by Meg Gardiner
She turned three hundred and sixty degrees. Farther along the blacktop, the bend sharpened and the road crossed the creek. The morning sun lit the concrete railing on the side of the bridge.
It was right there. Scrawled in chalk.
WHEN A SOUL BETRAYS / IT FALLS FROM FLESH / AND A DEMON TAKES ITS PLACE.
She got on the radio to Guthrie. “He left a message. It’s from the Inferno.”
“The actual text?”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t done that before.”
“He knows we know. Or he wants us to know. It’s a slap in the face.”
The sun sharpened. The chalk lit bright white. At the far end of the bridge, there was further writing. Smaller. She jogged down the bank so she could read it.
“There’s more.” It was tiny, jagged, scrawled askew on the railing. “‘Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.’”
“That’s from the Bible,” Guthrie said.
Caitlin pulled up Search and typed in the phrase. “Genesis. The story of Adam’s rib.”
She read the next line of verse. Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.
“What do you make of it?” he said.
One flesh. Falls from flesh. Cleave unto his wife. Cleaver. “I think it means Deralynn is the first act. Her husband could be the second.”
She started running. “Guthrie. We may have an emergency.”
45
In the war room, Caitlin tried yet again to reach Walt Hobbs. He didn’t pick up on his home phone. The phone company provided his cell number, but he didn’t answer either voice calls or texts. At his desk, Guthrie slammed down his own phone.
“Hendrix. You positive Hobbs took the kids camping at Mount Diablo Park? The rangers can’t locate them.”
“Yes. They should be there.”
When she’d spoken to Deralynn overnight, Deralynn told her Walt and the boys had already left. But something felt very wrong.
Everything felt wrong.
Guthrie said, “If the rangers can’t locate them . . .” He picked up his phone again. “We’ll send a unit.”
He made the call, then stormed past her desk. Caitlin said, “They’ll have to do a death notification. Walt Hobbs doesn’t know about Deralynn.”
“Then that’s what they’ll do.”
Her stomach knotted. She followed him toward the front of the station. “I . . .”
He spun. “What?”
People turned to look, or pretended not to.
“You want to spend the morning driving around a state park looking for kids and a dad hiking in the woods?” Guthrie said.
“I should.” The thought stung her, left her drenched in dread. “I’ll go.”
“You will not,” Guthrie said.
“But I’m the—”
“No, you’re not. The Prophet killed Deralynn Hobbs because he’s a psychopath. Not because of you. Don’t make yourself a martyr.”
She shut her mouth.
“The Hobbs home is a crime scene. Cops are crawling all over it. If Walt Hobbs comes home, he’ll be notified.” Guthrie’s face was white. “Focus on the evidence. The Prophet probably has another victim in his sights.”
“What if Walt Hobbs is the next victim?”
“That’s why I’m sending a unit to Mount Diablo Park.”
He stalked off. Caitlin stood for a moment, hearing chatter and phones and feeling the heat of the station’s gaze.
Across the building at the front desk, a voice said, “Detective?”
Paige looked at her sheepishly. Beyond the glass in the lobby stood Sean.
Caitlin took a calming breath, walked past surreptitious stares, and buzzed through the door. Sean had Sadie’s pink backpack slung over his shoulder. He was holding the little girl’s hand and had Shadow, on a leash. The space between him and Caitlin felt charged. Paige watched like they were a telenovela.
Sadie jumped, arms wide. “Boo!”
“Hello, Roo.” Caitlin smiled weakly and said to Sean, “Let’s go outside.”
They stepped into the breezy morning. Clouds scudded across the sky.
Sean nodded at the building. “What was all that?”
She looked at Sadie. Sean put Shadow’s leash into his daughter’s hand, pointed across the lawn, and said, “Walk her to that tree and back. Walk.”
Sadie toddled off with Shadow trotting at her side.
Caitlin said, “This latest killing.” She clenched her jaw, forcing her voice to stay even. “It was Deralynn Hobbs.”
Sean’s face dropped. “Jesus God.”
“Her name hasn’t been released because we can’t contact her husband.”
He touched a hand to his forehead. “Deralynn. Christ, that’s—”
“He should be camping with the kids at Mount Diablo Park, but the rangers haven’t located them.” Breathe. Do not fucking cry. “Guthrie’s sending uniforms. But . . .” She pressed a clawed hand to her heart. “He told me to stay here and work the evidence. But I . . .”
“Caitlin, I’m sorry.”
“It was Deralynn. Deralynn. How can I just stay here?”
“Because stopping the Prophet is what counts.”
“Finding the Prophet is what counts. And I’m close.” She heard her voice rising. “If I find Walt Hobbs, I’m even closer. And it shouldn’t be a choice.” Don’t yell. She held up her hands. “I know how I sound. This is just driving me right to the edge.”
“Past that.”
His face had the Apache raider stare.
“Last night I screwed up.” She touched his arm. He didn’t react.
Oh, shit.
“I know I blew it. Bad. Please. I’m sorry.”
She waited.
He looked at the street. “I understand. I used to say the same stuff to Michele.”
Her hand dropped from his arm. “Low blow.”
