Sqweegel had claimed that he had fathered Sibby’s baby. Thankfully, the paternity test had proven otherwise. And after today, no mortal trace of the monster would be left on earth.
Dark nodded, and the crematorium employees pulled the lever. The box began its slow roll into the furnace. Inside, the flames blasted away.
The workers had stared at the box suspiciously at first—who the hell brings a corpse in a cardboard box? Not only that, but a dismembered corpse, thrown into the box like scraps of meat. Severed arms and legs. A hacked-up chest. A decapitated head, with the eyes still open.
But Riggins showed him his badge and the employees were all business after that.
The box bobbled a little as it made its way toward the mouth of the furnace, which radiated eighteen hundred degrees of heat.
The flames lapped at the box hungrily.
The box curled and twitched and burned first, but the body parts inside seemed impervious to the heat.
The workers made a move to slam the furnace door shut with metal poles, but Dark raised an arm to stop them.
He wanted to watch every last detail.
He needed to know.
Dark stepped closer to the furnace, so close he could feel the heat baking the pores on his face. Sqweegel’s dead black eyes looked up at him—as if taunting him, refusing to yield to the fire.
But then finally they did, bubbling into little dark pools of nothing. Scraps of meat that had been his body turned black under the intense blaze. Bones charred and crumbled under the heat.
About an hour into the process the crematorium workers repositioned the remains, using metal rakes and poles to ensure a proper and thorough burn.
Another hour later, all that remained were ashes and stubborn bits of calcium, which would be raked out and ground into tiny white particles.
Sqweegel was gone.
The Level 26 killer flensed from the face of the earth…forever.
Even his dungeon had been scrubbed clean of all physical traces, including the decaying remains of his victims.
But the scent of acrid burned meat would cling to the inside of the employees’ nostrils for days to come, no matter how much they tried to use sprays and tissues and finally saline solutions to flush away the odor. Dark and Riggins had the same problem.
Scent is not a mist and not a smoke. It is actually particles of the thing you’re smelling, which travel into your nasal cavity and bind themselves to your nasal receptors.
Dark would be feeding his infant daughter, or washing his face, or staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, holding a shaving razor to his cheek…all he would have to do was breathe, and Sqweegel would return.
In the middle of the night, just hours after the cremation, Dark woke up and realized he’d made a terrible mistake.
He should have kept some of the DNA. Just a sample to keep for future reference to match against unsolved crimes. If the world was to ever be rid of Sqweegel, his actions needed to be cataloged, understood, filed away. You don’t pretend the boogeyman doesn’t exist; you drag him under the scientific spotlight and show the world that this was just a fucked-up man, nothing more.
Some hours later, while staring at the ceiling, Dark realized there was one place where Sqweegel’s DNA might still be found.
Riggins volunteered.
He’d seen the look on Dark’s face as he explained what he needed to do. Dark tried to sound all detached and clinical about it, but Riggins knew what was going through his mind. Dark was steeling himself for the task of collecting DNA from the corpse of his wife. That was an experience no man should face. Especially after what Dark had already been through.
So Riggins went instead.
Inside the morgue he lifted Sibby’s hand and gently ran the stick under one nail, like wiping a tear away from the corner of a baby’s eye. He thought of the strength it had taken this woman to fight back, to ensure she took a piece of her killer with her into the afterlife, to tear her fingernails through the freak’s latex suit and bring a piece of his flesh out of that basement to ensure it was waiting for them now, when they needed it most.
He ran the sample personally and sat in the empty trace lab, waiting for the results. He didn’t know whether they’d find an identity, but he figured they had a pretty good chance of finding a relative. The results came with a digital ding.
Seven of eleven alleles were a match.
No, Riggins thought. Can’t fucking be possible.
A short while later, Dark asked about the results.
“Nothing,” Riggins said. “No hits. Fucker was a real nowhere man.”
Of all the lies Riggins had ever told, this one was the most difficult.
chapter 102
Hollywood Cemetery / Wilshire Boulevard
Sibby’s funeral was a blur of black suits and white crosses and pungent flowers and churned-up dirt, its sweet smell hanging thick in the summer air.
Her family was here from northern California. Dark couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Riggins was here, too, of course, along with Constance and most of the Special Circs team, from what he could gather. Dark wasn’t keeping track or paying much attention. All he could focus on was Sibby.
Their daughter, Sibby, named for her mother.
The baby held a rose in her hands, completely unaware. Dark was sure she was able to smell its perfume, but that would be it. To babies in their first few days of life, the world was a frenetic blur. Thank God for that.
Baby Sibby pressed her face into Dark’s chest, nuzzling him through his dress shirt. It took Dark a moment to realize what she was doing.
She was hungry and looking for her mother.
It was Sibby who should be here. It was Sibby the baby wanted.
The priest talked about salvation and love and the Kingdom of Heaven, but Dark honestly wasn’t listening. He couldn’t listen, because listening to the words now and unpacking them in his mind would be a disaster. He wasn’t going to fall down to his knees here. Not with Baby Sibby in his arms.
