Crouching, he shoved the door open and dived onto the cool marble tile. The door thudded into the doorstop protruding from the baseboard, and recoiled halfway shut behind him. He rolled and dashed to cover beside a great leather sofa, careful to hug the shadows.
Dust danced in the light slivers leaking through the closed blind slats. Alert for any movement or sound, Nick crawled further into the living room. The air was stale and thick with the malodor of death, and deep in his gut, he knew that his beloved Ethyl was dead. He stood, and stealthily searched the brownstone.
He discovered her nude body crammed between a vanity and dresser in her second floor bedroom. Her throat had been savagely torn away, and an extensive pool of dark blood and gristle was congealed around her head and neck like a death halo. Her once-beautiful, hazel eyes bulged from their sockets like cat’s-eye marbles. Although he was a seasoned agent, Nick’s stomach groaned, and his throat narrowed with grief. Ethyl had not only been his secretary, but also his friend and confidante. Now she lay like a slaughtered animal, not only stripped of life, but of her dignity as well. This wasn’t murder; it was butchery. It was the Creeper.
Detestation spread through his senses like a cancer. To hell with a civilized arrest and court trial. If he caught up with the assassin, Nick decided then and there to kill him, even if it meant going to prison himself. This killer wasn’t human. He wasn’t entitled to any Miranda rights. Any human rights.
Summoning his professional self-control, Nick knelt and checked the body below the neck. There were no other visible marks of violence. No contusions or evidence of rape. He stood and examined the spacious bedroom. A damp bath towel was crumpled in a heap on the floor three feet away, the bedding was turned down, and a nightgown was neatly laid out on a chair by the mirrored dresser. Obviously Ethyl had finished her shower and was preparing for bed when the killer surprised her.
But how had the bastard gotten inside?
Nick inspected every upstairs windows and found each locked from the inside. He repeated the inspection downstairs. Again, each window was solidly secured, and the doors exhibited no signs of forced entry. Nick shook his head. Although it was uncharacteristic of her, it appeared that Ethyl had neglected to lock the front door. It was the only explanation that fit the evidence.
Tires squealed, and doors thumped outside. Withers was here. Nick quickly returned upstairs and inspected the scene again. It was vaguely reminiscent of Laura’s murder. There was no sign of a struggle. It was if the killer was a ghost who suddenly appeared in front of his victims and ripped out their throats. As usual, the killer, again, apparently had left no prints or other bits of incriminating evidence for the sweep team to ID. Again, the Creeper had simply vanished without a trace. There would be no manhunt. No post office posters. No worldwide alert. The Bureau would file it as another random act of violence in a sick world, and bury it.
For so long, only Nick had believed in this assassin’s existence. It was comforting now that a mysterious woman named Jill Sandlin believed in him as well.
As he turned to leave, Nick noticed the illuminated amber light above the computer monitor switch. Ethyl’s computer was in sleep mode. He swiftly jiggled the mouse, and the display screen winked on. The password window appeared, and suddenly Nick realized why the killer had e-mailed Ethyl’s message from Cosmo’s. Without her password, he couldn’t access her computer. Finally, the killer had slipped up and left a breadcrumb for Nick to follow.
“Hey, Bellamy, get your ass down here!” It was Withers’ high-pitched whine. The pounding of footsteps followed it up the stairs.
Nick shook his head sadly over Ethyl’s corpse before passing the hard charging Orion Sector sweep team on his way downstairs. Withers greeted him with a scowl.
“If you disturbed a single hair at this crime scene, I’ll see your ass drummed out of the Bureau and charged with obstruction. Now, get out of here!” he shouted.
Nick smiled benignly. “Have a nice day.” He strode out the front door before the flustered Withers could act on his threat.
Gaudy purple and orange neon signs proclaimed that Cosmo’s Computer Station was a one-stop computer center, and was open until midnight. A pimply-faced, high school clerk yawned as Nick walked into the brightly lit store and approached the counter. Unexpectedly, the kid’s eyes widened.
