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chapter 12
Malibu Beach, California
Tuesday / 6 A.M. PST
Waves smashed over Malibu Beach. Dark watched them and took another pull from his beer.
He never tired of looking at the ocean and feeling the salty mist that washed back over his face. It was a little taste of forever, right there on the sand.
The beer helped, too.
Dark had a deeply tanned face, with jagged lines marking the years—especially under his eyes. Squint and you could almost mistake him for malnourished. But his body was all lean muscle, stretched taut over a broad and tall frame. It looked like it had been chiseled from granite. He kept an anchor-style beard—heavier under the nose and mouth, neatly trimmed along his jawline. The hair on his head hadn’t been trimmed in months. Most of the time, Dark preferred to cinch it up in back and forget about it.
Dark came here—to this particular spot on the shoreline—every morning. He blinked slowly and deliberately. Not in time to the waves, or in reaction to the lashing spray carried by the ocean wind, but to his own heartbeat. He didn’t want to become part of the awesome display in front of him—the thunderous waves crashing, spewing foam onto the pebbled shore, the hermit crabs scurrying and digging and hiding. He just wanted to watch.
Dark took another drink. He always started with beer—nothing stronger. When you’ve retired in your midthirties, you want to ease into your morning. Besides, the point wasn’t ripping straight into oblivion. It was maintaining that line between reality and oblivion. He lived in the salty mist between ocean and shore.
And then all of a sudden he knew someone was approaching from behind.
He didn’t claim to have batlike radar. But after coming to this crest for 136 consecutive days, Dark had developed a very specific catalog of sights and sounds and smells. If one little detail was off, it stood out like a burst of red in a black-and-white photograph. He’d always been this way, able to tell when the slightest detail was off in any given situation. It was why he was the best. Had been, anyway.
Dark heard shoes—leather shoes on the sand.
The person was walking with resolve, but he wasn’t hurrying. As the visitor ascended the crest, he started breathing a bit heavier. An older man.
Dark pulled himself up to a standing position, then slowly turned to face his visitor, who was backlit by the morning sun.
Good Christ.
Riggins.
Dark had another slug of beer and barely had returned the bottle to resting position when Riggins held out his hand. Dark gave him the bottle. Riggins glanced at the label, nodded in quiet approval, then took a good long pull. He handed the bottle back.
Dark looked at his ex-boss, waiting. He mentally crossed off reasons for Riggins being here. Social call? No. Riggins wasn’t exactly a social animal. Not a single piece of communication had ever passed between them that wasn’t about Special Circs business. If Riggins were to say “Happy birthday,” it’d be followed by a manila folder full of photographed atrocities, not a Hallmark card.
Nor could Riggins be here to try to convince Dark to take a case, because he knew Riggins knew that was impossible. When Dark left, he had made it clear that nothing Riggins could say—nothing anybody could say—would ever bring him back. Besides, Dark had broken too many laws himself for him to be welcomed back into the bosom of law enforcement. He was damaged goods.
He was also retired. At thirty-six years old.
Dark took another sip of beer. Maybe if he drank enough, the genie would go back into the bottle.
But no.
He was still there. Riggins grinned, then looked out over the surf. Dark could guess what was going through the man’s mind: Yeah. Nice. A little boring. But nice.
“Beer’s great and all,” Riggins said, “but I’ve been all the hell over Southern California tracking down your new address—which was no easy task. Where can we get a good cup of strong coffee?”
chapter 13
Santa Monica Pier
Riggins took his black. Dark opted for tap water, to which the waitress decided to add a wedge of lemon. Dark didn’t want the lemon; he just wanted to drink something that wouldn’t fight the beer in his system.
They sat at a small table near the windows of a casual diner perched at the edge of the Santa Monica Pier. It was impossible to see the ocean from their table. Riggins had chosen the table.
“When you left us,” Riggins said, “Sqweegel was at twenty-nine confirmed murders. You know how he got to thirty-five. With what might have happened in the last few years…” Riggins paused and looked sharply at Dark but got no response. “He could be up to forty-eight, fifty people by now. And no one’s been able to catch this son of a bitch—not even close. But his last string of murders has us all concerned. There’s a ton of interest from on high.”
This was supposed to be Dark’s cue to ask, on high? Or raise an eyebrow. Or something. Instead Dark used his straw to push the lemon wedge down to the bottom of his glass. He didn’t look at Riggins. He didn’t need to. Dark knew the expression that would be on his face.
“They’ve even come up with a new classification for him,” Riggins continued. “You know how it topped out at twenty-five? Well, Sqweegel’s now our poster boy for level twenty-six.”
Dark said nothing. He continued to examine the drowned wedge of lemon impaled on the shaft of plastic.
“There’s something else,” Riggins said.
Dark heard Riggins place his briefcase on the table. The twin clak-claks of the clasps opening. And even though he kept his attention on the wedge of lemon he was trying to drown, Dark couldn’t help but see the small silver memory stick that Riggins was pushing across the table.
