by A J Rivers
"What exactly are you looking for?" Sam asks.
"A book," I tell him.
"A… book."
"Yes. The note was just like all the other ones, weird riddles and hints, and something that both is and isn't what it seems to be. So, that's what I'm looking for," I say.
A car pulls up to the curb in front of the house, and Nicolas finally climbs out, coming toward me with a distinctly dragging gait.
"I got two hours of sleep," he grumbles as he walks toward me. "Chief called, and I had to go over the initial findings with him. Then my cat threw up."
"He has good taste," I comment.
“The point is, you could have waited a little longer,” he says.
“No,” I say, stepping up onto the porch beside him. “I couldn't.”
Nicolas opens the lock box and takes out the key that opens Marren's house. He steps inside first, doing a cursory scan, as is the habit of an investigating officer. I can't see him, but I know if I look behind me, Sam is probably doing the same thing. It's not his crime scene, but it's a habit he won't be getting over anytime soon. He could probably die of old age in his late nineties, and his spirit would still come back to glance over the scene and make sure everything was on the up-and-up.
As soon as I get inside, I move across the living room to the china cabinet I noticed the day before. It caught my eye when I walked into the house, but I didn't really process it until later when the officers brought me out of the family room and into the front living room to talk to me. A piece of furniture that reminded me so much of a cabinet in one of the houses we stayed in during my childhood. I don't really have any other specific memories of that house, and the china cabinet doesn't have any significant meaning to me. It's just one of those things that grabs your attention, and it popped back into my head when we were at the cabin reading the note last night.
I stand in front of the glass doors, staring in at the teacups lined neatly on one of the shelves. Below it, just as I thought I would, I see a small stack of very old leather-bound books. Sam comes up beside me, peering in through the doors.
“Did you see the book you were looking for?” he asks.
“Yeah, I do. And somebody else saw it too,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I point in, careful not to touch the glass. Chances are this scene is going to be just like every other one, in there won't be any forensic evidence to be found. But I can't be too careful. Something as simple as touching the door as I point could smear a single fingerprint.
“Marren kept a really nice house. But it seems she wasn't up to dusting inside the china cabinet very often. Look at the top shelves and under the teacups. See the dust?”
“Yes,” Sam says.
“Now look at the books. The bottom one in the stock was moved. If you look really closely, you can see where it shifted just enough to move some of the dust so you can see the shelf under it. Somebody has been in there very recently. And I know the reading material they were after. Do you have a pen?” I ask.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a black ballpoint pen engraved with his name. I carefully insert it into the keyhole at the front of the cabinet, tilting it up to create pressure.
“Are you trying to pick a lock with my pen?” he asks.
“No, not pick the lock. Most china cabinets like this are never locked. This one is so old it must have been passed down through her family, and most of the time, the keys to old ones like this are forgotten or discarded. It’s not worth the hassle of keeping them locked. I don't see a key anywhere around here, which leads me to believe this will work.”
Keeping the pressure consistent between my hand and the pen, I guide the door forward. It doesn't cooperate immediately, but after a few tries, it finally shifts out of place and swings open. I use the back of my shoulder to move it the rest of the way open. Without me having to ask him, Sam reaches into his pocket and offers me his handkerchief. I use it to take out the book on the top of the stack and carry it over to the couch.
"What is it?" Nicolas asks.
"The note talks about a tea party and roses. One thing this guy has been doing since the beginning is manipulating things… names, people, objects. It seems to be one thing, but then it turns out to be or mean something else. He used an anagram as his screen name to get the girl who died in the bombing under his control, then to send me messages through her social media. He's chosen victims based on their names because they sound like my mother's. Everything is just slightly off. Which is why I said the word 'read' wasn't a mistake. He was talking about red roses. But he also meant 'read', as in a book."
I turn it to Sam so he can see the cover.
"Alice in Wonderland," he murmurs.
"Arguably the world's most famous and most disastrous tea party. And the Queen of Hearts wanted the roses red."
"That's right," Nicolas says. "They paint them to make her happy."
"Not to make her happy. To keep her from chopping off their heads," I correct.
He draws in a breath, and I look back down at the book in my lap. Turning it over gingerly, aware of how delicate the cover and pages are after having rested on this shelf for so many years, I slowly open my hands, so the pages fall gently open. There tucked in the trough of the pages, nestled among the nonsense words and feverish imagery, are two delicately folded paper roses.
Chapter Nineteen
Anson
One year ago…
She was pretty. Not beautiful, not necessarily anybody who he would ever look twice at. Not if he didn't have a particular reason. But he could understand the attraction. In fact, her not being beautiful might have been part of it. In most situations, it was far easier to draw in the attention and devotion of a woman who was just a shade shy of beautiful. Not completely unattractive. When a woman was distinctly unattractive or perceived herself to be, she tended to be defensive and more likely to be suspicious of a man engaging with her. Whether that was fair or not, it was an experience he’d had.
