Which was bad news for him. He’d gotten some serious visibility on this story early on. In return, the whole damn city expected he would ultimately deliver the goods—and he couldn’t. He didn’t have any more information than the rest of the crime beat reporters. Interest in the crazy letters he’d been receiving had waned. The news cycle was moving on and the Brokenhearts case was on its way from the front burner to the back; the wounded FBI agent at the heart of the case would soon be released from the hospital; and Kraski, his editor at the Herald, wanted to shift him back to the vice beat. In fact, Kraski had only allowed him this final story on the murders—a kind of editorializing summing-up—after some serious pestering on Smithback’s part.
He stared at what he’d written thirty minutes ago, and hadn’t been able to add to since.
Until such time as the psychological specialists from the Miami PD and FBI are able to complete their evaluation of Brokenhearts, now revealed as Ronald Vance, we may never understand the motivations that led to his murderous rampage. We may never know what Vance was “atoning” for and why he felt such a burning need to do so.
What we do know is that Ronald’s father, John, led his son on a homicidal journey that spanned the East Coast 11 years ago. But that revelation leads only to more questions. What was the trigger that set them on this path of murder? What precisely was the relationship of this father-and-son killing team? Why did the murders staged as “suicides” stop when they did—and why did the son, Ronald, wait so long to start killing again? Why the hearts on the graves? In sum: What exactly is the link between the fake suicides 11 years ago and the Brokenhearts killings today? And exactly how did the death of Miami PD Commander Gordon Grove fit into this picture of violence?
Henry Miller wrote that “until we accept the fact that life itself is founded in mystery, we shall learn nothing.” Perhaps all we can do, then, is accept the fact that this tragedy happened, and hope that—with such acceptance—understanding will eventually follow.
“Really, must you quote Henry Miller?” came a dulcet, languorous voice from over his shoulder. “You’re setting a bad literary example for the Herald—and these days, newspapers need all the help they can get.”
Smithback wheeled around to see Agent Pendergast standing over him. He’d come up behind the journalist so silently, Smithback had no idea how long he’d been standing there. “Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I frequently have that effect on people.” Pendergast looked around at the half-empty newsroom, then took a seat, folded one black-clad knee over the other, and regarded the journalist impassively. “Your brother would have finished that piece by now.”
“That’s probably true. But then, Bill wasn’t one to let facts stand in the way of a good story.”
“Of what facts, in particular, are you unsure?”
Smithback regarded the FBI agent through slightly narrowed eyes. He hadn’t seen Pendergast in maybe two weeks. What was he up to? “Are you kidding? I mean, where do I start? When is Brokenhearts going to explain just what the hell he was doing?”
“He’s already done all the explaining we can hope for. He’s confessed to having committed the three recent murders in Miami, as well as being involved in the old murder/suicides. He killed Commander Grove, too.”
“Why? What did Grove do to him?” He paused, thinking. “Did Grove…have something to do with his mother’s death?”
More silence.
“Wait, did Grove kill his mother, Lydia, twelve years ago? Right before the father returned from a tour of duty?”
Pendergast only smiled.
“I get it. The father was going to mess up their little love nest. Probably an argument escalated. Right?”
“You could call it a reasonable assumption.”
“Vance intuited that his wife’s death was murder, made to look like suicide. But the cops didn’t buy it. Grove must have done all he could to keep a lid on the investigation.”
“Keep going.”
“So: why then did Ronald’s father stage all these killings of women, dressed up like suicides?”
“Why, indeed? What did the murders have in common?”
“They were all killed the same way as Lydia Vance—murder made to look like suicide by hanging with a knotted cord.”
“What else?”
“They all came from Florida.”
Pendergast folded his arms and fixed Smithback with pale eyes, waiting.
“One thing the cops did say was that John Vance’s first tour in the Gulf was cut short by a TBI from a roadside bomb. That’s why he was an MP his second tour. When he came home and found his wife dead, and the cops ignored him, he went nuts. He started killing Miami women in other parts of the country, exactly the way his wife was killed. A murderous road trip, with his kid riding shotgun.”
A slow nod. “To what purpose?”
Smithback scratched one cheek thoughtfully. “Maybe…maybe he was planning to eventually confess what he’d done and humiliate the Miami PD by exposing their incompetence. But then why drive all over the damn place? Why not stage the killings here in Florida?”
“Give the man some credit. He may have felt a perverse, vengeful need to show up the Miami police, but he didn’t want to make it too easy—so easy that, say, he might get caught before he was finished.”
“That makes sense. Killing as catharsis. And when he was satisfied, he’d have found some suitably gratifying way to drag the Miami PD through the mud for not seeing the pattern. Except his plans were cut short by the fatal car accident.”
“Not bad. That might get you a C in journalism class. But you aren’t answering the questions you raise in your own article: what was the dynamic between father and son?”
Smithback paused. “The cops said the son, Mister Brokenhearts, confessed to the last murder, the one in Ithaca off the bridge. Apparently, his father had told him it was time to step up, be a man.”
“Do you think he wanted to do that?”
A longer pause. “No.”
“So follow that thread to its end. Why did the murders stop?”
“I just said. Because of the car crash a week later.”
Pendergast gave him that silvery look again.
“Wait a minute. You don’t think—you’re not saying that crash was deliberate? That Ronald couldn’t take it anymore and wanted it to stop…and tried to kill the two of them himself? But he wasn’t even old enough to drive!”
