The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” Wagner said.

  Wagner yanked the sliding door open and watched Emily’s face. For a terrible moment, he thought she was going to pass out. She steadied herself, but her pupil dilations, nostril flares, and the rapid rising of her chest told him all he needed to know.

  She turned toward him, eyes moist, and said, “What is it?”

  He let her off the hook for the moment and walked her out of the building without making her get closer to the ruined Just Judges painting. He was short on time, and he preferred to let what she saw percolate in her mind overnight.

  “There you are,” Evans said, coming down the stairs to the lobby. “Matthews is looking for you. Did you really show Burrows the painting?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Wagner said, watching Emily on the sidewalk outside through the lobby’s giant windows.

  “So what’s the verdict?” Evans asked as they headed up the stairs.

  “I don’t know, yet. She’s hiding something. When the newscast is over, send a car over to sit on her apartment. Make sure she can see them.”

  “You got it,” Evans said.

  EMILY HALF EXPECTED to see someone following her when she looked back. There were a few ­people on the sidewalk behind her, but most of them faced the other way. She was being paranoid, but the realization did little to abate the tension she felt.

  Thoughts bounced around her head like ricocheting bullets. It can’t be him. It just can’t. He wouldn’t do that . . . would he? NO! Maybe? But there was no denying what she’d seen in that room. Wagner had been fishing or she’d still be answering questions. The Just Judges painting was indeed associated with The Monarch. It was one of the cases she’d seen cross her desk back at Interpol. But she left it out of her book. It was one of the only times The Monarch was not greeted with open arms by a museum and she thought leaving it out made him look better. She was protecting him, because of how she felt about him—­how she felt and the fact that all evidence pointed to The Monarch still having the painting in his possession. Until now.

  When Wagner slid that door open, she’d felt like someone had ripped her soul out the bottom of her spine and replaced it with broken glass. At least he hadn’t asked her to get any closer. If that had happened, she didn’t know what she would have done.

  At the corner, she waited with a few other ­people at the bus stop, trying not to look like a jilted lover. She went over her conversation with Wagner while she waited, trying to remember everything she’d said. But it was all a blur. She couldn’t focus on anything except that bloody painting.

  The cell phone the man in the limo had given her tweedled in her purse and she almost jumped into the street. Ignoring the odd looks she was getting from the ­people around her, Emily dug in her bag and took out the phone.

  “Miss Burrows.” It was the same voice from the LCD screens in the limo, but it sounded different. Tired. I know how he feels.

  “It didn’t work,” Emily said, turning away from the other ­people at the bus stop. “They treated me like a suspect. I didn’t get a chance to suggest anything and I got the distinct impression they wouldn’t have listened even if I had. And you didn’t say anything about the FBI. We probably shouldn’t even be talking on the phone.”

  “Relax, Miss Burrows. It’s an encoded phone, completely untraceable. Even if they somehow managed to pick your signal out of the thousands of signals online right now, they’d only hear gibberish.”

  Emily tried to relax but it was impossible with everything that was happening. She didn’t even have the case she’d been shown in the limo. They promised she’d get it when she got home, since it would have been hard to explain sitting in front of Wagner, but she still thought that was asking for a lot of faith in a man who wouldn’t even show his face to her, never mind tell her his name or what his interest in The Monarch truly was. For all she knew, he was the one responsible for the killings, though she wouldn’t let herself think about that, yet. She doubted any of this was about the missing chapter from her book. The book had been left open-­ended, and would stay that way until the identity of The Monarch was revealed to the world. Something she wasn’t sure she would ever let happen.

  “But I can’t just—­”

  “We talked about this. It’s not going to be easy. You can’t just walk in and expect them to listen to you. You need to earn their trust. Just like you earned the trust of the sources for your book. You can do this.”

  By this, he meant inject herself into the investigation even deeper than she already was and report back to him. In return he promised to help her find The Monarch’s true identity, finishing the missing chapter and—­though still unsaid—­protecting her father. But at that particular moment, the only sure thing she had was the phone pressed to her ear.

  “I can’t. How can I possibly convince them—­”

  “Miss Burrows!” The shout was so loud and abrupt she almost dropped the phone. She fought blossoming tears she knew had more to do with what that painting meant than a mystery man’s bluster and after a long pause he spoke again, calmer this time. “Remember the endgame. It’s what we both want. It’s all that matters.”

  But why does it matter to you?

  “I know. You’re right,” she said, knowing playing along was the only move she had right now.

  “Have they shown you anything? Told you anything, yet? About the murders?”

  She told him what Wagner had said and what he’d shown her in that terrible white room. It seemed to please him.

  “They want to meet with me again tomorrow morning. He seemed a little, well, wobbly.”

  “Wobbly?”

  “Unsettled. Like someone had dropped him into the middle of something he didn’t understand. He’d obviously never seen my book before today, but I have no doubt that when we meet tomorrow he’ll have read it from cover to cover. He seems very much like a man who doesn’t like unknowns.” She knew how he felt.

  “The fact that Wagner is dealing with you personally is an excellent sign. I’ll send you a file on him. Tomorrow, I want you to know him as well as he will know your book.”

