Perfect Victim

by Jay Bonansinga

  “And then the camera pans away.” Grove swallowed hard, looked at his watch, a twinge of panic pinching his gut. “When exactly was this video taken?”

  Keith Phipps looked at his notes. “Um, let’s see…”

  “Easy does it, Grove.” Corboy looked confused, irritated. “You left me in the dust here. Some local scratches something in the sand with a stick—big deal. How do you know that’s even part of the scene?”

  Phipps looked into the camera. “Video was taken at one-thirty this afternoon.”

  Grove clenched his jaw, the sudden pain radiating. “You said that’s around low tide, right?”

  “Yeah. Just about.”

  Grove glanced again at his watch. “It’s almost two.” He looked at the screen. “When’s high tide?”

  Phipps gave a shrug. “I dunno, seven-ish, something like that.”

  “That’s five hours, at the most. Probably less than that. You got anybody out there right now?”

  “Couple of uniforms maybe, I don’t know. The scene’s taped off.”

  Grove’s heart thumped as he stared at the partial image of something scrawled in the soggy, dirty sand on-screen. It looked like worm tracks curling and spiraling back on themselves, crisscrossing, looping, slashing. “Get the lab guys back there, Phipps. Get a cast of that stretch of sand near the piling.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not sure we can get a cast before the tide comes in.”

  “Then get a goddamn backhoe and lift the whole thing out of the beach.”

  “Again it’s a matter of time—”

  “Get them back there, Phipps. Trench it off from the water somehow. Get digitals of it, plenty of close-ups. Get shots of it at least.”

  “But—”

  “Less than five hours from now the sea’s gonna take that message.” Grove whirled toward the Director. “Let’s go ahead and scramble a plane out of Andrews; we can make it out there in three hours if we catch a tailwind.”

  Corboy looked as if he’d just swallowed a chicken bone. “Goddamnit, Grove, slow down. How the hell do you know that was left by the perp? Even if it’s fresh, it’s just some kid with a stick.”

  Grove barely heard the man. He threw his notes in his briefcase, snapped the attaché shut, then headed for the door. Corboy grabbed him. The two men came nose to nose. Everybody in the room waited. “Goddamnit, Grove, it’s a kid with a stick.”

  Grove stared at Corboy. “How many kids in Texas with sticks have a command of Sumerian, you think?”

  “A command of what?”

  “Sumerian, Lou. It’s written in Sumerian. It’s a dead language.”

  Corboy released his grip on the profiler, then turned and glowered at the two-dimensional image of worm tracks on the projection screen.

  Grove had already vanished out the door.

  FOURTEEN

  Grove raced the moon to the Gulf Coast that afternoon, riding in the navigator’s seat of an Air Force C-17 as the sun dipped behind the rolling purple spires of the Smoky Mountains. Strapped into a tattered, rickety contour chair behind the flight deck, his notebook open on his lap, he bided his time by nervously doodling sketches of the Archetype—that bulbous black demonic silhouette from his class, now sprouting horns and forked tail in his imagination—while the pilot in front of him, a middle-aged female captain named Villalobos, snapped her chewing gum and casually flipped switches.

  The C-17 Globemaster was the workhorse of the Air Force, designed to carry troops or humanitarian aid across long distances. This one had been to Afghanistan, then Iraq, then back to the states for FEMA duty. Grove could sense the cavernous, empty cargo hold stretching behind him like the belly of a whale, creaking and echoing with every bump or gust of headwind. The ghosts of long-forgotten paratroopers and war-wounded kids lurked back there. Grove tried to focus on the clock.

  They crossed the southern-tier states in record time, climbing to thirty thousand feet over Alabama in order to avoid a spring storm, then coursing westward over the patchwork cotton fields of Mississippi at 400 knots. At just past five, the jet banked to the south, soaring down over the coastal plains of western Louisiana, the fuselage creaking.

