Deceitful Moon

by Rick Murcer

  The woman in black slid the stilettos silently back over her feet and fastened the large silver buckles. She promptly kicked Ashcroft’s right ribs so viciously that she heard bones crack. She kicked again and felt the pointed tip go deeper. It was on. There were no thoughts of anything else, no other picture. Just red rage that spoke in a straight-line language she understood, no need for an interpreter.

  When she finally stopped, she was breathing hard, sweat trickled down her temples, and her ankles hurt. She looked at him and noticed he was lying on his face, several bones pressing against graying skin at weird angles, not breaking through his beaten hide, but close. She had no real recollection of turning him over; but using him as a trampoline remained vivid. One last point to make.

  Somewhere, a siren wailed, reverberating through the clear evening. Maybe someone saw or heard. Maybe not. Had she screamed? Perhaps. At any rate, it was time to go. She picked up her bag and moved in the direction of the grocery store parking lot two blocks over. She pulled out of the lot just as a red sports car sped by, chased by an LPD cruiser. They were both driving like bats out of hell with each driver’s destiny at different ends of the justice spectrum.

  She smiled.

  Chapter-12

  “So, geniuses, what’s a six-letter word for guardian or protector?”

  Manny looked up from his book, Devil’s Moon, by Rebecca Stroud. Alex Downs was passing time on the flight to St. Thomas working crosswords with his usual intensity. He sat across the aisle of the FBI’s swanky, corporate-like, Gulfstream G-V, Sophie sitting to the left. Alex’s glasses rested on the bridge of his pointed nose. He looked like a serious, no-nonsense judge from the 1770s.

  Sophie cocked her head to the right, pulled out one earphone, and turned the volume down on her pink MP3 player. “What did you say?”

  “I said, what’s a six-letter word for guardian or protector?” repeated Alex.

  She scrunched up her nose and looked up to the ceiling before suddenly clutching Alex’s chubby arm. Manny placed the bookmark in his book, closed it, and waited.

  “Oh my gosh, I’ve got it. Condom, the word is condom.”

  “What? Is that all you think about, woman? The word is not condom.”

  “No? Are there any letters?”

  “Yes, an N.”

  “Where?”

  Alex rolled his eyes. “It’s the . . . ah . . . third letter.”

  “Do you have any other letters?”

  Manny saw the exasperation forming on Alex’s face.

  “No! I don’t have any more damn letters, yet.”

  Sophie leaned back in the plush leather seat, putting her earphones back in. “Then how do you know I’m not right?”

  The CSI got out of his chair. “I’ve got to take a leak . . . and it’s not condom.”

  “Whatever you say. But if you’re going to act like that, I’m not going to help anymore.”

  She winked at Manny and dialed up her music as Alex marched to the rest room, mumbling something about wise-ass detectives.

  Never a dull moment.

  He put his book on the floor, beside the other one, a Tim Ellis thriller, and turned on his laptop, waiting for it to fire up.

  So this is how the FBI worked, at least the BAU. Nothing seemed out of their reach, if it was needed. Like this jet, for starters. It wasn’t just your everyday, run-of-the-mill, executive plane. This one had all of the state-of-the-art communications equipment, including satellite links. It was comfortable, quiet, fast, and even the food was good. Not to mention all of the amazing criminal databases and latest forensic research provided by the bureau’s ERT units and NCIS case data dancing at their fingertips. These types of resources would be an amazing upgrade to what Lansing had to offer, and he could be part of it. Josh had made him an incredible job offer with more leeway than he’d ever had or dreamed of. Extremely appealing. But leaving Lansing, home . . . well that was the conundrum, wasn’t it?

  Which way is the right way?

  He gazed out the curved window and flirted with the star-filled night. The stars winked back a million times over as his thoughts turned to the rush of the last four hours—and what kind of hell Katie Hayes was now living.

  The e-mail she had sent was in response to one that came from Eric’s account, telling her to contact Manny right away, that it was a matter of life and death, giving her Manny’s e-mail address. The message to Katie also had one of the pictures of Eric attached, up close and personal. He could almost hear her screams.

