Emerald Moon

by Rick Murcer

  At that point, an eager young waiter approached them. Manny could smell the strong, rum- punch drinks dressed up in the tall, curvy tumblers resting on a platter. He took one.

  Why not?

  He needed a vacation as much as anyone, probably more.

  Maybe this was going to be a good idea after all.

  ****************

  Reaching over to the empty, blue plaid seat on her right, Chloe picked up her Kindle and began reading the latest book from British author, Tim Ellis, The Wages of Sin. Detectives Parrish and Richards were a fun read, but she simply couldn’t concentrate. Add tired to the rest of the circus that was her life. She was either a prime candidate for a week alone on a secluded Caribbean island or the loony bin, and the loony bin was cheaper.

  Brushing back her red hair, Chloe finally turned off her e-reader and then promptly swore under her breath. She promised herself no more reflections of Manny, but she could chalk that up with a few other stupid promises she’d made to herself.

  His shoulders, the blond hair, and those blue eyes—the ones that seemed to see right into the middle of her soul—were only half of the package. “Okay, maybe more than half,” she grinned to the window.

  The other thing was his sense of, well, morality, of right and wrong, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it—except things went deeper with him. His persona included all of the ideals that made a man a real man, in her eyes. Honor, loyalty, and someone who would die for those that he loved, given the chance. He might just risk his neck for his big black Lab, Sampson.

  The man wasn’t perfect. He worked himself to the bone, but then again, most workaholics do. He let his emotions get the best of him from time-to-time. And well . . . she sighed. He hadn’t tried to take advantage of her, not even a cheap feel or a quick kiss. That made him . . . Manny. But that was the real problem here, wasn’t it? His dead wife still had his loyalty, his heart, and maybe would long after Chloe and Manny were in the grave.

  She reached for her purse, pulled out her smartphone, and hit the on switch. Not to mention, he was the best profiler she’d ever seen, ever. It was almost spooky how he honed in on something, and it just turned out to be the right thing.

  Her phone’s screen flashed that she had an e-mail from her Mum. About damn time. It must have been sent after she turned the phone off for takeoff. She hated pulling the ‘FBI Special Agent’ card; still, she had informed the crew that she may have to check her phone for official business. This was important, so what the hell. She pressed the screen and waited for it to load.

  Chapter-42

  Sometimes, as a child, late at night in his bedroom, the dark would speak to him. It possessed a life of its own. Often comforting him as it hid him from horrors he wanted no part in seeing, at least that’s how he remembered it. The dark had been both terrifying and comforting, the way those dichotomies can be. Familiar and horrible, like bad parents.

  Even now as an adult, Detective Shannon felt those feelings rise up and demand that he visit with them again. But the kindred spirit that existed as his dark was nothing compared to the blackness of Argyle. From what he could tell, this man—if he were even human—was evil personified.

  Shannon had driven like a man possessed back to his office and immediately searched the Interpol database. He’d typed in Argyle’s name, and the American who was staying in Haley Rose’s B&B appeared on his screen, bigger than life. It startled him, even though he somewhat expected it. The infamous Interpol red warning bordered the photo and bio, ordering that Argyle be detained for extradition to the US.

  Below that, the list of crimes made his heart sick. He’d never encountered anyone with a profile like this one. Over twenty murders, and all of them the horrible, senseless kind only a psychopath could perpetrate.

  He felt his anger rise. Based on what he was reading and the size of the American, he was the number one suspect in the murder of Kathryn O’Malley, Paddie Harris, and his wife.

  Suspect my arse; he is the sick son of a bitch who killed them.

  He wouldn’t have been able to do much for the girl, but if he had worked a few more minutes last night, his partner and Paddie’s wife might still be here. But then again, maybe the mind screw is what this sick bitch reveled in. Argyle’s bio, written by FBI Special Agent Joshua Corner and Detective Manny Williams, described Argyle as the most organized psychopath the FBI had ever seen. The bio also described Argyle as unpredictable, ruthless, brilliant, thriving on the terror of others.