But he knew that the priest had stopped talking, and the crowd looked to Dark, so it was time. He stepped to the edge of the grave, on the green Astroturf the graveyard crew had thrown down so mourners wouldn’t get their shoes dirty. He took the rose from Baby Sibby’s little fingers, which were pale, soft, and wrinkly. Then he placed the rose on top of the casket. The late-morning sun baked the back of his head with warmth.
“Rest in peace, Sibby.”
Dark looked down at his daughter, whose tiny face was still pressed up against his chest. He knew she couldn’t understand, wouldn’t recall a thing years later. But Dark knew he would never forget this moment, how the little child looked as her mother’s casket slowly descended into the earth below her. It was a moment he didn’t want to forget.
“I promise,” Dark said softly, then lowered his head. He wasn’t saying it for the benefit of anyone else. Not even Sibby. More a reminder to himself.
He’d lost his heart once; he’d had everything stripped away from him, and he’d retreated like a wounded child.
Dark couldn’t afford that luxury now.
chapter 103
The funeral procession made its way to the black asphalt path where everyone had left their cars. Riggins walked next to him but didn’t say anything. Just touched him lightly with the backs of his fingers to direct him to the correct limo.
Riggins had told him the plans for this afternoon:
Make it through the luncheon.
Leave the baby with Sibby’s parents, who were itching for time with their baby granddaughter.
Then retire with Riggins to the nearest, quietest Hollywood Boulevard dive, where they would proceed to get incredibly, massively shit-faced.
“If we don’t end up on Santa Monica beach wearing nothing but vomit and our underwear, I’ll be incredibly disappointed,” Riggins had said.
Dark had said nothing. He’d have a beer with Riggins, yes, and he’d leave Sibby for a while with her
grandparents. But the time for numbing reality was over. He’d tried it. It hadn’t worked. There had to be some other way. People who had lost just as much—and more—somehow managed to play the masquerade. Dark wanted to know their secrets.
Just as they reached the limo, however, Robert Dohman, Wycoff’s number two, jogged up from the procession to stop them.
“Dark. Riggins. Brielle. I need a minute of your time.”
Riggins turned red. “Now? Are you insane? Or just an asshole?”
“We gave you the time you asked for,” Dohman said. “Funeral’s over. We have unfinished business.”
Riggins looked over at Dark, who betrayed no emotion. Whatever. Let the man say what he thinks he needs to say and get it over with.
“Make it quick,” Riggins said.
Dohman smiled an I’ll take as long as I please smile. “The president is an understanding man. But still, federal crimes were committed. You don’t walk away from this scot-free. You should be looking at life terms in prison.”
“But?” Riggins asked.
“But the president has something else in mind.”
“What do you mean something else?” Dark asked.
“You’re going to work off your charges.”
Riggins shook his head. “No, no. I put my papers in. I’m out.”
“And you’ll be arrested right now.”
“You know,” Riggins said, “you’re just as much of an asshole as your old boss.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dohman said. “But make sure your affairs are in order. We’ll be in touch with your first assignment within forty-eight hours.”
Dohman and the rest of his DOD crew left the cemetery behind the other mourners, who were already on their way to the luncheon, leaving Dark, Riggins, and Constance in a quiet, hot field of graves.
chapter 104
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
They’d be coming any minute now.
Ordinarily Wycoff liked this time of night. The time of night when the rest of the world was asleep—especially his complaining kids, his passive-aggressive wife. He could finally be himself. Pour himself a drink, jump on the computer. And maybe for a few minutes, forget he was the secretary of defense.
As far as the public knew, Wycoff was taking a few days to “spend more time with his family,” an excuse that covered a host of sins and excesses. As far as his wife knew, Wycoff was feeling burned out. As far as his kids knew…well, who was he kidding? Like his kids gave a shit? They were upstairs now, plugged into their iPods or instant messaging their spoiled friends.
The truth was, Wycoff had taken the time off to tie up a few loose ends. The Sqweegel case could have been a career-ending nightmare, had he not taken certain steps.
Wycoff checked his watch.
Yeah, they’d be arriving soon.
Wycoff allowed himself to wonder about the boy. The boy neither his wife nor his kids knew about. The bastard son who would never know that his father was once the secretary of defense of the mightiest nation on the planet…and his mother was a high school senior who had been slaughtered by a maniac. Wycoff had come from privilege; this boy was born out of lies, and later, horror. Who was to say the boy wouldn’t do better? Wycoff had all the advantages in the world, and look where he was now.
Waiting for two silent killers to appear.
No—not at his door.
At the door of Bob Dohman, his loyal assistant.
After all, in D.C. shit always rolls downhill. Wycoff was too important a man to let something like this Sqweegel debacle derail him now. But the machine demanded a sacrificial lamb, and sadly, Bob Dohman was the best possible candidate.
It wouldn’t be so bad. Dohman would feel the slight pinch near his carotid artery, nothing more. And by now…
Wycoff looked down at his watch.
Well, yeah, by now the killers would be there at Dohman’s condo in Annapolis.
Rest in peace, Bob.
