by Blake Pierce
Oriana nodded.
“It’s an old used car that he got cheap. A blue Toyota.”
“Do you have any idea where he is right now?” Bill asked.
The woman shrugged.
“At home, maybe. I’ll get his address for you.”
Oriana went to her office and quickly came back with Brandon Graham’s address written on a piece of paper.
She said, “He lives in the Limington Hotel, just a block down the street to the right.”
Riley and her colleagues thanked her and left the restaurant. Outside, Riley noticed the CID agents still sitting in their car—undoubtedly feeling none too patient.
“Should we bring them along?” Lucy asked.
Riley thought for a moment. It seemed likely that they were about to apprehend a dangerous suspect. As conspicuous as the uniformed agents might be, they also might be helpful. She asked Sergeant Matthews and his team to come along.
As the group approached the Limington, Riley saw that it stood out from the surrounding shops and eating places—and not in a good way. It was dingy, three-story building that had obviously been there since long before Limington became a thriving tourist town.
In fact, Riley guessed that it was more a flophouse than a hotel these days, and a barely inhabited one at that. She also guessed that it wouldn’t be around much longer in such gentrified surroundings. It was probably long overdue for demolition.
The building seemed even seedier once they went inside, with tattered carpeting and grungy wallpaper in the halls. There was no one at the dusty front desk and the place was deathly quiet. Riley found it almost hard to believe than anybody still lived here.
They found Brandon Graham’s room on the third floor.
Riley knocked sharply on the door, but nobody answered.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” Lucy said.
It seemed possible to Riley. Somebody who worked mostly at night probably slept a lot during the day.
She knocked again and called out, “Brandon Graham, we’re with the FBI and the CID. We need to talk to you.”
Again came no answer.
Riley told Sergeant Matthews to go look for the manager. She waited impatiently until Matthews returned with a decrepit old man who Riley guessed had been running this place since the hotel had seen much better days.
He was carrying a bundle of keys and seemed to have no qualms about opening up Graham’s room.
Riley and the others all crowded into the tiny room. It had a single small bathroom, a tiny refrigerator, and a cooking range. The place was dirty, stuffy, and smelled of mildew. Riley looked all around and saw that Graham appeared to have hardly any personal belongings—no TV or stereo, no trinkets or pictures or decorations.
Then Riley heard Lucy say, “Agents Paige and Jeffreys, you’d better have a look at this.”
Riley turned and saw that Lucy was holding a piece of paper gingerly by one corner. Careful not to interfere with any possible fingerprints, Lucy laid the paper on the bed.
“This was tucked under the pillow,” Lucy said.
Riley and Bill went over to look at it.
Riley shuddered at what she saw.
It was a handwritten list of about twenty names. Four of the people listed were the murder victims—Rolsky, Fraser, Worthing, and Barton.
All four of those names were crossed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Riley blinked with amazement as she stared at the list. There seemed to be no question about it—Brandon Graham was their killer.
But where was he right now?
Also looking at the names, Lucy commented, “We know the ones whose names are crossed out. What about the rest of them?”
Riley gasped a little as she recognized one other name.
“There’s Stanley Pope,” she said.
Lucy said, “That’s the guy who attacked you on the cliff—and who approached you again on the beach.”
“That’s right,” Riley said. “This must be a list of hazers—soldiers that Brandon Graham had it in for. They would be members of that society the recruits talked about.”
“And Pope is one of them?” Lucy asked.
“He didn’t tell me about that,” Riley said. “But I knew he wasn’t telling me everything.”
“For all we know,” Lucy added, “he might be Graham’s next target.”
“Not if we can help it,” Bill said. “We’ve got to stop this guy before he takes anybody else.”
Sergeant Matthews held out his hand.
“Let me see that list,” he said to Lucy.
Lucy handed it to him, and he stood looking it over. Meanwhile, his CID agents were banging around the apartment looking for more evidence. Riley was fairly sure that they weren’t going to find anything—not in this tiny place. If Graham had a weapon stash, he was hiding it someplace else.
A voice in the hallway called through the open door.
“What the hell’s going on here now?”
The group turned and saw an unshaved man in an undershirt rubbing his eyes. The man fixed his attention on the uniformed CID agents.
“Hey, is Graham in some kind of trouble?” he said.
Lucy stepped forward and showed him her badge. Riley and Bill showed theirs too,
“Do you know Brandon Graham?” Lucy asked.
“Not really, but I live next door. He’s a weird guy—noisy as hell for someone who lives alone. Screaming and knocking things around at all hours—he never seems to sleep, day or night. I thought you guys were him, acting up again.”
Riley stepped toward the neighbor.
“Do you have any idea where he might be right now?”
The neighbor scratched his head.
“Down at the fishing pier, I guess. He doesn’t talk to me much. We just pass each other in the hall. But whenever he does say anything, it’s about how he’s either been to the pier or is going there. And I’ve see him out there pretty much whenever I go fishing.”