  Shannon thought again about Paddie and Lisa Harris, and how he might have stopped their deaths. Maybe Argyle had any contingency covered, but that line of thinking had done little to squelch his guilt. Then again, maybe that’s right where Argyle wanted him. He was sure he didn’t know, but wanted to find out.

  Corner’s last note said to call immediately if anyone thought they had located this man. The agent said to not make contact without calling first and listed his phone numbers. Shannon made the call.

  “Agent Corner?”

  “It is.”

  “This is Sergeant Detective Steven Shannon from the Gardaí in Galway, Ireland.”

  There was a slight hesitation. When Corner spoke, there was a sense of resignation that sent a chill down Shannon’s back.

  “He’s there, isn’t he?”

  “If you mean Argyle, he is.”

  “Let me guess. He’s staying at the Franson’s bed and breakfast.”

  Shannon shifted in his chair and felt his dread grow. “He is. How did you know?”

  “Chloe Franson works for my BAU as a special agent, and he’s threatened to end all of us, or make us suffer beyond what we can handle.”

  “We can be at the B&B in mere minutes with half the police force of Galway.”

  “That’s great, but he knows that. He won’t be there, but you’ve got to go anyway.” There was another hesitation, and then a request that was half plea and half order. Shannon found himself liking the FBI agent already. “If you and your superintendent are inviting us in, we can be there by early morning, your time.”

  “We usually work with Interpol on this kind of thing, but I’m bettin’ you know more about this beast than them. Am I right?”

  “I’d say that’s true. But even if you don’t invite us in officially, we’re coming anyway. Chloe’s one of our own and we’re not leaving her standing in the dark.”

  “Come ahead. We could use the help. No matter what the bosses say, they’ll be grateful for the help. And what do you mean, leave Chloe alone?”

  “Her flight for Dublin left about two hours ago. She’s coming home for her vacation and for Kathryn’s funeral.”

  It was Shannon’s turn to hesitate. “It’s what Argyle wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. No doubt about that. I don’t think we will beat her there, although the Bureau’s got a few fast jets.”

  “Okay then. We’ll be headed for the B&B, and I’ll let you know what we find. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

  “Maybe, or I may not want to know what you find.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ve seen his work up close.”

  “How many bodies?” asked Corner.

  “Three, including my partner and his wife,” he answered softly.

  The rookie constable, Landon, whom Shannon had sent to CSI Mary Wiggins’s home, bolted through the door at that moment. Shannon closed his eyes. “Hold on, Agent.”

  “She . . . she . . . Mary’s dead, Sir. And I think I’m going to leave the force because I never want to see anything like that again . . . the blood, those eyes—” Landon clamped a hand over his mouth and sprinted for the hallway.

  “Shit,” he whispered softly. “Make it four.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “I’ll make everything right with the superintendent and the chief detective.”

  He hung up and glanced at the clock: 2:44. Argyle’s had all day to set things in motion. That did little for Shannon’s stomach. On the way out the door,
he called the superintendent and left a message with his secretary, then did the same with the chief detective. He hoped his telling the FBI to come wouldn’t get him fired. If it did, he’d count it a blessing that he’d no longer have to chase men like Argyle.

  Fifteen minutes later, he and twenty of Galway’s finest were surrounding the Bayside Bed and Breakfast. They hadn’t worried about whether Argyle knew if they were coming because he suspected the FBI agent was right, so lights were flashing and the street was blocked at all three intersections leading to the B&B.

  As he crouched near his cruiser, he was struck by the lack of activity around the resort. Even at the slowest of times, there were usually a few folks heading to the beach to take in the bay and the Aran Islands. But now at this midafternoon hour, there was nothing. Just the rhythm of the waves and the smell of salt and fish riding the ocean wind.

  Shannon stood straight, waved at three constables to follow him, approached the front door, and knocked. Nothing. He knocked again. More convicting silence.

