Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  “I don’t know what you’re -- Listen, We’ve got a line on him. Everything’s under control. Relax. I got to go.”

  Turgeon hung up.

  Damn. He had to find Olivia.

  “Could you guys hang out here? Half an hour or so? Have something to eat. Just to check on the welfare of the resident and call me.” He left his card. “Please?”

  The uniforms shrugged. They’d stay as long as they could. Wyatt’s cell phone trilled as he headed to his car.

  “Randall Latzer here.”

  “Thanks for calling, Mr. Latzer.”

  “You’re the detective Olivia was going on about. She’s sweet on you, sir.”

  “Randall, did she say what flight she was on? It was changed and I was supposed to pick her up.”

  “Yes, got it written down. Let’s see…”

  Wyatt’s cell phone began beeping, his battery was dying. He had to get to the airport. He needed to be certain.

  “Funniest thing. A man called here and said she had to be on an earlier flight. Here we go.” Randall Latzer recited the airline flight number.

  “Hope you’re at the airport, Ben.”

  “Why?”

  “Because her plane is due to arrive now.”

  Wyatt smashed his gas pedal to the floor. His mind racing through the fastest possible route to San Francisco International.

  “A man called here and said she had to be on an earlier flight.”

  No. This can’t be. A joke. Would the cops do this to him? Did they hate him that much to set him up? Push him over the edge? Weaving through expressway traffic, lights glaring, horns blaring, Wyatt grabbed his dying phone, punching the number for Turgeon’s cell phone.

  “Turgeon.” He could barely hear her.

  “It’s Wyatt. Linda, he’s at the airport. I think he’s at the airport.”

  “Ben we know you can’t ---” Then he heard Sydowski. “You are off this case, Wyatt! Stop calling!”

  Landing gear locked, Olivia’s jet whined to earth near the SlumberLand just as an FBI SWAT team member spotted movement in Vryke’s hotel room.

  The commander gave the green light for a hard entry, and four heavily armed members stormed the room. It was empty. The movement was a curtain billowed by the air conditioner’s fan, throwing an eerie shadow.

  One of the agents drew his team’s attention to a wall covered by a large fabric mural the hotel had installed to muffle sound. Something was visible from under a corner. They lifted it, then yanked the mural down, jaws dropping.

  God Almighty.

  Photographs of women were pinned to the wall. Floor to ceiling. Color headshots.

  Their eyes were lifeless. Those that still had eyes. Faces frozen with terror. Those that still had faces.

  “Must be over a hundred.”

  On the desk sat two large laptop computers. One agent tapped his gloved finger on the space bar. Eugene Vryke appeared on the enlarged clear screen.

  “I’d give anything to see your expression. But thank you,” Vryke said. “It’s begun now. There’s no turning back. You, whoever you are, will have your place in history. Please be careful. Don’t touch anything. The museums will want it. Take a look around. See them. My dark cathedral of liars, its ceiling is painted with the blood of others. It was painstaking work, as you will soon see. But my time has come. My search has ended. I’ve finally found her. The One. We’re together now. Forever.”

  The agents were stunned until one managed to say into a radio: “You better get the investigators in here, now!”

  Olivia was pleasantly surprised when she grabbed her suitcase at the luggage carousel. She heard her name being paged, then spotted a small sign: OLIVIA GRANT.

  It was in the hands of a limo driver, wearing a black cap, dark glasses, white shirt, tie, dark jacket and pants.

  “I’m Olivia Grant.”

  “I’ve been dispatched to take you some place special, ma’am.”

  The driver tipped his hat, took her bag.

  Olivia blushed. “It was Ben. He sent you? She bit her bottom lip. “He is so sweet. Must be the page, so I wouldn’t miss you.”

  The driver nodded. “Follow me, please.”

  He led Olivia from arrivals to the chaotic loading zone and a gleaming black car amid a long line of gleaming black cars. He opened the rear passenger door for Olivia, who in the noise and hubbub of the traffic did not hear Wyatt shouting her name some fifty yards away.

