The Vanishing

by Gary Winston Brown

  “Namely?”

  “Joseph Krebeck.” Justin minimized the internet search he was working on and pulled up the file picture of Joseph Krebeck and Amanda; the same photo that appeared in Martin’s book. “Excuse the crappy photo. Looks like it was taken with a telephoto lens.”

  Cynthia stood up. Her playful tone suddenly turned very matter of fact. She walked across the room to her desk, unlocked her filing cabinet, rummaged through a series of files, and removed a photograph.

  “What’s the matter, Cyn?” Justin asked, surprised by her sudden change of mood.

  “Can you run a photo enhancement on the girl in your picture? Maybe clean up the resolution and enlarge it?”

  Justin nodded. “Sure. Why? Something catch your eye?”

  “Just do it, please.” The urgency in Cynthia’s voice was disturbing.

  “Geez, woman. Don’t bust a seam on me! I’m working on it already! I did a comparative analysis earlier for Martin. Let me see now... where did I put that file? Oh yeah, here it is.”

  Cynthia’s concentration was fixed on the computer screen. “You say this is a file photo from Martin’s book?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “And you’ve already made a preliminary match?”

  “Yes. Dr. Prescott brought a family photo with her, which I compared to this one. It’s a definite match. Now would you mind telling me what’s going on? Why are you so interested in this girl?”

  “In a second.” Cynthia handed Justin the photograph from her file. “Do you have the photograph the doctor provided?”

  “Yeah. I scanned it into memory to compare it with Martin’s photo.”

  “Can you scan in my photo and bring all three pictures up on the screen?”

  “Pul-eeze,” Justin joked. “Is the pope Catholic?”

  Cynthia tweaked his ear.

  “Ouch,” he cried. “Man! Put you in a pair of leather pants and suddenly you’re a dominatrix.” He turned to Cynthia and winked. “Did I ever mention that’s a quality I find extremely appealing in the women I date?”

  Cynthia couldn’t help but smile. She shook her head. “You’re never going to give up, are you?”

  “Not while you can still wear those pants,” Justin replied. He watched the screen as he typed the instructions into the computer. In seconds, the three pictures appeared side by side on the screen.

  “Good,” Cynthia said. “Now, young Einstein, can you cross-reference all three women for similarities?”

  “Sure. Just let me enter a few instructions and here… we… go.”

  Instantly, the images on the screen began to flash. Dozens of lines criss-crossed the faces in the three photographs, extracting points of reference from each respective picture, creating three-dimensional profiles which rotated in circles from left to right. The word VERIFYING blinked on the bottom of the screen.

  “What’s happening?” Cynthia asked.

  “Magic, my dear,” Justin replied. “Technological magic. A facial recognition program is scanning the images we input from each of the photos and is creating a biometric signature. After that, a mathematical algorithm will normalize the pictures and reconfigure them so that they’re the same size, shape, perspective, resolution, and so on.”

  The rotating images stopped. The profiles of each woman stared straight ahead from the screen. A matrix of inter-connecting lines flashed over each picture. The word VERIFYING was replaced with IDENTIFYING.

  “What you’re seeing now is the matcher program at work,” Justin explained. “The program is trying to compare the normalized signature of your picture with the subset of the normalized signatures from the first two photographs already in memory. It’s looking for characteristic similarities between the three photos such as cranial structure, sameness in the eyes, nose, mouth, and so on, especially any dominant abnormalities. Based on its findings, it’ll give us a ranking.”

  “English, please?” Cynthia said.

  “It will give us a final decision.”

  As though caught in the web of an electronic spider, the images on the screen waited for the matrix of intersecting lines to cease their search pattern. In seconds, the word RANKING flickered on the screen, quickly followed by the word MATCH.

  “There you go, babe,” Justin said. He extended his hand to the computer screen in a greeting gesture. “Same girl as in the other two photographs. Cynthia Rowe, meet Amanda Prescott.”

