The Smiling Man Conspiracy (Evils of this World Book 2)

by C. J. Sears

  “Did she? I guess I should thank her. We’ll have to meet when this missing persons business is over.”

  Kasey said nothing for the remainder of their trip, even after they left the car and she entered her apartment. She went straight to her bedroom and shut the door, not bothering to tell him how long it might take. Finch wasn’t used to her being so aloof with him. He didn’t like the transformation.

  He opted to take a look around, see if he could find the bathroom. With all the sweating and lack of anything to drink, he thought he should be dehydrated. His bladder disagreed.

  Kasey must’ve done well for herself in JTTF. Situated between two pairs of custom Zaisu Tatami chairs she had to have imported from Japan, an oval coffee table caught his eye. The top was glass, but the legs were wooden with a leaf motif and gold finish. A stone statue of a Greek siren adorned the top. Chic it was not.

  Finch walked down the hall toward Kasey’s room, hoping that the azure nightlight he had glimpsed meant the bathroom was near. Along the way, he passed various replicas of famous paintings: Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, Edvard Munch’s The Scream, American Gothic by Grant Wood—it was a smorgasbord of selected artistry with no rhyme or reason.

  He thought Sinclair’s blood money bought nice things, but her tastes far exceeded that of their late boss. None of it clicked or made decorative sense, but that was Kasey.

  Multi-colored oriental wallpaper clashed with white tile in the bathroom. Atop the toilet sat a statue of Gautama Buddha, but Finch knew Kasey wasn’t a practitioner. She loved the shine, like a crow pilfering trinkets or a dragon guarding his hoard.

  He washed his hands in the surprisingly modest sink. While he dried them off—with a towel bearing the image of cupid shooting an arrow through a heart—he peeked around the corner. The door to Kasey’s room was closed. Apparently, she would be awhile.

  “It’s like waiting for a prom date,” Finch muttered, moseying back to the living room.

  He relaxed in a cherry-red accent chair by the front door. Rummaging in his pants pocket, he extracted Sinclair’s cellphone. Whatever elusive information Finch expected to find in its digital recesses, it had to be a better lead than consulting the missing persons list, then going state-to-state and door-to-door talking to witnesses.

  The naïve part of his mind that hoped to locate Demi Conroy’s phone number under “Contacts” was sorely disappointed. Moving on, Finch consulted the folder marked “Downloads” believing Sinclair might’ve transferred something from the FBI’s computers to his phone. Nothing.

  He scrolled through every byte available. Nothing but dead ends and pictures of a kid Finch assumed was Sinclair’s ailing daughter before her diagnosis. A mulatto girl with pigtails grinned up at him as her parents handed her birthday presents off-camera. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen.

  Finch dropped the phone on ground. What had Sinclair accomplished by working with those people? His own death. The likely murder of multiple test subjects. Complicity in the events that befell Lone Oak. Maybe the survival of his daughter. Would he have done the same?

  Leaning back in the chair, Finch shut his eyes. Desperately, he tried to recall the last time he’d had a decent night’s rest.

  It must’ve been after Lone Oak but before the nightmares started. Those first few days he was glad to be alive and to have someone to share that feeling with. When Willow had her surgery, he stayed up to make her feel safe.

  He’d never know what the sensation was like for her when Rhinehold tried to exert control. He didn’t want to know. But the knowledge that he’d taken her with him to that mine—that she’d been infected when they were separated—haunted him.

  The dreams where bombs fell and people burned and screamed and cried out for the mercy of their Creator weren’t the worst. It was what came after that skewered his heart and pierced his soul.

  When the ashes piled high, he’d be transported to a dingy, poorly lit, square room. The walls weren’t actual walls but the embodiment of darkness, thick and fleshy. Tangible, as if he could reach out and touch its face. He dreaded what might happen if he did.

  In front of him, the curled body of a red-headed woman would be slouched on a cot, her back split in two. An enormous, shrieking thing that looked like a cross between an armored spider and a black shrimp emerged from the gash.