“Hey, you’re back,” he said brightly, his teeth criss-crossed with silver braces. “I never got a chance to thank you for the tip last night.”
Nick’s mind blinked blank for a moment. Whatever he had expected to discover here, it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Lacking an alternative, he decided to play along. “Uh . . . you’re welcome.”
“I mean, it’s not every day I get a fifty-buck tip. You must be a pretty rich dude, Mr. Bellamy.”
Shock number two! How did this kid know his name? Nick managed to maintain his poise and play along.
“I do all right. You know, I ran so many errands last night that I forgot what time I was here,” Nick said.
The clerk glanced toward the ceiling as if he were consulting a divine spirit. “I’m not sure, but I can access the computer you used last night. It’ll give us the time.” He stepped around the purple counter, and sat at a computer by the front window. Within a half minute, he retrieved a back-up file of sent messages. He scrolled down the list until he located it.
“Here.” He pointed at the entry. “Ten-forty-three.”
Nick’s brow crinkled. Why was this kid so certain that he was the one who had sent the message and tipped him last night? None of this made a lick of sense, unless he were a twin - which he wasn’t - but then, what else was new today. He was hopelessly immersed in a senseless world.
A quick scan of the e-mail revealed nothing but what he already knew; the sick- leave message was sent to Rachel’s Bureau address and “signed off” by someone pretending to be her. Nick was damn sure that the sender wasn’t him, no matter what the clerk claimed. He had been too busy drowning his guilt with an obliging bottle of scotch.
“I sent this?”
The kid laughed. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Nick faked embarrassment. What else could he do? “I wasn’t really feeling . . . myself last night.” That much was true. “It’s all kind of vague today.”
The kid nodded knowingly. “Got a little shit-faced, huh?”
“Something like that.”
His smile collapsed. “I thought so. I suppose you want your tip back now.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. My wife didn’t believe me when I told her I’d been here, and not in the local pub, if you catch my drift. I was looking for confirmation. Something I could show her.” He hesitated. Could the killer have disguised himself to look like Nick? It was the only explanation left, unless he was dealing with aliens. “Guess I’m out of luck, right?”
The clerk shook his head. “Yeah, I guess so, unless you show her this e-mail record.”
“I don’t think that’ll do it; my names not on it. But thanks anyway.”
“Wait!” The young man jumped from the chair and slapped his forehead. “Man, I must be losing my mind. You left an envelope here on the computer stand that you addressed to yourself. That ought to prove you were here, right dude?”
Nick was taken aback, but managed to reply, “Perfect.”
He retrieved a sealed, #10 envelope from a shelf beneath the computer cash register, and handed it to Nick. The name Nick Bellamy was computer printed in large, bold letters.
“This is great,” Nick said, trying to sound excited. “The wife’s outside in the car. I’ll run it right out, and shove it in her face. You’re a real lifesaver, dude.”
He beamed at Nick. “Hey, us dudes got to stick together, man.”
Nick gave him the thumbs-up, and rushed outside. Once inside his car, he carefully opened the envelope with the Swiss Army knife in the glove box. He took a deep breath, and pulled out the single folded sheet inside.
Chills ratt
led his spine.
Chapter 12
Nick read the brief message twice.
Dial 555-6132 on your cell phone now.
He followed the instructions and listened as his call was picked up after the first ring.
Hello, Special Agent Bellamy. The caller’s voice was a bass rasp. I’ve recorded this message so you can’t waste my valuable time with silly questions. As you have probably guessed, this is your phantom assassin, your Creeper. Not a very ingratiating reference, but I’ve resigned myself to it. A Sherlock Holmes’ villain, was he not?
Nick was stunned. Those descriptions were mentioned in this morning’s meeting with Rance. How could he know about them unless . . . he bugged the conference room somehow? A goddammed FBI conference room!
