He brushed the trimmings off his clothing and appraised the reflection.
Not bad for an escaped felon on the run. But was it good enough? While the sleep did him a world of good, did he look presentable or would he scare away an unsuspecting passerby? He could not be objective—and he did not know what picture the police were using in their Wanted notices on TV and online. Probably his booking photo, which was now several years old. Wait, no. They had shot another one when he was transferred to Potter.
Nothing he could do about it. Except … he popped the trunk release and rummaged through a road hazard toolkit, which contained nothing of use. But he found a Nationals hat in a backpack—a more disarming look and better coverage than the beanie—along with a sweater and a bottle of sunscreen. He searched inside the car and pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from the glove box. Not a good look on him, but the idea was to hide his identity, not pose for GQ. With the hat, shades, and nascent facial growth, it was a decent start.
He parked the Mercedes up the road several spots from his discarded beard and hair clippings, then wiped down the interior and abandoned the vehicle.
Marcks made his way on foot toward Kenilworth Avenue and found a Chinese takeout restaurant. After crossing the street, ten feet from the door, he saw two police cars cruise by, the officers’ heads rubbernecking in both directions. Looking for him, no doubt.
He ducked into the storefront and quickly moved away from the windows. By the time his order of Chow Mein was ready, the cops were gone, off to another part of their patrol grid.
He asked to use the phone and called a cab. Twenty minutes later the taxi was dropping him half a mile from where he really wanted to go: a used car dealership that had been around since he was a teenager. He never bought a car there but his friend Booker had.
When he walked into the office, it was pretty much as he had remembered it: a shithole of a business. The elderly man lounging behind the counter was camped out in a lawn chair watching some insipid TV show on an old compact VCR/television propped in a corner on a pile of yellowed phone books.
“Help ya?”
“Looking for a car. Something old, real cheap. Got cash.”
“How much cash you got?”
“What’s the cheapest car you got?”
The man put a beat-up clamshell cell phone down on the counter, swung his feet off an orange overturned bucket and stood up—not quite erect but enough to shuffle his way out the door. Marcks realized the guy was older than he had initially thought.
“Name’s Oliver. You?”
“Bud. Friends call me Buddy.”
“Can see why.” He didn’t turn but kept walking another dozen or so yards.
“Anyone else work here with you, Oliver?”
“Nope. Juss me. Ain’t got no kids, neither. Don’t make enough to hire no employees. Why?”
Marcks took a look around, trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh, just lookin’ for a job.”
“Can’t help ya there, son.” Oliver stopped in front of a sedan to catch his breath and leaned his right hand on the hood. “But I can help ya with a car. Got something for a hundred twenty-five bucks.”
“Still run?”
“It runs. How much longer, who knows.”
“How many miles?”
“Lots.” Oliver straightened up a bit and started trudging along again, working his jaw, then said, “I take it out every now and then. Engine purrs, runs real smooth. Not burning oil, so that’s good.” He stopped in front of an ancient Buick LeSabre, its tan finish long faded into a hazy gray suggestion of its former luster. “Sixty-four. Nothin’ fancy. Gotta roll down the windows with a crank. Automatic transmission, but no headrests, none of them airbag doohickeys, no ee-lectronics. Just your basic car.”
“Can I take it around the block?”
Oliver reached over to a carabiner hanging from his pants belt loop and selected one of several dozen keys. “Just around the block. And don’t get lost. Police’ll track you down if you try to stiff me.”
Marcks took the ring from Oliver and said, “Yes sir. Be back in five.”
He returned in three. It had decent pickup, the engine was in surprisingly good condition, and the tires were not bald. It needed an alignment but it was a sturdy car built like they made them back in the sixties.
“So?”
Marcks pulled out some of the cash that Victoria had given him—which he had counted before getting out of the Buick—and made a show of slapping each Andrew Jackson into Oliver’s hands. “One-twenty work for you? All I got with me.”
“One-twenty works. Enjoy your car, Buddy.”
Marcks adjusted the aviator glasses on his nose. “I’m sure I will, Oliver. I’m sure I will.”
32
Marcks settled himself in front of the cyber café PC. He entered the code the guy at the register had given him and was granted access.
He took a moment to look over the desktop, which was a lot more flashy since the last time he had used a computer, over seven years ago. But once he started clicking, he realized that Windows still worked pretty much the same way: there was a start button and the task bar contained a big blue E for Internet Explorer. Except that when he launched the program, it said “Microsoft Edge” with something called “Bing.”
Whatever. It worked and he was able to get onto the internet. He first searched for FBI profiler Karen Vail. It brought up dozens of articles and a number of references to her in the form of press releases on the FBI website.
There was even one in the search archive related to her work on his case, when he was arrested. He found an article in the Post, quoting her on how important an arrest this was for Fairfax County Police because “Roscoe Lee Marcks is the worst of the worst and getting him off the street made the county a whole lot safer.”
Marcks clenched his fist. What bullshit. And how clichéd. “What the hell do you know?”
