Dark Prophecy (16 page)

Dark closed out the window, leaned against the table, and rubbed his temples. “I suppose I should get on a plane now,” he said.

“No,” Graysmith said. “Let Riggins and your girl Brielle work the scene. This is not the death of some hooker in an alley. This is a senator. They’re going to err on the side of obsessive-compulsive when gathering evidence. I’ve also got a lock on Riggins’s phone now, and Brielle’s as well. Plus my usual backdoor sources at Special Circs. Whatever they get, we’ll get.”

Something about that unsettled Dark. Like he’d betrayed his friends, led them right into a compromising security situation. But he pushed the thoughts aside. Wasn’t as if he’d invited Riggins here.

“So what then? Dark asked. “Do we wait around for this guy to deal another card strike again?”

“No,” Graysmith said. “You do what you do best. Put together the clues into a narrative. We have four cards now, six victims, all within a period of five days. The killer chose these cards for a reason. Get inside his mind. This is what you do best.”

“No,” Dark said. “It’s not. I don’t do
random
. There’s no deduction here, intellect doesn’t apply. He might as well be spinning a roulette wheel and killing people according to the numbers that pop up. No matter how hard I think about it, I’m not going to be able to guess.”

Dark suddenly felt claustrophobic, wondering who he’d let into his house. What had he been thinking? She could have installed anything in his house—a security override, pinhole cameras,
anything
. He decided to spend the rest of the night scouring his own basement to find out what she’d done. Maybe he’d even have to move. Take just what was essential . . . no. Take nothing. He deserved nothing less for his stupidity.

“Hey,” Graysmith said. “Sit down, take a deep breath. You look like you’re ready to crawl out of your own skin.”

“I just need to think.”

“Let me help put you at ease.”

“What do you mean?”

Dark looked at her. She gave him no obvious tells. She didn’t play with her hair, or purse her lips slightly, or tilt her hips. There was nothing. But just the same Dark knew what she was offering, matter-of-factly, as if she’d suggested giving him an espresso.

Instead, Dark told her: “You’d better go.”

chapter 34

Washington, D.C.

 

 

Amazing how so simple a concept—say, a tarot card—could unlock the keys to the media kingdom.

Knack knew that the whole tarot thing was a gift straight from heaven; with a media-friendly handle like the Tarot Card Killer, his series would finally get the attention it deserved. Even people who wouldn’t know a crystal ball from a basketball knew what a tarot card was. The whole thing was custom-made for the masses.

Even the killer’s name could be boiled down to a tight little market-ready brand: TCK.

Knack was almost beside himself with glee. There was even implied momentum in the name, like a clock ticking (or, TCKing, as it were) down to another murder.

But Knack had no idea that within a few hours of dubbing this psycho “TCK” he’d be on the set of a remote studio in D.C., some tech running a mic wire down his shirt, waiting for Alan Lloyd—yeah, the Alan Lloyd of
The Alan Lloyd Report
—to start asking questions via satellite. The whole thing had come together with amazing speed.

The circus had already started without him. All of the major networks had a steady rotation of tarot experts and clueless callers, all of them offering their opinions and interpretations, and trying to guess the killer’s next move. Knack even heard some Vegas book-makers were offering odds on the next card to be referenced. The killings had captured the public imagination, and everybody wanted in on the action. Some were terrified by the very idea that a freaky killer was picking off people at random, all over the eastern seaboard. Others couldn’t wait for the next grisly report.

And the mania had all started with Knack’s Slab posts. Even better: Knack already had a main character in Steve Dark, legendary manhunter. That was the missing piece. If he could somehow get to Dark, get his cooperation, nobody would be able to touch him on this.

“Ready?” asked some pretty network assistant.

“Yeah,” Knack said, trying to breathe slowly and take a moment to celebrate. He’d done it. He owned this story.

“You’re on in three ...”

Now that Knack thought about it, this wasn’t just a story. This was a Goddamned book. A career-making book.

“Two ...”

God bless you, TCK. Wherever you are.

“One . . .”

 

 

Alan Lloyd wore a look of dire concern. “Mr. Knack, many people are worried that this so-called Tarot Card Killer could suddenly show up on their front doorstep. Is that likely? Should people be afraid?”

Knack had to play this one right. You don’t want to sound like an alarmist, but you also don’t want to cut the legs out from under your own story. Keeping people in a mild state of unease was the goal. If they were uneasy, they’d want to watch and read more until they felt a little better about themselves. Every new victim was a relief because . . . well, the killer hadn’t killed
you
.

“Alan,” Knack said, “that’s a very good question. What has law enforcement alarmed is that they truly can’t figure out TCK’s pattern. He could literally strike anyone, anywhere, anytime.”

Crap, Knack thought. Too much, too much. Plus he’d used the word “alarm.” Damnit. He began to sweat a little.

Alan Lloyd, however, was loving it. “So what should people do? Stay indoors and avoid all human contact? That seems a little unreasonable, don’t you think?”

“Of course not, Alan,” Knack said. “You’re more likely to win the Powerball lottery than find yourself in the TCK’s crosshairs. But people should know that this killer is uniquely brazen. He took down an FBI agent, Alan . . . consider that for a moment, the
FBI
. . . for his second kill. The second one we know about, anyway.”

Lloyd nodded gravely, then opened up the show to viewer calls. First was Linda from Westwood, California.

“Yes, Linda, you’re on.”

