a James Patterson novel called Kiss the Girls. She'd read it years ago. It was a gruesome tale about a pair of serial killers who kidnapped, assaulted, tortured, and murdered beautiful young women. Distracted, she riffled through the pages, still put off by the painting. There was a bookmark in the 99th chapter. She quickly read the page. In it, Detective Alex Cross was livid because the local North Carolina police had arrested the wrong man. The man was being scapegoated for the killings. A sacrificial lamb.

  It was no coincidence the book had been left on the cedar chest in the proximity of the painting. The presence of the book and the painting were staged. They'd been left for her.

  There would be more. She was certain of it. Jules would find everything he'd left for her.

  The only thing she found in the cedar chest was a blanket. When she checked the magazine basket, she wasn't surprised to find several copies of The Art of Calligraphy magazine.

  "Jules," Dallin hollered. "I-I-I think found something."

  When Jules entered the master bedroom, Dallin was on his knees, head twisted sideways, peering into a wall vent near the floor. He'd been diligent tossing the bedroom. The mattress and box springs were leaning against a wall and all the drawers to the dresser were stacked on the floor along with the drawer to a small computer office desk. Albrecht's clothes sat in a heap in the middle of the floor. A large bookcase sat against a wall near the bed, filled with books, mostly paperbacks. Albrecht was a reader.

  Like the living room, the furniture in the bedroom was utilitarian. Nothing imaginative or flashy.

  "There's something here," Dallin said excitedly, pausing to look up at Jules. "It's d-d-dark in there. I-I can't make it out."

  "Do you have a Phillips screwdriver in the car, Dallin? And a flashlight?"

  "Uh huh. I think so," he said.

  Dallin left and Jules inspected the vent. Several inches in, she could make out a dark shape.

  While she waited for Dallin, she checked the bookcase. Most of the books were paperbacks. Lots of detective mysteries and thrillers. On the top shelf to the left were four hardbacks, one with a bookmark in it. She stared dumbstruck at the title: History of Chinese Calligraphy by Zhang Jie.

  Another obviously planted piece of evidence. Why was he doing this? The book never would have been there if George Albrecht had actually been the Calligrapher. The real Calligrapher wouldn't have left a shred of evidence.

  As she suspected, the bookmarked page was on "The Tsao Killer" story. She leafed through the book. Several chapter pages had the titles cut out of them.

  Jules thumbed through the paperbacks. In the books Albrecht had read, he always earmarked the pages and later re-straightened them. He never used a bookmark.

  The Calligrapher had chosen Albrecht as his patsy, his red herring. As the Dali painting and the Alex Cross book suggested, George Albrecht was supposed to have been the Calligrapher's sacrificial lamb. But that ended the day they picked up Albrecht for questioning and he had an alibi.

  Jules wondered why the Calligrapher had taken the trouble to stage Albrecht's home. He could have left it as is without leaving any evidence around. She wouldn't have ever known whether he was alive or dead or even if he lived in Gideon. She would have been left in the dark. For whatever reason, he wanted her to know he was alive and well and living right across the river in camp.

  She heard Dallin come back into the house.

  "Got 'em," Dallin announced as he entered the room, holding up the screwdriver and the flashlight for Jules to see.

  "Good. Let's get that vent screen off and see what's there."

  Dallin kneeled on the floor and unscrewed the two Phillip head screws from the vent. He removed the screen and took a quick peek into the vent, then looked up to Jules and handed her the flashlight.

  "Should we use gloves?" Dallin asked.

  "No," she told him. "If there are any prints, they'll belong to George Albrecht. The suspect we're looking for wouldn't leave any prints. At least not his own. Besides, even if we had prints, we wouldn't be able to check them. The national databases we'd want to check wouldn't be available. And to check locally, we'd have to fingerprint everyone in town."

  Jules got down on the floor next to Dallin. She peered into the vent and turned the flashlight on. About ten inches in sat an intricately carved oriental chest. A folded scrap of paper sat atop the chest. Jules carefully removed the chest from the vent and set it on her lap.

  Inside the folded scrap of paper was a simple message. "For Jules. Come find me if you can," it said. He'd pasted the lettering from the cutout chapter titles in the book.

  He was poking fun at her. She stuck the note in her pocket. The chest was beautifully carved teakwood—dark ebony. It looked like an antique. The chest had a dull bronze hasp, but there was no lock. She opened the chest and there they were, neatly displayed in the velvet-cushioned interior. The earrings, the friendship ring, the heart necklace, and the locket. The Calligrapher's trophies.

  The trophies touched her. Each represented a human life that had been cruelly ripped away in its prime. They made her feel even more connected to the victims. She held the chest in her hands with great care. The trophies were precious to her.

  She would find him if it were the last thing she ever did.

  Dallin angled in to get a closer look. "What are they?" he asked.

  Jules could hardly speak. "Trophies," she whispered.

  "Does-Does that mean George was the killer?"

  "No, Dallin. George Albrecht wasn't the killer."

  Jules set the chest on the floor and grabbed the flashlight. She wanted to confirm her suspicion. She lit the vent up again. The vent had a layer of dust, and she could see the dust slightly smeared where the chest had sat. The level of dust was approximately the same. The chest had almost certainly been placed there in the past few days.

  Jules thought the only thing truly attributable to George Albrecht were the calligraphy magazines. But ev
erything about George Albrecht would have pointed to him as a suspect—his interest in calligraphy, traveling with his job, the sexual assault charge from twenty years ago. They all made George Albrecht the perfect patsy. At some point, a strand of hair or some other minutiae of evidence would have shown up at a crime scene implicating him.

  It also meant her profile of the Calligrapher was all wrong. Pretty much everything she'd thought about him was wrong. It struck her that that was why he'd left all the evidence at George Albrecht's. He wanted to show her how easy it had been for him to fool her. Fool them. He was showing off.

  As they were leaving, Jules stopped in the living room and stared at the painting.

  "Have you been here before, Dallin?"

  "Um, yeah," he said. "Four, five years ago. Came here with Heath. Some kids v-v-vandalized George's place when he was gone."

  "Was this painting here?"

  "No, I-I don't think so. But … uh … I'm not sure. Looks familiar. I think I've seen it before."

  Dallin scratched the back of his head thoughtfully.

  "At someone else's home, Dallin?"

  He narrowed his eyes and looked at the painting. Suddenly, he smiled. "I-I know," he said excitedly. "I've seen it at Mayor Nichols' home."

  It made sense to her. The Calligrapher was playing games with them, but could there be more? Was there a message in the painting?

  Jules had a thousand questions.

  Did the Calligrapher see himself as a sacrificial lamb? Or was there some kind of significance with the imagery of the dimensional cross? Were the murders a vehicle for some kind of transcendent experience? Did the murders transform him? The one thing she believed she'd been right about was his need to share and to show off. Did he want her to understand him? Or was he playing her like he'd played them all?