He realized he had said that aloud. A woman two seats over glanced at him. He shrank a bit in his seat and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He turned back to the monitor and continued reading: a quote from Erik Curtis, the detective on the case, saying how they could not have captured Marcks without the assessment provided by the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.
He paged back and clicked on another link. And another. And another. Vail had been one busy friggin’ profiler. And successful. If an organized society for serial killers existed, they probably would have taken out a contract on her by now.
He searched for the address of the Behavioral Analysis Unit but could only find “FBI Academy, Quantico” in a couple of press releases. Finally he discovered an announcement from a local real estate firm touting the contract they had scored in leasing 12,000 square feet in Aquia, Virginia, to the FBI for an expansion of its Behavioral Analysis Unit. Marcks grinned—only this time it was genuine. That was exactly what he had been looking for.
He scribbled down the name of the complex, then looked it up and found the address. Bing asked him if he wanted to map it, and he said yes, clicked the link, and it showed him exactly where the building was located. It even gave him an aerial view. And an interactive look at the surrounding streets. Very helpful. Thank you very much, Mr. Bing.
With that in his back pocket, he typed in his daughter’s name. Could he be so lucky to find some kind of reference as to where she would be hiding?
No. Articles on her book—that damn book—and a list of signings and speaking events on her tour. But cancellation notices appeared next to all of them.
He clicked a link among the Bing results and landed on Jasmine’s author webpage. The photo of her was professionally staged and designed to invoke a sense of pity. At least that was what he took from the picture. Most fathers look at images of their daughters and see beauty and innocence. But he was not most fathers. He paged through her webs
ite and found the “Contact the author” page. He chose to send her an email.
His fingers paused over the keys, rage building as he composed his thoughts. He banged out an angry message—but then deleted it. Shorter, simpler was better:
I’m going to make you pay.
Yes, that would do.
He hit “send,” then glanced at the clock on the taskbar. He had to finish up. He typed his name into the search field and—whoa, lots of results, including his mug shots and photos he did not even know were public, pictures of himself he had long since forgotten about. He suddenly became very self-conscious. He leaned closer to the screen. Looked left, then right.
A patrol car rolled by slowly outside. Marcks nonchalantly turned away from the large windows. Several people were in the café, all doing their own thing, tapping at their keyboards or reading the monitors. Oblivious to the police outside. Oblivious to him inside.
Marcks returned to his task and found a Post article dated yesterday. His gaze moved across the page so fast he realized he was not absorbing the impact of the information. He slowed down and took a deep breath. There was a US Marshals fugitive task force working his case. They had interviewed officials at Potter. And dammit—they had found William’s dismembered body and were attributing the murder, and subsequent defiling of the corpse, to him.
His eyes zeroed in on one name: Karen Vail. The thorn in his side, the one apparently as responsible for his incarceration as his goddamn daughter, was noted by an FBI spokesperson to be a key member of the task force who had thus far made invaluable contributions.
Marcks clenched his jaw. He should’ve strangled her in the interview room when he had the chance.
He shut the browser and paid for his time … time more than well spent.
33
Marcks drove into the Aquia Commerce Center parking lot, surprised there was no security presence of any kind. Not even a guard booth.
He had stopped at a crafts store in Alexandria and purchased a pair of fake eyeglasses, which would look less suspicious than shades. While they cut down on glare, few people wore them on a dark, overcast winter day. His first goal was to not get caught, and his second was to avoid anything that would make him stand out in any way—which directly impacted goal number one.
Marcks chose a parking spot that gave him a view of the front entrance of the building on the left. Its counterpart on the right could easily have been the one in which Vail worked, but he had to start somewhere. If he was lucky, no matter which one she entered, he would still be able to see her.
One of his fellow inmates, a more recent addition to Potter, told him about the security cameras that a lot of businesses and government institutions had begun installing in and around their buildings. Because he had seen them at Potter, Marcks knew what to look for.
He checked when he entered the lot but only saw a few devices closer to the facility, far enough away from where he was parked that he doubted they could see him. They were a little different and did not exactly look like cameras, but they had a round bulbous covering that was conspicuously out of place and did not seem to perform any other function. He decided to play it safe and assumed they were the surveillance devices his colleague had warned him about.
Because it was winter—and in the midst of a cold spell—he figured that agents and visitors hanging out near where he was parked would not be a concern. In fact, no one lingered after leaving the buildings or the warmth of their cars. That lowered the risk that someone would stand around long enough to notice he was sitting in his vehicle for an extended period of time.
Ninety minutes passed when a blue late-model Honda pulled into the lot and parked two rows over, close to the left building’s entrance. A redhead got out—and Marcks rose to attention. He had to wait for her to turn her head a bit to get a good look.
It was Vail.
He watched as she walked briskly to the Behavioral Analysis Unit external staircase and then entered the facility.
His goal was to follow her when she returned to her car. Sooner or later she would lead him to Jasmine. Once she did that, he might have the option of killing both of them.
Now that would be quite a deal: two for one.
