Dark Prophecy (13 page)

The girls were holding three cups.

“Shit,” Dark muttered.

Lankford turned. “What is it?”

“I need to borrow your computer.”

Minutes later Dark typed THREE OF CUPS into Lankford’s browser. An image popped up—the exact match to the image he’d snapped on his phone. Dark cursed under his breath and typed in more search terms: HANGED MAN. THE FOOL.

Tarot cards.

chapter 26

Quantico, Virginia

 

 

Riggins’s cell buzzed: WYCOFF. Fantastic. Just what he needed.

“Are you ignoring my e-mail on purpose?” the secretary of defense barked.

Oh, that Wycoff could be a charmer. Riggins sighed and tapped through until his e-mail box emerged from the tangle of files and boxes on his computer screen. Sure enough, Wycoff had sent an e-mail, marked URGENT with three exclamation points next to his name. Gee, guess this was important. The e-mail included a link to a Slab column. The headline:

Byline: Johnny Knack—the fuckhead reporter who’d called him the other day. And below that: the image of Steve Dark, cell phone pressed to his ear, clearly leaving the scene of the triple homicide in Philly! Riggins didn’t want to believe it, but the image didn’t lie. That was Dark all right. Familiar look on his face—the look of a manhunter, deep in thought, blocking everything else out except for one thing: the crime scene. It was a look Riggins had seen a hundred times on Dark’s face.

“Fuck me,” Riggins muttered to himself.

“So tell me,” Wycoff said. “What was your boy doing in Philadelphia?”

“I have no idea. It’s a free country, though.”

Wycoff ignored the comment. “When you said Dark was out, you swore he would stay out. He can’t just come and go to crime scenes as he pleases.”

“I’ll look into this, but it’s probably bullshit, and you know it.”

“Bullshit?” Wycoff asked. “I’m looking at his picture online right now. What, you telling me he has a twin brother running around somewhere? Who just happens to be near the scene of a triple homicide?”

The thought had crossed his mind, actually. Riggins was the only man alive who knew the secrets of Dark’s family tree. Every last twisted, rotted root of it.

“This is on you, Tom,” Wycoff said. “I’d like you to personally take care of it.”

“What do you mean, take care of it? Am I supposed to have Dark followed?”

“Hey, I’m doing you a favor here, coming to you first. Either you take care of it, or I know some people who’d be more than glad to do it.”

The words sparked an instant association in Riggins’s mind. Wycoff’s secret goon squad—off-the-books killers who dressed in black and had a thing for needles. He’d stared them down more than once. Riggins almost hated them more than the monsters he chased. At least monsters were clearly on the side of evil. These fuckers, these faceless black ops jackoffs, they did their creepy killing in the name of the U.S. government, and probably received handsome pensions for it.

“I’ll talk to him,” Riggins said, then threw his phone on the desk. Why was Dark sticking his nose in this? And how the hell had he made it to the scene in Philly so quickly? Maybe he had someone on the inside here at Special Circs, still helping him out? Wouldn’t be the first time.

Riggins sighed, resigning himself to the unpleasant task ahead. Dark had always been stubborn as fuck—even as a punk kid cop. Dark had spent a year sending application after application to Special Circs, but received rejection after rejection.

One day he showed up to ask Riggins about it. Riggins tried to puncture his balloon quickly, save him the grief, telling him that the job would eat him alive.
Go out, fall in love, get married, have a kid,
he’d told him. Have a life.

Dark had refused to accept that answer.
I want to catch serials, Riggins
, he’d said.
I want to catch the best of the worst. I want this.

A man like Dark just couldn’t turn off the “manhunter” part of his brain like a light switch. No matter how much he insists otherwise. From the moment Dark supposedly “quit”, Riggins knew this day would come. He just didn’t know it would be so soon.

He picked up the phone and chartered himself a flight to L.A. Five years ago, he’d flown to L.A. to bring Steve Dark out of early retirement. Now Riggins was headed back to L.A. to make sure he stayed retired.

chapter 27

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

 

 

“Stop busting my balls, Knack. You know I can’t say anything.”

Knack leaned against Lankford’s door frame. “Come on, Lee. Why was Steve Dark here?”

Lankford shook his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Right. Like I didn’t see you escorting him from the crime scene.”

“You’re seeing things.”

“I saw him walking next to you, Lee. Talking to you. So come on—why are you denying it? Fill me in here or I’m going to have to make something up.”

Knack knew Lankford from a series he’d written last year about a Philadelphia cop who’d gotten loaded late one night and decided to take his service revolver and clean up his neighborhood, one thug at a time. The only problem: This cop considered a bunch of thirteen-year-olds playing a rowdy game of pickup to be “thugs.” One dead kid, two wounded, and a media shitstorm that followed. Knack, looking for a contrarian angle, focused on the insane stress on the average inner-city cop. The piece made him a lot of cop pals, including Lankford, and had resulted in a surge of goodwill that Knack was still riding.

None of that seemed to matter now. Lankford wasn’t giving up a damn thing.

And now the detective was standing up, stuffing a bunch of papers inside a manila folder, and pushing his way past Knack. “Look, Jon—you’re a nice guy. Maybe I can give you an update later, okay? Just not now.”

Knack nodded, pretending to be hurt. Not too much. Just a little.

Not too hurt to step into Lankford’s office and poke around his desk a little.

If Dark were here officially, there had to be some paperwork to that effect, right? Maybe Lankford left it out on his desk. Knack got his cell phone ready in camera mode, just in case he needed to snap something on the fly, then sat down in Lankford’s chair. If the detective happened back in, Knack could just claim to be making a call. Reception was better over here, his legs were tired, blah blah blah.

