When Shadows Fall

by J. T. Ellison

  So when he pulled up to his house on Capitol Hill, he was surprised to see Jordan Blake sitting on his doorstep. She had a pizza and a six-pack on her lap, and a document box by her side.

  He parked and joined her. “I thought I was supposed to be resting.”

  “You rest, I’ll talk.”

  He pointed at the box. “What’s all this?”

  “Two years’ worth of SIGINT. If Matcliff really was checking in, we should be able to find evidence of it in these files.”

  He raised an eyebrow, walked up the stairs and unlocked his front door. He reached for the brown cardboard box, hefted it into his free arm. It was heavy.

  “Place is a mess,” he said.

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  He shrugged and opened the door. “After you.”

  Once they were both inside, she double-checked the door was locked and leaned up against it. She looked around the room for a minute, didn’t seem inclined to run screaming into the street. Still, he didn’t let his guard down, especially when she started to talk.

  “Listen. What I’m about to share with you—we’re totally off book. This might cost me my job. I can trust you, right?”

  He paused a second, then set the box down gingerly on his coffee table, sending a prayer of thanks to whatever god was responsible for inciting the random cleaning spree he’d done last week. At least there was room on the table for the box—if this had been last Saturday night, it would have been covered two feet deep in back issues of The Washington Post and the corners of the rooms would be full of random crap. He tried to remember when he’d last changed the sheets, and chided himself—she wasn’t going to be seeing his bedroom, so it hardly mattered.

  He tapped the lid of the box. “I take it you’re not supposed to have this stuff?”

  “Nope. Thurber made it very clear I was on ViCAP matches to the information Baldwin pulled out of Rousch tonight, before she took off on you. Slipped right out from under your protective little thumb, eh, Detective?” She grinned. She was too damn cute for her own good.

  “Focus, Special Agent. My thumbs aren’t little. Now, ViCAP?”

  “Right. There’s a definite link between the garrotings and the sightings of Eden. We’re running a property check. Seems they owned land in all the same places where our girls went missing, so I’m fairly confident this is our group.”

  “So why are you here with this?”

  “When I got home tonight, this box was on my porch, with a note that said ‘Keep it to yourself.’ I opened it, saw the SIGINT traffic, knew exactly what it was, figured you’re outside the Bureau, might be willing to lend a hand.”

  “Who left it for you?”

  “It wasn’t Thurber, that’s for sure. He’s acting weird. I think it was Baldwin. He was completely shaken up by the news Matcliff was still calling in.”

  “What about Rachel? Any sign of her?”

  “They’re working the map Kaylie Rousch left. It’s our best lead yet. Problem is, there’s nothing out there. Not that they’ve found, at least. Big push in the morning, search teams, aerial, the whole works. We all need some sleep in case we get into trouble out there.”

  “I see. So instead of sleeping like everyone else, we’re going to go through reams of paper looking for...what, exactly?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She plopped down on his couch and popped open a beer. “You ready for an all-nighter? We find the good stuff, maybe I get a promotion.”

  He sighed and shook his head, reached out for a beer. “You so owe me.”

  She opened the box and pulled out the file on top, gave him a little smile. “Matcliff’s jacket. Want to read over my shoulder?”

  “Naw, you read it to me. It’ll be faster if you pick out the important stuff.”

  “Suit yourself.” She flipped the first page. “Douglas Carl Matcliff the Third, born 1969, Fairfax County Hospital, mother Mary, father, obviously also Douglas, attended Langley High School, graduated 1987. Enlisted in the marines right out of school, looks like more to get a piece of the G.I. Bill than anything else. Served his three years, got an honorable discharge then matriculated from George Mason University with a degree in Economics in 1996. He applied to Fairfax County Police Academy, was accepted first round. We picked him up in 2003, put him through the Academy at Quantico, and he was assigned to Headquarters under Supervisory Special Agent Anne Carter.” She stopped, took a sip of her beer.

  “Plum assignment, working with Anne Carter. She was a mover and shaker, smart, attractive, articulate, able to lead and a solid investigator, one of the ones the brass keep their eyes on.”

  “Like you?”

  She smiled wide, which made her dimples show. “You’re too kind. Doug caught her eye while he was at the Academy, and he attached himself to her, knowing full well as her star rose, so would his. And they were both rising. When all this went down, Anne was about to be moved to the New York Field Office as an ASAC in the Criminal Investigative Division up there. That’s the big leaping-off point, New York CID.”

  “Until Eden made everything go south.”

  She flipped a page. “Not exactly true. It didn’t stop Anne. She was on record saying it was a bad idea to send Doug undercover, knowing he wasn’t ready, but she was overruled. It was her boss who got yanked and sent out to run one of the Midwest field offices, and Anne went on to New York without a blemish.”

  “Interesting. So tell me, how could an upstanding guy like Matcliff, with all his training from the marines, the Fairfax County Police and the FBI, get roped into a religious cult? Did he have a record of being a spiritual guy?”

  She looked at the file. “Episcopal, nonpracticing. Nope.”

  “Do you think it’s possible he was kept against his will?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He clearly got out the first chance he had.”