  Grove gripped the armrests as the aircraft plunged toward the rugged estuaries of southeast Texas, bumping and rattling on currents of ocean turbulence. Through the window to his left, way out in the distance, the low sun shimmered off the Gulf like fire crawling on glass. Another banking turn, and the C-17 began its descent into Ellington Air Force Base, where the 147th Fighter Wing was waiting for them with a Black Hawk helicopter for the quick jaunt down to Galveston Island. Grove leaned over the bulwark and gazed down through the Plexiglas portal at the vast arid prairies rushing beneath them in a blur. The tide would be coming in very soon. The tiny hairs on the back of Grove’s neck bristled.

  Over the sibilant roar of the engines, Captain Villalobos hollered something in her heavily accented English. Grove leaned forward, pressing a finger to his headset to hear better. “What was that?”

  “Sir, put your ears on!” she said, cupping her hand over her mouthpiece. “CSI vehicle’s calling from the ground.”

  Grove stashed his notebook and quickly switched over to the ground channel. “Grove here.”

  Static in his earpiece. He shook his head at her and tapped his headset. “Can’t hear anything!”

  “Switch over to channel two!”

  He did as he was told, and immediately heard a voice crackling in his ear. “—you copy—?”

  “Copy that, you got Special Agent Grove here. Who am I talking to?”

  “Phipps here, got the Houston CSI team with me, en route to the scene.”

  “Copy that, Phipps—what’s your ETA?”

  “About ten minutes out,” the voice sizzled in his ear. “Already got forensics there. Concentrating on a twenty-five-square-foot area around the piling closest to the body dump—is that correct?”

  Grove glanced down through the portal. The aircraft was on its descent, low enough now for him to make out Galveston Bay in the far gray distance, maybe twenty miles away, the tide already flirting with the edges of the causeways. He looked at his watch. It was eleven minutes past six.

  “Phipps, listen to me. Chances are, the tide’s going to obliterate the message before we get full coverage. Do you have the cryptologist with you?”

  No answer.

  “Phipps?”

  Static.

  Special Agent Keith Phipps tapped the plastic enclosure around his earpiece. “Agent Grove, hello? Agent Grove? You copy? Hello?”

  Static crackled in his ear, Grove’s voice cutting in and out. Phipps could not quite make out what the profiler was saying, but it sounded critical.

  Ramrod straight in his double-knit sport coat and flattop hairstyle, Phipps rode on the passenger side of the Bureau’s tricked-out panel van, reinforced with bulletproof glass and refurbished in the back to accommodate heavy machinery, extra tactical personnel, or specialized lab equipment. A rail-thin young lab assistant from Corpus Christi sat behind the wheel, nervously whistling as he white-knuckled the wheel.

  A few seconds ago, the vehicle had reached the last leg of Highway 45, the Galveston Bay causeway, the van’s massive tires drumming over speed bumps. Now the vehicle roared down the narrow connecting road bordered on either side by a wall of tangled cypress and sea grass, the aqua-gray estuary visible in all directions. The vibrations felt good to Phipps. The former Marine and Special Forces group leader craved emergencies such as this, and had always wanted to work with the legendary Ulysses Grove. Better yet, Phipps was now delivering one of the Southwest Region’s most prickly, difficult specialists to this rustic crime scene.

  “What the hell is going on?!” The shrill voice rang out from the back, and Phipps glanced over his shoulder at Dr. Millhouse, who glared balefully from her wheelchair “What did he say, Phipps?”

  Phipps kept tapping his headset. “Lost him there for a second. I’ll get him back.”


  “Amateur hour at the Apollo,” the cryptologist grumbled from the rear hold. An emaciated dowager of indeterminate age hunkered down in an elaborate motorized wheelchair strapped to the floor, she was clad in a corduroy stable coat, jodhpurs, and knee-high rubber boots. She looked like Katharine Hepburn’s ornery little sister, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her wrinkled visage was sunburned and weathered from decades of poking trowels into the sandy earth of Old Money ranches. She spoke with the aristocratic twang of Dallas society. “What have you gotten me into here, Phipps?”

  “One second.” Phipps held up his hand to cut her off. He listened to Grove’s voice crackling in his ear.

  “—cryptologist with you?”

  “Copy that, yes, the cryptologist is with me. We’re about five minutes away.”

