by Erik Carter
He held his hands in front of him. His torn knuckles—that had smashed into the windshield when he collided with Nathan Cook—were trying to scab over, but they kept cracking. Owen squeezed his hands into fists. The scabs cracked again, little points of pain lighting up the back of his hands. Drops of blood. He touched his face, felt more cuts, more scabs crusting in his unkempt scruff. There was a large bruise on his right cheekbone where Andrew Riley had slugged him during their confrontation. Owen had gotten out the trigger words, but Riley had put up a good fight. And when the city cop showed up, Owen had barely been able to escape.
Owen moved his jaw around, stretching out his facial muscles. His whole face ached. In fact, his entire body was hurting. The mission was taking its toll. He’d taken damage to his body, his mind, and, most intensely, his soul. But while his body was repairing the wounds, getting stronger, his soul, too, was learning to adapt. He was beginning to enjoy the mission, even. At first he had been so scared, so spiritually torn. But God had given him the strength to do what needed to be done. Owen was truly a Christian soldier now.
But he was a soldier without a plan. After the unsuccessful attack, Andrew Riley would have police protection, and he would be anticipating future attacks. He would be next to impossible to reach. Owen couldn’t forget about Riley, but right now he had to focus on Tyko Hautala. And Hautala seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
Owen walked to the bed and picked up a photograph that lay on the comforter. It was the image of the two feds that he took off the TV screen three days prior. He held the photo in his hand and focused on the man in the leather jacket, the one who had seemed to be in charge. The man who had chased Owen through Nathan Cook’s neighborhood and nearly caught him. The image was grainy.
“I’ll let you do the work for me.”
Chapter 35
Bradford leaned forward on his desk, one elbow resting on the surface, propping up his head. With his other hand, he held the receiver to his ear. He sensed that he was squeezing it too hard. Tension had built. He loosened his grip and felt that his palm had started to sweat.
“Okay, Alicia,” he said. “If you need anything at all, call me. I’ll be right here the rest of the night, through the end of the show.”
He hung up the phone and slowly leaned back in his seat. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it gradually escape his nose. Bradford had always struggled with taking on other people’s problems. He’d decided some time ago that if he was going to help others, he had to help himself first. That meant he would only get involved in someone else’s issues when they were matters of importance, or when he knew he could help. This issue with Adam—and therefore Alicia and the kids—was an issue of colossal importance. What he didn’t know was how he could help.
But he knew he was damn well going to try.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
The door opened. Adam stood in the doorway.
After the phone call he’d just had, a thought flashed through his mind. There’s a murderer in my office.
Bradford’s pulse increased.
Adam was wearing jeans. His hair was tussled, he needed a shave, and his eyes were bloodshot and tired looking. Even if Bradford had not known that Adam was one of the two killers terrorizing the region, he would have still been frightened by his appearance. He looked like a different man. Bradford had seen guys at the end of their wits, truly lost. As a bank manager, he’d seen it on men declaring bankruptcy. In the Army, he’d seen it on men who had seen and done too much.
And now he saw that look on the face of Adam Steele.
Bradford was, by nature, a brave man. And he had been in plenty of situations where his resolve had been tested. A man like Adam Steele would not, on the surface, intimidate him at all. But any man with that look in his eyes was frightening. A man with that look was the most dangerous person in the room.
Especially when he was a known killer.
Bradford was frightened. But he couldn’t let Adam see that. So he did his best to appear nonchalant as he slowly rolled his desk chair back away from his desk.
“May I come in?” Adam said.
Bradford knew how to disarm a situation, but he had to get himself under control first. He took in a deep breath, slowly, through his nose, making sure Adam didn’t notice. He then stood up and began to walk toward Adam.
“You’re awfully early.” He paused. “You look like hell. I know something’s going on with you, but remember, there are people who are here for you, Adam.”
Adam reached into his pocket and conspicuously revealed the butt of a handgun. “I said, may I come in?”
Chapter 36
Owen sat in his car on the street outside the Portland Police Bureau headquarters. He’d filled the meter once and was prepared to do so as many times as needed. He would stay there all day if he had to. He knew the feds would show up here eventually. It was just a matter of time. It had been raining when he first arrived, but it had since let up. Now everything was wet. Loud and wet. At first, when the rain was still coming down, things were bearable. It had kept the people and cars somewhat at bay. But the city around him had since reawakened. It was noisy, chaotic. He’d spent more time than he wanted in the city the last few days. He was excited to be done with the mission for that reason.
A bright orange sports car of some sort pulled up at the end of the block on the other side of the street. Owen saw it in his rear-view mirror. He turned around.
Out of the car stepped the two feds.
As the male emerged from the driver side and shut the door, he walked to the front and then the back of the vehicle, checking the spacing between it and the surrounding cars. He then walked to the curb and looked at how close he had parked. The man looked fretful. He seemed a bit weird. The two of them walked farther up the sidewalk where a trim, neat man in a black suit waited for them. The three of them walked toward the police station.