“No, truth. I see it, and I understand where you are.” He turned his eyes to Sadie a moment, then to Caitlin. “You think you’re doing your job. But the case is consuming you.”
“No. I’ve got this.”
“You don’t. Deralynn—it’s awful. But you cannot hand your life over to the Prophet in response.”
She tried to cool down, and failed. “You’re kidding, right? Deralynn’s dead—and he watched me. In my own home.”
“You’re following his script. The other day you said he was playing a mind game. He is. On you. And you’re letting him. You have to stop.”
“I have to stop him. Any way I can.”
“Listen to yourself. Guthrie asked you to work the evidence, and you blew him off? You’re such a ball of rage, you don’t even see where you are.”
“I can’t apologize enough for last night.”
“Forget last night. I don’t care about that. I care that you think it’s up to you to singlehandedly stop a tsunami.”
“I don’t know any other way,” she said.
“Find one.”
She was wound as tight as a kettledrum. She didn’t want to hear any of this, and certainly not from him.
“I don’t need life-coaching today. I need DNA and fingerprints and the plate number for the Prophet’s truck. Witnesses. A neighbor who saw him take Deralynn. Somebody. Didn’t anybody see him? It’s a friendly neighborhood and nobody stopped the abduction . . .”
She pressed a fist to her lips.
Sean’s eyes were hot. He looked angry. He looked exasperated and worried. She took a juddering breath and reached out to him again. He stepped back.
Dammit. Goddammit—what was she doing?
She touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes, battling down tears and the urge to punch a wall and the quiver that threate
ned to break on her lips.
“You’re right,” she finally said. “He’s in my head, and I need to kick him out.” She tipped her head back. “You’re right. And do you have any idea how much I hate being called on my bullshit?”
His expression eased. “That’s what comes from thinking it’s up to you to spin the world back onto its axis.”
The wind lifted her hair. She looked at the ground, and up at him. His eyes softened.
He said, “All we can actually do is keep it from blowing up for one more day.”
“Spoken like an explosives expert.”
She reached for his hand. After a moment, he took hers. They held on, tentatively. Sadie and Shadow reached the tree and headed back toward them.
Caitlin tightened her grip. “I hate to tell you this. If the Prophet accessed everything in my computer and phone, he has your number. And if he has that . . .”
“You think his RAT malware could have infected my cell?”
“I hope to God not. But . . .” The wind gusted. A shiver overtook her. “You were on the news footage in Berkeley. He might try to put a name to your face.”
“I’ll be careful.” He frowned. “What are you saying?”
Caitlin watched Sadie as she skipped up, cheeks pink in the breeze. She had a dandelion in her hand. She held it up to Caitlin.
Caitlin crouched down. “You blow.”
Sadie put the dandelion to her lips and blew. When the seeds swirled into the air, she laughed delightedly. Caitlin stood and turned to Sean. His eyes were hard.
“I’ll drop Sadie at Michele’s,” he said. “And I’ll tell Michele to head up to Eureka, to her mom and dad’s place.”
Relief washed through her. “Good. I hate this. But that’s good.”
“I have to work this afternoon anyhow.”
“Hell of an Easter weekend.”
“CIs don’t stick to business hours. It’s part of their charm.” He scooped Sadie into his arms. “Okay, rug rat. We’re going to Mommy’s.”
She clapped. “Yay!”
He took Shadow’s leash. “She can bunk with me until you come up for air.”
He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Caitlin’s. “Which has to be before you drown.”
She closed her eyes. Sean clasped the back of her neck, kissed her hard, and turned away. As he left, he nodded at the station.
“Don’t leave here without security. That’s not obsessive—it’s necessary.”
He walked toward his truck. Sadie peered bright-eyed over his shoulder and gave Caitlin a little wave.
Caitlin waved back.
Martinez leaned out the door of the building. “Hendrix. You need to get in here.”
* * *
An ominous mood pervaded the war room as Caitlin approached her desk. Guthrie, Shanklin, and Martinez were hovering.
On her computer screen, a bright red window had opened. It was flashing like a warning siren.
“Holy hell.” She sat down but didn’t touch the keyboard. “You call IT? If he’s in our system, past the firewall, then . . .”
“We can’t sanitize it.” Guthrie picked up the phone and asked for one of their computer experts to come to the war room.
“He’s showing off,” she said. “He’s not hiding anymore.”
“Open it,” Guthrie said.
Caitlin clicked. The image burst with twinkling stars and flames and a sound like thunder cracking.
The screen faded from stars to a dim room with a white sheet hung on the back wall. Caitlin felt a stabbing sensation between her eyes.
The camera was aimed at Deralynn. She sat gagged with duct tape and bound to a kitchen chair.
Her eyes brimmed with tears.
Martinez muttered, “Jesus, save us.”
Caitlin’s hands drew tight into fists.
Deralynn, hair matted and bloodied. Mascara streaked. Those eyes, so wide and always hopeful, were focused on the figure behind the camera. She was terrified.
But she wasn’t panicked.
That was what Caitlin saw. Deralynn was in the throat of the monster, but she wasn’t panicking. She couldn’t move. She was at his mercy, and knew he would show her none. But she wasn’t screaming behind the duct tape. Wasn’t kicking or trying to shy back from the killer in front of her.
