The White Iris

by Susanne Matthews

  “Stop, Trevor,” Jacob said, grabbing his arm and helping him up. “Micah hasn’t betrayed us. In fact, he’s probably saved us all. We worked this out earlier. We didn’t let you in on it because you had to believe it for my uncle to.”

  “This was planned?” he asked, the pain in his head adding to his sudden confusion. “I thought I was in charge here.”

  “You were; you are,” Jacob answered, “but I was pretty damn sure someone was still feeding the Prophet information. Micah recognized one of the officers who showed up with the police at the fire—probably sent there to make sure we all died. He told me, and I told Larson. That’s why I suggested we use two helicopters. The minute your chopper was airborne, the mole made a call. Unfortunately, he saw us moving toward him and used his cyanide capsule. Since he never got the chance to make a second call, no one knew we were coming. My cousin Adam, aka Dalton, is out cold. I shot him myself and removed his capsule. Susan and Diego have the women outside. They were given a sedative, and they’re all a little groggy yet. Elisa Robertson’s there as well as Quinn, a spitting image of Lilith. Julie helped Lilith cope with the dark. She’s a hell of a woman. Now, if you think you’re up to it, let’s go get the Prophet and put him out of business once and for all.”

  Trevor nodded. “You just said the magic words.” Accepting the cloth Micah handed him, Trevor wiped the blood off his face. The cut on the side of his temple stung, but the worst of the bleeding had stopped. “I’m glad I wasn’t wrong about you,” he said to Micah. “That was a damn good act.”

  Micah reddened. “Susan helped me practice,” he admitted, “but like you, I want to see the Prophet get what he deserves. I’ll never grovel at another man’s feet. I’m better than that.” He stood up tall.

  “You are,” Trevor said, “and I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  “For the record, if I had to take Adam someplace, it was to a locale in New Mexico, a Homeland Security base Susan suggested just before we took off,” Micah added.

  “Are you sure Julie’s okay?” Trevor asked as he retraced his steps to the Prophet’s room. His head ached and he wanted to go to her, hold her in his arms, and never let her go, but he had a job to finish first. This would be the last time he’d put work ahead of her.

  Jacob chuckled and shook his head. “Yes. She’s fine and far more worried about the others and you than she is about herself. She had a quick look in the lab on her way by. She thinks everything was manufactured there, and we should be able to use the lab’s own incinerator to destroy the vials. By the way, you’ll never guess who we found behind door number three. Kelly Kirk, but the girl’s in bad shape. Someone wiped her memory. She doesn’t know who she is and is terrified. Quinn and Lilith are trying to calm her. Julie says the Prophet bragged about sending her home for the holidays, infected, so she could kill everyone in D.C.”

  Disgusted, Trevor swallowed what was left of the pain in his head. “Let’s take the bastard down.”

  Opening the door to the room where he’d been taken before, Trevor flipped the light switch, bathing the dark room in a bright glow. L.D. Hamilton wasn’t behind his fancy desk this time.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he cried out, sitting up, trying to shield his eyes.

  Trevor rushed to the side of the bed.

  “Duncan Lucius, you have the right to remain silent…”

  As he spoke, Jacob walked over to his uncle, grabbed his head, and forced his jaw open.

  “It figures,” he said. “You’re too big a coward to kill yourself. Let the others die but not you.”

  “You,” Duncan cried, the color seeping from his face. He began to tremble. “You’re dead. You’re both dead.” His eyes were filled with horror. He grabbed his head and screamed in agony before falling back on the bed.

  “What the hell just happened? You’re sure there was no capsule?” Trevor asked.

  “Positive.”

  “Get a medic in here,” Trevor yelled. Within seconds, the paramedics ran into the room.

  “What happened?” the medic asked.

  “He grabbed his head, screamed, and passed out.”

  The medic nodded. “It sounds like a ruptured brain aneurysm. We need to get him to the hospital ASAP.”