I have a straightforward request, one that I know you can easily agree to. As you have witnessed today, I can frame you for any crime I want, including murdering your own wife. I can build enough evidence to pin Ethyl Jurkowski’s murder on you, too. I’m certain that you don’t want to be in doing prison time when Jimmy awakes from his coma, so here’s the deal, Bellamy.
Anger flushed Nick’s body. So it was the Creeper who had somehow convinced even the highest executives at the Bureau that Nick was the only logical suspect in Laura’s murder. Nick leaned alertly against the steering wheel and listened carefully.
Leave Senator Danforth alone. No more investigations into his fundraising practices, or anything else. If you comply, I’ll leave you alone. The charges against you will be dropped. That’s the deal. He paused. I don’t mind if you continue your efforts to capture me. Of course, it can’t be done. Like Rance Osborne has said, I am a phantom, and he was closer to the truth than he realized. I’m untouchable. He hesitated. I’ll know if you accept my deal, or reject it. I am everywhere. Ciao, Nick.
A dial tone replaced the voice. Nick redialed the number, but a recorded message informed him that it was no longer a working number. He dropped the phone onto the seat beside him, leaned back against the seat, and smiled. The bastard existed after all!
After years of nagging personal doubts, Nick’s instincts were vindicated. He wasn’t round the bend as Withers constantly alleged. Or obsessed with an murderer who didn’t exist. The Creeper finally revealed himself, and in doing so, had made a significant mistake. More than a pitching a threat involving Danforth’s shady past, this arrogant killer had inadvertently challenged Nick to hunt him down.
Nick’s eyelids closed as he pondered this latest incident. Perhaps this man’s challenge hadn’t been inadvertent. Maybe he wanted Nick to come after him. The cat playing with the mouse. Either way, Nick had accepted the challenge a long time ago. He wouldn’t quit until the monster who had killed Laura and attempted to kill Jimmy was dead. For now, he would leave Senator Hollis Danforth of Virginia alone. Even though the powerful senator’s involvement with this killer was a startling development, he was small potatoes in Nick’s mind.
There were so many questions needing answers that it was mind-boggling. Why did the Creeper kill Laura and spare Jimmy? How did he frame Nick? How was he privy to Rance Osborne’s comments during this morning’s meeting in a secure conference room? And what was the Creeper’s connection to Senator Hollis Danforth from Virginia?
Some of those answers might be found in Ohio. Jill Sandlin was a long shot, but she was all he had at the moment.
A sudden rap on his window shattered his reverie. He reached for his holster, but then realized Rance had confiscated it.
A rotund man wearing a ski mask pointed a gun directly at Nick’s head.
“Get out!” the man shouted. “Now!”
A white, unmarked Chevy van skidded to stop behind the ski-masked man, and the back doors were thrust open.
“Climb out very slowly and get in the van,” he warned with a low, guttural voice. Nick complied. “What is this?”
“Shut up!” the man snapped, jamming the gun’s silenced barrel into Nick’s ribs. “Just move it.”
Two men in dark suits grabbed his arms and hoisted Nick inside. Ski Mask slammed the doors shut and leaped to the front seat as the van lurched forward. His two companions had their guns trained on him.
“What the hell do you want?” Nick demanded.
Silence.
From their appearances and the by-the-book technique for his extraction from the mall parking lot, he was certain they were government. But which security branch? And was this a simple abduction, or were these guys into wet work?
“I’m FBI,” he shouted as the van jumped into traffic, slamming Nick against the hard steel of the stripped-out cargo area.
The men just chuckled and clucked their tongues.
Nick’s eyes narrowed, and his muscles tensed. His gut bothered him on this one. This had all the markings of an extermination, not a simple snatch. And the way things were now, any attempt to escape would hasten his fate. His field experience taught him to be patient. Wait for an opening, and then show no mercy. Quick and lethal.
He just hoped that these guys gave him a chance before the bullets started flying his way.
Chapter 13
Nick was traveling blind. He sensed that the van was heading west out of Washington DC into Virginia by the turn out of the parking lot earlier, but that was pure guesswork, since there were no windows in the van’s cargo area. He and two of the kidnappers sat cross-legged on a drop cloth that magnified each of the bruising bumps and jolts.