  Wyatt saw Vryke close the driver’s door, and he stopped running. He was too far off to make it on foot. He rushed back to his car, punching 911 into his phone, looking for a marked unit, security, anyone. His phone beeped; then his tires squealed.

  The limousine reflected the night. Olivia heard the doors automatically lock as it glided from the airport. She found a bouquet of a dozen white sweetheart roses for her in the back seat, then read the unsigned card:

  Olivia, you’ve always been the one.

  She blushed, remembering her lovemaking with Ben. This was so romantic. He was sweeping her off of her feet. She pushed the button lowering the glass partition.

  “Excuse me, driver. Can you say where Ben said to take me?”

  “It’s a surprise, ma’am.”

  Soft classical music filled the car. Olivia sunk her head into the plush headrest, smiling.

  Wyatt’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. Horns blared as he battled not to lose the limo. It was fast. A hundred yards ahead of him, widening the distance. How he wished he had a department car, lights and screamers. Where were the other units? Turgeon said they had a line on him. He struggled with indecision. Should he risk stopping to make a call? He was too far behind to get a make on the car or its plate. His cell phone was dead. Shut it off, you might be able to squeeze enough residual juice for one last ditch 911 call. His tires screeched when a motorcycle veered into his lane just as the limo left the freeway.

  Olivia was enthralled. It was a breathtaking ride cutting across the city, passing north through Golden Gate Park heading toward the Presidio, the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance nearly two miles ahead. Maybe we’ll cross it to one of those beautiful restaurants in Sausalito. Her heart swelled. This was going to be a night she would always remember.

  Wyatt’s cell phone came to life beeping, warning his internal battery was low.

  “Come on.” He punched the numbers.

  The call went through to the emergency dispatcher.

  “Do you require police, fire or --”

  His battery beeped.

  Wyatt began shouting into his phone: “Police emergency -- beep -- this is Inspector Ben Wyatt SFPD in -- beep -- pursuit of a multiple homicide suspect -- beep -- with a hostage northbound -- beep -- approach to the beep, beep -- Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Repeat. You’re breaking up, sir --”

  The limo passed the toll plaza, proceeding along the bridge, the lights of San Francisco magnificent against the night. Olivia remembered the last time she was here and the reason. Blinking back her tears, smelling the roses, aching to see Ben, happy she had taken a chance, had risked her heart, for now she truly believed she had found the love she had longed for all of her life. She stroked the fine gold chain he’d given her.

  “Mind if I ask you a personal question ma’am?” the driver said, as the car neared the first tower.

  “Not at all.”

  “You believe in forgiveness, right?”

  Olivia thought it was rather philosophical. She shrugged. “Yes I do.”

  “I mean you sell it at your shop.”

  “Yes, but how did you --”

  His voice was familiar. The scars.

  Her heart began beating faster.

  The emergency lights of two bridge security vehicles, a California Highway Patrol cruiser and a Marin County car, were activated as police marshaled at the Golden Gate’s north end to halt traffic.

  “I’m not going to ask you if you are truly willing to forgive the sins of a past life, because you’ve
already done it. We’ve shared so much and I can’t afford to hear another lie. So many others have lied.”

  Olivia’s skin prickled. “Who are you?”

  “I am you and you are The One.”

  Vryke saw police lights at the bridge’s north end. Calmly he touched his stun gun and medical case containing his hypodermic. He checked his rear-view mirrors, touched his brakes, tires screaming, rubber burning, the big car sailing, horns protesting, Olivia’s nails digging into the armrest as he swung it 180 degrees, reversing their direction on the bridge, the engine roaring, the limo now charging south, back to San Francisco. Police sirens wailing behind him.

  Wyatt’s car had sped by the South Tower to the center-point when he witnessed the limo’s turnaround. He swallowed hard, double-checking his seatbelt, tightening his grip. No time to think, he swerved his car to block the limo, rubber liquefying, metal crunching, as the bigger car clipped Wyatt’s front quarter, airbags deploying, exploding debris, glass, puncturing its tires, engine fluids spraying, hissing, traffic squealing, horns, brakes, chaos, the limo and Wyatt’s car coming to a stop some thirty yards apart, yelping sirens approaching.

