by Ethan Cross
He had been surprised to hear Marcus’s voice on Maggie’s phone and even more surprised at what his partner had learned. Marcus had laid out his plan and Andrew’s role in it and had then given the time and location where Andrew could find the target.
He peered around a corner to make sure that the target was preoccupied as Marcus had said he would be. Then he entered the locker room and went to work.
91
When Marcus had called and asked if she knew any isolated locations in Jackson’s Grove, Vasques had immediately thought of the old Foley Lumber Yard. The place had been out of business for ten years and sat on a secluded lot on the south side of town. True to character, when she had questioned him about why he wanted to know, Marcus had avoided answering, playing his cards close to the chest.
She pulled up to his hotel directly in front of the lobby beneath a large awning made from orange brick, and he stepped out into the cold through a pair of automatic sliding doors. He fell into the passenger seat and said, “Temperature’s dropping.”
But she didn’t have the patience for small talk. “What’s this all about?”
“Is he coming?”
“He said he’ll be there, but he wasn’t happy about it.”
“And you kept it quiet that I’m the one who requested it?”
“Yeah.”
Marcus leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”
He didn’t open his eyes. “Not.”
Vasques pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator and squeezed the wheel. A pack of gum sat in the Crown Vic’s console, and she popped another piece in her mouth to keep from grinding her teeth. They rode the rest of the way in silence, traveling down Route 30, past the storage yard where Sandra Lutrell had been murdered, turning right on Division Street, past the home where Jessie Olague had been abducted and Vasques had first met Marcus. The Crown Vic bumped over the railroad tracks, and within a few hundred feet, they arrived at the old Foley Lumber Yard.
The lot was usually nothing but dirt and mud, but now the ground was frozen over and covered with snow. She powered the big sedan through a drift and pulled up to the back of the main building where they had arranged the meeting. The city had demolished one of the outbuildings after some kids had started a fire there a few years back, but the main office of the lumber company still stood. It was dusty white and covered with old aluminum sheeting and poorly drawn graffiti. The sides of the building were nothing but awnings where plywood and stacks of lumber of various sizes had been stored. Two long warehouses sat on the back of the lot, but their roofs had collapsed along with most of the side walls. Now they were merely skeletal frames that the weeds laid claim to during the months of summer and spring.
Vasques threw the gear shifter on the steering column up into park and waited. Marcus opened his eyes and said, “Will you do me a favor?”
“I’m doing you one right now, and you still haven’t given me anything in return.”
“Leave your gun in the car.”
“What? Why?”
He started to say something more, but another vehicle pulled into the lot and barreled to a stop, facing them at an angle. It was a metallic-red Chevy Impala that screamed cop car. Belacourt sat there a moment, staring directly at Marcus, but then stepped out of the vehicle. He wore a gray wool coat over a white button-down shirt and khakis. The collar was pulled up around his neck.
Vasques and Marcus stepped from their car and stood near the front wheel wells on either side. The wind whipped over the vacant lot and blew snow from the top of the building down over them. The sun was right overhead but provided little warmth. She could see the sunlight illuminating each wispy puff of their breath.
“What is he still doing here, Vasques? I thought we had a deal,” Belacourt said.
“Listen, Trevor, just hear him out. He said this is important. I wouldn’t have dragged you out here in the cold if I didn’t think it was worth it.”
Belacourt shook his head and rested his hands on his hips. “Fine. Get it over with. I’m freezing.”
Marcus took a step forward and spoke over the noise of the wind. “Some new information has come to light. It involves both of you, and I felt it would be best if we discussed it privately. Someone you know has been helping the Anarchist.”
“That’s absurd. I don’t have time for more of your—”
“The Anarchist was a member of a cult founded by a man named Anthony Conlan.”
Vasques immediately made the connection. The note from her father’s desk. He must have really been onto something, maybe even close to catching the Anarchist, when he died. She knew that Marcus would have followed the same train of thought to the same conclusion, but he hadn’t shared it with her. Why would he do that?
“Conlan built a compound up in Wisconsin, and they tried to perform some of the same rituals there with a group of kids. The Anarchist would have only been a boy when he watched his friends being burned alive. But I’ve also determined why all the killings have taken place within this jurisdiction.”
Marcus’s eyes were locked on Belacourt.
“It was because the killer had inside help … from the police department.”
Belacourt raised his arms in a gesture of despair and started back toward his car. “I’m done here. This is ridiculous.”
Marcus took another step forward. “Really? Then why did a guy named Jansen, the same man you had ordered to follow me around, show up at the compound up there and try to kill me and one of my agents?”
Belacourt reached for the car door handle. “This is crazy.”
“I checked. Jansen isn’t even a cop. Then I asked myself, how did he know where we were? Nobody was following us. At least, not visually.” Marcus took the cell phone from his pocket and held it up. “Then I realized. When you arrested me, you activated the GPS tracking on my cell phone. That way you could keep an eye on me without me spotting your man again. I bet if we dug deep enough, Belacourt, we’d find that you have a connection to that compound and to a man the cult members called the Prophet.”
