Munoz got into his unmarked squad and pulled slowly out of the parking lot. He remembered to turn the FBI agents’ phones off, so they couldn’t be tracked. He jumped as the radio lit up and crackled with the familiar static.
“Three David Eight, cancel the 10-54 at 116 West 16th.”
Munoz looked down at the radio. The shots should have brought even more officers to the scene. Instead, the call had been canceled? He grabbed the mic.
“Dispatch drop down to one niner.”
“Three David Eight, go ahead.”
“The 10-56A was canceled again?”
“10-4,” said Yolanda. “We were called off that one. Please disregard.”
“Called off? By who?
“I don’t know the details but avoid that crime scene.”
“I see. 10-4.”
Munoz drove to the nearest public park and found a relatively secluded spot away from the playground equipment and the gathered children. Goldblume’s iPhone was of particular interest. He pulled out the antennae to thwart any GPS transmissions and looked through texts and recent calls. The contacts list was extensive and filled with many names, including some that Munoz recognized as prominent local leaders in politics and business. On a hunch, he scrolled through the list and stopped at “M,” inching the screen up until he reached the name he was looking for: Harold Moss. Somehow, the detective just knew Moss’s contact information would be in Goldblume’s phone. Although he still didn’t understand the nature of the conspiracy, Munoz was beginning to connect a few dots.
There was one more order of business. The envelope he picked up from Curtis Roberts’s apartment was still in his pocket. He took it out and slid his finger across the top of the crease and ripped it open. There was a single 3x5 index card inside. He extracted it and stared at the words. Scratched hastily in lead pencil it read, His evil is everywhere.
The detective punched an address into his GPS and moved the car into traffic. Munoz intended to have another meeting with Harold Moss, but this one might not include the requisite formalities.
***
Sitting on the porch sipping afternoon coffee with her new family, Sarah felt as close to happiness as her battered psyche would allow. Her first few days on the farm were busy, and helping Uncle Hank spread the mulch and fertilizer over the avocado trees proved tiring but fulfilling. Her muscles were sore, yet she welcomed the pain. For the first time, Sarah had an exhilarating enthusiasm for life.
She dropped her coffee cup as the sight of billowing dust and the rumbling of a car engine caught her attention. It approached from the far end of the long driveway. One look at the dark sedan, and Sarah knew immediately they found her. At the time, Uncle Hank was unaware that calling the police had essentially sealed her fate. In his defense, Hank Harvel never had any idea of what or who he was dealing with.
Sarah screamed and wailed as the lead car screeched to a halt in front of the three-car garage. “They’re here for me. Nooooo.”
“Don’t worry, Sarah, it’s probably the police. I called them.”
“My God, Uncle Hank. It’s not the police—it’s him!”
The expression on his niece’s face was terrifying. Hank rose from the table and retrieved his double barrel pump shot gun from the locked case in the living room. The women hurriedly moved into the basement and hid next to the washing machine, clutching each other tightly.
“Stay here until I come and get you,” said Hank.
After a couple significant kicks, the front door burst open, and the muzzle of an automatic weapon poked through the threshold. Hank arrived at the top of the steps and moved silently down the hall into the kitchen where he would have a better view of the intruders. He trained the shotgun on the first man that entered the house, but his attention was diverted by the sound of shattering glass. He swung the gun toward the kitchen windows, but that allowed the man coming through the front door time to point his Uzi at the over-matched farmer.
These intruders had obvious ill intent, and Hank quickly became enveloped in a thick layer of fear and loathing. He held up a palm to the man emerging from the window. “Wait, look,” he said. “I’ve got some money in the safe, you can have it.”
The man jumped down on the kitchen counter and glared back. “Where’s the girl? That’s all we want.”
“No, not Sarah. She’s been through enough. Anything but my niece.”
The assailant snarled and grabbed at the gun in his waistband.
Hank had time to squeeze off one round that exploded in the intruder’s chest, knocking him back through the window where he had broken in. He turned around instinctively while chambering another round, but the two men coming from the living room were already unloading multiple rounds of automatic weapon fire.