  Gavin had volunteered to call her and do the best he could to explain the situation, as well as they knew it anyway, and shooed Manny out the door. As he was leaving, he heard Gavin tell Katie as soon as the cruise ship’s security staff could locate which suite Eric was in, or at least had been in, they would contact her. He asked if Katie had anyone close by. Gavin was still talking in that quiet, comforting voice, contradicting the gruff exterior that Manny had heard so many times before. All the while, Gavin tried not to show his own tears already adding twenty years to his face.

  As he left the office and climbed into his Ford Explorer, it occurred to him that in this day and age of Me First, he was grateful to work for a man who didn’t operate that way. Gavin Crosby truly cared about others.

  When Manny had arrived home to get his travel case and tell Louise he was on the way out, he could smell her famous spaghetti and meatballs. The smell of garlic and tangy tomato sauce swirling through the modest ranch home was amazing, but he wouldn’t be eating any of it tonight.

  Louise had been a cop’s wife too long. When Manny put his hands on her shapely waist and found her eyes, her look turned from “glad to see you” to “what’s going on?” He explained as much as he could, grabbed the already-packed travel bag from the closet, and walked to the front foyer. She hugged him ferociously, told him to be careful, and pushed him out the door.

  She knew there would be no peace for the Williams family as long as Argyle was out there and wanted him put away, or in the ground, as badly as anyone.

  The laptop blinked brightly into existence, bringing Manny out of his deep thoughts just as Alex plopped back in his chair. Manny had a message from Agent Corner saying that he and his people would meet them in Miami, and they would fly to St. Thomas together.

  The ship’s security people had found the suite where Eric Hayes had been murdered, and the reporter was still there, just like the last grisly picture had depicted. No Argyle to be found, of course.

  The cruise line was going to wait for them, but at least security and some of the local detectives would do the leg work of interviewing passengers and staff. Manny knew there wouldn’t be much to act on. That’s how Argyle operated. But maybe this time . . .

  After shutting the top on his computer, he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and reclined the seat. They had a couple hours to sleep, and sleep was a precious commodity.

  He took one last look at Alex and remembered his question. “Minder,” he said.

  “What?” asked Alex.

  “The word is ‘minder.’”

  The CSI squinted and then nodded. “Good one, Williams. It fits and beats the hell out of your partner’s guess.”

  Manny thought Alex was right: it was a much better word. But he wondered how to convert the concept of guardian and protector into action with animals like Argyle roaming the world.

  Chapter-13

  The FBI’s jet skidded along the runway at Miami International and rattled to a manageable speed. Manny threw a quick glance Sophie’s way, grinning. “How you doin’ there, partner? How was that landing? I personally liked that bouncing part.”

  “Not funny, Williams. You know I hate the landings,” answered Sophie, obviously relieved that the plane was taxiing up the runway. “We could have died really. Twenty-five percent of all airplane accidents happen during the landing, you know.”

  “Yeah, and fifty-seven percent happen while the plane is in the air, so I’ll take the landings.�
�

  “Are you lying? If you are, I’m going to shoot your ass, right here.” Sophie released her grip on the seat as the jet settled at the private gate, and she patted her holster. Manny could see her finger impressions imbedded in the tan leather.

  “When was the last time I lied to you? And I’ve seen your targets at the firing range. No worries for my ass.”

  “You’re not kidding? Are you? Just great. I’m walking to St. Thomas.”

  “Long walk,” stated Alex.

  “Sharks too,” added Manny.

  “You guys suck.”

  “Just trying to help,” smiled Manny.

  “Okay. I’m renting a car. How deep can the ocean be?”

  The passenger door swung up and open. Josh walked through the door followed by two agents. One Manny recognized as the very talented forensic expert, Max Tucker, who had teamed up with them on the Ocean Duchess. The third agent was a woman in her early thirties: long, red hair; demanding, green eyes; curvy build; wearing a dark pants suit; and a serious look clouding her pleasant features. Very pleasant features. She walked with a barely discernable limp.