  Trevor nodded. It was possible. He wasn’t a doctor, but the pain, sensitivity to light, and a stiff neck were all signs of a leaking aneurysm, and blood in the brain could account for the voices, as could a number of other illnesses. If the Prophet died at the hands of his Creator, he’d save the country a fortune in legal bills. Trevor could live with that.

  “Trevor,” Larson said. “Julie’s asking for you. Someone told her you were hurt…”

  “I’m coming.”

  Julie stood beside the helicopters, wrapped in a red blanket. When she saw him, she dropped the blanket, propelling herself into his arms.

  “I knew you’d find us,” she said, clinging to him as if she’d never let him go. She looked up and raised her hand. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s good now,” she said, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I want us to try again, Trevor. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

  Too overcome to speak, Trevor bent his head and kissed her, instilling that action with all the love he’d hidden in his heart for so long. Slowly pulling his lips away, he smiled down at her. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “I thought I’d screwed up again. You’re right. It isn’t just the cold and the PTSD. I’m terrified I’ll fail those who trust me. Look at the mess I made here. Not only did I put you in danger, I messed up the rescue. If it hadn’t been for Jacob…”

  “He had information he couldn’t share with you. You’re my hero, Trevor. I never doubted you’d find me. I love you. I’ll go wherever you want to go, but we have to take Hope with us. That’s nonnegotiable. I want to legally adopt her.”

  “How did I ever get so lucky? I love you,” he said. “And that little girl is as much a part of me as she is a part of you. Since we just saved the world, maybe we can cut through a little red tape, too. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Sorry, as much as I’d like to do that, I can’t. I have to destroy that virus and secure Dalton’s research. He’s insane.”

  “I have a feeling that might be a family trait. Here comes the Prophet. The medics think it’s an aneurysm. So, can you destroy that stuff now?”

  “I can, and then Lilith and I think we’ve found the Promised Land.” He listened as she explained her theory.

  “Elizabeth Julie Swift, you are the smartest, most wonderful person in the world. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, a thousand times yes.”

  “Then I have the perfect ring. I’ve kept it for you.”

  “I love you, Trevor. Let’s go burn some virus so we can get out of here and start living again. I want to go home to Hope.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” he said, chuckling, putting his arm around her, and leading her back into the mine. “I’m considering a new line of work. I’ve always wanted to be a lab assistant. Maybe I should change my name to Igor.”

  The case wasn’t over yet, but it soon would be. The people in the Promised Land would be repatriated to the other properties. The Chosen might have to face charges, but since Adam and his father would get all the credit for the Great Burning, there might not be anything to charge them with. For now, Trevor was at peace, content to let fate look after things. For years he hadn’t known what he’d wanted from life, but now he had exactly what he needed: Julie and Hope.

  Life was good.

  More from This Author

  The White Lily

  Susanne Matthews

  Still annoyed with herself for not having the backbone to stand up to the director and refuse this transfer, even if it was only a temporary one, Lilith Munroe stepped into crowded Terminal B at Logan Airport, grateful to finally breathe something other than th
e plane’s stale recycled air and that overblown windbag’s cheap cologne. Why people maintained flying was a great way to travel was beyond her. Even in business class, and she’d paid the additional fare out of her own pocket, she’d been crowded into the corner of her seat by a man who should have paid for two seats instead of one. That he’d hit on her had only made things worse. He’d better not hold his breath waiting for her to call him the next time she was in Washington. On top of that, the damn plane had been hotter than hell. Air conditioning, my ass.

  What was the worst the director could’ve done? Demote her? Fire her? Either of those might’ve been the better option, but she had to stay where she was, needed access to all of those government databases. Why this “promotion” now? She didn’t want it, hadn’t asked for it, and apparently didn’t have a say in it either.