And if he did it right, it would not cost him a thing.
34
Vail headed to her office, where she had to drop off a report to Lenka, who planned to distribute copies to Gifford and DiCarlo. Vail could have emailed it, but she had one boss who preferred to do things the old-fashioned way and one who was not tech savvy and wanted hard copies with a “wet signature” whenever possible.
She printed off the document and signed it, checked her messages and inbox, FedEx and UPS deliveries, and left the paperwork on Lenka’s desk.
“Karen!”
Vail turned to see DiCarlo walking toward her.
“Saved me a call. Where are we on Marcks? How close are we to finding him?”
“Doing our thing. I think it’s taking longer than the Marshals Service thought. But he’s an intelligent offender and he seems to be a few steps ahead of us.”
“You’re not still spending time on Jasmine, are you?”
“Of course not. Haven’t seen her since before the officer assigned to protect her was murdered.”
DiCarlo gestured at Vail’s back. “Turn around.”
“Turn around?”
“What are you wearing?”
“A knife. Head of the Joint Terrorism Task Force gave it to me.”
“I don’t care who gave it to you. I care about you carrying it. Only your Bureau-issued Glock is authorized.”
Here we go. “Actually, Knox authorized it.”
“Director Knox?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now why the hell would he do that?”
Take the easy way out of this, Karen. Be smart. “Probably best if you ask him yourself.” Vail backed away, down the hall. “I’ve got to get over to the command center. Lenka’s got a copy of my report.”
With that, she turned and walked briskly toward the exit.
VAIL HAD JUST SLID onto the Honda’s cold leather seat when her phone vibrated. It was Curtis.
“Got a line on Gaines. Kubiak came clean while a Detective Linscombe with West Virginia State Police was booking him at the county jail. Could be good intel.”
“Where are you?”
“About to leave the command center. Meet me there. I’ll wait for you.”
Curtis was sharing a coffee with Tarkoff, Ramos, and Walters when Vail arrived. She walked over and filled her travel mug. “Where’s Hurdle?”
“On his way over,” Tarkoff said, rolling his chair to the left to give Vail some room.
She dumped a packet of sugar in the java and stirred it. “So what’d Kubiak give us?
“Gaines’s got a house in Lake Ridge.”
“Lake Ridge,” Vail said. “You serious?”
“Not like it sounds,” Curtis said. “Best we could tell, it’s abandoned. Owners nearly went belly up during the housing crunch. They negotiated a deal with the bank and kept the place, but the wife has cancer so they’re living with one of their kids in Ohio while she gets treatment at the Cleveland Clinic’s cancer center. House has been empty for about eleven months.”
“He’s squatting in a vacant house?” Vail asked.
“Free rent, nice place. What could be bad?”
She moved over to the computer by the side wall and sat down. “We have an aerial?”
Ramos worked the keyboard and brought up a satellite image.
“What do we know about Gaines?” she asked as she studied the screen.
Tarkoff pulled his handgun from a locked drawer and holstered it. “Not exactly a model citizen. Did three years for assault when he was twenty-one. Some drug-related offenses in ’07, charges dropped. Couple of d
runk and disorderlies, another assault—charges dropped again. Picked up for soliciting, paid a fine. And a dom vio eighteen months ago,” he said, referring to a domestic violence complaint.
“What are you thinking?” Curtis asked.
Vail pulled her gaze away from the monitor. “Just that we don’t know what to expect. We’re only going there to do a knock and talk. Sit him down, see if he’ll answer some questions. But—”
The door to the command center opened and Hurdle and Morrison entered.
Vail looked again at the satellite imagery. “It’s a big house. I think we should all go. Gives us numbers without overkill.”
“Talk about overkill,” Walters said. “You’re just going to question the guy. About Marcks, not something he himself’s done wrong.”
“Marcks could be there.”
Walters squinted. “Not likely. We’ve got an undercover sitting on his house. Gaines’s there. No sign of Marcks.”
“How long has our guy been there?”
Tarkoff checked his watch. “About ninety minutes.”
“Do I have to state the obvious?” Vail turned to Hurdle. “He could’ve gotten there before our undercover set up shop.”
Hurdle bent over the countertop and peered at the screen, examining the bird’s-eye view of the neighborhood. “This cul-de-sac off Wainscott? What’s the problem?”
Vail put the lid on her coffee mug and leaned back against the wall of the RV. “We need more men than just me and Curtis. Even if we’re confident Marcks isn’t there, it’s a big house in a heavily wooded area. Gaines could easily slip out the back. He gets away, we may never find him.”
“You think he’s gonna try to run?” Hurdle pulled his gaze away from the computer. “Why?”
“Gut instinct,” Vail said. “Really depends on whether or not he’s involved with Marcks. But even if he’s not, this is a guy who’s had some run-ins with law enforcement. He’s living in a house that doesn’t belong to him. He sees us coming, yeah, I think his predisposition is gonna be to take off. He’s not going to hang around to answer questions.”
The Darkness of Evil Page 20