“This is absolutely insane!” Belacourt jabbed a meaty finger in Marcus’s direction. He wrenched open his Impala’s door and stood behind it. “You’ve gone too far now. When I get back to the station, I’m putting out a warrant for your arrest.”
“Why not arrest me now? I’ll gladly go back to the station with you. We can tell all your cop friends about how I’ve already had my people dig into your background. We can tell them about how you were a nineteen-year-old private in the army when you volunteered for Project Kaleidoscope and met a lieutenant named Anthony Conlan. And then we can discuss the gaps in your background that correspond to the time when Conlan had his cult. Or better yet, we can talk about the birth certificate listing you as the father of a little girl born down in Georgia. The girl’s name was Tabitha. Her mother was Darcy. I bet your friends at the Major Crimes Task Force would be interested in tracking them down.”
Belacourt pulled his gun and pointed it straight at Marcus. It was a big custom Kimber .45 ACP. “Don’t you ever mention their names again.” Tears formed in the cop’s eyes, and his voice trembled.
Vasques couldn’t believe this was happening. She had known Belacourt for years. How could any of this be true? He had been a father, a husband? She’d never even seen him date a woman. The man had been her father’s partner right up until his …
She took a step forward, gulping in short gasps of the freezing air. “Trevor, tell me that you didn’t have anything to do with Dad’s death.”
Belacourt swung the gun toward her. “Don’t move, Vicky.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Not me personally, but I had to tell them that he was getting close. I didn’t want any of this. I tried to get away from Conlan, but he said that if I didn’t help and they got caught, then he would take me down with them. You don’t understand.”
Vasques’s h
ands shook at her side, clenching and unclenching, itching to pull her own gun. She visualized it. Pulling the gun, squeezing the trigger, Belacourt’s head jerking back, the back of his skull exploding out over the snow. But he had her dead to rights. There was no way she could pull her gun, flip the safety, aim, and squeeze before he fired. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Plus, he stood behind a car door that he could use for cover, and she was completely exposed.
“I understand that you betrayed my father and got him killed.”
“I’m sorry, kid. I never wanted you or your father to get hurt. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. But it’s too late for that.”
Then Belacourt aimed the big .45 at her head and pulled the trigger.
92
Ackerman had finally taken the time to dispose of the bodies of the two drug dealers. He didn’t want their corpses to be found easily. The police would obviously search their former residence for evidence, and then he would have to dispose of more bodies. So he had opened up their chest cavities, cut out their lungs, filled the emptied spaces with rocks, and sewn them shut. The lungs were the organs that caused a body to bloat and float back to the surface. With them removed, the bodies would settle comfortably beneath twenty-five feet of water at the bottom of Lake Calumet.
After tossing the remains of the degenerates from the 130th Street bridge, Ackerman cleaned up the crack house and fashioned a work area in the living room. He had purchased materials and an arc welder from the Lowe’s on South Holland Road, and now he had set to the task of building his device.
He popped a flux-coated electrode into the stick welder and turned the handle to clamp it into place. After grounding the machine to the plate of steel and adjusting the current, he flipped down his protective goggles and, as if striking a match, scratched the electrode over the metal’s surface to start an arc. The wire’s flux coating would prevent oxygen and nitrogen in the atmosphere from touching the weld puddle and would therefore seal it off and temper it as he laid the bead. Once it was secured in place, he checked the LED display and keyboard for proper functionality.
Proud of his handiwork, he attached the bottom and sides of the small metal box and welded them into place as well. After all, he didn’t want Marcus or a bomb squad to be able to peek inside and see what tricks he had in store.
93
Marcus watched as Belacourt pulled the trigger. Most police officers were damn good shots. And he guessed that Belacourt was above average. Shooting was just like anything else. Practice made perfect, and the Jackson’s Grove department had their own small shooting range in the basement beside the evidence lock-up and their gym. That was a rarity for a small suburban department. He had read Belacourt’s file, and it listed that he was one of the department’s specialized shooting instructors. So the detective had had lots of practice firing the big Kimber pistol. There was no way he would miss at this range. He would go for the head shot, and nobody could survive a good head shot from a .45 caliber.
Of course, none of that really mattered since Marcus had told Andrew to sneak into the locker room and remove the Kimber’s firing pin while Belacourt was engaged in his daily treadmill run.
Belacourt squeezed the trigger and was in the process of swinging the gun toward Marcus before he seemed to realize that his weapon hadn’t fired. He quickly racked back the slide and squeezed again. Still nothing. So the cop did the only thing he could. He dove into the car, ducked down, and threw it into reverse.
Vasques, recovering from the shock, went for her gun.
Marcus screamed, “Hold your fire! We need him alive!”
Belacourt’s vehicle twisted and jerked in the snow, but he got it turned back around and headed toward the exit from the yard. Vasques dove inside their vehicle, turned the key, and grabbed for the shifter on the steering column. But Marcus’s hand shot out and stopped her from putting the vehicle into gear. He was still leaning halfway into the car.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll drive and explain on the way.”