  For five years, she’d managed to avoid anything to do with cults and fieldwork, preferring the security of her cubicle and using her computer skills to provide others with the information they needed to solve the most vicious crimes. Now, she was being forced into what potentially could be the biggest cult case of the century because of a skill set she’d hoped everyone had forgotten.

  The Harvester. For months, the elusive killer, the charismatic leader of a cult, had terrorized the Boston area before disappearing with his followers, leaving several bodies in his wake. As much as she avoided reading about such cases, this one had affected the FBI itself, and it had been the topic of conversation around the cooler for weeks.

  Swallowing her frustration and hitching the carry-on bag higher on her shoulder, Lilith looked around the arrivals area, searching for the signs indicating where she’d find the rest of her luggage. She’d taken no more than twenty steps when she came nose to chest with a behemoth blocking her path. Knowing her gun was in her bag didn’t help since she couldn’t pull it out and tell him to back off. Swallowing her fear, she moved to the right to step around him.

  He put out his hand and gripped her shoulder, holding her in place.

  “Agent Munroe?”

  “Yes,” she answered, staring pointedly at the offending hand, trying to hide the panic threatening to engulf her. “Release me, now.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Detective Rob Halliday at your service,” he said, removing his hand and extending it. “Welcome to Boston. Agent Clark sent me. The director described you quite well if you’re wondering how I recognized you.”

  Damn. She smiled awkwardly, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. It could’ve been worse. I might’ve screamed or attacked the guy. This was a mistake. The sooner she got back to the safety of Quantico, the better.

  She reached for the proffered hand. “Let me guess. It’s the shoes, right?” she asked, hiding behind the sarcasm that served her well. At barely five feet, two inches tall, her preference for exotic-looking shoes with the highest heels imaginable was legendary among the agents at the BAU.

  Detective Halliday chuckled. “Maybe, but I’d say it was the whole package. Do you want to see my credentials?” he asked pulling his ID out of the inside pocket of his jacket, exposing his Glock in the process.

  More than a little embarrassed since she now recognized the burly Boston detective from the photograph in the file she’d read last night, Lilith reached for the photo ID and examined it closely.

  “Thanks. Cut your hair, I see.”

  “Yeah, a few months back. It’s actually grown in quite a bit.”

  “It suits you.” She closed the wallet and handed it to him. “A girl can never be too careful.” She was grateful when he didn’t comment but simply nodded. “I have a couple of bags to claim.”

  “Domestic flights discharge their luggage over this way.”

  Moving as quickly as her four-and-a-half-inch heels allowed, she followed him to the unmoving carousel and waited impatiently for her suitcases to appear. Why did these things always take so long? Tossing bags onto a conveyor belt wasn’t rocket science. The longer she stayed in this place, exposed like this, the worse she felt.

  “Trevor says you’ve been brought up to speed on the case.”

  “If you mean have I had time to read the five-pound file the director handed me yesterday, then the answer is yes, but brought up to speed? I doubt that. There’s nothing in that file that’s less than three months old. I don’t see why Agent Clark thinks I can be of any help. I haven’t worked in the field in years.” The carousel started to turn. “There’s one of my bags,” she said, pointing to the large green tapestry case with the bright pink nametag on it, “and here comes the other.”

  Detective Halliday reached for the matching luggage, picking them up as if they were empty, and turned to his left. “What have you got in here? Rocks?” he asked, hefting what she knew was the overweight bag.

  “Shoes,” she answered defensively, holding her chin just a little higher, waiting for some snarky comment.

  Instead of giving her a reason to maintain her foul mood, he laughed. “I should’ve guessed. My wife never travels with less than half a dozen pairs—and that’s for an overnight stay. As for Clark, maybe he feels we need a fresh pair of eyes on this. The car’s over here.”

  He led the way to the parking lot where he’d left his dark blue sedan. The only thing identifying the vehicle as a police car was the black and white banner displayed on the dash. Unlocking the passenger door for her, he put her suitcases in the trunk before getting in on the driver’s side.