“For your eyes only. They didn’t even let me see it.”
Dark glanced at it, but he didn’t touch it. He took another drink of water.
“Which,” Riggins continued, “is pretty unusual, wouldn’t you say?”
Nothing from Dark.
“You want to know where it came from? Let me give you a hint. He’s running for his job again, and if he gets it, he’ll be there another four years.”
Still nothing.
“Look,” Riggins said, exasperated, “this is do or die for me. My last case, either way it plays out.”
There was something different in his voice now. Dark looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look behind you. Three tables back, by the railing.”
Dark didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. There were two men in suits a few tables away, pushing some egg whites and toast around their plates. They didn’t wear black suits—this wasn’t a 1950s noir movie, after all—but their Southern California business attire and Hey, we’re just having a bite before the big meeting attitude didn’t fool Dark. He could see the bulges, concealing both firearms and blades. They were operatives of some kind.
Nellis listened to the rough voice in his ear.
“Well?” Wycoff asked. “Is Dark in or out?”
The secretary had been checking in more or less every hour on the hour since they’d left Air Force Two. Riggins had landed and realized that none of his old addresses for Dark were valid. Riggins had made some calls, drove around L.A. deep into the night. Wycoff would ask, “Well what the fuck is he doing now?” Nellis would have to respond, “He’s driving up and down the Pacific Coast Highway, Mr. Secretary.”
This morning, however, Riggins had finally located Dark’s new address and had tracked him to the beach. Now they were here. About eighteen hours into the mission, it looked like Riggins would have his answer, one way or the other.
“Standing by for confirmation,” Nellis told a little transmitter on his watch.
“I saw them when we came in,” Dark said. “I assumed they were here with you.”
“Yeah,” Riggins said, then gave a half laugh. “They’re with me. They’re all
the hell over me.”
“What do you mean?”
Riggins leaned in closer. “I’ve got about thirty hours to turn this case around.”
“Right,” Dark said. “I’m almost finished with my water and I need to go walk my dogs. Just spit it out.”
“I am,” he said. “And I’m telling you, I’ve got thirty hours.”
Dark looked at the two operatives in the reflection of one of the diner’s windows. One of them was pretending to eat, but the other—who had missing fingers on his right hand—glanced over at Riggins a second too long.
“Or what?” Dark asked.
Riggins didn’t reply.
But Dark understood all at once.
He talked Dark back into the Sqweegel case, or he was a dead man.
chapter 14
This made no sense to Dark—Riggins being here, the goons trailing him, this ticking clock. Sure, if you screwed up in Special Circs, your career ended in one of three ways: demotion, dismissal, or death.
But death usually came by the hand of the monsters you pursued. Not the people in charge.
Dark sat back in his chair, staring at his former boss. How was he supposed to answer? There was no way he could come back to Special Circs. Not in a million fucking years. But if what Riggins said was true—that his freaking life depended on this—then how was he supposed to say no?
Finally, Dark spoke. “Look, Riggins, I don’t know what this is about, but I can’t. You know I can’t. You more than anybody.”
“I know what you went through. Believe me. I think about your family every fucking day.”
“So how can you expect me to change my mind? Why did you even come here?”
“I came here for your sake.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”
“Let’s say you do say no,” Riggins said, “and they ice me. Think they’re just going to give up and walk away? Please. They’re only going to come back and ask you directly. Ask you harder. Maybe even involve your wife. Her family. Whatever it takes.”
Dark lowered his head and clenched his fists. This was insane. An hour ago he was on the beach, drinking a beer, watching the waves. Now it felt like somebody had wrapped a leather strap around his neck and was dragging him out to the ocean to drown.
“I’m not asking you to save me,” Riggins said. “Promote me, demote me, kill me, poke me in the ass—I truly don’t care. I’m a couple of decades past my sell-by date anyway. But see it my way for a second. If you agree to help me, we can do this on our terms. You won’t even have to be actively involved—you’d just be an adviser. But if you say no, and they get rid of me, they’re not going to give up on you. That’s because everybody knows you’re the only one who has a chance of catching this sick little bastard.”
“But I couldn’t, remember?”
Riggins paused. “Only because you stopped trying.”
Dark stood up from his chair and leaned in over the table, resting his palms on the greasy top, to face Riggins. He thought about his lost year. About the bones he’d shattered. The blood he’d spilled. And he tried to resist the urge to reach out and wrap his hands around his former boss’s throat.
Instead he said, “Don’t you fucking accuse me of not trying.”
And then Dark left, jamming his hands into his pockets and making his way up the pier toward Ocean Avenue. He watched the children run around their mothers, who sipped at oversized iced coffees like they were the only thing keeping them from losing their minds. The sun was already hot and burning off the mist.
As he reached the top of the pier, Dark thumbed the smooth edge of the memory stick in his pocket.
He wondered how long it would be before Riggins noticed he’d taken it.
chapter 15
Malibu, California
Sibby Dark was in the shower, hot water pulsing down her naked back, as she pondered the text message she’d received this morning.