The agents got directions to the pier and all hurried back to their cars. As Riley got behind the wheel and drove, she was excited about their luck. Maybe they could put an end to these murders right now.
But she cautioned herself not to get too confident. First they had to find Brandon Graham and apprehend him.
That might not be so easy, she reminded herself.
The man had eluded capture before.
*
During the short drive to the pier, Bill watched Riley closely. He’d been worried about her ever since they’d talked about the death of the Realtor at her mountain cabin. Actually, they hadn’t talked about much at all. She had just clammed up, saying, “I had kind of a rough night, that’s all.”
Bill was sure that she’d been drinking the night before. He knew she did that when she was deeply upset.
Riley had a reputation for going rogue, breaking the rules, and even disobeying orders. He’d accepted all of that long ago.
But during the last few months, they hadn’t had much of a break from demanding cases. He thought their recent jobs had been particularly hard on Riley, with her family threatened several times. He had seen how each attack affected her.
He remembered all too well her vengeful brutality toward the boy who had drugged her daughter and tried to sell her body. Bill had also arrived on the scene the moment after she’d let a serial killer strangle himself to death.
Bill hadn’t confronted Riley about these episodes, and he certainly hadn’t considered reporting her behavior. He’d been Riley’s partner and friend for too many years to do anything like that.
But now, he thought that the work was wearing her down.
He was also sure that something was terribly wrong in her personal life right now.
And he had a hunch that it had to do with Shane Hatcher. But she wouldn’t talk to him about that either.
Bill desperately wanted to help her somehow. But was she in too deep for him to help her—deep into something dark and evil?
&
nbsp; Bill’s thoughts were interrupted as the car pulled into a parking lot within sight of the pier. It was a long, old, jutting wooden structure. The tide was low right now, and the pilings lifted the pier some twenty feet into the air.
The CID agents also pulled into the lot. Both cars parked, the agents all got out and surveyed the scene. Bill took a moment to breathe in the salt air. It was a tranquil spring day on the beach—and a crowded one as well. People were roaming all over the pier and on the sand, including many small children.
Bill didn’t like having so many people around when they were about to apprehend a dangerous criminal.
He asked his companions, “What the hell are all these people doing here in the middle of the week? Shouldn’t these kids be in school?”
“It’s California,” Lucy said. “The beaches are always full.”
Bill could see that Riley was keenly surveying the situation. She said, “Get out your cell phones. I’ll send you the Army’s file photo of Brandon Graham. We’ll spread out and search along the pier. If anybody sees him, message the rest of us.”
She told the three uniformed CID agents, and she added, “You guys, try to be as inconspicuous as you possibly can. Stay back here at the base of the pier. Watch your cell phones too—but if you get a message, don’t try to join us. Your first duty is to clear all civilians off the pier. And whatever you do, don’t cause a panic.”
The three FBI agents headed out on the long wooden structure. Aside from numerous roaming tourists, many people were standing at the rail with fishing poles. Despite the number of people, Bill wasn’t especially worried that they’d have trouble spotting Brandon Graham. A glance at the picture on his cell phone showed that the young man had a very distinctive face with a jagged nose and a low, sloping forehead. What they’d do when or if they found him was another matter.
Bill moved through the crowd ahead of Riley and Lucy. The pier was about two hundred feet long and they had to get a look at the face of each adult male on it. In a few minutes he had reached the end without spotting anyone who matched the photographs and was about to give up hope of finding Brandon here. Then the he noticed someone sitting on the railing at the very end of the structure, facing out toward the ocean.
As Bill approached, he didn’t need to see the young man’s whole face to recognize him. Even from slightly to one side, Bill could make out that distinctive sloping forehead. But he looked considerably bigger and stronger than he did in the Army photograph.
He texted to the others …
He’s at the end of the pier.
Then Bill just watched the young man for a moment.
He was staring at the rolling waves, but didn’t really look relaxed. His hands were twitching, constantly rubbing together. It was also odd that, on a pleasant spring day like this, he was wearing a rather bulky jacket.
He’s got a gun, Bill realized.
Bill knew that he and his colleagues needed to handle this man with extreme caution. He glanced back and saw that Riley was hurrying toward him, while Lucy was quietly approaching others on the pier, flashing her badge and directing them to leave.
He silently motioned for Riley to slow down and keep some distance.
Then Bill drew his own weapon and stepped over to the railing beside the young man, who was still staring at the water, oblivious to any activity around him.
Bill asked, “Are you Brandon Graham?”
Still looking downward, Graham nodded.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?” Graham asked.
“FBI,” Bill said.
Graham let out what sounded like a moan of despair.
“I wondered when you’d catch up with me,” he said.
Then Graham reached inside his jacket.
“Don’t do it,” Bill said, stepping back and raising his Glock.
But in a flash, Graham twisted around, a semiautomatic pistol in his hand. He was still sitting on the railing and his gun was aimed at Bill.
“Why not?” Graham asked in a bland, expressionless voice. “What have I got to lose?”
