by Rick Murcer
For the first time since they’d arrived, she noticed the others from the Bureau. There were at least four men and three women agents that she could see and no telling how many of Braxton’s DEA group might be hanging around.
The Bureau’s people weren’t all that great at subtlety. Each of them, including the women, were dressed in dark suits and glasses to match. Each was positioned according to protocol; and were scanning the throng of people coming to Manny’s funeral from every angle. Pretty damn odd for a funeral. Something was up and she was in no mood for guessing games. Apparently Chloe wasn’t either. Before Sophie could speak, Chloe grabbed Josh by the arm, then pointed to Braxton, and nodded at Sophie. The invite was as obvious as the cold wind.
“You two care to step over there with Sophie and me for a minute? We’ve got a word or two to share, don’t ya know.”
A few seconds later, the four were huddled in a group some twenty feet away. Chloe didn’t beat around the bush, her green eyes on fire.
“What the hell are you two doing? This is Manny’s funeral, for God’s sake, and ya got agents crawling all over this place. You better have a good reason or I swear I’ll shoot the both of you.”
Sophie cringed. There wasn’t even a hint of humor in Chloe’s voice. She just might do it.
Braxton stared at the asphalt. Josh studied Chloe, then glanced at Sophie, then back to Chloe. Even under the circumstances, it was hard not to dive into his incredible blue eyes. She pushed the thought away, for now.
“We’re hoping that Michael Garity, the one who stabbed Manny, shows. You both know he fell off the edge of the earth after the hotel camera saw him sprint through the exit door and down the steps.”
“We had no luck on our end eider,” said Braxton. “Da man had his plan togedder for sure, and we couldn’t find a hair from his damn head.”
Chloe’s eyes softened but stayed steady. “Why would you think that he’d show up here?” she asked.
“Yeah, why? We all know these guys don’t return to the scene, alone to a damned . . . funeral,” said Sophie, more curious than ever.
“It’s about the profile. This guy may have been some kind of Argyle disciple,” said Josh.
“Really? Well, why the hell not? Every freaking sicko on the planet seems to have met that bastard. Even our own Max Tucker. But I think you’re all paranoid. He couldn’t have influenced that many people,” said Chloe.
“His profile says he could. Manny thought so too,” said Josh.
“Shit. Why won’t that psycho bitch stay dead?” asked Sophie.
Josh shook his head. “The Good Doctor was one of a kind and we all know how he planned for everything right up to, and after, Manny took care of him. Anyway, we’d checked Garity out completely before his hire. We knew he had roots in Ireland and, as much as we like to hire American pilots, he was a good fit for the FBI. He had a great record as a pilot and passed the background and psych testing with flying colors. But about a year ago, he started missing work and then had a couple run-ins with his supervisors. They put him on probation and he seemed to straighten out.”
“I guess not,” said Sophie.
“You’re right,” said Josh, sighing. “We went over his phone records, checked his credit card records, etcetera, and—based on what we’ve found—figured that he must have been following Manny for a few months. Hell, he was even at the pub where Manny proposed to Chloe.”
Chloe’s eyes glistened, but she stayed silent. Sophie could only imagine what was going through her mind. The most amazing night of her life and Argyle had already planned to take it away from her, and Manny along with it. Sophie wasn’t one for believing in evil spirits but, if she’d ever met anyone who fit into that suit, Doctor Fredrick Argyle had worn it to a tee.
“So, because of this possible, and I mean possible, association with Argyle, you think Garity’s going to show?”
“We do and . . .”
Chloe interrupted, nodding. “I think he has no choice. It’s the only way for him to get closure and affirmation that he’d done what his master had wanted.”
“So, since Garity hasn’t seen the body, in his twisted-ass reality, Manny’s not dead,” said Sophie, still trying to reconcile putting the words "Manny” and “dead” in the same sentence.
“That’s what the other BAU profilers think,” said Josh.
“Yeah, but dey not be no Agent Manny Williams,” said Braxton.