  Agent Corner zeroed in on the Lansing crew and broke into a huge smile, accented by those startling, pilot-blue eyes. He stuck his hand out, moving to greet them.

  “Manny. How the hell are you?”

  “All right, under the circumstances. You’re looking well.”

  “Thanks. Been working out,” he laughed.

  Corner turned to the other two. “Alex. Good to see you. Sophie, glad you could make it.”

  Alex shook his hand and nodded. “Always good to see you guys.”

  Sophie took his hand. “I can tell.”

  “Tell what?”

  “You’ve been working out, big boy.”

  Manny watched as Josh’s face shaded red, and he tried to release Sophie’s hand quickly, except she wouldn’t let him. His partner held on for a second or two longer, then reluctantly let go. Manny nudged her. She ignored him.

  Josh cleared his throat. “You remember Max Tucker, and this is Chloe Franson. Chloe recently transferred into my department from Domestic Terrorism. Lots of experience in the field, and we’re happy to have her.”

  Chloe greeted everyone with a tight, professional smile and a slight grimace, which she almost succeeded in hiding, but not from Manny. She caught his eyes and allowed a slow grin to come to life.

  “Gunshot,” Chloe said, a trace of Irish lilt filtering through her voice.

  “Western Ireland?”

  “Galway Bay.” Her quick smile, the real one, was brilliant.

  Sophie and Alex looked at him and shook their heads in unison.

  “You’re doing it already,” said Alex.

  “Doing what?”

  “Profiling the new help.”

  “I’m not either. I just noticed the accent and the limp, and she was in a little pain.”

  “I didn’t,” said Sophie.

  “Me either,” said Alex.

  “That makes three,” said Max.

  Manny rolled his eyes. “You call yourself cops?”

  Chloe turned to Josh. “He’s better than you said.” Then she turned back to Manny. “It happened about two months ago. A raid in New York City. My calf is still sore, but getting better. I’ll be back to normal in no time.” She glanced to the floor and then back to Manny. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a liability. I’m able to do everything I could before, physically, but it hurts a wee bit.”

  “Mentally?”

  “You are on top of things. The Bureau shrinks cleared me. Seems being shot didn’t bother me that much.”

  He smiled. “Not bad yourself.” He gazed another second or two, then turned away. She was better than not bad in all the right ways.

  Josh motioned for everyone to sit. “Okay. We’ll take off in a few minutes. Before we do, I want to go over the file on Eric Hayes, at least what we have. The locals have done a great job of getting pictures and reports to us, but they are holding the room, and the cruise ship is not going anywhere until we get there.”

  Corner nodded to Max. The CSI sat up straight and handed out the plain brown folders marked with the official Bureau logo. Max still had that same asthmatic wheeze and the tiny tremors in his small ebony hand. But the smallish, bespectacled agent never allowed his breathing problems, or his internal angst, to get in the way of his tenacity operating in the forensic world. Nice trait.

  Max reached into his pocket, took a hit from his inhaler, snared a deep breath, and sat down.

  Josh glanced at Manny, then around the table, and began. “You all know about Argyle, seen his work up close, with the exception of Agent Franson, and she has been well versed on his psychotic tendencies and traits. Which had been pretty consistent, up until a few hours ago.”

  “You mean because of the way he killed Hayes?” asked Chloe.

  “Yes, there’s that. But there is something else.”

  Manny nodded his head. “He was bold before, but in a controlled, almost careful way. Like he wasn’t totally 100% confident in what he was doing, that maybe he could be caught. He’s arrogant, but the fact that he didn’t want to risk close contact with us, instead choosing to leave a video message, meant that he was not totally self-assured, no matter what he tried to portray in the DVD on the Ocean Duchess a few months ago.”

  “Do you think that was because he was in the restricted cruise ship environment?” asked Sophie.