  “Good, good—I want him to start the translation right away. You copy that? Have him dive right in.”

  “Copy that,” Phipps said into the mouthpiece. “One thing, though—”

  Grove’s voice cut back in: “There may be nuances in that sand the forensics guys have missed, and the tide’s gonna blow it all away. You follow?”

  “Yeah, copy that.” Phipps glanced over his shoulder. “One thing though.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The cryptologist is a she—Dr. Emily Millhouse.” In the rearview, Agent Phipps saw the little sun-wizened crone giving him a sour look.

  Through the static: “That’s great, that’s fine…just get there.”

  “Copy, out.”

  Phipps switched off his radio, then pointed to a fork looming up ahead near a salt-rusted gate between two massive live oaks. “There’s your turn,” he told the assistant.

  They careened around a gentle curve and boomed down Broadway, past rows of storefronts and tourist traps, past beachcomber inns luminous in the sunset.

  The murder scene was located at Stewart Beach Park, a leprous strip of sand about a mile away. They would be there in a matter of minutes. But that didn’t prevent Agent Keith Phipps from shooting worried glances out the side window at the inlet to the left.

  The town of Galveston was situated on a long narrow strip of land that ran parallel to the bay, barely a mile across at its widest point. Between the island and the mainland was a good-sized harbor of prime boat docks and summer homes, its mercurial gray currents in constant ebb and flow. Phipps could see the far banks of the Pelican Island nature preserve to the east, the tangled roots of cypress and boulders forming a rugged breakwater.

  The tide had already climbed halfway up the crags, and was starting to sluice into the forest.

  Phipps looked at his watch. It was 6:31. How long would it take them to get the doctor to the scene? How much time did they have before the tide took this message—whatever it was—away forever?

  He glanced up at the sky. The vibrant, cloudless blue had turned a deeper shade of magenta, the shadows to the east elongating, the buildings lining Broadway darkening, coming alive with shrieking gulls. Phipps could literally hear the tide coming in through the window, the distant slosh and whisper like a breath on the back of his neck.

  Only minutes remained before the seawater got a chance to wash the scene clean of its sins.

  Fifteen minutes later, Grove was on the ground at Ellington, dashing across sun-bleached tarmac, his knapsack over his shoulder. The Black Hawk waited on the edge of the runway, its canopy gleaming in the setting sun. Its prop was already screaming, the wind flapping Grove’s pant legs as he approached. He climbed into the chopper without saying a word, the pilot—a heavyset kid with acne scars—nodding at the harness.

  Grove got himself situated. He yelled over the din of the prop, “You know someplace down there on the island called Stewart Park Beach?”

  “Hold on!” The pilot secured the hatches, then kicked the engine up a notch. “Have you there in no time!”

  The chopper lurched, then levitated off the tarmac in a thunderhead of dust.

  Grove practically held his breath from that point on.

  FIFTEEN

  They found a place to set the Black Hawk down on a sandy outcropping just north of the murder scene, on the edge of an abandoned construction site near the seawall east of town. The skids hit the beach with a sickening crunch that rattled the under-carriage and nearly cracked Grove’s teeth, which were clenched with nervous tension as he clawed at his harness buckles.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the pilot wanted to know, twisting around in his seat.

  “Outta time!” Grove unsnapped himself, tore off his helmet, and tossed it to the floor.

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” The pilot looked stunned. “They got a jeep on the way!”

  “Not enough time!” Grove glanced at his watch. “Tide’s almost up!”

  He yanked the hatch lever, the canopy door clanging open. It took major effort to slide it the rest of the way, the salt wind rushing into the cabin on the reverse currents of the rotor.

  He slipped outside the fuselage, then leapt off the running board.

  He landed hard on the sand, the impact rattling his skull. He instinctively kept his head low, spinning toward the west, then loping up the rocky bank toward the dusty road.

  Once he reached flat pavement, he clenched his fists, put his head down, and started sprinting—full bore—toward the scene a quarter mile away. Armani coat flapping in the wind, laminate tag fluttering around his neck, he looked a little ridiculous, but he was still in good shape. His gait was strong and fleet, and he made amazing time.