“I would like to know if Mr. Knack thinks the Tarot Card Killer is worse than the Son of Sam or the Zodiac.”

“Too early to tell, Linda,” Knack said. “Comparatively, though, the Zodiac was a bit of a coward, picking on couples in remote locations, hiding behind letters. The TCK is not afraid to take the fight to the enemy.”

Knack cringed a little when the words came out of his mouth; he just equated law enforcement with the “enemy.” Word choice, you stupid bastard, word choice . . .

“Scott from Austin. Fire away.”

“Why is this loony using tarot cards? Is he just trying to be spooky?”

Knack shook his head. “Scott, this goes beyond spookiness. I’m not an expert, of course, but from what I’ve seen at these crime scenes, the TCK is trying to re-create actual scenes from these cards. To what end? We have no idea. And I don’t think we’ll know, sadly, until he turns over the next card.”

“Drew from Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. Do you have a question for Mr. Knack?”

“Yeah,” a timid voice said. “You said not to be afraid, but the thing that scares me the most is how random it is. Could I be the next victim?”

“That’s a great question,” Knack said. “I wish I could tell you what the TCK is thinking. But none of us can. Not even the FBI.”

chapter 35

West Hollywood, California

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Graysmith departed, Dark headed out, too. He brought nothing but his keys, wallet. He picked up his cell phone and looked at it for a moment before throwing it back down onto his kitchen counter. Dark didn’t want to hear from anyone. That would mean he’d miss Sibby’s nightly call—
again
—but he couldn’t just sit here, either. Sibby would understand. She was a tough little kid, just like he’d been. Besides, he’d make it up to her. Maybe he’d pay a surprise visit tomorrow. Just drive up the PCH to Santa Barbara and spend a couple of hours with her, playing on the floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he did that.

Now Dark just needed to drive, undisturbed.

He climbed into his Mustang and blasted down Wilshire, past the two- and three-story shops and restaurants and bars of Santa Monica, all the way to the end of the road, where Eugene Morahan’s white Art Deco statue of the city’s namesake saint stood, surrounded by gnarled trees and a patch of grass shaped like a heart. On sheer impulse, Dark turned left on Ocean and raced past the Santa Monica pier. Bad move. Too many memories on that pier. As he zoomed by, he glanced down, half-expecting to see Riggins there, staring back up at him, hurt look on his face.

Dark thought about hopping on the 405 South all the way across the border to Ensenada. Buy a cheap bottle of something that would help him turn off his mind and sit on the beach and lose himself in the night—

Then he saw her, walking up the block from Neilson Way.

Couldn’t be . . .

The same way she moved her hips. The hair, cut just like always. The curve of her back.

Dark’s foot slammed into the brake pedal, causing his Mustang to fishtail a little. He jumped out of the car, temporarily losing sight of her. Where had she gone? Up the street? He jogged in that direction, looking for his dead wife’s long, black hair.

No. It wasn’t Sibby. The rational part of Steve Dark knew that. She’d been gone five years, and though the memory of her was still alive in his mind, he knew her body was resting in Hollywood Cemetery. Dark had held their daughter and watched them lower her into the earth. It was like watching a group of strangers bury his own heart.

But this random woman on the street seemed so much like her. He couldn’t help himself. He had to look at her, just to put the irrational part of himself at ease.

Dark’s sneakers slapped the pavement frantically. Cool ocean air blasted across the back of his neck, freezing the sweat that had suddenly beaded there. The woman, this
Not Sibby
, couldn’t have disappeared so fast. There was nowhere for her to go, to hide. And why would she hide? After a few moments Dark found himself in front of St. Clement’s Church—a modest building off the main drag. Its doors were still open; the last Sunday Mass had wrapped up a short while ago.

Maybe
Not Sibby
ran in here.

A young priest was still inside, picking up the stray hymnals and wilted flyers from the seats of the pews. Dark looked around, from the modest altar and wooden cross back to the small confessionals. Nobody else was here.

“Can I help you?” the priest asked.

Dark was about to ask if a woman had stepped inside the church, but realized how insane that would sound. Especially if the priest was to ask if the woman was his wife, or a relative.

“Sorry,” Dark said. “I just wanted a moment of quiet. Is that okay? Or are you closing up?”

The priest smiled warmly. “Not for a little while. Knock yourself out.”

Dark shuffled into the nearest pew, lowered the kneeler with the top of a sneaker, hit his knees. Being in churches reminded him of his foster parents.
As long you pray to God, everything will be okay
, his foster father had once explained. Of course, that was before he’d stood over the dead bodies of his entire family. Dark believed his foster father had been praying in his final moments, hands bound behind his back, utterly helpless. Not praying for himself, though. Praying for the souls of his family. Including Dark.

He interlocked his fingers, made a tight ball with his hands, lowered his forehead to his knuckles.

Dark tried to recite the Our Father, but for some reason he couldn’t bring the words to mind. Which was ridiculous. He’d grown up with those words practically tattooed on the inside of his skull. But now Dark could only recall fragments.

You leave a city for a long enough period of time, your mind puts your map of the place in deep storage. Was that the same with prayer? If you stop saying the words, does your mind file it all away? Dark couldn’t remember the last time he prayed. He remembered many drunken nights cursing God. Maybe God had responded by wiping the words clean from his mind.

Enough of this. Dark stood up.

“Are you okay, my friend?” the priest asked, slightly stunned by his movement.