‘Thank you, karma,’ Jones mumbled as he got dressed in the basement.
Upstairs, Sam was waiting for him. He stared at Jones for several seconds, checking him out in his new outfit, then burst into laughter. ‘Not as gay as your monkey suit.’
He took it in his stride. ‘Thanks for the loan.’
‘Loan, my ass. Report to work at 6 a.m. sharp. I’ll be damned if I’m cleaning up the blood myself. That shit ain’t in my job description.’
Jones bit his tongue and left before the janitor
Only a couple letters different from Sam, but way cooler in his mind.
No way in hell he was giving it back. Not unless they returned his tux.
Ironically, the coat was going to do more than keep him warm. It was going to help him break the law, which was why he had asked for it in the first place. If he had been concerned with warmth or style, he would have walked over to the Cathedral and retrieved his jacket from the coat-check girl. Instead, he wanted to use the SWAT coat to gather intelligence.
During the question and answer period, Jones had kept a few titbits to himself. The first was the existence of the mysterious letter. Since it was in his possession when Ashley was killed, he didn’t see the need to tell them about it. And neither did Payne. So Jones stuck with the basic story
The second item was a little more dishonest. Not a bold-faced lie, just a simple omission that would slow down the police investigation by an hour or so. It was the time Jones needed to get some information for himself.
Very early on, Jones realized Ashley wasn’t carrying any identification. He had figured that out when cop after cop kept asking if he knew her full name. The truth was he didn’t. She had introduced herself as Ashley and had never provided a surname during their conversation. If she had, he would have told the police immediately, so they could notify her next of kin.
However, he had failed to mention the location of her car. He knew he should have since it probably contained her purse, or insurance papers, or something with her name and address, but he decided against it because he wasn’t sure what else might be there.
Maybe information about the letter. Or possibly the actual letter.
Whatever the case, he wanted to see it first.
Wearing his SWAT jacket, Jones ducked under the crime-scene tape and turned left on Varsity
Everywhere Jones looked he saw bright, flashing lights. The entire left-hand lane was filled with police cars and satellite trucks from the evening news. People scurried to and fro, half of them buzzing from adrenaline, the other half from caffeine. Compared with earlier, this seemed like a different place — as though Pittsburgh had been magically transformed into Las Vegas. Only with fewer strippers and a lot more snow.
Glancing across the street, he saw Ashley’s Ford Taurus. It was parked fifty feet to the right, buried under an inch of fresh powder. In his mind, that was good news because it would help conceal what he was about to do. He needed to break into her car, right under the cops’ noses.
With a smile on his face, Jones walked down the steps like he owned the place. After waving to some detectives, he said hello to a group of paramedics, acting like he belonged, like he was one of them. And because of that, no one questioned his presence. Although the jacket helped, his attitude
Reaching into his pocket, Jones pulled out his wallet. Hidden in the crease of the leather was a small set of lock picks he had carried with him for years. The type that could get him inside a car or building in a matter of seconds. He had learned how to use them in the military and had continued to use them during his career as a private detective — a career that began several years sooner than Jones had ever imagined it would.
Originally he had planned on staying in the service for another decade or so, but when Grandpa Payne died and left his company to his grandson, everything changed. At the time, Payne wasn’t ready to retire, but out of love and respect for the man who had raised him, he left the military and moved back to Pittsburgh to fulfil his familial duties. To help his adjustment to civilian life, Payne had convinced Jones to retire as well. In fact, he had bribed him to do it. He gave Jones office space in the Payne Industries complex and loaned him enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So Payne figured, why not?
Not surprisingly, the pace of their lives had slowed considerably in recent years. Other than the rare occasions when Payne helped Jones with one of his cases, the only time they got to carry guns and have some fun was when they had their own adventures. The last time had been their trip to Greece. And it had been a life changer.
Thanks to their historic discovery, Jones suddenly had more money than he could possibly spend in his lifetime. Growing up in a lowermiddle-class family, he had lived his life frugally, always saving money for a rainy day. The military had paid for his education at the Air Force Academy and had taken care of his basic living expenses for nearly two decades which had allowed Jones to build a nice nest egg. Now he had more nest eggs than a chicken farmer.
The first thing he did was pay back all the cash he had borrowed from Payne. Not only the start-up capital, but also the money that Payne should have been charging for rent, plus interest. Payne had been reluctant to take it — he certainly didn’t need the funds — but Jones pestered him so much that he eventually agreed.
Unfortunately, there were some drawbacks to
Not that he was complaining.
As someone who loved mysteries, he was enjoying his second career. Still, compared to his days with the MANIACs, his current life was painfully boring.
Of course, all that changed with the shooting at the chapel.
His adrenaline was flowing, and he was craving more.
14
During his time with the MANIACs, Jones had broken into more cars than he could possibly remember — sometimes to acquire an escape vehicle, other times to plant an explosive device. Over the years, those life or death experiences had hardened his nerves and steadied his hands, making his current mission seem easy by comparison.
