by Rick Murcer
“Thank you for giving this prompt attention.”
“You‘re welcome, sir. Is there anything else I can do? Do you need stamps?” asked the clerk behind the counter, her smile a little wider than necessary.
“I don’t, but thank you for asking . . . and if a need does arise, I know where to come,” he answered, returning her smile. The tall man then tipped his fedora and exited the post office in Asheville, North Carolina, his long strides making it seem as if he was in a hurry, but he wasn’t. And why should he be? He had all of the time in the world. How many people on this dismal planet could say that and mean it?
Moving to his Buick Enclave, he angled into the seat, started the engine, and turned the radio off. Music, for the most part, was tolerable, even enjoyable to some extent. It also worked to cloud his thought process and, worse, caused him to relax. For men in his position, as rare as that dominion was, relaxing could lead to errors, both in judgment and action. He could ill afford either at this juncture of the game . . . and it was a game, wasn’t it?
Everyone had agendas. Only the ignorant or the egotistically elite thought their “causes” were legitimate and selfless. That way of thinking was far more than a joke. He’d been around too long to draw any other conclusion. And his unending observation of human behavior, in and out of stress, did little to dissuade his line of thinking. Hell, it was just the opposite. When the rubber hit the road, most of mankind was about themselves—period.
Pulling out onto London Road, he tuned left at Sweeten Creek Road, choosing to drive past the Biltmore Estate one final time before leaving the quaint city. Reaching the entrance of the hotel, he slowed in appreciation of the incredible structure featuring the Technicolor of the flower gardens and the elaborate fountain pool, all framed by the shadows of the Smoky Mountains. He took two more pictures with his phone and did a U-turn, heading north on Hendersonville Road then the on-ramp to eastbound US 40. People didn’t think men like him had this kind of appreciation for nature, but as usual, those assessments were untrue.
Looking at his watch, he noticed that it was almost six o’clock, and he had a few more tasks to accomplish before the real sojourn and purpose of his visit to the Carolinas could be addressed and, for that matter, completed.
Completed.
It was such a peculiar word for a man who wore the suit—the purpose—which he embodied.
One chore completed led to another assignment and, giving who he was, those assignments weighed on him like the world on Atlas’s shoulders. It was how it had always been for him and most certainly how it should be and there was no reason for him to ever harbor belief that it would change at this juncture of his life. He was the perfect man for the perfect calling. Tiresome, yes. Fulfilling? Beyond all measure.
Slipping into the cruising lane, he adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced at the expressionless face slumped low in the middle of the back seat. The dead man’s dark eyes focused on the roof of the SUV. Of course, his passenger saw nothing. The two bullet holes in the back of his head had taken care of that. Killing him was simply another example of what his life entailed. One did what one had to do, and that seemed to be a never-ending stream.
“No rest for the weary . . . or maybe the wicked, eh my friend? But I think you knew that. I think you had begun to embrace that commission with your own personal convictions, yes?”
The silence that came next was comforting and unsettling at the same time. Not that he’d really expected the man to answer. Not to mention, there were many more methods to communicate with than one’s mouth. His mother had been right regarding that. And his guest had spoken to him, even after he’d begged for his life, even after the second bullet secured the intention of the first. Yes. He had talked to him, and he’d listened, and learned. Life was constantly offering opportunities for new knowledge; one simply had to look for them.
An hour later, he reached the edge of Cherokee National Forest and exited US 40. He pulled to the very rear of the rest area, backing up to the parking spot closest to a large stand of conifers some fifty feet away. Ten minutes later, the parking lot was empty and he got out, opened the rear-passenger door and lifted the man from his car, carrying him like a sack of potatoes over his left shoulder. He placed him against the moss-covered trunk of the most immense tree in the stand, facing the woods. He then placed his hands together, as if he were praying. A moment later he moved back to his vehicle, then stopped, and spun around to look at the man he’d met with and then murdered without a second thought.
Standing at attention, he saluted and spoke, mimicking an enthusiastic minister at a funeral for one of his deceased flock.
“Sleep well, my friend. The world will miss you and all you brought to it. So long, Max Tucker.”
CHAPTER-24
Manny watched the spring green of South Carolina go by the window as the FBI’s black SUV sped north on Highway 31 toward Wilmington with Sophie behind the wheel, Josh riding shotgun, and Manny in the back. Dean and Alex were following with the other truck.
Several golf courses to the east caught his attention and he felt a yearning he hadn’t experienced since his first partner was killed some sixteen years earlier. He actually wondered what it would be like to play golf again. It had always been a tension release for him, but the fact he was teeing it up when Kyle Chavez had been shot nine times at a domestic had soured the pleasure the game had offered him—enhancing his already dangerous workaholic tendencies. Maybe he was finally getting over it, or it was just simply the spell Myrtle Beach held over anyone bitten with the golfing addiction. There was no place quite like The Beach to play golf.
Kyle’s face floated from some obscure region of his deepest memories, then smiled and winked in his unforgettable style. The man had possessed one of the best grins on the planet and it was good to remember it once in a while.