  Flailing, the once-lifeless body of Willow Donahue would pounce. He’d fall, failing to hold his own against the weight of her body and his guilt. She squawked at him, but her voice wasn’t only her own. It was Rhinehold, and Willow’s brother, and that detective Black who’d been duped into working for Rhinehold.

  “You did this,” they would say.

  “No I didn’t,” he protested.

  “It’s your fault,” they complained.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You killed us! You’re the harbinger of death. Everything you touch turns to dust. Everyone dies. Your sister is dead. The people of Lone Oak? Dead. Rhinehold won. Your precious Willow will die too. It’s not over for her, and you know it.”

  “No, she’s going to be okay. The parasite’s gone. We made it out. We survived.”

  The voices faded. “No, you didn’t,” was their parting shot.

  Finch always woke up when their tirade concluded, never able to get in the last word. Never able to forget.

  The phone buzzed. Finch stooped low to grab it. A text message was displayed on the screen: I MISSED YOU IN SINCLAIR’S APARTMENT. COME TO THE HERMAN FARMHOUSE OFF I-95. I PROMISE I WON’T MISS AGAIN.

  Finch couldn’t believe his luck. It had to be a trap, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t spring it. Someone that arrogant made mistakes he could capitalize on. The shooter could lead them right to Conroy if they captured him alive.

  Re-energized, he bounded to the door of Kasey’s room and knocked.

  “It’s unlocked,” she said.

  He pushed the door open, ready to show her the message.

  “Hey, Kasey, we’ve caught a break. Look—” Finch started to say. The sight in front of him subsequently rendered him speechless.

  Perched on the edge of the bed, dressed in nothing but lacy black lingerie, Kasey beckoned.

  His heart skipped one beat, then two more. In spite of himself, Finch’s gaze drifted over her voluminous curves. Everything about her well-toned body was perfect, exactly as he remembered her.

  His feet carried him as if compelled. His body bristled with kinetic heat. Finch chafed against his suit.

  She leapt into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and her slender forearms around his neck. He took in her peppermint scent, the need in her eyes, and the way she bit her lip. Like she was nervous.

  Her luscious golden locks were wet from the shower. They clung to his face as Kasey thrust her lips upon his.

  BLOOD ON THE SNOW

  Her kisses were swift and frequent, hungry and eager. Kasey planted her lips on his, on the corners of his mouth, on his cheek, and on his neck.

  His hands wandered low, exploring all-too familiar territory. His fingers grazed the small of her back. She moaned, tearing at the fabric of his suit.

  Finch collapsed onto the bed, Kasey straddling him. She unbuttoned his shirt, pressing her lips to his body as she worked. He became painfully aware of the Browning strapped to his belt, digging into his hip.

  He reached down to disarm, but she knocked his hand away. She wagged a finger at him.

  “Let me take care of that,” she said, unbuckling his belt with ease and taking the pistol out of its holster.

  Kasey held the gun to her lips. She stroked the weapon with the tip of her tongue, licking along the shaft.

  Finch watched her kiss the barrel, growing anxious and uncomfortable.

  She unhooked her bra, her sultry, alluring smile captivating him.

  The thought graced his mind how Kasey never changed, even when it seemed like she might.

  “Bet your girlfriend ain’t this kinky,” she said,
letting the underwear drop on top of the discarded gun.

  Willow. He shouldn’t be doing this. This was wrong and he damn well knew better.

  Finch pushed the fair-haired maiden away. The fantasy ended. Reality bit.

  Stunned, Kasey covered herself with the jacket—his jacket—lying on the floor.

  Seconds passed. Neither of them spoke a word. Kasey had to be angry and disappointed, but all he could read on her face was sorrow. Finch had the impression she had made her last stand and lost.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, conscious of the fact he’d apologized more times today than at any other point in his life.

  She said nothing, her eyes glued to the floor, arms holding tightly to his jacket as she withdrew.

  Finch fastened his shirt, trying to think of anything he could say to alleviate the torture she must be feeling. He had plucked out her heart and gouged her soul. They were the same.