Hank danced around like a marionette as the lead slugs slammed into his body. When the gunfire stopped, he collapsed to the floor. A trail of blood formed quickly and ran across the tile and into the foyer.
The men split up. One took the stairs to the second floor landing while the other searched through the rooms on the first floor. When nothing turned up, they met at the basement door and cautiously moved down the steps in tandem. It didn’t take long to find the women, who cowered and clung together tightly.
“Don’t hurt us,” pleaded Sarah. “Don’t hurt my aunt.”
One of the men reached down and separated them while the other grabbed Aunt Gina and yanked her away. “Sarah! I—please, please, leave us alone.”
The beleaguered girl nearly collapsed in anguish. She looked at the man holding her aunt. “Please, Mr. Price, for God’s sake don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her. I’ll come with you; just let her go.”
Victor Price paused a moment. Hearing her use his name brought a small smile to his lips. “Sarah, the Benefactor is not pleased. You understand that your commitment to him is for life. You obviously have an illness. No one it their right mind would want to leave such a loving environment. You must be brought back for treatment.”
Sarah hung her head and cried. She looked up through her tears just in time to see the long cylinder of a silencer placed to her aunt’s head. The simple farmer’s wife recoiled reflexively as a bullet traveled directly through her left temple, exploding out the other side of her head. Aunt Gina slunk to the floor, her left eyeball stuck to her cheek, staring absently at Sarah, the remnants of her mouth sheered away to reveal a row of chipped and broken teeth.
Sarah let out a scream of anguish as she stared at the limp body of her disfigured aunt. The other assailant grabbed Johansen’s arms and lifted her to her feet. He reached out to cuff her hands, but he froze in place, and his eyes widened as more unexpected gunfire erupted. The blast hit him square in the back, and he crumpled, allowing Sarah to escape from his grip. Instantaneously, Price whirled around in time to see Hank Harvel leaning against the door frame, a blood-soaked trail behind him.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Price raised his gun, but he was too late. He saw the flash of the shotgun and barely heard the explosion of the second barrel as the 00 buckshot tore into his face and ripped the skin and meat clean away from his skull. Price was blind but alive, and he staggered around for a moment before collapsing on top of his accomplice. He clutched at the raw hole in his face as his breathing passageways clogged.
Sarah ran to her uncle, who slid down the side of the door frame. “Uncle Hank, oh dear God, Uncle Hank. I’ve got to find a phone.” She turned frantically in all directions, looking for a cell phone or a land line extension.
Hank grabbed her arm and squeezed with surprising strength. “There’s no time. It won’t be long before they know what happened here. Gina kept some money tucked away in the bottom of the vase in the living room. There’s close to $700 in it. Take it and take my shotgun. You’ve got to get away. Here are the keys to the truck.”
“No, I’m not leaving you. You need help.”
“Call 911 on the upstairs phone. You can’t help me. You’ve got to leave.�
�
Sarah struggled to her feet, grabbed the gun, and ran up the stairs. She dialed 911 and calmly gave the operator the vital details while leaving out her own name. “You can trace the call; I’m going to leave the phone off the hook. My aunt is dead, and my uncle is hurt badly. You have to come quickly!”
“Wait ma’am. Stay on the line with me. Who am I speaking with? Hello… Hello?”
Sarah Johansen did not answer. She ran to the living room and found the vase, smashing it on the floor and retrieving the money. Once outside the house, she jumped in the pickup truck and fumbled with the key before finally jamming it into the ignition. The truck fishtailed as she pulled out onto the road. Without any driving experience, Sarah overcompensated in steering and veered from side to side like a drunk on an extended bender. It took about ten miles before she gained some measure of control over the vehicle.
***
Some 3000 miles away in his dirty Manhattan apartment, Zaiminski was following events at the Harvel house in Temecula. Price activated a video camera attached to his collar, and Alan saw and heard enough to realize the operation had failed.