Waiting for the familiar wave of guilt that always accompanied thoughts of Kyle, he looked at his hands, but nothing happened. He inexplicably felt free from the old self-serving condemnation. Could old demons be taught new rules?
Josh reached back and touched Manny on the arm, bringing him back to the present.
“You dreaming, Williams?”
“Nah. Just enjoying the view. Golf courses are beautiful.”
“Not if you’ve seen my game. It’s a bitch in fox’s clothing.”
“That I’d pay to see. Your golf game, that is,” said Manny.
“Me too,” said Sophie with enthusiasm. “You can take us all out to the course and I could wear some of those short skorts and tight tops with the really cool color-coordinated visors. Not to mention, I’d get to see all of your putters, drivers, and balls.”
“I’m really not sure what to do with you, Lee. Just drive,” sighed Josh, smiling just the same.
“Yeah, I get that a lot, and yes sir. Does that mean I don’t get to see your . . . equipment?”
“That’s exactly what it means. Anyway, I’ve sent for all of Max’s files, including videos of all of his latest sessions with the doctors, including the doctor he killed. Plus all of the media information listening and watching him in his cell. Rounding out all of that, anything else we had on him at the Bureau and from his previous employers.”
“How about access to bank accounts, credit cards, cell phones, and what he did with his Internet time in the psychiatric hospital?”
“I’m working on that too. It could be a day or so.”
Looking intently at Manny with those ice-blue eyes, Josh cocked his head. “How’d you know he had access to a cell phone? I mean that’s not on the rights menu for those folks.”
Manny shrugged. “It stands to reason he had some source of contact to the outside world and, as bright as he is, there would be no way to cover his tracks with the limited Internet usage the patients are given. I wouldn’t just research the phone records of the guard that helped him escape. There could have been any number of people he influenced to let him use their phones or he may have even fou
nd a way to steal one.”
“Good point,” said Josh. “He would have needed a method to access the money he gave to the guard. And how in hell did he get money into the hospital?”
“Who knows for sure? How do drugs and weapons get into prisons? It can always be traced to some outside help, but who has the time to really dig into that unless something like Max’s escape comes up? We’ll find out, eventually, but it may not help find him,” answered Josh.
“I’m more concerned with what else Argyle might have taught him, especially regarding how to disappear, how to get what he wants the most.”
Manny ran his hand through his hair. “There are a million ways to launder money and hide bank accounts, and all of that tangled mess might not get sorted out. None of that bothers me as much as his motive. What the hell is he up to? Is it just as simple as a little revenge on Josh or me or the rest of us? Is that really it?”
“I hate it when you start asking these kinds of questions,” said Sophie.
“Yeah, I have to agree with her. What the hell are you thinking?” asked Josh.
Staring out the window, Manny frowned. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. He only knew the situation with Max felt out of balance, not in line with how he would guess the man’s actions should be. Max’s stage of violence had escalated to a level that Manny wouldn’t have suspected. Now he was not only a fugitive from his sentence regarding his conspiracy with Argyle, but he was wanted for a cold-blooded murder. Max Tucker and that kind of killing didn’t add up.
He looked back to his friends. “I’ll let you know when we get the files and videos. Let’s just say I think we’re missing some pieces that might make this puzzle a little more complete. And unless I miss my guess, Max will be underground for a while if he’s going to emulate his teacher at all. He’s got to get organized and that could take days. I know I’ve been out of it for a couple of months. I’m sure of that much. Besides, we’re down here to help the Wilmington Police Department figure out what’s going on with their Goddess of Love.”
“Yeah. We’ve got a meeting in about an hour. They’ve brought in some of the North Carolina State Police detectives and forensic folks to help, if Alex and Dean need them.”
“That’ll be interesting, seeing if Alex wants help. I think he believes he’s got something to prove. But according to the department’s shrink, he’s handling the loss of the hand quite well, so maybe I’m off base,” said Josh.
“I think he’ll be fine. He’s a realist and will deal with the facts and not anything else,” said Manny. “And he’s looking forward to his new automated prosthesis.”
“Yep. And I think Dean will help keep him in the right state of mind. He’s also a lot tougher than most Dough Boys. But don’t tell him I said that. He might think I like him or something,” said Sophie.
Leaning against the seat, Josh twisted in Manny’s direction and turned his hand palm up. “So, do you have a preliminary profile of our Aphrodite conjured up in that brain of yours?”
Nodding, Manny cleared his mind and quickly, from memory, went over the files the New Hanover County’s sheriff’s office had put together. It seemed some things never changed.
The bodies of the first three victims had identical stares that could only be described as haunting. They had identical rigid positions and the scalpel work was meticulous . . . eerily artistic and not really work for her.
He shook his head. He wasn’t answering Josh’s question, he knew. Instead doing more mental mapping to an end road he hadn’t really traveled. Aphrodite was a different breed of killer.
“We’ve seen some killers in our time together only I’m not sure this type has really ever seen the light of day, at least that we know of. We’ll get into it more when we meet with the others but I think she’s only in it for the pleasure. I don’t believe she has any other agenda. Argyle, Jenkins, the killers for hire in Miami, including our friend Destina Flores, the Justice Club, and even Caleb all had some type of twisted agenda that at least in part, unleashed the beast, so to speak. I’m not so with this one.”
