by Andrew Mayne
“The kid is still high on the concoction Oyo gave him. He’d say Santa Claus did it. Why are you protecting this monster?”
“We’re not. If there is a third party, they will be dealt with.”
I can’t believe this. “I know you guys do stupid things, but I can’t believe you’d protect a child murderer. What am I missing here?” It hits me all at once. “Yourselves. Fuck. I get it. You had no clue, or you were looking the other way. This is how you try to cover your asses when it turns out you aided and abetted a murderous pedophile.”
I let out a deep breath, finally glimpsing the whole picture. “This is fucking big. It’s not just one agency supervisor that falls on their sword—this is the kind of thing that makes news for months and means congressional inquiries. Funding cuts and that kind of thing. Am I right?”
She has no reaction. “So are we clear on the anonymous phone call?”
I shake my head. “No. We are not. Lies are not how you fix fuckups.”
“Dr. Cray, I have a copy of a document you signed explaining that you fully understood the penalties for exposing intelligence secrets.”
“Yeah. And there’s a part in there about the Constitution. And there are whistle-blower laws. Lady, it doesn’t work like this.”
“Then I’ll have to take your actions as being hostile to the interests of the United States.”
I try to raise my hands, but I’m stopped by the fact that they’re locked to the table. “Whoa. You don’t get to wave the patriot flag. That’s what the Chinese government says to people before they send them off to the organ-harvesting van. That’s what bad guys with badges say.”
My mysterious visitor checks her watch, taps her fingers on the table again, then replies, “We’re done.”
She gets up, knocks on the door, and leaves.
I shout through the open door, “Can I have a phone call?”
It’s slammed without a response.
Half an hour later, two deputies come to get me. I try to ask them when I get to speak to someone, but they ignore me.
We walk down a row of crowded holding cells and into another section where one cell sits empty.
They professionally push me to the back of the cell and uncuff one hand, only to have me put both hands behind me so they can cuff me to the back row of bars.
I glance at a name tag. “Deputy Henley, doesn’t this seem a little unusual?”
“Just following instructions, sir,” he says with genteel southern politeness.
Something fucked-up is happening here. I’m not sure if the kindly deputy has any clue.
“I’m supposed to get a phone call.”
“You had your call, sir. You can talk to the judge tomorrow.”
“But I was never even charged with anything . . .”
He and the other deputy back away and shut the door.
I can’t get the fact out of my mind that the other cells were crowded, yet here I am in my own private suite.
Something seriously fucked up is going on here.
CHAPTER SIXTY
VIGILANTE
I don’t close my eyes. I don’t take my attention away from the door leading into this cell. If Cold War Bill was the Ghost of Christmas Past and Mysterious Woman is the Ghost of Christmas Present, then the next visitor is going to be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and something tells me I ain’t going to like what he’s bringing.
Whichever division fucked this up has probably decided, using whatever ethically damaged decision-making process they have, that the life of one disgraced loudmouth professor isn’t worth their jobs or their freedom.
I was told to stay away, and I didn’t. I was given the chance to play ball, and I refused. Now they’re out of options and time.
From Birkett’s histrionic phone call, I know she’s not in on this. I’m not in Six Days of the Condor territory here—I hope. I’m just dealing with a couple of bad cops—who happen to work for an intelligence agency.
If this were an authorized operation, I’d probably be in a black helicopter on my way to some secret rendition site.
But that doesn’t make them less threatening—only more so.
When the door to the cell opens, my skin shivers as adrenaline courses through me like water down the Amazon.
The deputies are bringing in two more guests. And shit, the first one is a skinhead with neck tattoos and an honest-to-goodness swastika on his arm.
He weighs in at about 160 and is already staring at me with hate in his eyes. Somebody told him something, because usually I’m a pretty likable guy at first glance.
The other man is more muscular and doesn’t have any tattoos. He’s got a flattop cut, not a full skinhead dome.
Skinhead is uncuffed and takes a seat right across from me so he can stare me down.
Flathead moves to the corner to my right, about five feet away from me. He crosses his arms and leans back as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I wait to see how this show is supposed to start.
Clearly Skinhead has it in for me, but why is Flathead here? Are they a team?
As soon as the deputies leave, Skinhead gets up and stands in front of me. I already stretched my legs out so I could use them to protect my space.
“I heard you’re a faggot that likes messing with little boys,” he says, following it up with some spit. “I heard they found some dead little boys in your house. That true, faggot?”
“How much?” I reply.
“How much? What? You think I’m some faggot that’s going to let you blow me?”
“How much did they say they’d pay you to do this? Did they say they’d get you a lawyer, too?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m Theo Cray. I hunt serial killers. I found one in Montana. I was just on the news because of the one I found in Los Angeles. His name is John Christian, and it turns out he’s a CIA informant who’s being protected by someone who wants me dead.”
Skinhead shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is that all about?” He turns to the man in the corner—who is now a foot closer to me. “You heard of this crazy faggot?”