“Thank you, feds.”
Chapter 37
Dale kept glancing over to his left at Lewis Copeland as the two of them and Spiro made their way along a downtown sidewalk toward the Portland Police Bureau headquarters. The man walked like he had something to prove, like someone was going to dock points if his steps were slightly out of sync or if his arms didn’t swing in just the right way. There was a slight upturn to the lips. A teeny tiny version of the smug smile he’d given Dale the night before. The guy was gross. And Dale hated having to work for him.
“So what’s our next move, oh captain my captain?” Dale said.
“County lockup is in the same building as the PPB. We question the bum that our killer paid to break into the wrong residence yesterday.”
“And what do you expect to get out of him?” Spiro said. “Agent Conley can already ID the perp.”
“Intangibles, Agent Spiro. Intangibles.”
The three of them took a set of steps, pushed their way through a group of cops milling about the front doors of the police station, and entered the building. The place was busy with the usual symphony of telephones and typewriters and police banter.
“I’m sure we could get a lot of intangibles by talking to Andrew Riley,” Dale said. “When are you going to tell us where you’re keeping him?”
Dale had been forceful with his tone. He wanted an answer about Riley, and he didn’t trust Copeland. Why should he? Aside from the fact that this whole investigation stemmed from a covert and maniacal experiment gone wrong, Copeland’s entire demeanor that morning and the night before had been one of using Dale and Spiro as tools, nothing more—certainly not as partners.
Copeland stopped walking and faced Dale. “When I feel it’s necessary. If I feel it’s necessary.”
That condescending grin again. Dale wanted to punch it off his face.
“Something’s not right here,” Dale said. “And you better tell me what it is.”
Copeland looked at him for a moment longer, didn’t respon
d. The grin left his lips. Eyes narrowed. He turned and continued walking toward the front desk.
Dale didn’t follow. He watched Copeland step up to the counter and talk to the desk sergeant.
“Something’s fishy here, Spiro,” Dale said as he continued to watch Copeland. “I can feel it. We’re being manipulated. Lied to. And that asshole is cramping my style.”
Dale whipped around and pushed back through the front doors. He stopped as soon as he was outside. Sounds of cars, people on the sidewalks. There was a breeze. He put his sunglasses back on, crossed his arms, and took a deep breath. Spiro walked up to him.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I need some fresh air. Clear my head.”
There was an excited commotion among the police officers who were hanging out by the entrance. They all turned and looked in the same direction, where a beautiful blonde woman and her two children were crossing the street.
Dale felt a bit guilty ogling a mother of two, who was likely also someone’s wife, but he couldn’t help himself. She was tall, wearing heels, probably about five-nine or so barefoot. Her golden hair shone brightly despite the limited sunlight. She was wearing some sort of dress that was just visible beneath her long, red overcoat, which had large, black buttons—pea jacket style. She wore big sunglasses, and her face was set, determined, as she led her two kids purposefully toward the entrance to the police station.
Dale stepped up to a couple uniformed officers a few feet away who were watching the woman and talking excitedly. “Oh man. She is fine. That lucky bastard.”
“What lucky bastard?” Dale said.
“Don’t you recognize her? That’s Adam Steele’s wife. You know, the guy from Channel 16 who freaked out the other day.”
Dale turned to Spiro. “Adam Steele.”
“The man whose boss called yesterday,” Spiro said.
Dale nodded.
The woman made it to the steps leading up to the doors. Dale approached her. “Mrs. Steele?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Dale Conley. I’m with the Department of Justice.”
A look of relief washed over Steele’s face. She smiled. “Agent Conley. You’re the one in charge of the serial killer case.”
Dale didn’t respond. Just gave her a small smile. He looked askance at Spiro, trying to see if she would react to the fact that he didn’t correct Steele and tell her that it was actually Agent Copeland who was in charge of the investigation.
“You’re just the person I need to talk to,” Steele said.
“This is my associate, Special Agent Spiro.”
The two women shook hands.
Dale had noticed a large park on the block behind the police headquarters during his previous visit. “Okay, let’s chat over in the park,” he said, pointing behind Alicia. “A bunch of benches over there. Comfortable.”
Alicia glanced over her shoulder then looked back at Dale quizzically but nodded and started toward the park. Dale let Alicia and her children go in front of him and Spiro as they walked down the sidewalk. In Alicia’s right hand was a canvas bag, and with her other hand she wrangled the children—a boy of about eight or nine and a toddler girl—away from the street. Spiro turned to Dale.
“Aren’t you going to bring Agent Copeland?” she said quietly.
Dale turned to her. “No.”
Chapter 38
Owen scrambled to grab his trench coat, which was sitting on the passenger seat on top of a pile of phone books and notepads.
He stepped out of the vehicle and threw on the coat and his SuperSonics cap. He quickly reached into his pocket for some change and maxed out the meter before he crossed the street.