  He turned the knob, and the door swayed open. He suspected Argyle had set no trap or deadly surprise. His profile said he was too “personal” for that. These men rarely ever changed how they do what they do—Shannon knew that. Still, no reason to throw caution to the dogs. He waited until it felt safe.

  In the movies, the uniforms always went through the potentially dangerous door first and secured the area. He’d done some military time; he knew how grunts felt in this kind of situation. He raised his Walther P99C, glanced at the constable behind wielding the H&K MP7 submachine gun, then burst through the door. It took a moment for the scene to register, but it finally did.

  Shannon slowly lowered his gun and could do little to stop the flow of tears with minds of their own.

  Three bloodied bodies we’re staged around the large cherry table. All posed in different, suggestive positions. They’d been ravaged like a pride of lions had been let loose in the B&B. Each face was positioned to face the front door, just like Kathryn O’Malley’s had been. Each had his or her heart resting on the table between splayed arms. Shannon heard—and smelled—the men behind him as they lost what was left of the day’s lunch.

  But that wasn’t the most horrifying thing. On the pale wall behind the bodies was a message, written in blood.

  WELCOME TO THE PARTY, DETECTIVE SHANNON. WELCOME.

  Chapter-43

  “Stop jumping on that, both of you,” warned Manny. Jen landed on her backside, giggling, and Sophie did what Sophie always did—jumped one more time on the lavish, queen-sized bed.

  She gave him a scowl. “What a spoil sport. It’s not even your bed.”

  “It’s where I’ll be sleeping, and why aren’t you in your room bouncing your Asian-butt on your own bed?”

  Jen covered her mouth, laughing. “Is this where you’re supposed to talk dirty to get your own way?”

  Sophie cleared her throat and looked at her nails, then back to Manny. “Look at that, a hangnail.”

  Manny moved toward Sophie. “Right.”

  His partner backed up a step. “Ahhmm. I don’t know where she heard that. Seriously, it must have been in one of those teen magazines. You know how trashy they can get.” She backed up another step. “What are you doing? Okay. I might have said that certain words said in the proper order could get a woman her way without promising anything . . . well, not quite anything, but—” She turned to run out the open suite door, but she was too late. Manny had his diminutive partner by the waist and then over his shoulder before she could take another breath.

  “Manny! No! Wait . . . okay . . . I’m sorry, I was just trying to—” The last words of her sentence were washed away by the splash as Sophie Lee was dumped, fully clothed, unceremoniously in the room’s large, steamy Jacuzzi.

  His partner sat unmoving in the hot tub wearing the blank stare of an actor in a zombie movie. She finally blinked, pushed the wet hair from her face, and found his eyes. Her look was somewhere between “this is funny” and “I’m going to kill you.” Manny took a chance and bent close. “No more life lessons dealing with men. I mean it. I thought we had a deal.”

  “Hey, I was trying to help, and I figure she should have all of the ammo she can fire. And in case you forgot, you’re a man.”

  “I’ll decide that, at least for now, capisce? And I remember what I am; you two never let me forget.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “I got to hand it to you, however; I didn’t think you had the balls. You dumped me in a freaking Jacuzzi with my clothes on. Were you trying to get a look at my new rack when the melons are wet?”

  “No. I’ve seen your rack, new and old, for years.”

  “Yeah, but these are BIG.”

  There was a thump on the plush carpet, and Manny turned to see what had happened. Jen lay on the floor, laughing so hard he worried she wouldn’t be able to catch her breath. Just like when she was an infant and took extra long to find her air during a crying spell that seemed to last forever.

  Jen pointed behind him just as Sophie stood, dripping chlorine water, and stared at the door. He hesitated and then followed her eyes, expecting to see a room steward. He was wrong.

  Josh stood at the entrance, Max at his side, and Alex right behind. The feeling in Manny’s gut had nothing to do with having a great time on a cruise ship.

  What the hell could be wrong?