Flattop replies, “I don’t think he takes you seriously.”
Skinhead is in my face. “You don’t take me seriously? Faggot? How about I make you suck my dick, faggot?”
“I don’t think either one of us wants that. I hope not.”
He grabs his crotch. “What, my dick don’t taste good enough to you? You need some little boy’s dick?”
“I wouldn’t take that shit,” Flattop says to Skinhead. “Show that faggot you’re serious.”
Skinhead is getting himself worked up, but I realize he’s not the one I need to worry about. Flattop is the professional here. He’s getting Skinhead angry so he’ll attack me. But Flattop is the killer. He’s military. Maybe retired Special Forces or some DEVGRU wet worker they called in. This is Georgia—it couldn’t have been hard to find one.
Professor Theo wants to turn to him and point out how transparent the tactic is. Someone called in an arrest on Skinhead. Skinhead is the patsy so that after Flattop bashes my skull into the ground, they’ll have someone to take the blame.
Skinhead can say all he wants that there was another man involved, but if he’s the one they find covered with my blood, it’s not going to matter.
Skinhead is cracking his knuckles, getting ready to sucker punch me.
I speak as calmly as possible. “When they ask you what happened, just remember the name Oyo Diallo. That’s the man they’re protecting. That’s who killed the children in Los Angeles and at the Sweetwater address. He’s called John Christian here. Just remember that. They might make you a deal—if they don’t try to kill you like me.”
This breaks his concentration. It’s also messing with Flattop. I’m telling Skinhead the thing that he was sent to keep quiet. Chances are, he has no clue what I’m talking about.
Flattop has stopped inching toward me
for a moment as he thinks this over.
Then, just like that, his concentration is back. It’s like he’s a Terminator that’s just rebooted. If Skinhead doesn’t do something in the next minute, he’s going to start the fight himself.
I have to wait for the right moment. I’ve got one crazy jailhouse neo-Nazi and a trained killer about to go for my throat . . . and my hands are still cuffed to the bars behind my back. As good as the instruction I’ve been getting from my MMA fighter student may be, it’s all theoretical.
Beyond that, I’ve only got one thing going for me, and if I fuck it up, I’m dead.
“You say some weird shit,” Skinhead says as he backs away.
Flattop knows now is the time to strike.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
PARANOID
If I were where Flattop’s sitting, my most devastating form of attack would be to use my heavy boots for a kick to the head. In one move he could knock me out and not worry about getting any bites or bruises from me. This is where I’m the most vulnerable with my hands cuffed to the bars.
His shoulders tilt to the side as he leans on his right leg, freeing up his left.
Fuck. He’s a martial artist. He’s about to kick me in the head from where he’s sitting.
Now that Skinhead has backed off, I pull my legs in under the bench. I have to be ready to move fast.
Once Flattop knows what’s going on, I won’t get a do-over.
He takes a deep breath, and one arm grips the bench to his right. I try not to watch with my eyes directly at him—I need him off guard.
Skinhead is walking back toward me, deciding that he’s going to go for it.
There’s a flash of movement to my right as Flattop’s powerful leg explodes toward my head.
But I duck before the boot smashes through the air and slams into the bars.
He has no idea how vulnerable he left himself.
My arms whip in front of me in a fraction of a second as I lunge forward and my left hand stabs the open end of the handcuff into Flattop’s left eye socket before he can get his balance.
He screams and flails at me with his hands. I get another punch in—this one to his right eye, cutting a gash over it.
He falls to the floor, and I kick him in the head. His screaming stops.
Behind me, Skinhead is looking confused.
I swing my right arm around and connect the cuffs with the side of his head.
“Fuck no! Fuck no!” he yells with his hands up, pleading for mercy.
I give him three fast punches to the temple using the cuff as a brass knuckle, dropping him to the ground. He curls up in a ball and stops moving, stunned by the head trauma.
I rush back to Flattop and wipe the blood off the cuffs using his shirt.
His breathing is labored as he lies there unconscious. He may or may not live, but he’ll definitely never see out of that wreck of an eye.
I back up to the bars and place the handcuffs just like they were before I picked them using the handcuff key I’ve kept on me since Joe Vik nearly took my life.
It takes ten minutes for the deputies to come to the cell. I don’t know if this was planned or just really bad jail management.
Skinhead has picked his head up off the ground and is leaning on the bench at the far end of the cell.
The guards unlock the door and rush to Flattop.
One of them turns to me. “What happened?”
“He attacked the other one. But he wouldn’t have it.”
An older man in a suit pushes his way through the growing crowd of deputies. He singles me out. “Who are you?”
“Theo Cray,” I reply.
“The guy that found that murder house?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
I just shake my head.
“We had a mix-up,” says a deputy. “We thought there was a warrant for him, but there wasn’t.”
“So you put him in this jail cell with these animals?”
“Sorry,” says the deputy.