  He knew if he tried to comfort her, if he hugged her and told her it would be okay, he was lying. To himself. To her. She wouldn’t listen. He’d kiss her, and she’d kiss him and the cycle would begin anew. Their relationship was Ouroboros forever devouring itself.

  After securing the Browning, he picked up her bra. He handed the garment to her. Tight-lipped, she took it and stood up, the jacket landing softly on the carpet.

  Finch shielded his eyes while she dressed. Odd, that he now felt like he was invading her privacy despite how close they’d come.

  “I’ll wait outside,” he said, collecting the jacket and Sinclair’s cellphone off of the floor.

  Her hand touched his shoulder. He didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to meet her gaze and deny her a second time.

  Kasey wore a blue pantsuit not dissimilar to her earlier attire. She was smiling though he didn’t think she was happy.

  “I get it,” she said, trying to reassure him. “It’s been five years. You’ve moved on. I should too. Listen, you don’t have to go out like that. You left some of your stuff behind the last time we…well, before. It’s in the closet, top shelf.”

  Finch thought it was a bad idea, that he might be tempted, but Kasey excused herself to the bathroom. Maybe she was seeing the light. Maybe he was.

  His thoughts lingered on what had almost happened as he opened the closet. What was he supposed to say to Willow? He couldn’t pretend that he was a victim. He’d craved Kasey as much as she wanted him.

  He located a beige turtleneck and a pair of blue jeans that must have belonged to him but he couldn’t ever remember wearing. Resigning himself to a lack of understanding, Finch wondered when in life his trouble with women began.

  *

  Kasey’s mood improved when he showed her the shooter’s text message. Like him, she thought it was an obvious trap but agreed that triggering it was the best course of action.

  Dawn was in two hours but they went while it was dark outside. They’d be scrabbling around the farm with only their flashlights to guide them. The shooter wouldn’t be able to take aim without giving away his position. It was a fair trade in Finch’s opinion.

  The Herman Homestead, as it was commonly known, was an abandoned farmhouse and ranch south of an exit off of I-95. Once Finch saw dirt and rocks instead of pavement, he knew they were on the right track.

  He disabled the headlights once they found the market road that led to the farm. A squishy epidermis of snow coated the icy ground, so Finch drove nice and slow. Getting into an accident wouldn’t do them any good and might alert the assassin to their position.

  When they arrived, he killed the sedan’s engine and waited. He and Kasey looked every which way they could, but there was no evidence of the shooter’s presence. No light in the barn or the house. If their man was here, he’d chosen not to call attention to himself. Or herself: as Willow would’ve said, he couldn’t rule out that possibility.

  It was a starless night, so Finch couldn’t see over ten feet without his flashlight. From what he could tell, the farmhouse was modest, a slim two-story building with a diminutive attic. There wouldn’t be many rooms for the shooter to hide inside.

  Next to the house, the barn loomed menacingly. Icicles clung to the angled roof like monstrous, frozen teeth. Through the welcoming maw of the open doors, he glimpsed frayed straw and what might’ve been blood mixed with packets of snow.

  The last time some murderous fiend jerked him around, Finch wound up in an underground cavern. He had to solve puzzles and avoid being crushed by a humongous anvil. Spotting the ominous red streak did not make him confident that this adventure would be an improvement.

  The remnants of a school bus were parked in front of a veritable scrapyard. Old tires, steel rims, used rebar, busted appliances—it was a goldmine of useless but likely profitable trinkets. A junk dealer’s dream.

  “I don’t think we should split up,” said Kasey. “Our shooter’s got quite the selection of ambush points.”

  He didn’t disagree; separation was the last thing on his mind after Lone Oak.

  “Let’s check the house first. That barn gives me the creeps. Plus, stepping on a rusty nail and getting tetanus is not on my bucket list.”

  Finch and Kasey walked with unease over the short, cobbled path that led to the front porch. In the dead of winter, the hums of nature retreated. Their footsteps were the only discernable sound for miles.

  The screen door squealed when Kasey nudged it open. Finch swore under his breath. If the shooter was nearby, he had to have heard the noise.