  ****************

  At second glance, there were two attachments to her mother’s message and that was odd. While Chloe’s mom wasn’t afraid of technology, like a certain Lansing cop she knew, she wasn’t exactly an electronics wizard either. Maybe Meav had helped her. The first attachment finally started to take shape and then popped into full view. Her eyes grew wide as her mouth dropped open in utter surprise. Her Mum was sitting in a chair, bound and gagged with what looked liked duct tape. The chair and her mother seemed to be the only things in the room. The surroundings were dark and looked liked old stone or brick, maybe an old cellar.

  This must be a joke.

  That’s why there was a second attachment, to explain what was going on. But that wasn’t like her mother now, was it?

  Chloe quickly tapped the screen to open the second attachment. The time it took to load was insufferable. She licked her lips, tasting the faint flavor of her lip gloss, and the smell of the orange juice seemed to be magnified a hundred times over as she thought she’d die waiting. The script came first.

  “Hello, Agent Franson. Your mother wanted me to send this photo of her and her new lover. What do you think?”

  Fredrick

  The phone slid from her hands to her lap as she stared at the picture in complete horror.

  Her Mum stood in front of Dunguaire Castle, the bright sun reflecting off the stone walls in the background, smiling like lovers do, her left arm wrapped around Dr. Fredrick Argyle’s waist.

  Chapter-44

  Chloe’s hands continued to shake as she plucked the phone from her lap. She stared at the photo that Argyle had obviously sent from her mother’s phone. Closing her her eyes, she exhaled twice and rushed back into the lion’s den.

  She ran her finger along her mother’s face, praying she’d made a mistake, that it wasn’t Haley Rose in the picture, and more desperately praying that it wasn’t Argyle’s face tilted toward her Mum’s. Wrong on both accounts. Chloe’s heart sank lower as she wondered what it meant. What the hell was he up to? Had he . . . had he? No, she couldn’t think about what he may or may not have done; she could only be concerned with what he might do. She had to concentrate on that. Despite her distress, her training took over.

  The first thing she had to do was to get help—now. She had no contacts from Ireland on her phone, other than her Mum. Meav had thought it too expensive to buy a phone equipped with the quad band capability, so Chloe wouldn’t be able to reach her. Then she was struck with another thought: was Meav all right? She forced that away as well and chose not to dwell on what-ifs, knowing she had to reach help
now.

  The flight attendant was two seats away and she motioned for him to come to her.

  “Listen. I have to make a couple of calls that are truly a matter of life and death, and I wanted you to know.”

  He must have seen the strain in her face and nodded vigorously. “Agent Franson, right? Just do what you have to do.”

  But she was already dialing the number. It could have been a different one, maybe Josh’s or even Max’s. But her instincts, and maybe her heart, went in a different direction. There was no one she trusted more to help in this situation than Manny Williams—no one.

  The phone rang, then again, then a third time, and despite the things she’d seen and been a part of during her time with the FBI, she felt panic begin to run its cold, unforgiving hand down her spine.

  “Chloe?”

  “Manny. He’s got my mother. Argyle’s in Ireland and—”

  “Whoa. Slow down. Take it easy, okay?”

  Even now, as her emotions ran wild, Manny’s voice was like a lighthouse on a stormy night. She suddenly thought clearer, and the tremor in her voice disappeared.

  “Okay. Argyle sent a picture to my phone from my mother’s phone, showing her tied up in some Godforsaken cellar or something. He sent another picture with her arm around his waist, like they were lovers.” She covered her mouth, staving off the breakfast rising in her gorge. Her own words seemed like an echo bouncing back from a deep valley.

  “What?” Then she heard him exhale. “I need you to forward those pictures to me. They can help us find her.”

  “But how? I don’t see—”

  “Chloe. Listen to me. The Gardaí is already involved. Josh got a call from a Detective Steve Shannon, who is on his way out to the bed and breakfast. Josh is waiting to hear back from him, but the locals are on it. They’ve also invited the FBI in because of what we know about this sick bastard. They’re good, and they are going to do all they can to find your mom.”