Bill’s eyes were locked with Graham’s. Their guns were pointed at each other’s face.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Bill kept his own gun steady as he stared over the barrel into Graham’s wild-looking eyes. His brain clicked away, calculating what might happen next. Things looked desperate, but he knew better than to panic.
His feet were planted squarely on the wooden pier. Graham was still perched on the railing, his legs still dangling over the water, his body twisted to aim the gun at Bill.
Graham was in a by far more precarious position. His aim was likely to be shaky.
It would be easy to take him out.
Too easy, Bill decided.
Bill could hear the panicked cries and the fleeing footsteps of other people on the pier. Several nearby fishermen simply dropped their poles and hurried away.
In his peripheral vision, Bill could see that Riley and Lucy both had their weapons out and aimed at Graham. He glanced quickly at Riley and gave a slight shake of his head. He didn’t want them to fire. He wanted to see if he could bring in Brandon Graham alive.
He knew it might not be easy.
He was sure that Graham was contemplating suicide by cop.
Bill needed to get him to start talking.
“Tell me about everything,” Bill said.
“What do you want to know?” Graham asked.
Graham’s eyes were glazed now, as if he was having trouble understanding what was going on. Bill remembered what Larson had said about his psychological assessment—that he was delusional, possibly schizophrenic. Bill guessed it wouldn’t be hard to keep him distracted.
“I want to know how you got to this point,” Bill said. “You were discharged from the Army. What are you still doing in California? Why didn’t you move home to South Carolina?”
“I couldn’t afford it,” Graham said. “They just threw me out, and I had to get a job quick. I spent everything I had getting a used car.”
“Tell me about the list,” Bill said.
A flicker of surprise crossed Graham’s face. His body teetered slightly on the railing. The gun barrel moved a bit off target.
“What list?” he asked.
“You know what list I’m talking about.”
Graham smiled ever so slightly. The gun barrel dipped again. Bill could see that the man’s arm was getting tired.
“So you searched my apartment, huh? Well, I’m sure you know about the list already. You know who the crossed out names are. The dead bastards.”
Bill felt a tingle of shock shoot through his body.
It was practically a confession.
We’ve got our guy, all right, he thought.
He was glad that Riley and Lucy were within earshot.
“What did they do to you?” Bill asked. “Tell me about the abduction.”
Graham’s expression darkened. He raised the gun to aim it directly at Bill’s face again.
“It was a test of some kind.”
He froze in place, and for a moment Bill thought he might fire that gun. But then he lowered it again. The weapon was still pointed in Bill’s general direction, but not well aimed now.
Graham continued talking. “They never told me what it was. But once they’d dragged me into it, I was determined to pull through it. I wanted to be part of whatever was going on, one of them. I thought I could handle it. First they hit me and cursed at me, and they made me do things, eat cardboard and drink vinegar. I was fine with that. I could tell they were impressed.”
Graham’s eyes were darting around now as he remembered.
“Then they put me in a room full of guys and they made us fight. And damned if I wasn’t the last guy standing. I thought I’d won, I thought I’d got the best of them, and they’d have to accept me, and I’d be one of them. But …”
His voice trailed off. His face looked pained.
“But what?” Bill asked.
“They hauled me away again, took me up into the hills around Fort Mowat. They hung me by my feet over a cliff—Larry’s Leap, it’s called. And I—”
He choked back a sob. He couldn’t continue.
But Bill understood without being told. Hanging from that cliff, Graham had finally cracked from sheer terror. He’d probably cried like a baby. Maybe he’d even soiled himself. His humiliation had been total and horrible.
“Where did you get the list?” Bill asked.
“I got it all on my own,” Graham said. He looked like he was thinking back, remembering. “I’m a pianist. I’m a singer. I’ve got perfect pitch. I’ve got tape-recorder ears. I remember every single sound I hear. Those guys had masks on their faces, but I could hear their voices. I didn’t forget a single voice. During the next few days, I listened everywhere I went—out walking, in the mess hall, the rec area. I could tell who they were, at least some of them. I wrote down their names.”
Bill struggled to grasp what he was hearing.
If this guy was truly schizophrenic, how accurate was the list?
But some of the names were obviously right. The names of the soldiers who had been killed were on that list. Pope had identified them to Riley as the worst of the hazers.
Bill sensed that Graham’s attention was wandering and his determination was wavering. The gun was wobbling up and down, back and forth.
He said, “Put that gun down, Brandon. Come with me. We’ll sort all this stuff out.”
Graham blinked a few times, looking confused. For a moment, Bill felt sure that he was going to comply.
But suddenly, still holding the gun, Graham pushed himself off the rail and dropped down into the water.
“Son of a bitch!” Bill yelled, kicking off his shoes.
Riley and Lucy were rushing toward him now.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Riley asked.
“I’m going in after him,” Bill said.
Riley and Lucy both started to kick off their own shoes. Bill didn’t want all of them to be thrashing around in the water with the big ex-soldier.
“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped. “Meet me on the shore and help me pull him in.”