Pendergast said nothing.
“It wouldn’t matter—he was old enough to reach over and grab the wheel at the right moment.” Smithback was thinking fast now. “His dad was killed in the crash…but he wasn’t. Bad enough that his mother had been murdered. He hadn’t wanted to kill those innocent women. But he was young. Young, confused, and mentally ill. And he was injured in the crash—badly injured.”
“Head trauma. On a related note, you might find his father’s obituary quite enlightening. Not the one that ran in the Scranton newspaper, but the one from the Greater Pittston Eagle, a locale closer to the actual crash. It’s not so much an obituary, really, as an article covering the accident. It’s quite graphic in its attention to detail. John Vance died as a result of being impaled on the steering column. Apparently, the man’s rib cage was crushed and the steering assembly pierced his heart. The son was trapped in the mangled car with his dead father for over forty minutes until he was freed by the Jaws of Life.”
“Oh God,” Smithback said. He was shocked…but still thinking fast. “So he would have been hospitalized—hospitalized and institutionalized—until he reached adulthood. The doctors probably considered his ravings, if there were any, a side effect of TBI. But all that time he was actually tortured by what he’d done. Hence the need to atone. Right?”
“Close enough. You published his letter yourself: Their deaths cry out for justice. Hers most of all. She was my reason for life. I must atone. I’d say you just raised your grade to a B, Mr. Smithback.”
Smithback barely heard him. “And all these years, Grove thought he’d gotten away with the murder of his lover. He didn’t realize John Vance, her husband, had gone on a killing spree afterward. They were all recorded as suicides. How would Grove know? Now, coasting to retirement as a police liaison or whatever, he wouldn’t have gotten concerned about a bunch of new murders. Until he realized the new killings were linked to the old ones—which, because they imitated his killing of Lydia Vance, might in turn lead to her…and from there to him.”
The agent gave a slow nod of affirmation.
“This is pure gold. Can I quote you—on the record?”
“Quote what, exactly? I’ve only asked questions.”
“I need a source.”
“In that case, you’ll have to content yourself with calling it ‘a deep background source in law enforcement.’”
“I can live with that.” Smithback began turning toward his keyboard, then paused. “But why would Brokenhearts think killing more people could help atone for the old murders?”
“Only Ronald Vance can answer that—assuming even he knows the answer. Who can guess what went on in that damaged, tormented mind during these ten years of hospitalization? But one thing is clear: he didn’t want his recent victims to suffer more than necessary. Hence the quick killing cuts with a sharp knife. His only interest was in retrieving the…gifts.”
“Right.” Smithback returned his fingers to the keyboard, then stopped once again. “Um, please don’t take this the wrong way, but—why are you helping me?”
Pendergast adjusted the already perfect cuffs of his shirt. “I’m from New Orleans, and we tend to be a superstitious lot. Your brother Bill was a friend of mine. I have a strong sense that—if I didn’t help you with this story—his shade might disturb my peace.”
“Huh. You’re probably right.” And Smithback began typing quickly, getting it all down. After a minute, the typing slowed. “Hey. One other thing. That doesn’t explain how Commander Grove managed to lure you two out into—”
But when he turned around, all he saw was the half-empty newsroom, his fellow workers hunched over their own screens. It was as if Pendergast had never been there at all.
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About the Authors
The thrillers of DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child’s Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number one box office hit movie. They are coauthors of the famed Pendergast series, and their recent novels include City of Endless Night, The Pharaoh Key, The Obsidian Chamber, and Blue Labyrinth. In addition to his novels and non-fiction works (such as The Lost City of the Monkey God), Preston writes about archaeology for The New Yorker and National Geographic magazines. Lincoln Child is a Florida resident and former book editor who has published seven novels of his own, including such bestsellers as Full Wolf Moon and Deep Storm.
Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a “strangely entertaining” newsletter from the authors, at their website, PrestonChild.com. The authors welcome visitors to their Facebook page, where they post regularly.
Also by Douglas Preston
and Lincoln Child
Agent Pendergast Novels
City of Endless Night • The Obsidian Chamber •
Crimson Shore • Blue Labyrinth • White Fire • Two Graves* •
Cold Vengeance* • Fever Dream* • Cemetery Dance •
The Wheel of Darkness • The Book of the Dead** •
Dance of Death** • Brimstone** • Still Life with Crows •
The Cabinet of Curiosities • Reliquary† • Relic†
*The Helen Trilogy **The Diogenes Trilogy
†Relic and Reliquary are ideally read in sequence
Gideon Crew Novels
The Pharaoh Key • Beyond the Ice Limit • The Lost Island • Gideon’s Corpse • Gideon’s Sword
Other Novels
The Ice Limit • Thunderhead • Riptide • Mount Dragon
By Douglas Preston
The Lost City of the Monkey God • The Kraken Project • Impact • The Monster of Florence (with Mario Spezi) • Blasphemy • Tyrannosaur Canyon • The Codex • Ribbons of Time • The Royal Road • Talking to the Ground • Jennie • Cities of Gold • Dinosaurs in the Attic
By Lincoln Child
Full Wolf Moon • The Forgotten Room • The Third Gate • Terminal Freeze • Deep Storm • Death Match • Lethal Velocity (formerly Utopia) • Tales of the Dark 1–3 • Dark Banquet • Dark Company
Verses for the Dead Page 28