Her stare shifted quickly from Marcus to the tracks that Belacourt’s Impala had left behind and then back again. Marcus said, “He reacted exactly as I hoped he would. We’ve got him right where we want him.”
Vasques took her hand off the shifter, but her bottom lip trembled. He thought for a moment that she was going to go for the shifter again, but then she stepped out of the car and came around to the passenger side. He hopped behind the wheel, and they left the lumber yard behind. He had to gun the accelerator and build up momentum to bust his way through the snow.
“What just happened? I should be dead. We both should.”
“Not from Belacourt’s gun. I had Andrew remove the firing pin.”
“When?”
“During Belacourt’s run. You told me that he runs twice a day like clockwork. So I knew exactly where he’d be and when, and I knew that his gun and cell phone would be sitting in his locker at the police station.”
“You had this planned?”
“More or less. That’s why I wanted to meet somewhere secluded. I wanted to confront him, and then I hoped he’d either give up and want to make a deal or he’d turn on us and run.”
“His cell phone. You’re tracking it?”
“Andrew installed a little piece of software that we got from the NSA. We can track him and listen in on any calls he makes.”
“You put tracking and monitoring software in the phone of a police officer. What you’re talking about is completely illegal,” she said.
“You can turn me in later. If I was Belacourt right now, I’d know that we’re probably putting out an all-points on his car and contacting the phone company to track the cell. Which means that he needs help. Hopefully, he calls Conlan.”
“So he calls someone else involved, and we let him lead us up the food chain. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Marcus said nothing, kept his eyes on the road.
“You thought that I’d kill him if I knew ahead of time.”
“Would you have?”
Vasques was quiet for a moment but then whispered, “Probably. What now?”
“We wait for him to make a call.”
94
The Prophet watched the women tremble in the back corner of their cage. When he had placed them inside, he had stripped them down to their underwear. They were both beautiful. Especially the Schuyler woman: she was an athlete. He could tell by her muscle tone. It was unusual for a woman of her age, and it spoke of aerobics and a strict workout regimen. If only there was more time. He smiled in at them, and the black woman gave him a defiant and angry look. She was strong. He liked that. She cradled the other woman’s head against her chest. They had both been crying but were relying on each other for strength. It always amazed him how dire situations could bring total strangers together so quickly.
He chuckled as the women’s faces changed. Shrinking, expanding, glowing. But the effect of the LSD was diminishing. The weight of this reality was pulling him back down and chaining his spirit into the mortal coil. The medicine was wearing off. He longed for the moment when this world would be no more, and he would no longer need help from a drug to fly.
A strange noise echoed over the concrete floor, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his phone. “Hello?”
“Prophet, it’s Erik.”
The Prophet smiled again. It was good to hear the voice of his Disciple.
He had known that he would need help to ensure that the darkest night went exactly as planned, so two years ahead of time, he had begun a passive search for a new recruit. Someone that he could trust to help him complete The Work. After all, he had always known that Schofield was weak. And Belacourt had lost his way. The cop had been an unwilling although necessary participant, but he was no longer a true believer. He was no longer one of The Disciples. Which saddened the Prophet, since Belacourt and Schofield were the only remaining members of his original flock. But they were also prime examples of the weak
ness and ignorance of mankind. Even men like them who knew the truth could easily be led astray by the society of the slaves. That was exactly why he had isolated his flock at the compound in Wisconsin.
But then the Father had blessed him with Erik Jansen. He had been a Neo-Nazi and then a Theistic Satanist whom the Prophet had met in an online discussion forum. A man that the Prophet could trust. A true believer in The Work. A new Disciple.
“Speak, brother. What troubles you?”
“It’s Belacourt. He just called me, screaming. He was very upset. I’m sorry, Prophet, but the agent named Williams survived the fire at your old compound.”
The Prophet jerked forward in his chair. “What? How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. But he saw me when I set the fire, and it led him back to Belacourt. But that’s not the worst of it.”
The Prophet stood and paced the room. The concrete floor was freezing beneath his naked feet. “He wants money.”
“Yes, sir. He said that you owe it to him. Said that he’d turn himself in and tell the police everything unless you paid. He mentioned that they might give him a deal if he gave them Harrison and the two of us.”
The Prophet closed his eyes and watched the colors spin and twirl in strange new shapes. After a moment, he said, “Here’s what I want you to do.”
95
They had followed Belacourt’s signal up through residential areas and then down Route 30 past drug stores, shopping plazas, and fast-food restaurants. Then he abruptly cut north and made a stop in a residential area north of Lindenwood. Marcus guessed that he was stealing another car and ditching the Impala. Then he had made the call. Stan recorded it and then played it back for them. Unfortunately, Belacourt hadn’t revealed much other than one name: Harrison. It wasn’t much to go on in a city the size of Chicago.
Marcus pulled the car over in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot while they waited for Belacourt to make his next move. There seemed to be a Dunkin’ on every other corner in Chicagoland. Faint worry lines creased Vasques’s face. She seemed to be on autopilot while she processed Belacourt’s betrayal.