  “I’m taking you straight to headquarters so you can meet Clark and the rest of the team,” he said, starting the engine. “When you’re through, I’ll see about getting you a set of wheels from the motor pool and let you follow me to your hotel.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lilith sat back as Detective Halliday negotiated the Boston traffic, dreading the fact she’d have to do it on her own later. Thanks to the Harvester’s bulging file, she knew exactly who Rob Halliday was—a Boston PD homicide detective seconded to the FBI task force. The man’s wife was Faye Lewis, a reporter for the Boston Examiner, one of the women kidnapped by James Colchester and rescued in a daring eleventh-hour raid on a secret compound in New Hampshire. They’d killed Colchester, believing him to be the Harvester. Finding out he wasn’t the one calling the shots and that the murders were the work of more than one sick man had been disheartening. That little tidbit of information had brought on another night of bad dreams starring Cliff Rivers and assorted members of the Faithful Followers of the Word, leaving her even crankier than she normally was. The last thing she needed was to have another breakdown. She shivered.

  “Cold?” he asked, leaning forward to turn down the car’s AC.

  “Not really. Just tired. I was up late last night reading. Tell me, Detective, do you know why Agent Clark asked specifically for me? If it was just because he wanted another opinion, there are lots of agents with field experience far more knowledgeable than I am.”

  “Call me Rob. Wish I had an answer for you, but as you noticed from the file, the case has more or less ground to a standstill. I’ve been spending more time on BPD homicides these last few weeks. Clark called me to pick you up and come in today, so maybe he’s found something.”

  “I see. Call me Lilith or Munroe—your choice. You do realize this lull won’t last. Sooner or later, the Harvester’s going to come back for his people.” She thought he already had, but no one seemed interested in her theory—or was that why she was here? The director hadn’t been very forthcoming with information. He’d simply handed her the file and the plane ticket, explaining that her job at Quantico would be waiting for her when she got back.

  “I know,” he said grimly, his face conveying his fear, “and since he thinks my wife is carrying one of his children—which she isn’t—she’s in as much danger as any of the others. He flipped the left turn signal and entered an underground parking garage. “That’s what keeps me up at night. Welcome to Boston Police Headquarters. You can leave your stuff in the car, and we�
��ll transfer it later. Come on. We’re using space on the fourth floor.”

  Lilith grabbed her oversized purse that doubled as her computer bag and followed him to the elevator. After the brightness of the midday sun, the parking area was dark. She bit her lower lip, her gaze quickly scanning the almost deserted area.

  God, will I ever be able to go anywhere without searching the corners for monsters?

  The doors closed, and the elevator moved smoothly up to its destination, jerking to a stop as a bell sounded. When the doors slid open, they revealed a large room containing six desks and a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard covered in photographs and notes. Those disturbing pictures had been in the file she’d been given; some of them had shown up in last night’s dreams. Keeping it all together here, especially with that wall always on display, was going to be harder than she’d thought.

  “Welcome to the bullpen. That’s our brainstorming area, but it hasn’t seen any action in months. My desk is the one on the right. That mess over there belongs to my partner Tom Adams. Believe it or not, he can find anything on there in seconds. Calls it organized chaos.”

  She chuckled. “I work with a guy at Quantico with the same filing system. Where will I set up?”

  “Not sure. Maybe at one of the empty desks here, or Trevor might let you use an interview room. It’ll depend on how much space you need. We have a few uniformed officers attached to us, too, but only two or three of them are here at any given time. Trevor’s office is down this hall.”

  Rob knocked on the first closed door and opened it.

  Special Agent Trevor Clark, task force leader, sat in a leather chair behind a massive oak desk. The man, broad shouldered with a headful of closely cropped, dark brown hair, looked up, took off his glasses, and rose to greet her. He held out his hand.

  “Agent Munroe, I’m sorry for the short notice. Thanks for coming so quickly.”