  “Keep your guard up. Clear the corners,” he whispered, realizing too late that he shouldn’t have bothered.

  Kasey was no rookie; she had more experience than he did. For her part, she simply nodded and took the suggestion like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

  They shined their flashlights into the old house, illuminating the cracked wood of the staircase. Still traversable, but they’d have be careful not to put too much weight on any given step.

  He looked to his right, Kasey to their left. True to the rumors, no one had lived here in years. The kitchen was a grimy mess, and the stovetop hadn’t cooked an edible meal since before the last presidency. A dining table was missing; the previous owners must’ve taken it with them.

  The shooter wasn’t there, so Finch and Kasey stepped back into the foyer—anything but grand—and investigated the room on the other side.

  A crudely deconstructed half-wall divided the den from a home office, creating an open-air space. Unlike the kitchen, the furniture here endured. A moth-eaten couch faced a broken-down television with a dial node. In the corner, a circular three-legged stool supported a grubby lamp shaped like a blossoming flower. No footprints disturbed the dust.

  A breeze gusted through the open window near the workspace and made their teeth chatter. The thick threads of their thermal underwear protected Finch and Kasey from the worst of the cold.

  Papers blew in the bitter wind, swarming across the disorganized desk. Bills. Invoices. Nothing of interest to them or their mystery opponent.

  Why had the shooter brought them out here? If he wanted them dead why not camp outside the police station and follow them to the apartment? He could’ve snuck up behind the pair and shot them in the head. Bam. Bam. No more federal agents to stand in his way.

  Instead, the assassin decided to screw with them for his own pleasure. Narcissistic asshole.

  “There’s still the second floor,” Kasey muttered, signaling to him she would take point.

  Back in the hall, they stared with trepidation at the decaying staircase. Neither of them wanted to proceed. Finch had already lived through one horror film in his mind.

  “You did volunteer,” he mumbled to Kasey.

  “What a gentleman.”

  She trudged up the steps one leg at a time. Finch safeguarded her ascent, peering into the shadows with his gun drawn, ready to unleash a barrage of bullets.

  Once she was at the top, he gripped the rotten guardrail and conquered the first
three steps. On the fourth, his foot twisted sideways, and he fell. His hands braced against the wood, keeping him from hitting his head on the poorly trimmed edge of the ninth step.

  “That was close,” he said, righting himself.

  When he made it to the second floor, the first thing he noticed was the balmy air. The second was the smell coming from what he assumed was the master suite. Oil?

  The two other rooms on this floor were empty, no sign of their marksman pal.

  In the bedroom, next to a spring mattress, someone had recently unplugged a portable gas generator. That explained the petroleum smell. Nearby, an M40A5 sniper rifle sat lonesome on its window-mounted perch.

  “I guess our man was here,” Kasey said, “but where did he go? We did a thorough sweep of both floors. And why leave his rifle? He could’ve capped us with it in the blink of an eye.”

  She was right. What was the shooter playing at? Being led around like a dog on a leash pissed Finch off.

  Kasey checked the rifle’s ammo count: a full magazine of standard 7.62 NATO rounds. Once again, Sinclair’s assassin surprised them.

  “Where do you think he got that? The Black market?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but it’s mine now.”

  “Sure you don’t want to let a man carry that?” Finch asked, winking at her.

  “When you find one, let me know,” she answered, hefting the high-powered weapon in her hands.

  Finch grinned. If she was bantering with him, she must’ve put the incident behind her—or buried it deeper than a fallout shelter. Either way, he was glad to have Kasey Alexander back.

  “Hey, did you see this?”

  She indicated a stapled stack of yellowed papers stuffed underneath the mattress. Finch yanked them free and skimmed the lines.

  “They’re discharge papers,” he said, showing her the first page, “for a John Wesley Herman. Says he was a Marine Corps Scout Sniper for six years. Several commendations. General discharge under honorable conditions. Well, at least we know where our boy honed his skills.”

  “Wait,” she said, stowing the gun behind her back, “did you say Herman? You mean he lives here? In this dump?”