Police across the street? Not a problem.
Even if they started shooting.
‘Not bad,’ he mumbled as he opened the door and climbed inside.
The interior was cold but not nearly as cold as it was outdoors. For that, he was thankful. He was also glad he had found a pair of black leather gloves at the chapel. They allowed him to rummage through Ashley’s car without leaving any prints. Not that it actually mattered. The shooting had taken place across the street, so he doubted that a forensic team would examine the car. But on the off chance they did, he preferred to keep his physical evidence out of the equation.
The first place he searched was the glove compartment. From his experience, that’s where most people kept their car registration and insurance card, and all he needed was Ashley’s full name and address. With that information, he could go
When Jones opened the latch, he expected the storage space to be jammed with personal items — CDs, cosmetics, a small purse, maybe even some food. Anytime he went on a road trip, he packed peanut-butter crackers or protein bars, so he wouldn’t have to stop for snacks. And if Payne, a freak of nature who had to consume more than 8,000 calories a day or he lost weight, was along for the ride, then they brought multiple sandwiches or several containers of beef jerky to keep him from getting cranky. Therefore, when Jones looked inside the glove box and found it empty, he was more than surprised. He was borderline stunned.
‘What the hell?’ he said to himself.
At the very least, he had expected to find her paperwork. But nothing? That didn’t make any sense. Even the most obsessive people in the world kept something in their cars, even if it was just a dust cloth to tidy up. But an empty glove box was suspicious.
Suddenly, all types of paranoid thoughts ran
It was a concept Jones hadn’t considered until that very moment.
For a
ll he knew, a sniper could be eyeing him from a nearby building, patiently waiting for the cops to leave before he pulled the trigger.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sound echoed from above like gunshots. With a burst of adrenaline, Jones nearly dived into the backseat until he realized what had made the noise. Someone was on the street outside, pounding on the roof of the car. Jones glanced out of the driver’s side window and saw a muscular man in a tuxedo and black gloves. Only then did his heart rate start to calm.
‘Holy hell,’ he cursed as he leaned over and opened the door, ‘you almost killed me.’
Payne grinned and slipped inside. ‘Sorry about that. I thought you saw me.’
‘You know damn well I didn’t see you, or you wouldn’t have knocked.’
He shrugged, not willing to confirm or deny anything. ‘Any luck?’
‘Your search.’
‘Nothing so far. Then again, I just got here.’
Payne pointed. ‘Did you check the glove box?’
‘First thing I did. It’s empty.’
‘Any paperwork?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about food?’
Jones shook his head. ‘Nada.’
‘No snacks? Who goes on a road trip without snacks?’
‘I was wondering the same thing myself.’
‘What about a pack of mints?’
‘Jon, what is it about empty that you can’t comprehend?’
‘Sorry. It just seems weird, that’s all.’
They checked the storage compartment under the centre armrest and the pockets mounted behind their leather seats, but they were empty as well. Next Jones flipped down both sun visors, hoping to find something of value. From the driver’s side, a single slip of paper came fluttering out. Payne snatched it in mid-flight and held it up to the window, struggling to read it in the dim light. Slowly, a grimace surfaced on his face.
‘Shit,’ Payne cursed. ‘This isn’t good.’
‘What is it?’
Jones paused, thinking things through. ‘Well, that would explain the empty glove box. I guess she rented a car for her road trip. What’s the problem?’
‘Look at the business address.’
Jones opened the glove box and used the interior light to read the details. According to the flyer, the car had been rented from Pittsburgh airport. ‘This isn’t good.’
‘I’m pretty sure I just said that.’
‘I know you did. And I’m agreeing with you.’
Payne flipped up both visors and studied the frosty windshield. In the upper-right corner, he noticed a small orange sticker that said Budget. ‘I wish I had seen that before. It would’ve changed my entire line of questioning.’
‘Maybe so, but it was covered with ice and snow. No way it was visible from outside.’
‘I know that, but I should’ve—’
Jones interrupted him. ‘She lied to both of us, and both of us bought it. You weren’t the only one who was fooled.’
Payne nodded reluctantly. ‘So, what do we do now?’
‘Right now, our only goal is to get as much info about this car as possible before the cops show
Payne grabbed a pen from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll start with the registration number.’
‘And I’ll get the licence plate.’
‘While you’re back there,’ Payne said as he hit a button that opened the trunk, ‘check to see if she had any luggage.’
Jones opened his door and walked towards the rear of the car. After brushing away some snow, he wrote the plate number on the back of the Budget leaflet and tucked it into his pocket.
‘Find anything?’ Payne asked.
‘Just getting to that,’ Jones said as he opened the trunk.
The overhead light popped on, revealing a single carry-on item. Made of black leather, the bag was zipped closed and stuffed full. Instead of wasting valuable time to sort through it there, Jones grabbed the strap and slipped it over his shoulder.