The feds and the beautiful woman who had emerged from the parking garage had met on the steps to the police station, but then they suddenly took off walking away from the building. He couldn’t imagine where they were going.
But he was going to follow.
Chapter 39
Chapman Square was a simple park, one city block with tidy grass, some stately trees, and wide sidewalks that were lined with a plethora of benches. It was one of three square blocks of city park that were lined up in a row. Portland was keen on its green space. Dale liked that.
Dale, Spiro, and Mrs. Steele were seated on one of the benches, Steele flanked on either side by the agents. The children were playing in the grass. Their mother kept a watchful eye on them.
“Has he done anything out of the ordinary, Mrs. Steele?” Dale said.
She shook her head, desperate. “Everything he’s said and done for the last few days has been out of the ordinary. And call me Alicia. Please.”
“Has he said any odd words, phrases?”
“I heard him say something really bizarre the other day. This was when he was writing something that he wouldn’t let me see. It was like … gibberish. A foreign language or something.” She looked to the ground, thinking. “Something like actions … second...”
“Actiones secundum fidei,” Spiro said.
Alicia nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”
Dale and Spiro exchanged a look.
“Titus? Josephus? Jesus? Has he mentioned any of those names?”
Alicia nodded again. “They’re on the list I told you about.” She reached into her bag and took out a phone book. She opened to the front of the book and took out a folded piece of paper.
“Alicia,” Dale said as he took the paper from her. “I know this will be incredibly difficult for you to hear, but I think your husband might be—”
“The second killer. Yes, I’ve been having the same thought.” She stopped. Her eyes moistened, and she looked up toward the top of the trees. She composed herself. “I spoke with his boss, Carl Bradford, and he thinks the same thing. I understand he contacted you.”
“He did,” Dale said. “Tell me, do you have any idea what Adam had in his bag when he left yesterday?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t let me see … but our gun is missing.”
Dale glanced at Spiro then leaned forward so that Spiro could see the paper too. There was a handwritten, two-column chart on the page.
Dale turned to Alicia and pointed at the left column. He was certain she would have already recognized the names, but still he hesitated before he spoke. “These are … the murder victims.”
Alicia nodded painfully.
“Did your husband know any of these men?” Dale said.
“I’d never heard any of those names in my life before all this started.”
Dale turned to Spiro and pointed to the right column. “This has to be some sort of codename system. Philip Vasquez was clutching a picture of Jesus. Isaac Bennett wrote Josephus on his arm. Nathan Cook told me the name Titus before he died. Andrew Riley must be Domitian.”
“I don’t recognize that name,” Spiro said. “Domitian.”
“Titus’ brother,” Dale said. “Third and final Flavian emperor.”
Spiro shook her head. “You did mention that. I’d forgotten.”
“No prob. There are a lot of historical names in this assignment.” He grinned at her then took a note out of his pocket, a list of the Five Wisemen’s names. He compared his list to Alicia’s, then tapped the blank space in the left column of Alicia’s note next to the name Vespasian. “This space here has to be for Tyko Hautala.”
Alicia gasped and put her hand to her chest.
“Does that name mean something to you?”
She nodded. Tears formed in her eyes. She started to talk but could barely get the words out. “Adam changed his name during college, while we were still dating, to sound more TV. His real name is Tyko Hautala.”
Dale’s brain ignited. Suddenly all the pieces fell together. They didn’t fall into place, though; they scattered everywhere. Everything made sense, and nothing made sense at all. Yet one thing was certain.
Dale looked at Spiro and back to Alicia. “Your husband isn’t the second killer, Alicia. He’s the next man on
the killer’s list.”
Chapter 40
Adam pulled the last rope tight across Bradford’s chest and stood back. Bradford was sitting in a desk chair in the center of the hotel room, hands tied behind the seat-back, legs bound to the chair’s legs, and with extra rope tied around his chest and lap. Adam was no criminal, but he’d seen plenty of movies, and he was fairly impressed with his tying job.
Bradford looked melancholy, defeated, his handlebar mustache drooped. “Make it quick. Okay?”
“I told you already, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not one of the killers.” Adam gestured around. “I brought you to a nice place, didn’t I?”
They were in one of the pricier hotels downtown. He thought that since he had to do this, he might as well make Bradford as comfortable as possible. It was a large room with nice furniture and a big set of windows.
“Then what is this?” Bradford said.
“There’s something I have to do at tonight’s broadcast. I knew that if you were there, you would try to stop me. And nothing can stop me.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Adam turned on the television and changed the channel to 16. He angled the TV at Bradford. “Just watch.”
He walked over to the telephone and unplugged it. “Can’t have you talking to anyone.”
Adam grabbed his gym bag from the bed, put the phone inside, and took out a rag. He walked to Bradford and stood over him.
“Nothing can stop my mission, Carl. Now, don’t hate me for this.” He jammed the rag into Bradford’s mouth.
Chapter 41
Dale, Spiro, Alicia, and the kids hurried down the sidewalk back toward the police station.