He sighed deeply. There was already enough to do without dealing with this slut from Desolation. What was this fascination his father had with this girl, and what was her significance in the scheme of things? With literally thousands of suicides to monitor, and the responsibility of manipulating the lives of key individuals on a micro basis, Alan brooded over the burden of an unsuccessful operation. He picked up the secure line and hit the speed dial.
“Watts here.”
“Hey, Mr. Watts, I have some, uh, crummy news. The deal on that Johansen girl went bad. I mean really bad. Price had a camera in his headgear, but he took a hit to the face. Pretty gross, and the girl probably escaped. The whole thing was really bloody. Cool but kind of disgusting at the same time if you know what I mean.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Where did she go, Alan?”
“How the hell should I know? Get the dumb ass local police to find her. I did my fuckin’ job; your guys screwed it up. I put the license plate and make of her uncle’s pickup truck into the LENDE database. One of those dopes should find her.”
“Ok, Alan. I’ll take it from here. You can get back to work.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” Alan looked back to his computer and turned his attention to a regional Bishop he was very close to corrupting.
***
Mr. Cox lay on the plush Massoud Karutha mattress with his hands behind the head of Kathy Rodgers. The seductive attorney proved to be far more useful than he could have imagined. Not only was she extraordinarily adept at manipulating the legal system, but her prowess in sexual matters had aided in recruiting and persuading reluctant influencers to cooperate. In just over a week, she became an important part of the Network.
“I want to thank you for the exceptional level of representation you gave Mr. Bhatnagar,” he said. “His innocence will reverberate through the halls of justice everywhere.”
Kathy paused and lifted her head. “You mean he’ll be able to start shipping the heroin to the children again, isn’t that really it?”
Mr. Cox grinned. “Mrs. Rodgers, you are a cynical person. In my younger days, I was a lot like you. But as I grew older, I began to see the perfect beauty and symmetry in chaos and pain.”
“You haven’t told me much about your childhood. What was it like?”
The smile faded from Cox’ face.
For a moment, Kathy sensed his energy had dissipated slightly, and his psychological hold on her lessened.
“I don’t talk about my childhood.”
She nodded and moved her head back to his lap and continued pleasuring him. Before the night was over, he would enter her, and the horrid dreams would follow his departure. He was like no other lover she ever experienced. Rough, physical and depraved, he honored no boundaries, and he always left Kathy feeling ashamed and full of self-loathing.
“I am so pleased with your work that I have many more important assignments,” he said. “You will find that tomorrow you have been licensed to practice in 19 states; more will follow shortly. I love your—professionalism, and I want you around more. You’ll start traveling with me when you’re not working a case.”
Again she lifted her head. “I’m honored.”
“You should be. I don’t let just anyone into upper management.” He reached into his front shirt pocket. “Here, I brought you a treat to celebrate, courtesy of Neeraf Bhatnagar.”
He handed her a small tinfoil packet and encouraged her to open it. As Kathy suspected, it was heroin #4. She was almost shaking in anticipation. Mr. Cox nodded his approval as she got up to retrieve a syringe and rubber hose to tie off her arm.
Almost at the same moment, Mr. Cox felt a sudden backwash of the same toxic white energy he experienced earlier. Like a caustic acid poured into his mind, it affected the purity of the dark conveyance. Without the need to verify, he knew it was coming from one of the suicides. The negative reverberation of even a single energy tendril was like a sour note in the midst of a Mozart concerto or a single weed in an immaculate lawn. Cox followed the trail of kinetic exhaust to the scene of the distress and disruption.
Maintaining secrecy, he surveyed the carnage before him. The suicide was stone dead, slumped on the couch with a huge hole in his chest. Mr. Cox had no pity; the fool had been given an opportunity to join the Network and had rejected it. The two FBI affiliates were lying face down in pools of blood that surrounded their contorted frames.
After the incident at the restaurant in Las Vegas, Cox followed the telepathic vapor trail left by the strange one and tracked him to the suicide’s location in Seattle. Watts was instructed to assemble a local team to apprehend or eliminate the rogue. Obviously, once again something once foiled the effort. Worse, the trail had dissipated, and he had no way of tracking the interloper.