“Who is . . . was?” said Josh softly.
“Okay, say that’s right, that he’s going to show. He’s pretty hard to miss. He was a little overweight and about six-two,” said Sophie.
“Yeah, but there are ways to blend in. He could have lost weight, shaved his head, and grown a beard, whatever. I mean, look how many black suits and ties are here,” said Josh.
“We could miss him?” asked Chloe, a hard edge in her voice.
Sophie knew Chloe was starting to think that she might get a chance to confront Manny’s killer. She felt her heart jump at that thought too. Maybe they both would.
Shrugging, Josh spoke. “We could. It’s his goal to get out of this with his ass intact but, so far, we’ve not even knowingly smelled his deodorant.”
“And dats if we be right and Garity shows,” added Braxton.
“Like I said, I think he has to,” said Chloe.
Sophie knitted her brow together. “I think Chloe’s right, but maybe he doesn’t want to fly under the radar. Maybe he wants to make the six o’clock news. Maybe he—”
She was disrupted by yelling at the side entrance of the funeral home where Jen Williams and the others were standing. Sophie spun around and her heart sank somewhere past her knees. Alex was yelling and pointing to a man in a dark suit, a tall man with long black hair who had appeared out of nowhere. The man hesitated like a shoplifter who’d been discovered, took a wild swing at Alex, missed, then pulled a huge black handgun from his coat. He grabbed Jen, his large right hand over her face, and pulled her through the door into the funeral home, firing shots at random as he did.
CHAPTER-4
Lance Morgan loved his life. Who wouldn’t? He’d not had to scrap or claw or fight for anything. Being born with a silver spoon tucked firmly in his mouth had never been the curse for him that others ranted on about so philosophically. Idiots. The rich were bestowed with privilege beyond comprehension, especially in America. Yet people in his rare, special class, even a couple of his superficial Harvard friends, had put guns in their mouths or swallowed a bottle of pills. He shook his head and sipped his morning brandy.
He hadn’t had to roll out of bed at some ungodly hour, punch the clock, and then return home from the mindless function of stamping out bumpers on a forty-ton press or shuffling paper in buried files that no one would see again. He had not done a tour of duty flipping burgers or bagging groceries as a teen because his father wanted him to learn the meaning of a day’s work.
He smiled. Good old daddy. He’d almost forbidden his only son to associate with those kinds of people, let alone work with them. Some folks would call the Morgans snobs, elitists in fact. But when the term billionaire was printed in front—or in back—of your name, who gave a rat’s ass what others thought? Not him, thank God. In his mind, cultivated by the way his father had taught him, not by words, really, but by his actions, he was superior to most and deserved the privileges that went with superiority. Any fool could see that.
Standing, he worked his way to the Olympic-sized pool but stopped at the gold-trimmed fifteenth-century French mirror. He ran his fingers over his face and smiled. He was handsome. Dark complexion, coal-black hair, piercing brown eyes flecked with gold. Not to mention, he was as well conditioned as any professional athlete and, at only thirty-two, he looked the part. Throw in an inexhaustible checkbook and it was virtually impossible for women to resist him, and none had . . . ever.
Lance continued his stroll through the twenty-five-thousand-foot mansion that sat back from the Atlantic Ocean. His thoughts chur
ned while he watched the waves amble toward the North Carolina shore as he placed his drink on the marble table running half the length of the expansive verandah.
In spite of all the women he’d had, that type of life could become boring, in a rich-bastard sort of way. After all, how many women can one man have before even the act of sex, in any fashion or appetite, became just another thing to do? He was a member of the mile-high club, the one-hundred-mile-per-hour club, the top-of-the-mountain club, and even the scuba-diving club. All giving him a different thrill, but already done nonetheless.