Which is why Anson understood as soon as he saw Sarah Mueller from across the visitation room. For the last several months, he'd been reading the letters she sent to Travis Burke. They were written in code. At least, what she thought was code. It was more just a juvenile jumble of letters and words anyone who paid attention could see through. But he didn't let on that he knew that. He was just as enraptured by her as she was by Travis. That was the beginning. He had already gained Travis's trust. And now he needed to gain Sarah's.
Meeting Travis was nothing short of serendipity. Anson didn't intentionally search him out or do anything to make his way into the prison where the murderer was serving his time. He was there to visit Craig, a member of Leviathan who’d offered himself up as a sacrificial lamb when the police had come too close to unraveling one of the events of chaos they planned. That didn't happen often. Usually, Leviathan’s plans were so meticulous, and so carefully executed, investigations rarely went far. That was part of the fun. The police, and even the FBI, knew someone was responsible for what was happening, but they couldn't get even close to narrowing down who.
That's not how it worked out that time. The release of nitrogen gas into a large sightseeing elevator system was glorious. The glass elevator hung high above the ground, stopped so no one could get out, and everyone on the street below could watch the panic unfolding above their heads. With nothing to conceal the people inside, those so shocked they couldn't look away simply watched in horror as the gas stole the oxygen in the tight glass capsules. There was no color and no smell, nothing to alert the people inside that something was wrong. And because the elevators weren't airtight to the point of a complete seal, there was just enough of a slow drip of oxygen coming in from outside to dilute the effect of the nitrogen for a few extra seconds. The gas affected people at different times. It all depended on the rate of respiration, overall health, age, size. All those factors that could be so random in a crowd and make chaos all the more prevalen
t.
The body interprets nitrogen as oxygen, thinking it's breathing exactly what it's supposed to. But it doesn't take long for reality to set in. It's not like carbon monoxide, which puts a person to sleep before slowly killing them. With nitrogen, the body just keeps going until it can't anymore. Death is usually silent and extremely sudden. Some may pass out first but will die very shortly thereafter. Others will be going about whatever they're doing and suddenly collapse dead.
Different rates of reaction meant a few of the large group in the elevator fell to the floor, dead at the feet of the other people, who immediately began to panic. That panic only increased the rate of breathing, which drew more of the nitrogen gas into their bodies so soon others fell. This led to a few magnificent moments of watching them crawl over each other and claw at the glass walls, screaming in desperation, while no one underneath could hear. Fire engines screamed for them and raced to the building to try to open the elevator. One by one, the tourists dropped as the firefighters did everything they could to get to them. They eventually pried the doors open, and the rush of fresh air saved the few still lingering.
It had been incredible to watch, but there was a minor flaw in the planning and execution. It meant too many detectives sniffing around and drawing close to the organization. They couldn't risk that. Leviathan couldn't risk any chance that the outside world—especially the authorities—would learn not only of their existence but of their mission. So they did what had to be done. Every member of Leviathan knew there could come a day when they would be called upon to give themselves up for the good of the organization. Allowing themselves to be arrested and convicted of crimes associated with the events of chaos preserved the sanctity of the rest. Within the organization, they were seen as martyrs, honored, and respected.
That made the time they had to spend in prison far more comfortable than it was for virtually any of the other prisoners. Members of their ranks wielded power in various spheres of public life, who could grease the wheels for the captured member to serve their time in the prison ideal for them. That might mean a prison close to family, medium-security rather than maximum, or a facility with the kinds of features and programs they want the most. They thought of it as being caught in a net, trapped for the amusement of others because they swam in the wrong waters.
But being kept in a tank didn't mean they couldn't be well-cared-for. Lotan provided a constant stream of funds, and other members visited frequently. It wasn't unheard of for contraband and untraceable bribes from the outside to ensure the prisoner perks not available to anyone else. They could even gain favor with the guards and other staff, affording themselves even greater access and privilege. It would be better for them to be free, but when that wasn't an option, the organization didn't turn their back.
Unless, of course, the captured one was disposable. Bait. Then they were fed into the system and quickly turned into a commodity or a casualty. Depending on the situation, it was sometimes hard to know which would be better.
That wasn't the case with Craig. He gave himself up and garnered the masterful skill of several powerful attorneys secretly associated with Leviathan. They crafted a defense so intricate and compelling it managed to create sympathy. Not an easy task for someone charged with terrorism, the public murders of ten people and attempted murder of several more. But the decimation of the criminal justice system prevailed, and he was set in the lap of comparative luxury. Anson became one of his most frequent visitors. And there he learned about Travis.
One of the greatest benefits of having one of their own caught in a net and kept in the tank was they were now among others who held a certain power and influence. While many of those rotting away in prison cells could do little if anything for the mission of Leviathan, others were valuable sources of information, networking, and control. Craig had only been inside for a few weeks when he met Travis Burke. The younger man had recently been transferred from another facility, and the story of his crime had rustled through general population. He’d been convicted of brutally murdering his wife, burying her in a cement case, then digging her up and moving her, all the while pretending to be the desperate husband searching for the lost woman he loved.