  “Incredible.” Cynthia said.

  “Yes, I know,” Justin said with a grin. “Though you’ve got to give the computer some of the credit.”

  “Not you, smartass,” Cynthia replied as she tapped the computer screen with her finger. “I took this picture two weeks ago. And I spoke to this girl.”

  “You spoke to Amanda Prescott?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “West of here. In Rohnert Park, on the campus of Sonoma State University.”

  “Jesus,” Justin said. “That’s too close for comfort. If we don’t mobilize on this right away, we could lose her. We might never pick up her trail again. You better let Mark know about this right now.”

  Cynthia snatched up her knapsack and headed for the door. “On it,” she said.

  34

  CYNTHIA BURST INTO Mark’s office. “We need to talk,” she said, waving the biometric printouts in her hand.

  Mark lowered his feet from his desk. “Don’t you believe in knocking? What’s so important you need to break the door down to see me?”

  “Sorry,” Cynthia apologized. “This is important. You know the UC I’ve been working upstate?”

  “The undercover intelligence gathering at Sonoma State.”

  “Yes. Justin just showed me the profile of the new client’s sister, Amanda Prescott.”

  Mark shrugged. “So?”

  Cynthia laid the printouts out on her boss’s desk and tapped her finger on the first and second comparisons. “These are the profiles generated by the computer. I took the photo on the right two weeks ago. See the girl standing beside the guy handing out the leaflets? That’s Amanda Prescott. The computer confirms it.”

  Oyama picked up the printouts, examined them closely. “Jesus,” he said. “You’re right. Do we have identification on the other subjects in the photo?”

  “Not yet. I’ll have Justin get to work on it.”

  “Good. I want to know who these people are. Every one of them.”

  “Right away,” Cynthia said. She collected the papers off Mark’s desk and turned to leave the room.

  Mark called after her. “I want you to put your other cases on hold,” he said. “Since you’ve made peripheral contact with the subject, your input could be invaluable. This case is high profile. Amanda Prescott had been all but given up for dead. Now that we’ve got a handle on who she’s involved with, I have no doubt we’ll get the go ahead to proceed with a hard target extraction. I’m going to need my best operatives on point when it goes down.” Oyama leaned back in his chair. “I’m calling a meeting in the morning. I want you to assist me in organizing the team. Just make sure Dan Raines and Karen Lassiter are on that list. They’re ex-FBI, like me. Dan commanded Los Angeles SWAT when we worked together at the bureau. Nobody’s more field qualified than he is. Karen’s an excellent negotiator and marksman. If they’re on any other assignments, tell them to be ready to be pulled at a moment’s notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And one last thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “That was great work. Considering your caseload, to pull that photo out of memory is about as damn professional as it gets. Go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cynthia said. “That sounds like a pretty good idea.”

  35

  VIRGIL PEERED THROUGH the crack in the doorframe and watched as Fallon’s ghostly countenance drifted past the outside window as the light inside the storeroom faded to black. He let go of the air trapped in his lungs and breathed a sigh of
relief. He was safe. Voices echoed through the floorboards above, and the sound of purposeful footfalls increased in intensity. The empty service corridor would only provide temporary refuge. Fallon was still out there somewhere, and Virgil knew him well enough to know he would not easily give up the search. He had to get back to his room and tell Sky. Could it be true? Could Prophet have murdered Amanda’s parents? No, that was simply impossible. He was a disciple of God, entrusted with the lives of those who needed him for spiritual guidance and leadership. God had chosen Prophet to seek a better life, devoid of the chaos and evil the outside world read about every day on their computers and watched on the six o’clock news. He had come into their lives to show them they had been called to serve a higher purpose. Until now, Virgil had believed him without reservation. Now he was unsure what to believe. Sky would know. He had to get to back to his wife and daughter. Most importantly, he needed to tend to the gash in his leg, then rejoin the others before his absence arose suspicion.