  “What was his MOS in the marines?”

  “MOS?”

  “Military Occupation Specialty. It’s what they do. Like Xander—you met him earlier—was an infantry guy. Eleven Bang Bang, they called his group. But he was also a sniper.Rangers are known for multiple skills.”

  “Oh. Let’s see. Matcliff was Field 0621—a radio operator.”

  “Which answers nothing. Okay. Consider the Spanish Inquisition over for now. Let’s start looking at these captures, see if we can find his check-ins.”

  They split the box in two, worked for an hour, devouring the pizza, highlighting anything that looked interesting. There were pages and pages of old SIGINT electronic traffic, and Fletcher hadn’t seen anything that seemed remotely tied to Doug Matcliff, Eden or Kaylie Rousch.

  Jordan tossed her glasses onto the stack of papers, stretched and yawned. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. This is the old email database system. They shut it down several years ago. Our newer versions are much more comprehensive, and easier to scan.”

  Fletcher went to sip his beer, realized it was empty. He reached for another, and Jordan handed him the opener. He cracked the lid. “There’s a reason this box was left for you. We just need to figure out what it is. There’s probably a codex we’re missing, something that will translate this stuff.”

  She looked at him as if he’d said the most brilliant thing in the world.

  “What?”

  “Fletch, you’re absolutely right. We need to find the patterns in the communications, and use a key to unlock it.”

  “And here I was, just tossing it out there.”

  “No, you’re onto something. So where do we find the key? Is it in the names, the dates, the addresses?”

  He looked down at the paper he was holding. It was an email sent in to the FBI’s old private email system. “The FBI uses code names for cases, right?”

  “Absolutely. Just like the military. E
nsures privacy, a sense of pride in the mission, all that good stuff. Why?”

  “What was the code name for Matcliff’s cult infiltration?”

  “Operation Hierarchy.”

  He looked up from the paper. “Seriously?”

  “Hey, I didn’t name it.”

  “What was Matcliff’s code name?”

  She flipped through the file. “Saxon.”

  Fletcher grinned. “At least that makes sense. He went to Langley High School. Their mascot is a Saxon.”

  “A Saxon?”

  “Yeah, the Anglo-Saxons, for the Scottish heritage of the area. Dude looks like a Viking to me, with the yellow hair and a crazy helmet, but who the hell knows. That’s irrelevant. Let’s look for communications that might have Saxon in them.”

  Once they knew what to look for, the information they needed became clear. Matcliff had been sent into Eden in November 2004, when the cult would have been settling down for the winter. In an agrarian society, when there isn’t much to do outside, everything becomes internal, and Eden didn’t seem to be any different. The days followed a familiar pattern—religious study, led by the “Mother,” morning, noon and night, what they called feasts every Sunday, where the whole group ate together, and preparation for what he referred to as a Reasoning, which sounded like more lessons from their leader.

  Matcliff messaged dutifully every Tuesday night at 10:00 p.m. for the three months he was under. At first they were simple, straightforward communications. Nothing new to report, Eden operating on a routine schedule, names of the followers, some unimportant details. They all finished with “I can’t find anything wrong. Give me more time. Geddon.”

  They didn’t know what Geddon meant. They set it aside to look at later.

  In February 2005, there was a sudden shift in the pattern of the messages. He skipped two Tuesdays, then filed from a new IP address. Fletcher read it aloud. “Eden on the move. Will travel with them. Must go, more later. Geddon.”

  And that was it. The messages stopped entirely.

  He flipped through the pages again, thinking he’d missed something. No, it all stopped. There was nothing more from Doug Matcliff.

  “No further communications from Saxon after February 2005.”

  Jordan was staring at a piece of paper, eyes narrowed.

  “What is it?”

  “I think I found where it picks up again. It’s months later. He’s using the code name Savage instead of Saxon, but it’s clearly him. How did they miss this?”

  “He set up shop in Lynchburg under the name Timothy Savage. It fits. Let me see.”

  She hesitated.

  “Jordan, what is it?”

  With a sigh, she handed the pages over. “Confirmation of something we expected. God, why didn’t he just pick up the phone and call in?”

  Fletcher read through the pages one by one, each word filling him with absolute horror.

  “Jordan, Matcliff claims there was another girl like Kaylie brought into the cult. He’s giving instruction on how to get her out. Her name was—”

  She sat back on the sofa and crossed her legs. “Names, Fletch. Names. Emily Harper, Ella Reynolds, Nicole Wells, Kelly Rodriguez and Olivia Mills.”

  Fletcher looked up. “What did you say?”

  “Emily Harper would have been the one he’s talking about, I suppose.”

  “And the other names?”

  “The other girls who resemble Kaylie Rousch and who disappeared over the past fifteen years.”

  “You mean to tell me you have more girls missing? Why wasn’t this part of the briefing?”

  “Because Thurber didn’t clear any of you to be told about it.”

  “Well, shit, sister, you better start talking, because I don’t work on cases without all the facts, and I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms. What the hell? Five more girls?

