by Andrew Mayne
“Yeah . . .”
“UNDERSTAND?”
“Jesus, yes! Whatever my convictions, they don’t involve me spending time in federal prison or the rest of my life in Russia depending on a bunch of former KGB spooks looking after my well-being.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Yeah. Trust me. I wouldn’t do anything like that to fuck you over.”
“Fine.” She takes another long breath. “I believe you. But I wonder if you could be a sociopath.”
“I ask myself the same question.”
“You’re not helping me feel better. Just tell me, is there anything you could have done that raised a red flag somewhere?”
Well, shit. “Um . . .”
“Theo?”
I’m not going to tell her about my little germ experiment or what that uncovered—especially because it involves putting genetically modified microbes on the literal doorstep of the DHS.
There are absolutely no good optics on that.
Plus, she’d be duty bound to tell her superiors, and right now, someone pulling strings doesn’t like me. It could be Park using an intermediary to fuck with me, but I don’t want to push it in case it’s not.
“You saw my name in the news?” I ask rhetorically. “Maybe somebody in some other agency was just curious? In the coverage I’m just listed as a consultant for OpenSkyAI. Maybe someone at some other agency was curious about what I was doing there?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, not buying my explanation. “What else you got?”
“I can’t say . . .”
“You’re so goddamn transparent. What?”
“I can’t tell you anything other than this: The house of horror in Los Angeles? The suspect that died in Brazil? He ain’t the main guy.”
“So this is why you’re in Atlanta?”
“How did you know that?”
“I work for an intelligence agency, dumb ass. Also, I had to make sure you weren’t off to the welcoming arms of the Chinese. Never defect there. Jesus Christ.”
“Got it. So . . . what I can tell . . . well, the guy who I think did this . . . um . . . he might . . . he might be an informant.”
“Okay,” she says patiently. “For who?”
“Possibly the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Muslim?”
“No. It’s more complicated. And not a domestic informant.”
“Shit, Theo. You went sniffing around a protected informant?”
“I don’t know that’s the case. But this guy is bad. Real bad.”
“That’s why we use them as informants. The good guys don’t know anything.”
“Yes,” I reply. “But this is the guy that murdered at least seventeen kids in Los Angeles.”
“If you got proof, send it to me and we’ll get it to the FBI.”
“I’m working on it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I need to make sure they follow through right away. This guy may be about to kill a kid. And if I screw this up, he’ll cover his ass and go do it again and again while I’m answering awkward questions.”
She sighs loudly. “You better know what the hell you’re doing.”
“No shit.”
“And watch your back. Not everyone on our team is playing by the same rule book.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
PACKAGE
Birkett’s ominous warning is in the back of my mind as I walk down the hallway of my hotel to my room. I was already paranoid, but now I’m even worried about people who are supposed to be on my side.
I put my key in the door, flip the light on, and see a distinguished older man in a three-piece suit lying on top of my bed, reading a Clive Cussler novel.
I back up and check the door number.
“You have the right room, Dr. Cray,” the man says as he sets down the book. “Please, have a seat. My back has been acting up, so I took advantage of the firm mattress.”
I look for a gun or some kind of weapon. His hands are folded across his stomach in the least threatening way possible. He looks like a totally relaxed lawyer or businessman.
I drop into a chair across from him, trying to get some read on who the hell he is and why he’s here. I should call the police, but he’s engaged my curiosity—plus, my gun is within reach.
“Comfortable?” asks the man.
“Yes . . . Are you?”
“Much better. It was a long drive.”
“And what was the purpose of the drive?”
“To assist you, Dr. Cray. You’re a man with lots of questions, and I’m here to provide what answers that I can.”
“Well,” I reply, not sure if this man is insane or just creepy. “Who are you?”
“You can call me Bill.”
“Just Bill?”
He nods. “Just Bill.”
“Well, Bill, I can already tell you’re not going to be very helpful. It’s been pleasant.” I stand up and motion toward the door.
He doesn’t move. “Dr. Cray, do you know the preferred treatment for trigeminal neuralgia?”
“No. I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Precisely. I’m not that kind of question replier. You need to ask relevant questions. Please have a seat. What you should be asking me is how I’m going to help you.”
“With John Christian?”
“With not going to jail, Dr. Cray. May I call you Theo? That should be your most pressing question at this moment. How are you going to avoid spending the rest of your life in prison?”
I get it now. This guy is some holdover Cold War spook they pulled out of retirement to scare me.
“Funny,” I reply. “That’s not really a major issue for me right now. I’m wondering how you live with the idea that you’re protecting a murderous piece of shit that’s about to kill again.”
“I have no idea who you are talking about,” he replies.
“You have no idea about the seventeen dead kids they pulled out of the backyard of a Los Angeles home that one of your assets used to live in?”