That had all changed four nights ago when he’d met Lily. She had captured his imagination, and then put a hand, literally, on his desire of desires, which, incredibly, he never knew existed. Maybe it was love, an emotion more than new to him, or maybe it was the unexplainable power she seemed to hold over him. When they were in the throes of their games, he sometimes felt like an insect and she was the boot . . . and he welcomed it. After two sessions with her, he was as addicted to what she did for him as any addict jonesing for the next fix . . . perhaps worse. The thought of losing that feeling was unthinkable. And, furthermore, she knew it. Never in his life would he have thought it possible for a woman, any woman, to cast a spell over him like she had. Mind-boggling and delectable at the same time. Maybe there was something about the old adage that one learns something new every day.
Reaching for the Courvoisier L'Essence de Courvoisier brandy, he drained the last drop just as his cell vibrated in his shirt pocket. Looking at the screen, he smiled. His Lily, with her unique gifts, was on the line. His heart rate rose and his hands began to shake. With the house to himself for another two months, they’d be free to do whatever, whenever. And they would.
Desperately trying to gain his composure, he answered. “Yes, dear Lily. Are you at the gate?”
Her velvet voice said she was. With a flick of his thumb, he opened the huge iron gate with the app on his smartphone and then he was back to her. “I’ve been waiting impatiently all morning.”
Her laughter was far more intoxicating than the brandy. Then her phone went silent. Just like her to start the game already. Fine by him. Let the games begin. It only made his anxious anticipation, and lust, soar into the stratosphere.
Lance moved to the door and opened it just as she limped around the final bend of the driveway. He frowned. Her Beemer was nowhere in sight. Maybe that was smart. No one would know he had company. Even in his world, privacy was only a pipedream.
Once she’d gotten to the opened door, she reached for his hand. “Hi Lance. It’s so good to see you, not to mention do you.”
Lifting her off the ground, he held her tight. “I can’t wait,” he whispered.
“Nor can I. Put me down and get inside. This will be the day your mind won’t be able to handle.” Then she kissed him on the lip, biting as she did.
Warm blood coursed to the corner of his mouth as he shut the large mahogany door, and he reveled in it.
Lance Morgan turned toward his new love, gave her his most charming look, then, without warning, spun to his knees. His lips and face were tingling as a million pins and needles stabbed him repeatedly. His skin turned to fire and, just as quickly, there was no feeling at all. The next horrible moment he was flat on the floor, unable to move or even blink. Yet his brain was on full alert.
A sound echoed within the room, like several children running through the marbled halls of the house. He realized that it was his heels hitting the floor at an uncontrollable rate, vibrating to a beat that seemed impossible for humans to accomplish. And then it was over.
Odd. He couldn’t move, but felt the coolness of the floor and his eyes were beginning to burn for lack of moisture.
What the hell?
Lance’s mind did what anyone’s would in this situation; he craved help. Lily. But it occurred to him that she wasn’t helping. Certainly she could see he was in trouble, that something was terribly wrong with him. He glanced up and received the answer he’d never dreamed would be his.
Lily, his Lily, was above him wearing a smile that raised his fright to an indefinable level. She, it, was void of any brand of joy but, instead, filled with—dare he think it—an evil he’d not envisioned. Watching as fear gripped his heart, she bent close to him.
“Don’t worry, darling Lance. I won’t let the toxin steal your breath. That’s something that I’ve waited to do since you put your fingers on my imperfect hand. You simply had no idea what you were in for.”
She nuzzled his ear, bit it, and laughed. She then reached into her pink bag, pulling out two objects.
If his eyes could have grown wider, they would have. In her right hand was the largest corkscrew he’d ever seen, accompanied by a shining three-inch medical scalpel. He tried to scream, to move, to run. But the only thing he could sense at all was the beating of his heart, barely.
Lowering herself to the floor, she proceeded to sit cross-legged at his left shoulder, leaning close and smiling a brilliant smile.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed the last look at the thing you crave most in this life. The sex we had didn’t do much for me but, then again, my pleasure is still to come.”
Stroking his face with her hand she began to sing something he didn’t recognize, and then placed the corkscrew upright on his chest, point down.