The suited man reaches behind me and unlocks the cuffs. When he pulls his hands away, there’s blood on his fingertips, but he just wipes them off on his black slacks.
“This way, Dr. Cray,” he says. “Watch the blood.”
Two paramedics are working on Flattop, trying to stem the flow of blood from his eye.
I should feel some remorse, I guess. But all I can think is how much I wish he were Oyo.
The man in the suit takes me gently by the arm. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Dr. Cray. My apologies. This isn’t the kind of jail we run here.”
I glance backward at Skinhead. A paramedic is putting gauze on his bloody temple. I don’t need to worry about him.
An unreliable witness works both ways.
My primary concern is making sure my next strike happens before whoever was behind this gets to me again.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CONFESSIONAL
When I get back to my hotel room, it’s almost four in the morning. I spent the last several hours spilling my guts about everything. While I was vague about the means by which I found Oyo’s fingerprints on the DHS doorknob, the police didn’t seem bothered. In all, I spoke to two detectives from the Douglas County sheriff’s department, an Atlanta FBI agent, and a Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent—while a recorder caught everything.
They asked questions but were still trying to figure out what the hell happened at that house at Sweetwater. Throughout our conversation, deputies would come in and slide them notes.
At one point I asked, “What’s the body count right now?”
An actual forensic investigation hadn’t even started yet, but they were trying to quickly assess how serious the situation was.
Sheriff Art Duane, the man in the suit who pulled me from the cell, replied, “Fourteen, and that’s only what’s poking out of the ground.”
One of the detectives asked me if I’d ever heard of anything like this—meaning how Oyo could get away with so many killings under the watchful eye of an indifferent government.
At first my answer was no, but then I remembered the story of Andrei Chikatilo, the Butcher of Rostov. He was active in the Soviet Union for more than two decades because the Communist Party didn’t believe it was possible; they thought serial killers were a symptom of decadent societies like the United States, and moreover, they’d never have suspected one of their own party members.
In Oyo’s case, his handlers couldn’t accept the fact that they’d enabled a monster to rape and kill so freely. Now they’re so desperate to cover up this fact that they tried to have me murdered—or at the very least, shut up. I don’t know if Flattop was there to kill me. His goal may have been to put me in the hospital as a kind of warning. It’s quite possible his beating wasn’t going to involve the kind of maiming that I gave him.
I’m glad I’m realizing this now and not then, because I would have hesitated and found myself with a wired jaw and Mysterious Woman sitting in the corner telling me this is what happens when I don’t play along.
Fuck her. Fuck them. Fuck Flattop.
I had every right to cave in his skull.
This seething anger is what’s helping me stay awake as I sit in my hotel room with my back to the wall and eyes on the door.
I even put pillows under my sheets in case Cold War Bill decides to sneak in and shoot me. I’m 99 percent sure that’s not going to happen now. I’ve already spilled everything the local authorities need to know. Going after me now would only add credibility to my story. And my story didn’t involve Cold War Bill, Mysterious Woman, or Flattop. I kept them out because those are the kind of details that make me look crazy.
I try to focus on what’s most important: my rage is fueled by how they tried to fuck with me and the fact that Oyo is still out there.
He’s on the run, and I doubt they’re helping him. If they are trying to assist, it’s probably to set a trap. But he’s too smar
t for that.
I’m sure he had a backup plan if things went south. Part of that plan has to involve getting out of the country. Would he do that right now?
I gave his description to the cops who showed up at the Sweetwater house. That probably went out to every state trooper within hours.
People on the run try to either get as far away as they can or find some place where they can wait things out.
Assuming the nursery was Oyo’s only safe house in the Atlanta area, where would he go if he had to improvise? Checking in to a motel would be the quickest way to get caught.
Does he have an accomplice in the area that he could run to? Ms. Violet’s assistant Robert was afraid of him, and I doubt Oyo would flee to his church.
Where else, then?
Maybe I already have the answer . . .
I take out the map I made from the tracking data. There was one house that I had ruled out as his killing room, but it might be a place he’d run to if he needed to stay out of sight for a few days.
It’s the home in the nice suburb that belongs to the corporate attorney. While I can’t see him willingly sheltering a fugitive, what better place for a wanted African war criminal to lie low than a Waspy home in a rich neighborhood?
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
HOUSE CALL
I pull up in front of the house in my rental car and hop out without a care in the world, holding onto a package like I’m here to make a delivery.
Cars are starting to pull out of driveways as people head off to work.
There’s a Mercedes parked on the street near the mailbox—which seems odd, given that there’s plenty of driveway space in front of the two-story home.
Made from gray stone and set atop a small green hill, the house was probably the model home builders showed to sell the neighborhood.
I walk up the steps and knock on the door. Through the glass on the side I can see a rug, a staircase, and the light coming through a glass door on the other side of the house.
No one answers.
It could just be a wild hunch, but I’m not ready to drop it and tell the cops to come check on the house—which maybe I should have done in the first place, but now I’m in hunter mode.