  This man has access to FBI personnel files?

  “He’s going to know more than my book. My pen name identity has some documentation behind it, but nowhere near enough to fool a government agency. They’re going to detain me the second I walk through that door tomorrow morning.”

  “Let me worry about that,” he said. “For now, just go home and get some rest. Read Wagner’s file and get some sleep. Tomorrow it’s our turn.”

  He hung up before she could say anything. She put the phone away and turned around to see all the other bus patrons were gone. She’d been so preoccupied with the call she hadn’t even heard the bus come and go. She sighed and slumped down on the empty bench to wait for the next bus. As she did, she wondered about the convenience of the murders and the mystery man’s requests, but the ramifications were too overwhelming. She pushed the thoughts away as the next bus approached.

  “WATCH HER,” NATHAN’S voice said from the satellite phone held against Thomas Ranger’s square head.

  Thomas was sitting behind the wheel of the limo. He kept his eyes on Emily Burrows as she waited for a bus.

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas said.

  “She may not be as solid as we’d hoped,” Nathan said, sadness tingeing his voice. “We may need to change tactics if she doesn’t perform as expected tomorrow.”

  “That would be unfortunate, sir.” Thomas got the message. Nathan rarely explicitly asked him to kill.

  “Don’t misunderstand, Thomas. We need her alive. But you may need to extract her sooner than planned. Did you get Wagner’s file?”

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas said, glancing at the folder sitting on top of the metal case on the passenger seat. “Our man inside is performing well.”

  “
Good. Deliver the case and file and then put someone on her. You have men on site, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, but I can just—­”

  “I want you back here, Thomas. At least for a little while. You’ll be back in New York in time for the event,” Nathan said.

  “Yes, sir. See you soon,” Thomas said signing off. He knew there was no real reason for him to head back to the island. No reason except that Nathan just felt better with his big dog by his side.

  He put the satellite phone away and dialed a cell phone. He smiled when he thought about what he could do while back on the island. Lara. He wondered what she was doing right then but his fantasy was interrupted by a voice on the phone.

  “Go for Bill,” the voice on the phone said.

  “Change of plans, mate,” Thomas said in a less official but still commanding voice. “I’m going to need you to babysit a package for me until I get back into town.”

  “Roger.”

  7

  Tallahassee, Florida

  11:30 P.M. Local Time

  THE SANDWICH AND coffee crashed to the ground at Jonathan’s feet. The graphic of the butterfly symbol twisted and turned on the television screen until it landed up to the left of the announcer. And there was no mistaking what the symbol really was.

  “Hye wo nyhe,” Jonathan whispered into his empty house. This is impossible. It’s just . . . impossible.

  “According to the FBI, at any given time there are twenty to fifty unidentified active serial killers at large. Eighty-­five percent of those are in America. Today, that number, whatever it may be, is plus one.

  “Good evening, I’m Robert Kilpatrick with a late night special report.

  “A sign of rebirth and renewal, this delicate creature has been chosen as a gruesome calling card by an unidentified killer calling himself The Monarch.

  “Our reporter Jan Halton has the story from New York. Jan?”

  The image of a well-­dressed thirty-­something female reporter appeared where the symbol had been. She had one hand to her ear and the other held a microphone. She was standing on what looked like a busy city street, a huge sandstone structure behind her.

  “Thank you, Robert. I’m standing just outside Central Park in midtown Manhattan where six weeks ago The Monarch’s first alleged victim was found . . .”

  Jesus, they’ve even got the name?

  The Monarch. Jonathan hated that name. He thought it made them sound like some kind of jumped-­up potentate. But to be honest, he wasn’t really thinking about how they were viewed. Right now, as with everything in his life now, he was thinking about Natalie. He needed to insulate her from this. But before he decided to dig in or pull a Casey Jones, he needed to speak to someone.

  A very specific someone.

  LEW WATCHED THE silent images swirl and shift. Scenes snapped from here to there; all of them interspersed with the spinning butterfly symbol as big as his fist on Warden Quinn’s giant TV.

  As the story progressed, chyron text scrolled across the bottom of the images with the highlights of each segment.

  First victim, local artist, found by teens.

  Body was posed and mutilated.

  Butterfly is the symbol of rebirth and renewal.

  The screen switched to a view of a giant, ornate church.

  Second victim, gallery owner, crucified.

  Church is refusing comment.

  Identical mutilation.

  A third murder came on the screen. For Lew, that clinched it. The smoke out the window had ebbed, but no one was making their way back, yet. He picked up the desk phone’s receiver and heard an abnormal, high-­pitched dial tone. He tried pressing 9, and the tone changed to a normal, lower-­keyed sound.

  Third victim a New York newscaster and ex-­NYPD officer.

  Museum says nothing stolen.

  Lost treasure destroyed.

  Lew hesitated before dialing. He knew the number, that wasn’t the problem. Dialing this number had consequences. It would send him down a path he’d only minutes ago refused to take. He’d be unleashing something he’d kept bottled up for a very long time. But the real danger was that he might not get the genie back in the bottle ever again. Not alone.