Falls Church, Virginia
Riggins keyed into his front door and heard a beeping sound—his security system. The keypad was mounted on the wall behind the door and was flashing a steady, annoyed red.
Twenty-five seconds remaining…
He dropped his overnight bag on the linoleum floor, pushed the door to the side. There were nine number keys—pretty rudimentary shit, really—but Riggins, for the life of him, couldn’t remember the code. Two of the digits, he was pretty sure, were the year he first got married. Funny thing was, though, he couldn’t remember that year, either. He remembered the cake, the booze, the band…the swirling chaos around a young marriage. But not the fucking year.
Twenty seconds remaining…
It had been more than a week since he’d been in his apartment. Thank God he didn’t have any pets. They’d be half-a-week dead by now.
Fifteen seconds remaining…
He really needed to remember this code. Enough fucking around.
Ten seconds remaining…
How embarrassing was this going to be, a member of the FBI’s most elite manhunting agency, flummoxed by his own security system?
Five seconds remaining…
Riggins stared at the keypad, still blank, still wondering how he could have forgotten something so basic as the year he was first married. That year had mattered once.
The security team showed up a few minutes later. Riggins sat on his front stoop, ID ready in his hands.
And then his cell phone rang.
Silver Spring, Maryland
Constance Brielle had mouths to feed.
Her next-door neighbor had filled in for a while, or so she had claimed. Truth was, the food and water bowls were both empty, and the cats were swirling around her feet, complaining.
Constance opened four cans of wet food and dished them out onto plates her grandmother had given her. Her parents were supposed to have received them, but that hadn’t quite worked out. So now the cats enjoyed their chicken primavera on them. Better than nobody.
She thought about Dark and almost picked up her cell a few times and called, but she couldn’t think of what she’d say.
And she didn’t want to wake the baby.
So she sat on her couch in her calm suburban apartment, cell phone in her hand, thinking about whether she could have done anything different in the past week. Anything that would have made a difference, either way. Anything she could have done to avoid sitting here in her calm suburban apartment, alone.
And then her cell phone rang.
West Hollywood, California
Dark went to the box, dug it out, and carried it over to the wall.
There was already a nail sticking out of the wall. He felt for the wire on the back, then guided the framed photo onto the wall.
Sibby, a year ago, in her sheer yellow dress, on the Malibu beach.
Sometimes Dark stared at photos too long, and wondered whether that was what you did in the afterlife—inhabit your old photos. Because sure, you’re frozen in that moment. But sometimes you have a look in your eye that you’re seeing more than just your immediate surroundings. You’re seeing out into the present. You’re seeing your future, no matter how happy or sad it might be. You’re seeing what has been, what is, and what could have been…
Dark went back to the box and found his other favorite photo: a black-and-white shot of Sibby on the beach—arms gracefully lifted above her head, hips swaying to one side, the shadows so intense she’s almost a silhouette. She’s on the edge of the Pacific, which seems to extend out into infinity.
And she’s preparing to dance.
To remember what might’ve been, log into LEVEL26.com and enter the code: sunset
EPILOGUE
the second gift
chapter 105
Two Days Later
West Hollywood, California
Dark ripped open a packet of powdered baby formula with his teeth and dumped the beige contents into a plastic baby bottle. He glanced at the instructions, trying to fi
gure out how much water he should add. They should make this stuff clear, shouldn’t they?
From the reverse-osmosis tap, Dark filled the bottle exactly to the line. Screwed on the lid. Shook it. It was ready for Baby Sibby, and not a moment too soon. She was hungry.
His daughter, Sibby—as soft as a flower. Big blue eyes. Wailing so pathetically, it was enough to break Dark’s heart.
And she always seemed hungry.
So Dark sat on the couch and fed her, nearly blinded by the morning sun. Riggins had picked out this apartment blind, and Dark had only used it at night. This was the first time he’d been in his new place in daylight. So strange to think about that. His life with Sibby was all about the sun, the beach, the waking hours. At night, they’d huddled together and tried to block out everything else.
Now he was here with his daughter, who was sucking happily from the latex nipple.
Dark hadn’t had much time at all to unpack boxes, save for the photo of Sibby in her yellow dress on the beach. He showed the baby the photograph and explained that this was her mommy, and her mommy would always love her very much. Dark wanted to plant the memories early and never let up. The two of them would be sociologists studying the life of Sibby Dark, and Dark wanted to leave no detail forgotten.
He was done hiding from death. He had decided to revel in life for a change.
And then, there was a knock at the door.
The noise startled Baby Sibby. The bottle was finished now anyway—sucked dry. Dark gently set her down as there was another knock, more urgent. He briefly debated the merits of opening the door. He thought of the Blaise Pascal quote: “All of man’s misfortune comes from one thing, which is not knowing how to sit quietly in a room.”
But Dark knew better. The knock wouldn’t go away.
So he quickly checked on his daughter in her soft-pink bassinet—hastily assembled two nights before—and then pulled a Glock nine-millimeter from a drawer in the coffee table.
Level 26 Page 26