“What makes you say that? I mean, isn’t she just a sick bitch that decided to step out and show the world who she is? She named herself, for God’s sake,” said Sophie as they exited SC-9 and hit Business 17 toward Wilmington.
“True, she did name herself, but not for the reason you might think.”
He leaned forward and put his hand on the seat Josh was sitting in.
“I think she has found something she may have always yearned for, at least in the way her mind works. She’s been looking for something special. Something that triggers a response in her psyche that she’d never fathomed. An emotion. You can tell because she’s not doing anything to the bodies to create a sense of detachment from reality. Caleb Corner. . .” he glanced for a moment at Josh, found no reluctance, and continued. “Caleb, for instance, would decapitate his victims. It was a way for him to not really perceive them as humans, in a twisted way. She’s slow, methodical, patient. I think she enjoys being with them. Again, we’ll get into this more at the meeting, but the fact she has adopted the Aphrodite name and symbol seems to imply that she’s discovered that emotion: love. Not like we think of it, but her own perception.”
“Damn, Williams. Are you saying she loves her victims?” asked Josh.
Shaking his head, Manny sat back and glanced out of the window again.
“No, not her victims so much. She’s arrived at the best possible state for most of us and the worst for people like her . . . she loves what she’s doing and is willing to do whatever it takes to recreate that euphoria.”
CHAPTER-25
“I need your advice, Old Wise Sage of all that is Crime Scene Investigating . . . and being married since Moses crossed the Red Sea can’t hurt, either,” said Dean Mikus, smiling at Alex sitting in the passenger seat.
“Nice suck-up approach. If it’s about your wardrobe, I’m all in. I think our cat could give you some pointers. Paisley and plaid just doesn’t—”
“No, it’s not about my clothes, or my beard, or my boxers that match my socks, thank you very much. It’s something else.”
“Oh shit. More freaking images I don’t want to have running around in my head. Your boxers and socks match? Seriously? You’re more warped than I thought. Even beyond wanting to be a CSI.”
“Yeah, well, don’t forget, you’re a CSI too.”
Alex laughed, nodding his head. “Point well taken, Grasshopper.”
Dean liked the sound of the laughing. Alex had plenty of reason to not laugh over the last two months but his temperament seemed to be genuine. He’d really accepted, at least for the most part, what had happened to him in San Juan. That fact made him admire his boss and friend just that much more. Losing a hand via a swinging sword at the hands of a crazed serial killer who happened to be your boss’s half-brother was on the high end of crazy.
Glancing away from the road and the other SUV carrying Sophie, Josh, and Manny some one hundred yards ahead, Dean watched as Alex turned down the radio that was spilling Paul Hardcastle’s London in Springtime throughout the vehicle, his expression semi-serious.
“Okay, Dean. Is this about Sophie?”
“It is. But more than that, it’s about Sophie and me. I . . . well . . . I’ve been trying to get a read on her since Puerto Rico and just don’t have a clue on what’s going on in that beautiful mind of hers.”
Snorting, Alex followed with another belly laugh. “The girl’s mind has been called plenty of things, mostly related to the south end of perversion, but I don’t remember beautiful entering the conversation.”
“That could be true. But I understand her and beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“I suppose it is.”
Feeling Alex’s gaze, he glanced at him again.
“What?”
“Let me get this right. You want me to tell you what Sophie is thinking so you can go forward with whatever relationship you envision as the perfect o
ne for her and you. Is that right?”
“Yep. That pretty much sums it up. I got to do something here. She’s on my mind twenty-four/seven and if she’d say yes, I’d marry her this minute.”
He watched Alex shake his head. The way that people do when they know something you don’t. Then he spoke. “You don’t want much, do you? Trying to get into her head is like trying to figure out what the Mayans really meant at the end of their calendar. Who the hell knows and do you really want to? I don’t even think Manny wants to dig too far. I think he’d rather profile serial killers and other assorted lunatics.”
“Well, I guess that makes her just that much more unique,” Dean said, feeling a little uncomfortable that he’d brought it up at all. He’d been working with this BAU for only a couple of months and while he felt totally at ease, especially with Alex, maybe it was a little too soon for this kind of conversation. But the heart only knows what it wants—and he knew his heart desired—no, more like needed—Special Agent Sophie Lee—if she wanted it and him.
What the hell, I’ve never played by the rules anyway.
Alex must have been reading his mind, at least in part.
“You’ve been a great fit in the BAU and you are as good as any other CSI I’ve worked with, so I’m glad you feel relaxed enough to ask me what I think about her, and you and her.”
“Thanks. I sort of don’t have a real choice because I feel like she’s knocking on my door but when I answer, she skips away, not really sure if she wants to come in.”
“That’d be about right. Listen, she’s a great cop, a great friend, and I’d do anything for her. You know she’s had a couple of bad experiences in the last few years, romance wise, so I think she’s guarded. I can’t tell you what she’s thinking because I don’t believe she knows until it happens. My best advice is to just stay the course with your ‘princess-worship’ mentality and let her make up her mind when she wants to take you up on it.”