  There was a worse possibility, of course. What if what these images were intimating was true? Not possible. Not him. Not in a million years.

  But he knew if that were indeed true, he wouldn’t be hesitating. Or shaking.

  11:50 p.m.

  JONATHAN WAS JERKED back to reality by his cell phone ringing on the table beside him.

  “Hello?” he said, still looking at the television screen.

  “You see it?” a voice said. A voice he hadn’t heard in almost two years.

  “Lew?”

  “Did you see it?” Lew asked.

  “Oh, I saw it,” Jonathan said. He looked at the number displayed on the phone but didn’t recognize it. “Where are you?”

  “The lap of luxury,” Lew said. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, do I have to ask?”

  “Relax. I’m still in Tallahassee,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t insulted. Fact was, he’d been thinking the same thing about Lew until he called.

  “What the fuck is going on? No way that’s a coincidence.”

  “No shit.”

  “Listen, I don’t have much time. What do we do about this?”

  “Do? We don’t do anything. We’re nowhere near New York. This has nothing to do with us,” Jonathan said, not even believing that himself.

  “Right, and Oswald was a patsy,” Lew said. Despite the situation, Jonathan felt himself smiling. He missed Lew more than he knew.

  “Okay, okay. So it has something to do with us. But what? Why now?”

  “Hey, you’re the thinker. I just break shit, remember?” Lew said. Jonathan knew that wasn’t true either.

  “I need to think. Figure this out. Get more info. That report was sketchy as hell.”

  “Said enough for me, thank you very much.”

  “Why don’t you have much time?” Jonathan asked. It was his way of saying he wished Lew was here to talk to in person. Aside from missing his old friend, Lew was the only person on the planet he could talk to about this.

  “How’s Natalie? Did she—­”

  “Relax, she’s asleep,” Jonathan said. Despite how Lew had acted when Jonathan told him he was quitting, Lew had always had a soft spot for Natalie. Before he left, she’d even started calling him Uncle Lew.

  “I need to wrap this up. Just tell me one thing: Do you need me there?” Lew asked. Jonathan could hear the change in his tone. He knew if he could see him his features would be darker than normal. He wanted to say yes, but from the sounds of it, the price was way too high. Even with what he’d just watched.

  “No, I’m good. Like I said, I don’t know much of anything right now. Chances are the best move is to just ride it out,” Jonathan said, hoping he sounded convincing. There was a long pause on the line.

  “Good enough. I’ll call again when I can. Give the squirt a hug for me.”

  “I will, you—­” but Lew had hung up.

  Jonathan snapped the phone closed and noticed the mess on the carpet for the first time. Can I really do this alone?

  He looked up at the photographs of Natalie on the mantel and realized there was no digging in and hoping this would pass. He had to make sure none of this—­none of his old life—­touched her. He’d die before he’d let that happen.

  Die or kill.

  8

  Cuiabâ, Brazil

  Sixteen years ago

  AN HOUR AFTER making their inebriated decision, Jonathan and Lew climbed aboard a plane and spent almost fourteen hours alternating between making plans and fitful sleep. In the sober light of day, Lew half expected Jonathan to recant and chalk his decision up to drunken courage. Not o
nly hadn’t that happened, but Jonathan had taken the lead in their little adventure. That was fine with Lew. He was used to taking orders. Sort of.

  “Faster, Spyboy,” Lew said from his position at the edge of the villa’s balcony. He peeked around the corner at the courtyard below where an evening party was in full swing. From the uniforms and bodyguards sprinkled throughout the crowd, Jonathan hadn’t been exaggerating about this guy’s connections.

  “Don’t rush me,” Jonathan said as he teased the balcony door’s lock with his pick tools. “This is a lot easier when your head doesn’t feel like a busted papaya.”

  “I feel fine,” Lew said. He was lying. He actually had to concentrate to keep from falling off the edge of the balcony onto one of the Mercedes parked below.

  They’d decided to go in tonight because of the party, their condition aside. At first Jonathan had wanted to wait for a less busy night, but Lew knew if they waited too long they’d lose their nerve. Besides, if everyone was down at the party, they wouldn’t be in the house. Or so he hoped. “I guess you just can’t hold your—­”

  Lew stopped talking when he saw he was on the balcony alone, the door open. Lew eased himself back onto the balcony and went inside.

  The bedroom—­a guest bedroom, Jonathan had said—­was immense and looked meant for someone in a royal family. Tapestries and artwork decorated the walls. The floor was a rich caramel gold carpet with an inlaid black and red pattern that looked Mayan. Against one wall was a four-­poster bed you’d need a stepladder to get into, the frame and posts a rich red brown oak.

  Across the room, Jonathan eased the door to the hallway open and peered out.

  “Don’t mind if I come in, do you?” Lew said. Jonathan just held his finger to his lips. Lew reached for his gun, but Jonathan shook his head. He waved for Lew to come closer.

  Lew stepped lightly to the door and looked where Jonathan was pointing. There was a guard sitting in a chair that looked like a throne at the end of the hall. What Lew noticed most was the machine pistol in his lap. Jonathan eased the door shut.