From Bill’s stare, I can tell he really does have no idea what I’m talking about.
“Seriously?” I groan. “You’re just some guy they call up when they want to scare the shit out of someone, but they don’t tell you why?”
“They tell me. I’ve seen some security footage of a man acting very peculiar in the hallway in front of a Department of Homeland Security office, possibly spraying some kind of chemical agent, before foolishly stepping inside and presenting his identification.”
I get up from my chair and walk to the door. “For a solid minute, you had me worried.”
Bill doesn’t move. “I’m doing you a courtesy.”
“Right. You’re all heart. When DHS or the CDC comes knocking on my door, I’ll start to panic. But when some CIA fossil sends some other fossil to scare me because they can’t even imagine the size of their fuckup, I’ll just have to take a pass on a freak-out.” I open the door. “Time to go back to your suburb in Alexandria or wherever and tell your pal he should take a closer look at who the hell he’s getting his information from.”
Bill gets to his feet. He has a slightly amused look on his face. He stops at the door. “You’re not going to like what happens next.” He shoves his hand into his pocket.
I grab his forearm. “You’re not going to like where I put that, Bill.”
He slowly withdraws his hand and pulls out my little black box. “It wasn’t hard to find the first time; I’m sure it won’t be the next.”
He drops the box into my hands and then starts walking down the hallway. He’s almost at the elevator when I decide to run up to him.
“Wait!” I call after him.
Bill turns around. “Yes?”
“What do you know about him?”
“I’ve been given a very simple task, Dr. Cray. I’m the messenger. Message delivered.” He turns away.
I grab him by the elbow. “S
top that spy-novel shit. Forget all the message delivering. Let me talk to the idealist in there that signed up when Khrushchev was banging his shoe and threatening to bury us. The guy who knows right from wrong . . . Do you know who the fuck John Christian really is?”
His face is a blank expression. I see a man who has been so beaten down by the system that he just doesn’t care anymore. When the phone rings, he delivers a pizza. He doesn’t care what’s in it or whom it’s really feeding. All he knows is that when the order comes, he’d better deliver the fucking pizza.
I let go of his arm. He turns back to the elevator and presses the “Down” button. In the polished metal of the elevator doors, his cold eyes watch me. The blank expression is gone for a moment.
I walk back to my room, trying to figure out if I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night with Bill strangling me with piano wire or if I’m going to get a harsh letter from Human Resources about my treatment of the elderly.
I stare down at my tracker. The old fossil didn’t even bother turning the phone off before giving it back to me. Did he even realize that it kept a complete log of everywhere Oyo went and where Bill was after?
Sheesh.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
HUNTING GROUND
When I went after Joe Vik, the only deadline in my head was getting back to school before the semester began—which I failed at. While he’d murdered someone I knew and his other victims left me unsettled, I still thought of Joe Vik in the past tense. Uncovering his crimes was like brushing away the dirt on an archaeological site and realizing that the Neolithic tribe practiced ritualistic murder—it could be shocking, but it was a thing of the past. You didn’t worry about the skeletons leaping out of the ground and continuing their murderous ways. You didn’t worry about the safety of some contemporary person. With Vik, even though I knew he was still an active killer, I had no time frame to motivate me. Taking two days or two weeks didn’t seem like it would cost anything except my own professional career.
With Oyo it’s different. The sun is up, and by the time it sets, he’ll probably have his next victim. By the time it rises again, a young boy will be dead.
I’m tearing myself apart, because I could have done more over the last few days. If I’d run to the news, someone would have covered the story. I could have brought some temporary attention to Oyo and saved a life. Maybe.
But then what? He’d slip away and show up somewhere else, wiser to the fact that I was able to find him. He could leave the United States and pop up in some other country where his murders would be even harder to find. Which makes me wonder, what was his friend Ordavo Sims doing in Brazil? Was he more than a lackey? Is Oyo part of something bigger than I understand?
I don’t even understand him, let alone what else he could be a part of. The man isn’t merely a sociopath manufactured by a conflict. Like Joe Vik, he’s someone with a particular talent for concealment and murder. He’s a natural-born predator in a world of prey.
His concealment is so strong that I’ve lost him already. The tracking data from my phone shows that he left the church and went to his house and then another house in a nice Atlanta suburb that belongs to a wealthy attorney. After that, he returned home and the tracking device came straight back here—courtesy of Cold War Bill. There’s no mysterious trip to a suspicious warehouse on the outskirts of town.
The attorney he visited in the suburb, Greyson Hunt, represents a variety of international corporate clients and is exactly the kind of person someone like Oyo would want to cultivate. Beyond that, there’s not much of a connection.