It wasn't a new story. That happened fairly frequently. It was actually astonishing when Anson thought about it. No matter how frequently it didn't work, people still seemed to believe they could kill someone and get away with it just by saying that person walked away from their life. Usually, it took a matter of days to find all the loose threads that led directly to the murder. It was a catastrophe of bad planning. But not for Travis. He managed to keep up the ruse for quite some time. That is until a brand-new FBI agent came onto the scene and quickly unraveled him: Emma Griffin.
Anson, of course, already knew that name. He'd known it for many years and had grown to hate it. That wasn't the way it was at first. He admired her—at least the idea of her—as much as anyone else in the organization. He could see how much she meant to Lotan and understood his longing for her. She was taken from him, and it twisted and disturbed his mind. Anson felt for the leader he was so devoted to. But over time, that faded. He no longer saw Emma Griffin as a tragic figure. She was no more than the green light at the end of Daisy's Pier. And like Gatsby, Lotan was letting himself spiral away into nothingness because of her. He'd lost his commitment to the mission. Time that should have been spent planning events and orchestrating the trades and sales that had built up his power and wealth was frittered away on following her movements, tracing her, and waiting for the perfect moment.
But that moment would never come. He didn't see that, but Anson did. Lotan wanted everything to be perfect for Emma to give her the life he'd never been able to because the opportunity was robbed from him. It was a delicate process; he would tell those closest to him. It was a careful strategy to ensure she wasn't damaged and instead could welcome him into her life with open arms.
It was a mistake for Lotan to entrust Anson with his inner thoughts. To share the way he felt about Emma with him. It wasn't out of affection. He shared because he needed Anson to do things for him, to make sure plans fell into place outside the bubble he created around Emma, so he could concentrate more on her. And he started to stumble. Lotan served time when none could save him. He lost track of Emma and became even more desperate. And when he found her again, it was all his mind could focus on.
And Anson became bitter. This woman had destroyed what he held most sacred, what he believed in more than anything in the world. She wasn't even worth it. There was nothing about her that was special or impressive, nothing valuable or exceptional. And he would prove it.
Sarah Mueller was going to help him.
Chapter Twenty
Greg
A year and a half ago…
The change happened so quickly, that when it was finally done and reality sank in, Greg questioned if what he thought happened actually did. From the very beginning, he’d thought he understood what was happening. He knew what he signed himself up for. He had always been willing to take great personal risk in the name of preserving freedom and safety. This was at his core why he had joined the FBI, to begin with. He wanted to do anything he could to protect people and to make the world a slightly safer place to be. That seemed like such a cliché now. How could he possibly have had that dream when he didn't even know what the world is actually like?
What he saw in those dark nights wasn't like anything he had ever seen or imagined. He knew horror. He knew of cruelty and war. But the joy they found in the depravity and the way they justified it made what he saw Lotan and Fisher do more disturbing than any of it.
Things had started so well. They were exactly what he thought they were going to be, and he’d committed himself wholly to the project. There were days when he longed for his old life and missed people. Especially Emma. But he’d told himself he couldn't think that way. He couldn't be so selfish as to want to return to that normalcy when there was so much good he could be doing here. Emma
would understand. The day would come when he would be able to stand in front of her proudly and tell her everything he’d accomplished. Lotan had already promised him. Greg would be the one to return her to her beloved father.
He couldn't wait for that moment. He’d often gone to sleep with that thought painting crisp images on the backs of his eyelids. It would be such an incredible moment. One of such relief and happiness for her. And if he was going to make sure that happened, he had to do everything that was asked of him. He had to give of himself completely and in every way possible to make sure the assignment was completed.
Those thoughts dissolved away quickly. Soon he began to realize what was being asked of him benefited no one but the man they called Lotan. He'd come to despise hearing that name. This man didn't deserve a title of respect, a name that would mean anything. He was Ian Griffin, the CIA agent of legend; a man people still spoke of in hushed tones because of the incredible legacy he left when he disappeared. But Greg didn't even think he deserved to be called that.
Everybody always wondered what had become of Ian. His disappearance was orchestrated, that was obvious. He didn't just walk away without any preparation or planning, and he wasn't taken. He had gone through a tremendous amount of effort to make sure everything was in place before he left. It couldn't have been easy for him to leave Emma. At least Greg knew she was a grown woman who had been standing on her own two feet for many years and would be fine without him if she had to be. But when her father left, Emma was barely an adult. She had only just turned eighteen and was looking ahead to her entire life. Granted, she was probably better prepared than most people who reach that age, but it still couldn't have been easy for her. It was reassuring and comforting to Greg that he hadn't put her in that same position.
But the thoughts always lingered. The questions of what could have possibly justified him leaving her life like that, never to hear from him for so many years. Though he obviously didn't know about it at the time it happened, when Greg found out the story of Emma's father, he could see why it would be everybody's first assumption he had gone off on an undercover mission. Especially if it was going to be in a particularly dangerous location, or if his goals were treacherous, he would want to put preparations in place to ensure his child was going to be well taken care of. Then he just didn't come back. He didn't reach out to anyone. He didn't give any indication to anyone he was alive and well. Or even just alive.