  “Don’t get angry with me. I’m here, aren’t I? And telling you the whole story, against orders. Rob and I had a big fight about this earlier. He’s worried about the way it looks.”

  “He’s right to worry. But I don’t give a crap about how it looks. Facts. Now. Or I’m out.”

  She looked down, bit her lip and told him everything.

  The more he heard, the more he knew there weren’t going to be any happy endings to this story.

  Chapter

  47

  Near Lynchburg, Virginia

  ADRIAN STRUGGLED THROUGH the woods. He knew he was leaving a trail, bending the shrubs, blood leaking onto the green moss, but it didn’t matter. He needed to get back to the car and get the hell out of Dodge.

  The darkness in Fred McDonald’s basement had saved him. When the gun went off, Adrian hit the floor and rolled backward toward the open door to the yard. The man’s aim had been slightly off. If he’d pointed the shotgun to the left even ten degrees, he would have taken Adrian down, permanently. But the pellets had missed his vital organs, spraying across the left side of his body, causing crippling pain, but not stealing his life.

  Adrian got to his feet and charged McDonald, put his arms around the man’s ample body and squeezed, hard. He fought back, slamming the stock of the shotgun into Adrian’s knee. There was no time to play. Adrian had to end it immediately or risk losing his own life. He couldn’t afford to let the man go for a moment.

  McDonald’s neck was meaty, corpulent, and when it was clear strangulation was going to take too long, Adrian simply put his hands on either side of McDonald’s ears and wrenched the man’s head hard to the right.

  There was an unholy crack, then the smell of ammonia and shit filled the air. Adrian dropped McDonald to the floor and rushed out of the basement.

  The bastard had been waiting for him. He’d shot him.

  Adrian saw spots in front of his eyes, and knew he didn’t have much time.

  He rested against a tree, smelled the blood seeping from his side. He must return to Eden. He needed Curtis’s healing power, and the power of his sacrosancts. They would be able to pick the pellets from his side and nurse him back to health.

  While he rested, catching his breath, he thought about his old friend Doug. The man who’d betrayed him, who faked his love and duty, who’d stolen Adrian’s plaything. The younger girls were his to do with as he saw fit, and while he understood the necessity of the Reasoning, he didn’t particularly enjoy his job with them. He was all about the chase, the challenge, finding the right look then ripping them from their lives to please his mistress, who wanted girls in her own image to be Eden’s daughters.

  Curtis’s love was more important than any tenet in the Book, or what little morality he’d been taught. When he brought the unclean ones to her, he was rewarded with a week of freedom, freedom to roam, to fulfill his base urges, to steal life from the unsuspecting.

  He’d lived for those moments.

  Things were going so well.

  And then his old friend, the one they’d made the bargain with, the one they’d promised to leave alone, had to torpedo their lives and ruin everything.

  He would kill him all over again if he could, wrap his arms around his neck and squeeze until his limbs splayed out like a spider pinned to a board, his arms pummeling Adrian’s chest, heels against his thighs, as the life left him.

  How far the mighty had fallen.

  He pushed off the tree, worked his way through the woods, back to his car. He gave it a quick look and it appeared undisturbed. He fumbled with the keys, realized he was light-headed. He got the door open and sat heavily.

  He needed to go now, or he’d be too weak to make the two-hour drive.

  Two hours to the love of his people, the gentle hands of his mistress, and then they’d make their plan.

  He pulled out onto
Highway 29 too fast, the tires scrabbling in the scree until they gained purchase on the pavement, and drove north, letting his mind wander where it would.

  * * *

  It was a week before Christmas, 2001. Adrian had spent a week waiting every night at the Tombs, a bar he knew Doug liked to frequent back in the day. He’d kept an eye on his old friend since he’d returned to northern Virginia after his stint in the military. He’d gone to college, and landed a job with the Fairfax County Police. Through all of that, Doug was predictable. He returned to his old haunts on a regular basis, almost as if he were looking for something. Or someone.

  Curtis had decided she needed Doug, and it was Adrian’s duty to bring him into the fold.

  Doug walked through the doors at eleven, already drunk, a blonde wearing a postage-stamp-sized dress on his arm. He’d grown over the years, filled out, was broad and tall and handsome. Not as big as Adrian, of course; few were. But the marines and the police had done a good job of turning Doug from a boy to a man. The way Curtis had done for Adrian.

  He let his old friend get a beer, dance a bit and stick his tongue down the blonde’s throat a few times before he approached. He went slowly and gently; he knew his size alarmed people. That and the look of reckless fury simmering in his eyes. He had become the fiery sword in the years since they parted. He had the power now.

  Doug saw him coming. His eyes opened wide, then he was in his old friend’s arms, slapping him on the back.

  “Where the hell have you been all these years? You dropped out of school and no one heard from you.”

  “Around. How are you, Doug?”

  “Good, good. This is...” He paused and the girl supplied her name, which Adrian didn’t hear. He was too focused on Doug. On how he was going to recruit him. He didn’t want to bring Doug in kicking and screaming. He wanted him to see the joy and beauty Eden had to offer, and want to be a part of them.