A stirring in his lower extremity brought Mr. Cox back into the moment. He arrived just in time to experience the pleasure and subsequent release his new assistant provided.
“I would invite you to dinner, but my car waits outside,” he said. “I have another appointment.”
Kathy smiled and took a long drag on a freshly lit cigarette. “It’s fine, Benefactor. I serve at your request. Besides, I have a date tonight with the governor. I think I can persuade him to grant clemency to Terrance Hines.”
“Hines? The one that dismembered his wife and two children?”
“That’s the one. We feel he has been—rehabilitated. Besides, we have DNA evidence that may, uh, exonerate him”
Mr. Cox grinned and clapped his hands. “Excellent work, Mrs. Rodgers. You have such promise.”
“Why, thank…” Kathy stopped in mid-sentence. She looked up and saw a transparent phantom directly behind Mr. Cox that looked like Ryan. Tears were flowing down the child’s cheeks.
“What?” Cox snapped his head around and back. “What are you looking at?”
She glanced at Mr. Cox and then back at Ryan, but her son was already gone. “Nothing. It was nothing at all.”
Chapter Fourteen
World economies continued to decay as confrontations escalated on a global scale. North Korea launched an armed missile over the Sea of Japan, but fortunately, the technology malfunctioned, and Tokyo was spared a direct nuclear hit. International diplomacy plunged into chaos.
Middle East terrorism and internal revolution continued unabated, and suicide bombers hit Britain 13 times within a six-day period. Neither France nor Russia was spared, and both were struck by the Takfir Wa al-Hjira and Chechnyian separatists.
Within this context, the band of Kazakhstani terrorists made their way through the heartland of the United States and stopped at a convenience store in Oswargo, Kansas, to pick up supplies. They hadn’t bathed for over a week, and their collective smell and odd appearance was enough to make the store clerk push a button under the counter, which patched directly to the Kansas Highwa
y Patrol. You could never be too cautious in a small town.
“Do you need any gas?” asked Yon Hii, the convenience store manager.
“We purchase the gas we need,” answered Burikhan while looking protectively at the 2003 Impala sitting in the parking lot. They changed vehicles in Clovis, and the bomb was stored carefully in the trunk.
“We have special on beer. Budweiser, 12 pack – $9.99. Do you want?”
“I said no, just gas. Let me pay, and we will we go on our way.”
“Where are you from?”
Burikhan leaned over the counter, his breath smelling stale and his body reeking of sweat. “I told you, we do not need anything. Give me the money change, and we will leave.”
Hii reached into the cash register, but the sound of a distant police siren caused him to hesitate. Oswargo was on a desolate stretch of Route 59, and the patrol car assigned to cover I-35 never strayed far from food, beverages and facilities in the small town. Unit response time was almost instantaneous.
Burikhan reached around the cash register and grabbed the clerk by the collar. “You pig, you called the police?” he hissed.
“No, no, not me,” replied the terrified Korean. “Speed trap on highway. Not coming here.”
The terrorist continued to eye him suspiciously. “Kabanbai, Temir, get more of the supplies quickly. We must leave now.”
The police cruiser turned violently into the unpaved parking lot, spraying gravel and a cloud of dust. The vehicle sat motionless for some time, shrouded by the debris. The exhaust vapor signaled the engine was still running.
Burikhan turned back to the clerk, his face contorted with rage. “You stinking pig, you called them.” Burikhan pulled a .22 pistol packed with hollow points and placed it directly to the man’s forehead.
“No, I didn’t call. They stop here a lot. Buy sweets and soda. They'll be gone soon. Please, don’t kill me…”
Burikhan relaxed for a moment but then recognized the harsh reality of the circumstances. Three filthy men of obvious foreign origin traveling through Kansas in the middle of nowhere couldn’t help but raise suspicion. They would be questioned, and more importantly, the car would be searched. Without a second thought, Burikhan fired the pistol, and a bullet exploded directly into Hii’s head. The terrorist leader turned to Kabanbai before the body had fallen to the floor.
The Suicide Society Page 14