  The deserted beach came into view ahead of him. Huffing and puffing, chugging along like an escapee from some white-collar work camp, he strained his good eye to find signs of the CSI team.

  He saw an ramshackle mobile home park off to the right, a few old men futzing around engine blocks. Off to the left, coming into focus, a dilapidated dock jutted out over trash-strewn sea grass. The long shadows of dusk cooled the salt winds.

  A state trooper’s cruiser was parked at the end of the boat dock, where a tail of yellow tape flagged in the wind.

  Grove leapt to the sand, his heart threatening to rend his rib cage open. His designer loafers dug into the filthy sand as he churned his way down the embankment toward the end of the dock, breathing hard, fists clenched. He saw the rear end of the CSI van sticking out of the weeds on the other side of the dock.

  The tide had already bubbled up as far as the second row of pilings.

  It was already past six o’clock. High tide was due any minute.

  A stocky, uniformed officer suddenly stepped into view as Grove came charging toward the scene. “Hey, hey, hey!” he cautioned, putting his hand on the butt of his Glock. His boots were ankle deep in tidewater. “Slow down, friend, slow the hell down.”

  Grove raised his laminate tag into the air. “FBI! It’s okay! FBI!”

  “C’mon up, then.” The cop backed out of the way as Grove came splashing around the end of the dock, his Florsheims getting soaked.

  On the other side of the dock was a narrow, rustic swimming beach, the crime scene just as depicted in the teleconference video. Evidence flags and dark stains spanned the hundred-square-foot swath of sand, bordered on three sides by yellow tape, now fluttering wildly against the trade winds.

  In the heart of the swath lay a crude, white-tape outline of where Madeline Gilchrist had fallen, the outline already half submerged where the tide had licked up the sand.

  Grove came sloshing around the lowest piling and he saw many things all at once: the highest piling was still about a foot and a half above the surging water, which was now periodically sliding up the sandy embankment, getting closer and closer to the strange markings scratched into the sand; a couple of men were about ten feet away from the markings, lifting a wheelchair down a makeshift ramp onto the soggy beachhead.

  A scrawny woman sat hunched in that chair, nervously gripping her armrests. “I swear, Phipps, if you drop me I will sue your department back t
o the Mesozoic period!”

  Phipps glanced over his shoulder. “Agent Grove, I assume? Looks like you just made it.”

  “Agent Phipps.” Winded, dizzy with nervous tension, Grove approached the threesome. “Can I help?”

  “Agent Ulysses Grove, meet Dr. Emily Millhouse.”

  Grove grabbed one side of the wheelchair and helped heft the thing onto the sand. “See by the bottom of the piling? In the shadow?”

  “I may be old, but I’m not blind!” the old woman barked. She had a yellow legal pad tucked under her skinny, arthritic arm. “Please turn me around.”

  They positioned her next to the piling. At this close proximity, the markings in the sand were clearly visible, about a half-inch deep, too delicate to be scrawled by a human finger and yet too fine to be scratched by a stick.

  “Give her some breathing room,” Grove urged.

  Phipps and the lab assistant backed away, their heels in the encroaching water now. The woman in the wheelchair stared at the sand.

  Grove lingered. He knelt down by the symbols. He pulled a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket and put them on. “Is that cuneiform?” he uttered, almost under his breath, still winded.

  The doctor did not reply, just kept staring at the oddly conjoined symbols in the sand: crooked little suns, L-shaped bars, tiny half-moons.

  “What do you make of it?” Phipps asked from behind Grove. It wasn’t clear who he was addressing, Grove or Millhouse.

  “Please be quiet!” the doctor snapped. She laid the tablet on her slender lap, found a ballpoint pen in her breast pocket, and clicked it, never taking her gaze off the symbols in the sand near the front left wheel of her chair. “Oh my…oh my my my.”

  Grove flexed his hands in his rubber gloves. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “This is old.” She pulled a protractor from her pocket and leaned down close enough to measure an angle. “This is very, very old.”

  “How old?”

  “Old like Babylonian…maybe even Akkadian.”