  “Maybe. Or even that acting out his fantasies was all pretty new to him. Whatever the reason, his methods never involved leaving forensic evidence of any kind. The bleach, the gloves, his shaved body, and the biting were remarkably consistent with victims DA Casnovsky and Lexy Crosby. Controlled mayhem, if you will,” said Agent Tucker.

  “He was good at covering his tracks, no debate there,” agreed Alex.

  Max took a drink from his bottled water. “These new pictures indicate that he didn’t care about covering his tracks. The blood on his hands, no gloves, his goatee, the knife, and fibers from his clothes could all lead to where he’s been, what he’s been doing.”

  “So this attack was almost careless, disorganized. Like his anger was getting the better of him. Even losing control to the point of total rage,” added Manny.

  The images of how they had found the two women—his friends—came screaming back like a haunting, recurring nightmare. He dismissed them from his mind. He was getting better at it, but he wondered if they would ever go away completely. Besides, dwelling on Liz and Lexy wouldn’t help find Argyle; it would just feed the emotion that could cause him to miss something. Maybe something critical. “It doesn’t really fit for him though. He could be playing mind games again, trying to lead us astray when he has a completely different agenda in mind.”

  “You mean like leaving the message on the mirror of Detective Castro’s stateroom on the last cruise?” asked Sophie.

  Chloe stopped tapping her pencil on the table. “I’m not totally sure. Who could be? But he did it once and I don’t think he’ll go down that road again, at least not that way. I think he’s evolving, or devolving, if you will. He’s had to lay low. His narcissistic propensities won’t allow him to do that forever. He loves his ‘watch me’ moments.” She looked around the table and settled on Manny. “And he doesn’t strike me as a patient man.”

  Manny returned the look and caught himself staring again. “You’re right about that.”

  “So maybe he’s escalating things?” said Josh.

  Manny shrugged. “That’s a good guess. All psychopaths obsess on some segment of society that represents a means to an end. Sexually or otherwise. The thing about Argyle that’s been different is his versatility. He’ll do anything to exact revenge, and that makes him dangerous and mostly unpredictable. Combine that with his intellect, and nothing is out of the question. We do have one advantage, however. We know he’s focusing on anyone who caused him grief within the Lansing law enforcement family, and Argyle is compelled to s
cratch that itch.”

  “Some advantage,” said Sophie.

  Chapter-14

  Argyle leaned against the faded yellow stones of Blackbeard’s Castle and stared down the hills to the bright lights of Charlotte-Amalie. The sultry Caribbean breeze touched his face and brought a scent of ocean and flora that even a man like himself could appreciate. He was such a complex dichotomy, was he not?

  To his left, a mile away from the city, the glowing, colorful outlines of two cruise ships shined in the St. Thomas port. Each mammoth vessel originated from a different cruise line, and each with a different story to tell. He smiled at that. There would be no tale like the one saturating the staff of the Ocean Empress. He was sure they hadn’t seen anything like the calling card he’d left. Ever. They should be honored. He didn’t show his genius to just anyone. And it was genius. Maybe Eric Hayes and his lovely wife wouldn’t think so. Perhaps Detective Manny Williams, his slut partner, and the worthless morons from the FBI would disagree. Everyone’s a critic these days.

  The doctor wiped at the perspiration that was as natural to the Caribbean as teal waters and swaying palm trees. Leveling the score with Eric had been all that he’d expected. Not to mention, it had been a hell of a way to announce his return from his self-imposed sabbatical. Hiding was for cowards, for the weak. He was many things, but weak was not on the menu. Men like him were prudent. He’d had to hole up because people knew him, maybe even saw him through the different colored hair and beard merry-go-round. It was difficult to mask his height and his strong build, but there were ways to make one’s self invisible, even for gods. But no longer.

  As ironic as it sounded, his patient, Eli Jenkins, had helped to show him the Way, the truth about himself, and how special he was going to be. He had learned his lessons well and had become the Master. He grinned. He wondered what the deceased Eli Jenkins would think about the passing of that torch.