  The room behind remained bathed in darkness. Virgil wondered if he should return the same way he had come. Fallon had gone and had not detected him. He thought about the maze of wooden chairs and tables he had successfully negotiated moments ago in the last flicker of light from Fallon’s lantern. He could do it again, re-trace his steps, follow the route he had taken through the room, make it out the door and into the night. He could slip around the corner, avoiding the woodpile this time, and follow the stone path, staying in the shadows of the buildings, keeping a watchful eye open for Fallon.

  Virgil opened the door and slipped back into the storeroom. His damaged leg flared to life, as though the devil himself had grabbed him by the wound with a hand of fire, intent on holding him long enough to alert Fallon to his attempt to escape. His leg buckled beneath him. He grabbed the brass door handle for support. The temporary compress of torn linen which he had wrapped around his leg was now wet to the touch. It slipped as he walked and grated against the wound. Suddenly, the task ahead took on a greater, more troublesome perspective. He wouldn’t get far in his present state. The quick building to building sprint that had been his plan was rapidly diminishing with each passing second. With his range of mobility now reduced to a mere hobble, Virgil forced himself to come to terms with the reality of his situation.

  He was trapped.

  36

  AS FALLON WALKED away from Communion Hall, the back door to Prophets residence creaked open. Prophet stepped outside.

  “I heard you calling out,” Prophet said. “What’s wrong?”

  “We have an intruder on the grounds,” Fallon replied. He removed the bloodstained plastic strip from the pocket of his jeans and examined it in the pale-yellow light of the lantern. “I found this under the woodpile at the back of Communion Hall.” He smoothed the darkened ooze between his fingers. “That’s blood. Fresh blood. Someone has infiltrated the compound.”

  Prophet took the strip from Fallon, turned it over, examined the metal crimp in the moonlight, tested the tacky surface of the plastic.

  “How do you know it’s not animal blood?” Prophet said. “A fox, perhaps. Could have gotten tangled up in it, chewed its way free. Foxes are always roaming around here at night. The mountain is thick with them.”

  “It’s not a fox, Joseph. It’s probably another damn reporter. Those leeches never know when to leave well enough alone. And I bet I know why they’re here.”

  Prophet replied coolly. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether or not I want to hear it.”

  “You know as well as I do,” Fallon said. “The picture in the paper. Someone recognized Amanda. They’ve come looking for her, for proof. If they find her it’s all over.” Fallon paused. “If it’s a reporter, we may have an even bigger problem to deal with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t know if our conversation was overheard. If it was, we can’t take any chances. They’d know for certain she’s here.”

  “Shit,” Prophet cursed. He looked around, searched the shadows of the adjoining buildings for signs of movement, saw none. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re right, even though I don’t believe you are. Where do you think he could be?”

  “Anywhere,” Fallon replied. “That’s the problem. There’s too much area for me to cover on my own. We need to work the grounds together. You take the east side. I’ll take the west. We’ll meet up full circle. But for now, wait here.” Fallon turned and walked away. He was headed toward Communion Hall.

  “Where are you going?” Prophet asked.

  “The workroom,” Fallon answered without looking back. “I’m going to get the rifles.”