  Vryke seized Olivia’s wrist. She struggled, still gripping her roses as he dragged her toward the San Francisco side of the bridge.

  “Please no. Help! Please.”

  Wyatt running. His gun drawn.

  “San Francisco Police. Release her!”

  “Back off.” Vryke’s powerful arm locked around Olivia’s neck, pulling her close like a shield, forcing her toward the east side of the bridge. Traffic screeching, horns blasting. Wyatt saw the metal flash of a hypodermic needle in Vryke’s hand.

  “You’re going with me into eternity.” Vryke said into Olivia’s ear. Olivia, pleading, sobbing, struggling, gripping the cold railing. The city lights, the bay winds, the stars.

  “God, please. No.”

  “Release her now.”

  Vryke gripped the needle, raising his arm, shouting to the heavens as Olivia fought with all of her strength. Her eyes found Wyatt’s Ben, oh, God, Ben, save me! Olivia twisting, Wyatt feeling the trigger, swallowing, squeezing. Vryke jerking her back, the bullet passing through Olivia, boring through Vryke’s heart, Olivia collapsing, Wyatt firing a second, third time at Vryke’s upper chest dropping him. There was the strong burning smell from the gun and blood everywhere. Instinctively he rolled Vryke and cuffed him.

  “Olivia.”

  Wyatt sat on the road cradling her limp body. Pressing his hand over her wound, not hearing the police radios crackling, the sirens, ambulances approaching, or seeing the people rushing to them.

  “Olivia.”

  He was numb to the TV news choppers, the reporters, photographers and gathering crowd.

  “Olivia.”

  Amid the white roses, Wyatt pulled her to him, the only one who had believed him, loved him, her blood everywhere, her face, her necklace, his face, and his hands as he rocked her in his arms.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  In the hospital, Olivia’s eyes fluttered open. She had drifted in and out of consciousness over the past few days. Wyatt had remained by her side.

  “Ben?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s all over and you’re safe.”

  “My shoulder hurts.”

  “My bullet passed through you. The doctor says you’re going to be sore for a long time, but you’ll be all right.”

  Olivia took in the room, searching for answers.

  “I remember the bridge. A man.” She put her hand on her face. “He was a person from on-line, he came to my shop, the airport, the bridge. Ben, he--”

  “He won’t hurt you anymore. He’s dead.”

  “You were there. You saved my life. Ben, he said he was going to --” She began sobbing.

  “It’s all right.” Wyatt comforted her. “It’s all right. We got him.”

  The San Francisco Star was folded in the cushion of the chair next to Olivia.

  Dominating its front page was a colossal color photo taken by a vacationing Japanese news photographer. It showed Wyatt’s anguished, bloodied face as he sat on the road of the Golden Gate Bridge cradling Olivia, while Vryke lay face-down, dead in a pool of his own blood behind them.

  The picture ran under the headline: GLOBAL SERIAL KILLER SHOT

  WITH VICTIM IN BRIDGE HORROR.

  The Associated Press had moved it around the world.

  The story of Eugene Vryke commanded the Star’s front and six clear inside pages. The paper put its entire news department on it. Reed was the lead writer.

  The Star had the most compelling information on Vryke; the troubled son of a NASA scientist had become one of history’s most prolific serial killers in his attempt to bring the world to its knees. Had he not been detected, Vryke would’ve succeeded in paralyzing economies and infrastructures on the planet through a sophisticated computer attack he had spent years devising. A plan he called Revelation 23, a name suggesting a foretelling beyond Revelation 22, the final chapter of the Bible.

  Vryke had conceived it years ago by scouring Maryland dumps for discarded computers, software, and programs from research and development aspects and prototypes of INFERNO and other ultra-secret government computer defense systems around Fort Meade. Through his computer shop grapevine, Vryke had discovered that the federal agency whose duty it was to destroy sensitive, discarded material had sidestepped the process. That scandal would ignite a furor within the Beltway, leading to an FBI investigation and congressional hearings.