She was focused. The light bore down on her, third-degree style. She looked directly into the camera. Tears welled. She blinked them away and kept looking at the camera. She blinked and blinked and didn’t flinch.
Off camera, the killer spoke in a hoarse whisper. “How far can you fall?”
Deralynn inhaled and seemed to bear down, staring even harder at the camera.
“The Ninth Circle contains room enough for all,” the voice said. “More to come.”
The video cut away, to footage of people strolling along the Embarcadero outside the Ferry Building on the bay in San Francisco.
Come back, Deralynn, Caitlin thought. An ache throbbed in her chest.
The tourist footage continued. Then, abruptly, it cut from the Ferry Building to photos of a cross-country race in a hillside park with the Rockridge Ragers. Michele’s face was visible. Then it jumped to TV footage shot by the news chopper over the stadium on the Berkeley campus, looking down as Caitlin pulled away from Sean and charged at the scoreboard. Then to a dash-cam video—a slow roll past the Briarwood Sheriff’s Station.
Caitlin’s heart spiked. The video cut again, to a crowded BART train. Then went black.
Gathered around her desk, everyone stood silent. Caitlin’s chin was trembling. Get a grip, she told herself.
Guthrie said, “Play it again.”
She cued it up. Just before she clicked, her phone rang. She jumped.
Number Blocked.
She looked at Guthrie. Her hand hovered over the buzzing phone. She picked up on speaker.
“Your arrogance has dragged you to this chasm,” the voice said. “Your pride, daring to challenge me.”
“You’re no messenger of heaven. You sin like everybody else. You belong in a ditch in the Eighth Circle with the other hypocrites,” Caitlin said. “The net is closing.”
He hung up.
Caitlin set the phone down. She didn’t want to touch it. She wanted to leap through the ceiling and fly away screaming.
Martinez said, “He’s rattled. The fucker’s rattled.”
He clapped her on the shoulder. She was shaking.
“You rattled him, Hendrix. Fuckin’ A.”
But she knew: He had already targeted his next victims. A crushing weight settled on her. That was the message in the bayside footage, the BART scenes. With scenes from her life sandwiched between. The case was not behind her. His next victims were being watched and tracked. Somebody was marked for death.
46
Amid the war room’s cacophony of voices and ringing phones, Caitlin sat before her screen, staring at the frozen image of Deralynn. Beaten, terrorized, knowing she faced horror and death, knowing she would never see her children again.
And yet she refused to flinch. She seemed to strain forward against the duct tape that bound her to the chair. She seemed fierce, and determined.
Just an amateur. A stay-at-home mom. Caitlin had never seen such a look of courage before.
She hit PLAY. The sound of the Prophet’s breathing sent a nauseating shudder down her spine. She forced the sound to the background of her mind, and watched Deralynn.
The blinking. It caused tears to fall, but didn’t stop when those tears slid down Deralynn’s cheeks. It had a purpose, beyond physical reaction. It was patterned.
“It’s a code. It has to be,” she said under her breath.
Her phone rang. Dad. She declined the call and texted, Call the station. A moment later her desk phone rang. She picked up.
>
“My cell phone’s compromised,” she said. “Yours may be too. Until we find out, call from a landline.”
Mack paused only a second, as if that news barely surprised him. “Understood. Now—two things. Then I’ll let you go. First. You can do this. I know it.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.
“Second. Let me help.” His voice throbbed with fury and determination. “Lure him into a trap. Use me as bait.”
“Dad.”
“You think I’m off my meds. I’m not. But I’ll go off to help. Stop sedating a tricky cop like me and I can wreak all kinds of havoc on your behalf. Give me a few hours.”
She tried to laugh, then sobered. “Dad . . . thanks. It’s not going to happen, but—thank you.”
In the call background, the air brakes of a bus hissed. Coins dropped in a slot. There was the rumble of a diesel engine pulling away from the bus stop.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“To your mom’s. I’m going to stay with her until it’s time for her to go to the airport.”
“Thank you.”
“Caitlin—what I said . . . this is no joke.” He was calm. A long-missing grit had returned to his voice. “Whatever it takes. Call me.”
She hung up. Raggedly she watched the video again. Deralynn was desperately trying to tell them something. The intense blinking had to be a code, almost certainly Morse.
She rewound to the start of the video. Deralynn stared. A long, solid stare. Then she began to blink. Caitlin counted. Forty times. Deralynn shut her eyes and dipped her head. When she looked up, she started again. She blinked twenty-two times. And again. Twenty-two.
The same pattern. Dots and dashes. Thinking, I hear you, Caitlin found a Morse code chart. She transcribed Deralynn’s message and translated it.
P-L-U-S-J-T-P-V-M-G-B-M-M.
It made no sense.
“What?” she said. “God, Deralynn . . . what are you saying?”
Caitlin was no authority on cryptography. Yes, she’d seen through the metaphor in the Prophet’s cornfield message, and spotted the acrostic in his notes. Her father had intuited the killer’s cycle from his message about the sky. But they weren’t trained to decipher codes.