  37

  VIRGIL UNWRAPPED THE makeshift dressing, examined the wound, traced his finger around the outside of the gash. The bleeding had stopped for the moment. If he could make it across the room in the darkness to the stack of fabric bolts, he could tear off another strip, re-dress the wound, make the compress even tighter, restrict the blood flow. His eyes were now accustomed to the darkness. The pale moonlight filtering through the windows provided shadowy dimension to the objects which cluttered the room. Cautiously, he navigated his way between the wooden furnishings, his attention focused on the wall containing the many shelved fabric bolts. Once he had re-dressed the wound, he would regain his mobility, or at least a better portion of it. He might even manage a crippled sprint and be back to the security of his room in a matter of minutes. Once there, he would clean up the wound, change his clothes, and join the others in Communion Hall. Muffled voices came from outside the storeroom as the others made their way to the dining area. The acoustics of the room spirited them off the walls and ceiling, made them unrecognizable. Still, Virgil found himself strangely grateful for their company. When he reached the middle of the room, he suddenly froze in mid-step. Waves of familiar lamplight rose and fell against the bank of windows and chased the shadows that had become his allies back into their corners. Fallon was returning! Perhaps he had been seen after all. Or maybe Fallon had smelled fear in the air and was tracking him now, like a wolf tracking its prey. As dust-rich beams of lamplight infused the storeroom, Virgil scurried around the obstacles in his path and slipped into a narrow space between the storehouse wall and the rack. Several fabric bolts stood against the wall beside him, too tall to place lengthwise into the rack. Virgil slipped in behind the loose bolts and pressed his back to the wall. As lamplight charged in from outside, he peered out from behind his hiding place and examined the sawdust-covered floor. Footprints, his footprints, traced a distinct path around the tables and chairs to where he stood. Thankfully, no blood had dripped from his leg to the floor, at least none that he could see from his limited perspective. Not that it would have mattered. Up to this point, he had been lucky. Now he had the distinct feeling that his luck was about to run out. Twenty feet separated him from the door. He watched it swing open, then turned his body against the fabric rack, attempting to slip even further behind it. Fallon stood in the doorway. He surveyed the room with a careful eye, swept it with the light of the lantern, then looked in his direction. As Fallon entered the room, Virgil felt his stomach drop. He stood statue still behind the fabric bolts and calculated his options should he be discovered. If Fallon got within several feet, he could charge him before being recognized, take him by surprise, knock him to the ground, and push the fabric bolts on top of him. With Fallon distracted, he would pull even more bolts off the shelf and throw those on top of him too, hopefully delaying him long enough to make good his escape. But that solution wasn’t practical. Fallon would fall to the ground, as too would the lantern he held in his hand. It would smash to the floor in the melee and a fire would inevitably ensue. The sawdust that covered the floor would accelerate the blaze, along with the many wooden furnishings, cans of paint, and bolts of cloth. In truth, there would be nothing Virgil would like to see more than Fallon collapse into a tomb of fire if the conversation he had overheard was true. But there were others in the bu
ilding, and they would become innocent victims. Virgil could not allow that to happen. He could not expose his friends and family to such peril. He needed a better option. Perhaps he would step out from behind the security of his hiding place, confront Fallon face to face, tell him what he had heard, and demand an explanation for the murderous conspiracy. One option or the other, he thought as Fallon stepped further into the room. Decide now. You’re not going to get a second chance.

  38

  FALLON PLACED THE lantern on a chair, turned away, then crossed the room to a small closet from which he removed two rifles. Virgil watched from behind the fabric bolts as he placed the rifles and a handful of shells on an unfinished table and loaded the guns one by one, first breaking the breach and inspecting the barrel for obstructions, then snapping the weapon closed. A single shell rolled across the surface of the table in a wandering arc and dropped to the floor. Fallon walked around the table to retrieve the errant projectile that had fallen into a deep mound of sawdust. He lifted the lantern from the chair, placed it on the floor beside him, and raked his bony fingers through the sawdust. He found the shell, shook off the excess sawdust, and slipped it into his pocket. The lantern’s wire handle slipped in his grip as he lifted it, and he caught it quickly before it fell to the floor. It felt damp to the touch. He set down the lantern, brushed away the fine particles of sawdust from his fingers, and examined his hand in the lamplight.

  More blood.

  Whoever he sought had been in this room.

  Fallon remained motionless, listening intently to the surrounding sounds. He picked up the lantern and rose slowly to his feet. Were they still here, watching him, even now? He lifted a rifle from the table, drew back the bolt, and chambered a round.

  From above, sounds echoed throughout the room. In the door’s direction, floorboards creaked.