Then, without saying a word, he closed the hatch, and they walked away.
15
Police Nationale, Belgium’s Police Fédérale, and all the other countries where he conducted business. These sources were expensive, but the information he obtained from them was invaluable. Dubois realized that without their warnings he would have been killed or arrested a long time ago.
But Dubois’s obsession didn’t stop there.
Although he was a highly educated intellectual — the type of man who typically viewed prophets and oracles as scam artists — Dubois fervently believed that some people were blessed with the ability to see the future. This belief stemmed from the fact that he temporarily had the power himself. From the time he was eight until he was
At first his ability frightened him. He was afraid something was wrong, that he was some kind of a freak. But his mother, who had been born in Avignon, France, not far from the birthplace of Nostradamus, explained his talent was a gift that many people would love to have. She insisted his knowledge of the future was a powerful tool that he could use to improve his life, and in certain situations, maybe even save it. Then she took him to the library and showed him all the books and articles written about the most famous prophets of all time. Dubois was intrigued by the work of several prophets, but his fascination with Nostradamus bordered on obsession. Partially because he had come from the same region as Dubois’s mother, but mainly due to the power that the prophet’s name still possessed several centuries after his death.
From that moment on, Dubois was hooked. He read everything he could get his hands on, devouring every last word while trying to determine who had the gift and who was full of shit. Ironically, his interest in clairvoyance grew even
Some of the stories he read as a teenager were downright spooky.
One of Dubois’s favourites involved an American author named Morgan Robertson. Born in Oswego, New York, in 1861, Robertson believed he was possessed by a spirit that helped him write. Before he could produce a single sentence, Robertson had to lie completely still for several minutes in a semi-conscious state. Eventually, the entity would dictate stories to him, using vivid images. Then Robertson would translate these visions into words.
Competing with the popular stories of Jules Verne, whose science fiction was filled with an optimistic view of technology and travel, Robertson preferred depressing tales of maritime disasters. This included a novella, published in 1898, entitled The Wreck of the Titan. Like his other stories, Robertson received the plot from his magical entity, although he told many of his closest friends that this particular vision felt stronger than any other.
Titan hit an iceberg just before midnight. A long gash, torn below the waterline, allowed flooding to occur in too many of the compartments for the Titan to stay afloat. A short while later, the ‘unsinkable’ ship disappeared into the depths of the cold ocean, and most of its passengers drowned or died of hypothermia due to a severe shortage of lifeboats.
The story made very few waves in the literary scene until the night of 14 April 1912. While travelling between England and New York on its maiden voyage, the Titanic, the largest passenger steamship in the world, hit an iceberg at 11.40 p.m. and sank in the North Atlantic, killing over 1,500 passengers. Although a few of the details were different, there were enough similarities between Robertson’s story and the actual events Titanic disaster to capture the world’s attention. Within weeks, The Wreck of the Titan and some of his other tales were serialized in newspapers across America. It brought him a level of fame he never had a chance to enjoy because alcoholism and depression ended his life.
Three decades later, another one of his stories proved to be prophetic.
In ‘Beyond the Spectrum’, a short story he published in 1914, Robertson described a future war between the United States and Japan that resembled the actual events of Pearl Harbor in 1941. Instead of declaring war on its rival, Japan launched a sneak attack on American ships heading to Hawaii. The hero of the story m
anaged to stop the advancing forces by using an ultraviolet searchlight that blinded the Japanese crews. The devastating effects of the searchlight — intense heat, skin blisters, blindness — resembled the injuries caused by the atomic bombs dropped on Japan in 1945, weapons that ultimately ended their war.
Once again, the similarities between fact and fiction weren’t perfect, but they were close enough for Dubois to pay attention.
16
USA Today, it is the second most beautiful place in America, only behind Red Rock Country in Sedona, Arizona. From his office window, Jones could see the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers flowing together to form the Ohio. The confluence of the three rivers defined the Golden Triangle, the name given to the business district, where dozens of skyscrapers glowed in the night-time sky. More than fifteen bridges, lined with a dazzling assortment of holiday lights, twinkled above the waterways, turning the colour of the icy rivers from white to red to green.
On a clear night, PNC Park and Heinz Field, two of the most scenic ballparks in the country, were visible across the rivers on the North Shore. A revitalized section of the city, it featured the Carnegie Science Center, complete with a World War Two submarine (USS Requin) docked along the water’s edge, and the newly opened Rivers
A beep from his antique desk snapped him out of his daydream.
Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, he turned from the window and walked towards his computer. A message on his screen informed him that his search was complete, and no matching entries had been found. Grumbling to himself, Jones sat down in his leather executive chair and clicked his mouse. He had been fishing for clues ever since he had left Ashley’s car. Meanwhile, Payne had returned to the Cathedral to apologize to his guests and explain what had happened.
Three hours later, Payne finally made it to Mount Washington.
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