Once again, he tried to move but nothing happened. Yet he did notice, however, that he was having difficulty breathing. More panic. Men like him didn’t check out this way. For one of the few moments in his life, he wished his father were here.
Lily bent closer to his ear. “You must be curious as to what’s happening to you. Fair enough. Let me just say that the ocean is my friend,” she whispered.
Even at that instant, he felt a flash of desire for her.
The next second, his chest bore the brunt of pain delivered from hell itself. Blood pulsed into the air as Lily’s laughter echoed off the walls. Lance watched as she turned the corkscrew again, and screamed, but only his mind heard it. After two more excruciating turns, she lowered her face to his, and he saw the pleasure throbbing in her crazed eyes. It was then, truly then, that he knew he’d die today.
A moment later, she straddled his chest, raising the scalpel to his right eye, still wearing that God-awful grin. She plunged the steel at his face just as he felt his heart run amok in his chest. He barely felt the scalpel withdraw from his iris. And then he felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER-5
Sophie pushed past Alex and Chloe and sprinted toward the open storm door where the big man had disappeared with Jen Williams. He had to be Michael Garity. He’d lost weight, was wearing a wig or had grown his hair, but the height was right and the purpose unmistakable.
How did he get past everyone? There were at least thirty agents looking for him.
She ducked inside, feeling the others at her back, her throwing star drawn and her eyes searching for the son of a bitch that had killed her Manny and then had the balls to take his daughter . . . right in front of her no less.
Sophie burst through another interior door and wondered briefly how she would stop herself from killing Garity if given even the remotest of opportunities.
Looking to her left, she waited. Three passageways staggered down the dimly lit hallway. The first doorway was on the left about halfway down. At the end of the hall was an open corridor that probably led to the basement and, to the right, a stairway ascended to the main service room of the funeral parlor.
Both seemed to beckon her with an invitation to enter, to find out if life or death lurked. She clenched her star, then pulled her weapon, one in each hand, then moved forward with the resolve that had protected her in the past.
“I think not, you bitches,” she whispered.
Taking another step, Sophie hesitated again, listening for something that would help make the next decision. She slowed her world down and used all of her senses just like Manny had taught her. There was no screaming, no disruption or commotion coming from the
main floor up the stairs, so Garity hadn’t gone in that direction. There was no noise behind the first door either and her intuition told her Garity and Jen weren’t there. That left one option: the basement.
Cocking her head, she realized another truth; she should have heard footsteps behind her, as in, where in hell were Josh, Dean, and the others? She felt suddenly alone, almost abandoned, having no control over anything coming down the pike, and that made her skin crawl. Fear had never been a companion, but it had its hand on her shoulder now.
She glanced behind her again. Nothing. Sophie regripped the star and tightened the hand on her gun even more. Listening intently, she still heard nothing except the thumping of her heart in her chest and ears.
“What the hell is going on?” she whispered.
Just then, the light in the short hallway pulsed and dimmed, causing the shadows to rise up like so many unholy monsters. She shook it off as imagination but, in her heart, she knew that the hall was darkening and the terrors were gathering strength.
The moan from behind the first door brought her to full attention as she snapped her head back in that direction, her fear escalating, her heart pumping faster. Shaking off the emotion that would damn her, maybe even kill her if she didn’t control it, she moved closer to the door, placing her ear against it gently.
She couldn’t tell if the maker of the moan was Jen, but who else could it be? Or was it a trap that Garity hoped she’d fall into? And, for the second time, she wondered, where in hell Josh and the others were?
Some things in life never changed. She was always surrounded by people but forever alone, especially since Manny was gone. He had gotten her. He’d understood the why of her. But Garity had taken that away. Good God, she hated him and prayed that he was behind that door so she could slay two demons at once; Garity himself and the next forty to fifty years without Manny. The fear had returned and, this time, she allowed it, knowing that fear would turn to anger, then a roaring rage. Manny would tell her to think and toss the emotion aside, but she didn’t care. She was going to kill Garity, and she was going to enjoy it.
