Dark Prophecy

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

also by anthony e. zuiker

DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First printing, October 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony E. Zuiker

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eISBN : 978-1-101-44434-4

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To my mother, Diana, this one’s for you . . .

It is well-known among law enforcement personnel that murderers can be categorized as belonging to one of twenty-five levels of evil, from the naïve opportunists starting out at Level 1 to the organized, premeditated torture-murderers who inhabit Level 25.

What almost no one knows is that a new category of killer has emerged. And only one man is capable of stopping them.

 

His targets:

Level 26 killers.

 

His methods:

Whatever it takes.

 

His name:

Steve Dark.

PROLOGUE

Rome, Italy

 

 

As Steve Dark pulled the latex mask out of the water, it seemed to be laughing at him.

The barren eyeholes stared back, as if in wide-eyed mock surprise.
Who, me? Do this?
The zipper mouth twisted around the edges to imply a cruel sneer. The rest of the suit hung wet and limp from Dark’s hands, as if it were the skin of a lizard that had long since scampered off to points unknown. The details were familiar; the same zippers, the same stitching. The suit seemed identical to the one the diabolical Sqweegel had worn, only this version was completely black.

Tom Riggins caught up with Dark, put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not him,” he said.

“I know,” Dark said quietly.

“I’m serious. You and I watched that son of a bitch burn. This is just someone fucking around. A copycat. You know that, right?”

Dark nodded. “Let’s get this thing bagged.”

Hours before, there had been instant panic—Special Circs was rushed to Rome, an international task force was formed. Somebody poisoned the Trevi Fountain in Rome, killing dozens of people, and that unknown subject had left something strange floating in the cyanide-laced waters. The scene was right out of Hieronymus Bosch—hundreds of pink bodies, a soul-sickening stench. Scores of ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars were shoehorned in the main road. Worried onlookers clogged every alley and side street.

A Roman
polizia
van had escorted Dark and his team to a cleared section a few yards away from the fountain. Uniformed officers lifted the orange crime-scene tape for Dark as he ducked under and then helped clear his way to the famed fountain. The bottom was almost completely empty, except for gold and silver Euro coins and a quarter inch of water—poisoned water, lapping at the bottoms of Dark’s shoes.

Huddled around the drain area were five Roman cops standing broad shoulder to broad shoulder, blocking the view from onlookers. Dark’s escort whistled, and they parted.

When he first saw the black, rubbery mass floating in the water, Dark stopped dead in his tracks. He had to will himself to take several deep breaths before approaching, his mind reeling, his veins suddenly pumping ice water.

In that one horrible moment, Dark was fooled into thinking that maybe,
somehow
, the Level 26 serial killer had survived. The rational part of Dark’s mind knew that was impossible. Dark had chopped up his body with an axe, and he had watched the spindly parts burn in a crematory oven. Still, seeing the suit, and its mocking countenance, was enough to flip Dark’s mind over to the irrational side.

 

 

The team found a lab in Rome. It was a far cry from the one Dark was used to back at Special Circs in Virginia, but the basic tools were there. Dark swabbed the suit for DNA, then ran the sample through. As he waited, Dark sipped bitter, lukewarm coffee and tried to keep his mind focused. But the brain in his skull was like a trapped animal, and it refused to settle down. He kept running through the nightmare events of the past few weeks. He kept seeing flashes of his infant daughter, now in the care of a complete stranger back in the United States. He kept seeing flashes of Sibby, the love of his life, smiling at him. A smile he would ever only see in his dreams.

Finally, the DNA results came in, and they sparked a CODIS hit back in the United States—Las Vegas, in connection with a cold case.

Dark braced himself for everything from a copycat to a reincarnation. Someone who had followed the case, had gotten off on it, and decided to follow in Sqweegel’s footsteps. This was nothing new. The original Zodiac had many admirers who picked up his techniques over the years—taunting the police with letters, killing lovers in isolated locations. The killer had captured the public imagination, and there were those who wanted to take advantage of that.

And now this seemed to be the case with Sqweegel. There had been no serial killer like him in recorded history. Sqweegel, a contortionist madman who kept his body encased in a forensic-proof murder suit, left no traces behind unless he
wanted
them left behind. He could hide in the smallest of crevices and wait with inhuman patience until his victim was distracted or asleep. Then Sqweegel would crawl out of his hidey-hole and attack with a savagery that belied his size and build. He had been obsessed with punishing humans for perceived sins and saw himself as a cleansing agent on the soul of the world. And he had fixated on Dark—the manhunter who spent years tracking him. To Sqweegel, Dark required the ultimate punishment.