It had been a while since the last one. Maybe a few weeks?
She’d stopped keeping track, hoped that maybe it was over.
But this morning, just minutes after Steve rolled out of bed to take his breakfast beer down to the beach, her cell phone had chimed the opening riff to Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus.” The very sound of it made her heart race, even though she was barely awake. She plucked her phone from her bedside table and read the text on the screen:
SOON THE LORD WILL BE WITH YOU
Typical.
For some reason, her little cell-phone stalker liked to send her weird quotes that sounded like they came from the Bible. Which was why she’d assigned the Depeche Mode song to it—mostly as a joke. Her stalker was her own little Personal Jesus, she reasoned, trying to freak her out. Sibby’s dad had taught her the best way to deal with annoying pests: Ignore them or laugh at them. Pests are looking for a reaction or validation; silence or ridicule takes both options off the table.
Still, the texts were annoying.
The first text was what…eight months ago? At first Sibby had texted back, typing “WRONG NUMBER.” But her little Personal Jesus had refused to give up, some days sending as many as a dozen texts, sometimes only one or two:
I CAME TO YOU AS AN ANGEL
DO YOU FEEL MY LIFE, BLESSED MOTHER?
She’d also tried blocking the incoming texts, which were popping up as an “unknown caller.” But within minutes he’d text again on a different number, so she’d given up and went back to ignoring them, erasing them as they arrived.
All of the messages arrived while Steve wasn’t around—it was as if her little Personal Jesus knew when she was alone. Which, yeah, was more than a little disturbing.
But she wasn’t going to let it into her life. And she certainly wasn’t going to bother Steve with this crap. Her husband was a former cop; he wouldn’t stop until he’d tracked down this loser and threatened to break every one of his texting fingers. And she knew what the cost of losing Steve to a mission like that would be. He might never come back.
He was just finally starting to heal. The last thing Sibby wanted was for her husband to crawl back into his little cocoon of death—especially after she’d worked so hard to coax him out of it.
Sibby turned the water off just in time to hear the familiar sound of Steve’s Yukon pulling up and then parking. She heard the dogs barking. Finally—Steve was home. She wondered where he’d been all of this time. He usually didn’t spend this much time at the beach.
chapter 16
Dark walked up to the front door of his oceanside home, keys in hand. He waited. Took a slow, cleansing breath. Into his nostrils, out his mouth.
Then he keyed the lock, which triggered the explosion.
The explosion that was Max and Henry.
They were two oversized beach dogs, and they bounded out of the house and spun around Dark, whipping their tails. Max wrapped himself around Dark’s leg—his version of a hug.
“Hey,” Dark said softly. “All right, now, boys.”
He heard the upstairs bathroom sink running. That would be Sibby, preparing for the day.
“Okay,” Dark said, then tried to move forward. The dogs wouldn’t let him. Not until he dropped down on the floor and rolled around with them a little. It was the same ritual every morning—except this morning he took a little longer, and Max and Henry seemed to know it. So they came at Dark with even more powerful lunges and licks.
Just being in his house reminded him of how far he’d come in the past few years. After the massacre, he’d spent months in a gray hospital room—a few in cloth restraints and heavy sedation. Most of that time was a blur. Then it came time to leave the hospital. Friends made generous offers, but Dark didn’t know how to accept any of them. His misery and anguish wracked his body like a lethal dose of radiation, and he couldn’t imagine exposing anybody he knew to it. Why would they want to be exposed?
So he rented a beat-up bungalow in Venice and furnished it with items from a single trip to a thrift store: mattress, table,
chair, pot, spoon, towels. The only remnants of his previous life were a bag full of clothes someone had gathered from his old apartment; he couldn’t bring himself to wear them. He had food and booze delivered weekly. With food it was simply the elements for sustaining life; with booze it was a constantly rotating series of bottles in a search for what would help him reach oblivion the fastest. Dark’s metabolism seemed to adapt quickly, though, so after a few days the effects of, say, whiskey would wear off, and he’d have to move to triple-distilled vodka, and so on. He tried walks. Mostly he stared at things—the ceiling. The street. The overgrown patch of yard behind the house.
His only goal in those early days was tracking down the monster who’d done this to his family. Everything in his life was just a life-support system for his vengeance. His waking hours were all about poring over the murder books he’d illegally copied from Special Circs, looking for the details he must have missed—or the magic thread that ran from dead body to dead body to dead body to his foster family. The thread he’d discover, and use to strangle the twitchy bastard until his eyeballs popped out of their sockets.
He fantasized about finding Sqweegel and taking his time killing him. Snapping bones until he saw them burst through skin. Ripping out the veins along his arms and legs and cauterizing them as he went along. He’d take his time. One week of pain for every family member he lost…
No, a week was far too short. He wanted his vengeance to play out over years…
But after a year of fruitless searching, Dark realized that he’d missed no details; there was no magic thread. Your fingers could claw at the walls of your prison cell for years, expecting to find the secret button that would open the door, but that didn’t mean you’d find one.
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