The pair guarded Nick closely. Their eyes never left him, not even for a second. The barrels of their drawn guns remained targeted at his chest. His chance of escaping was practically zero.
Without warning, the van skidded into a sharp turn and came to an abrupt stop. His guardians rolled into the back doors like a couple pinballs, but Ski Mask leveled his gun on Nick before he could take advantage of the brief opportunity to disarm his captors.
“Just relax and enjoy the ride,” he snapped at Nick, as the van accelerated beyond what might have been a guard station.
The brakes squealed to another stop several seconds later. Nick was blindfolded, and escorted from the van into a carpeted room. Seconds later, Ski Mask ripped off the blindfold and roughly shoved him into an elevator with key-activated controls. Ski Mask inserted his small key into the bottom button and twisted. He stepped back, as the doors moved together.
He laughed. “Nice knowin’ ya, Mr. FBI man.”
Nick was powerless to halt elevator’s rapid decent. It plunged deep into the ground for a minute before slowing to a stop with a muffled thud. He was at the mercy of his mystery captors, but strangely the thought relaxed him. It was a trained response. Only worry about the things you can control, Rance Osborne had often told Nick when he was a rookie field agent. Opportunities present themselves to those with composed minds.
The doors slid noiselessly aside, and Nick blinked into a brightly illuminated, cavernous room. In front of him, the far wall was a towering checkerboard of color video monitors, which appeared to display real time scenes broadcast from numerous surveillance satellites. Twenty-five high-tech computer stations lined the wall below the monitor bank, but none were occupied now. Red and green dots flashed like a Christmas display on a backlit, flat world map that spanned most of the wall to his right. To his left, banks of sophisticated electronic equipment had been built into a stainless steel command center and flanked by two heavy, steel doors. A long, rectangular conference table and a dozen plush, burgundy chairs sat in the center of the room, their highly polished, mahogany finishes reflecting the flickering rainbow of the equipment. Nick wrinkled his brow. Where was his reception committee?
As he stepped from the elevator, the high-backed chair at the far end of the conference table swiveled around.
“Good afternoon, Nick. Long time no see.”
Whatever Nick had expected, it wasn’t this. His mouth fell open in surprise; then, his lips angrily snapped together.
The Assistant Director of the Drug Enforcement Agency, Lynn Bak
er, stood and offered her hand. “Sorry for the cloak and dagger, Nick.”
Nick ignored the hand and scowled at her. “You’re way out of line here, Lynn. If you wanted to see me, you could’ve called and asked!”
She shook her head. “Impossible under the circumstances.”
Nick was an irate skeptic. “What damn circumstances?”
“Join me at the conference table. I’ll explain.”
“And if I refuse to cooperate?”
She pulled a thirty-eight from a small shoulder holster, and pointed it at his chest. “Then our reunion will be shorter than I’d hoped,” she replied brusquely.
Nick had known Lynn Baker a great many years, and had realized from their first meeting in college that she was ruthless, but she had never targeted him before. He stared at the stubby barrel. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. Lynn would not hesitate to pull the trigger. He decided to play along for now. What other choice did he have?
“Have it your way,” he grumbled. “What’s so damn important that you had to pull me in like this?”
Lynn Baker shrugged, a slight hospitable smile returning, but the thirty-eight remained pointed at Nick. “The most extraordinary killer of our time, maybe ever,” she replied.
“What killer?”
“Your assassin,” she replied quickly.
Nick stiffened, alert. The DEA didn’t deal with assassins. And even if they did, how did Lynn know about his Creeper? All information about this killer was contained in the secret files of Orion Sector. Nothing had ever leaked out, especially to the drug agency. There was no need to share any of that information, especially with them.
He shrugged. “There’s no proof that this assassin actually exists, and the consensus at the Bureau is that he doesn’t,” Nick responded evasively.
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