After a quick minute of flicking and pushing papers, Knack saw nothing of real interest on Lankford’s desk. But his browser on the other hand . . .

People never erased their browser histories. Knack credited at least three major scoops to a quick look at some CEO’s or cop’s Internet usage. He clicked on the history and his eyes went wide.

Knack had his serial killer handle.

chapter 28

Philadelphia International Airport

 

 

When Dark returned to the airport just before noon, he was mildly surprised to see that Graysmith was already waiting for him on the plane. She sat on a plush creamy leather seat with her legs crossed, pile of manila folders and loose papers in her lap. Graysmith must have followed him out East on another flight while he was analyzing the scene in the bar.

“You get everything you need?” she asked.

“It’s a start,” Dark said.

“What do you think about the suspect the police have in custody—this construction worker?” Graysmith asked.

Dark sat down in a seat across the aisle from her, let his head tilt back, stretched his fingers, closed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep. “Jason Beckerman? Doesn’t feel right. Wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe even a fall guy the real killer put in our path. Philly doesn’t have anything to hold him on. Plus, Beckerman seems to have a solid alibi for the night of Jeb Paulson’s murder.”

“So who’s doing it?”

“I don’t know. Don’t have enough to work with yet. I didn’t see the first two crime scenes, and I didn’t have much time with this one.”

“I think you have some ideas.”

Dark looked at her, hesitated, then said: “The killer might be imitating images on tarot cards.”

Graysmith’s eyes lit up. “I
knew
you had something. Okay, walk me through it, starting with Green.”

At first Dark seemed to ignore her. He took a laptop computer from the seat next to him and opened up a browser. After a few keystrokes, he turned the screen so Graysmith could see. “The Hanged Man,” Dark said. “Martin Green.”

“Jesus. It’s just like the crime scene.”

More tapping. Another tarot card image appeared.

“The Fool,” Dark said, “Jeb Paulson.”

“I’m not seeing it.”

“Rewind the murder scene a few seconds,” Dark said. “Imagine him up on the roof, ready to take a step out into the unknown, white rose in his hand ...”

Then Graysmith seemed to understand. “So he’s mocking Special Circs. Calling them fools?”

Dark shook his head. “I don’t think so. The little I
do
know about tarot cards is that they’re never meant to be taken literally. The Fool doesn’t mean idiot, according to this Web site. For a lack of a better term, I think it means newbie.”

Graysmith nodded. “As in, new to Special Circs. Eager, ambitious, headstrong, hungry.”

“And the girls tonight were ...”

Dark tapped, then showed Graysmith the screen. The Three of Cups card appeared. “Celebrating. Drunk with life.”

“Goddamn. How did you figure this out?”

Dark shrugged. “The girls holding their drink glasses at the crime scene was too forced, too on purpose, you know? It was a detail screaming for attention.”

“If this killer is screaming for attention,” Graysmith said, “why not make it easy and leave a copy of the card or something?”

“The victims take the place of the cards.”

“But the victims themselves don’t make sense. Take these college girls—why them? What’s the connection? First Green, then Paulson, the agent who was investigating Green. But where do these college girls fit in? What’s the next logical step?”

“I don’t know,” Dark said. “I’m not an investigator anymore. I have no idea what you want from me.”

Graysmith smiled, then moved across the plane and sat next to Dark. He looked up at her, breathing in her perfume—fresh and intoxicating. The animal part of him wanted to take her in his arms and fuck her, then sleep for days, only waking when he wanted another fix. He suspected she knew this.

She leaned forward, almost whispering in his ear. “You’ve seen, firsthand, what kind of resources I can offer you.”

“But what do you want in return?” Dark asked.

“I want you to catch the monsters.”

“Special Circs does that.”

“But Special Circs isn’t as good as you. And they’re not able to follow the job through—to give the monsters out there what they deserve.”

“Which would be what?”

“Death.”

Dark looked away. The plane was already beginning to taxi onto the tarmac. Lights streaked across the windows. Everything was beginning to make a little more sense now.

Graysmith wasn’t interested in law and order or due process. Which was why she didn’t funnel her considerable resources through the usual channels—even a division like Special Circs. No matter how clandestine, you always have to account to someone for your actions. Histories, even secret histories, had to be compiled.

She could give Dark the keys to his old life. Make him a manhunter once again. Only this time, he’d have unlimited access and a blank check. All Dark had to do was say yes.

Dark turned to face Graysmith. “What do you get out of this?”

Her eyes bored into his. “The monster who tortured and killed my sister is sitting in a climate-controlled room, eating three meals a day. He is clothed and given medical treatment, dental care. He has access to books. Writing implements and paper. He is allowed to exercise. To think. To dream. Meanwhile, my sister’s scarred body is decomposing in a cemetery somewhere. Believe me, not a day goes by that I don’t think of sending someone into that prison to slaughter that son of a bitch.”

“Why not?” Dark asked. “Maybe it’ll help you feel better.”

“It would be a selfish act. If I’m going to sell my soul to the devil, I’m going to make it worthwhile.”

“Have you made the deal already?”

“Look,” Graysmith said, “I’m simply offering you the chance to do what you do best. You found the boogeyman once, and you erased him from the face of the earth. You can do it again. And again. And again.”

“Until when?”

“Until the world is safe for your daughter.”

“I can’t stop the evil.”

“Maybe not, but you can make a difference. One killer at a time.”

Dark wouldn’t admit it out loud, but that was
exactly
what he wanted, too.

“So what’s your answer?” Graysmith asked. “Are we in this together?”

“Yeah,” Dark said quietly, trying to push the image of his daughter out of his mind. “We are.”

IV

ten of swords

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