  Vryke’s Revelation 23 had paralleled, and in most instances exceeded, the ingenuity of some of the U.S. government’s most costly and vital computer defense systems. His strategy had involved a highly complex, labyrinthine series of worms and programs with an array of timers. The first would be activated within forty-eight hours of his death.

  But using Wyatt’s work, an emergency team of top national security experts from some twenty agencies, including those at the Livermore Lab and industry, toiled around the clock disarming R-23, as it came to be known. It was an event that would be spoken of for years. Had they failed, R-23 would have perverted the principles of INFERNO by infiltrating and disabling every on-line and networked system in the world, from telephones, to TV broadcasting, to power grids, to nuclear and satellite systems: the Y2K nightmare realized a hundredfold. Computer users would have experienced their systems freezing; every e-mail, every broadcast would have been hijacked by the recorded murders of Vryke’s victims played in a nonstop loop on monitors and TV screens in every corner of the planet.

  In the wake of worldwide news reports of the disarming of R-23, Vryke’s computer profile became well known, enabling police agencies to quickly compare it to unsolved ritualistic murders of women who were now known to have communicated with him on-line.

  Vryke’s confirmed toll: seventy-five victims. He had recorded each one. Olivia Grant was to be seventy-six, until an outcast San Francisco detective, gripped by self-doubt, tracked him down and killed him, the Star reported.

  A nurse entered the room indicating it was time for more medication and rest for Olivia.

  Wyatt kissed Olivia, then left for the lounge at the end of the hallway.

  He saw Sydowski there, hands in his pockets, staring at the city.

  “How is she?” Sydowski did not turn from the window.

  Wyatt let a long moment pass. “She’s going to need a long time. But she’ll be okay.”

  “I believed I was on the right track, getting close, doing things my way.”

  “You were.”

  A family entered, a man, his wife, their teenaged daughter. The man read the tension in the room. The family retreated.

  “Look, Sydowski. Why did you come?”

  “You know what Vryke was looking for from the women?”

  “Forgiveness.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Wyatt didn’t expect this. He said nothing.


  “It was me, Ben. I’d lost touch with Reggie, then seeing him poking through garbage. It was me. I never checked on him. Never looked in on him. If anyone failed as back up, it was me. A good friend pointed this out to me and it took a while to realize she was right. It was easier for me to put it on you than to accept that I had abandoned him. You were in that crack house with him. I wasn’t there. Hell, I didn’t know you.” Sydowski let a few moments pass. “But I think I know you now.” Sydowski turned to him.

  Wyatt said nothing.

  Sydowski turned back to the window. “When I saw Reggie picking through trash he begged me not to tell anyone. I went to see him the other day to tell him he might have a civil case for his disability. That’s when he told me something I never knew. That he had a drinking problem. That he’d been drinking on the job and you knew. That you were covering for him, trying to get him into the program.”

  Wyatt was looking at a landscape of a mountain range on the far wall.

  “He told me it started in Homicide,” Sydowski said. “It was getting bad so he requested to get detailed to narcotics. Never told anyone. Not even me, his partner. Thought I’d see him as weak.”

  Sydowski shook his head, rubbing his hands over his face.

  “He told me he saw nothing the day he got shot. Couldn’t see a damn thing from his angle, but that he’d heard a kid. He wasn’t sure if he’d been drinking that morning. He panicked when the doctors first said he might never walk again. Got scared about his pension, the job, Fran, the kids. So he blamed you. Yet you never gave him up. You never said a word about Reggie’s drinking. You backed him up, and still do,” Sydowski turned. “Jesus, Ben. I was wrong. So goddamned wrong. I apologize.”

  Wyatt said nothing. There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to vomit right back at him. Let him know the price he had paid. But he was overcome. With exhaustion, posttraumatic stress. Enduring what he and Olivia had endured. Life was too short for vendettas. He looked away.

  “Olivia’s going to need time,” Wyatt said. “So will I.”