I’m out of options. As a last resort, I’ve parked down the street from Oyo’s house and have been watching his Cadillac in his driveway. It hasn’t moved. I don’t even think he’s home.
He’s slipped me.
I wait until 9:00 a.m. and call the church. I’m that desperate.
“Friends of Salvation Church,” says a cheery woman.
“Hello, I was wondering if Minister Christian was in?”
“I’m sorry, but he’s at a religious conference in Denver,” she replies.
“Oh? When did he leave?”
“Last night, I believe. He should be back in a week. Is this a spiritual matter?”
“Of sorts. Thank you.”
A religious conference. It’s a good cover. Tell everyone you’re leaving a day early, go do your killing, and then head straight there.
If anyone asks questions, their memories will be so hazy it would be hard to pin down where exactly you were at that point. It would be up to investigators to make the case otherwise.
It also explains why his Cadillac is sitting in his driveway. Oyo can’t be spotted around town in that when he’s supposed to be elsewhere. Atlanta is a big city, but it still acts like a small one. Word travels.
Oyo probably has another car and another identity—one tied to his hidden lair—the one I can’t find.
It’s the thing right in front of you that’s the most important.
The family calling the cops over a hundred times about John Wayne Gacy.
The Laotian boy who ran from Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment, screaming, only to be returned there by the cops because they thought it was a lover’s quarrel.
One of Lonnie Franklin’s victims brought the cops almost to his doorstep, only to be off by one house.
The warning signs for Ted Bundy were everywhere. Each time the police got close, he moved on to another jurisdiction. At the height of his murder spree, there were cops that knew exactly what he was, but they were limited in what they could do.
Somebody knows something, and the one person who seems to know more than anyone else around here is Robert.
There’s a remote chance he may be an accomplice of Oyo—but there’s also the possibility he’s another bystander simply trying to keep clear of the man.
With no other viable plan, I call his cell phone.
It goes straight to voice mail.
I try again a few minutes later. Voice mail.
These are desperate times, so I drive to Ms. Violet’s home.
Robert is on the porch, talking to an old white woman with a black poodle sitting in her lap. There’s a BMW parked in front of Violet’s house, which I assume is the old woman’s.
As soon as I pull up, he glances at me and his expression changes. He’d been making the woman laugh, keeping her company while she waits her turn to go inside and have her fortune fabricated.
Robert strides across the lawn and meets me as I get out of my car.
“Mr. Theo, you don’t have an appointment for today.”
I’m no longer Mr. Craig. Apparently he did have a look inside my wallet.
“I’m not here to talk to Ms. Violet. I want to know about this man that you and the Moss Man stay clear of.”
Robert glances over my shoulder at the woman sitting on the porch, making sure she’s not paying attention to our contentious discussion. This tells me she’s a valuable client.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Someone who practices a very bad kind of magic. The kind involving human sacrifice.”
Robert searches for a response. “I don’t have anything to do with that.”
“But you know about someone who does.”
His face is a mask.
“Oyo, or John Christian, as he’s known around here.”
Robert blinks at the mention of the name, then shakes his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He reaches for my door handle. “Please come again some other time.”
I nod to the woman. “Is she important? Maybe a widow or has some dead kid? What’s she worth to you?”
“Mrs. . . .” He stops before saying her name. “She’s an old, dear friend of Ms. Violet. Now please, let’s talk some other time.”
“Why don’t I talk to her? What would she and her rich friends think about a story involving someone you know who murders little children? How will that go over?”<
br />
He grabs my arm. “Mr. Theo, don’t do that.”
“Then tell me something. Because this man you’re protecting is about to kill another child.”
He shakes his head. “This man is very powerful. You don’t know who you are dealing with.”
“Tell me something, Robert. Tell me something so that when you look your god in the eye, you can convince yourself you’re a good man.”
He’s struggling with this.
“Let me put it to you this way: soon the whole world is going to know about Mr. Christian. What do you want your part of the story to be?”
He scratches the back of his neck, wrestling with what to do. “All right. All I can say is that there’s a place we know not to send our children.”
“The summer camp? I was there. There’s nothing there.”
“That’s all I can say,” Robert replies. “Maybe you didn’t look close enough. Now if you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
“Well, that’s ironic.”
He waves his hand in the air and walks away with his shoulders slumped. Clearly this got to him.
I decide not to chase after him. He’s at the point now where he doesn’t care how much I harass his clients. He’s more concerned with his own safety.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
INSIDER
I peer across the dark field from my hiding spot in the trees, waiting for Oyo to show up. Both the sun and the moon have already set, and the only illumination in my night-vision goggles comes from the light of the stars.
His children’s camp is deserted with the exception of the occasional possum that takes a stroll across the grounds, looking to see if the humans have returned and brought with them their offerings.
