The Cult (11 page)

Latorre chuckled at the man’s unintentional pun and stood up, grabbing his beret from the table in front of him. “Maybe that is a good idea, Father.”

He greeted the man affably and strolled out of his office. He fished a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number.
 

The general answered after the first ring. “Latorre, how are you?”

Latorre sighed. “I think I found the priest killer.”

“Who?”

“Father Casanellas.”

“How do you know?”

Latorre shrugged. “I just know.”

“I know the feeling. What’s next, Lieutenant?”

Latorre squinted at the brightly lit day outside. “I gather evidence, and then I tangle him up in his own web of lies.”

Casanellas rewound the CCTV footage and turned the volume knob up as far as it could go. He squinted as he listened into his headset. Lieutenant Latorre from Interpol had exited Casanella’s office and was now walking down the passageway to the exit, his phone to his ear.

“I think I found the priest killer,
” he said.

A brief silence follows and then he said,
“Father Casanellas.”
Two seconds later the Lieutenant said,
“I just know.”

Casanellas removed the headset and tossed it onto the desk. “So you think you have a suspect, do you now?”

He turned to his laptop and started typing on the keyboard. A minute later he had access to the Interpol database. He ran a couple of queries and his name popped up. “Aha, a red flag.”

He refined his query. “Why, oh why would that be?”

The Interior Ministry had correctly logged his exit and entry into the country and cross-referenced it to camera footage of him at the Salt Lake City International Airport. “Good-looking guy,” he said and chuckled.

The red flag appeared beside his name, with a blinking message highlighted in yellow. “Refer Case # IPFA90206.”

He pulled up the docket on the computer screen. As he guessed, it related to the murder of Bishop Warren Garland from the NSSL in Salt Lake City. Sounded like a damn football team.

He searched some more, refining his queries to yellow and orange flags on his name. Two more murders, one in Paris and another in Scotland. Three flags made a red.

He leaned back in his chair. Three out of more than three-hundred-and-fifty eliminations wasn’t too bad; he had covered his tracks well. He was surprised that they had picked the three up at all. He shrugged. Next time he’d wear a hat or something, stop the facial recognition software from getting a clear picture to analyze.

He started typing again, removing the flags against his name and then deleting his photos and ordering a batch job to remove them from the Interpol’s mainframe tape storage backups as well. He hit the enter key and changed the case dockets to status ‘C’ for
Cold
.

He threaded his fingers together behind his head. Who else would know about this, Lieutenant Latorre? Latorre’s boss, he guessed. He checked the database and scanned the Interpol organigram. Latorre’s direct superior was a female Captain, Alexa Guerra.

Her boss was the head of Interpol Special Investigations, General Alain Laiveaux. Knew him well, had worked on many cases with him in the past. No, he didn’t think that Laiveaux would be checking red flag statuses on a daily basis. So it would have to be Guerra.

He checked the cases she was working on. Her caseload was empty. Strange, a Captain at Interpol usually had more than he or she could handle. Maybe too much idle time on her hands?

He sauntered to the basin and started washing his hands, checking his face in the small mirror. He rubbed his eyebrows with a wet thumb before drying his hands. He tossed the towel into the basket next to the basin.

He grinned as he winked at his reflection in the mirror. Captain Alexa Guerra was going to have more work than she had ever bargained for.

PART FOUR

Gateway Commune,

Las Vegas

Ted Olson rubbed his eyes and yawned. He had been driving around the commune since dusk, trying to clear his head as he slugged whiskey straight from the bottle. He grimaced, scratched in his pocket for a cigarette and pulled out a pack, stuck one in his mouth and lit it with the car’s cigarette lighter.
 

He blew the smoke from his nose. The streets were empty and curtains drawn. The female youth society had a mass gathering up at the Park this evening, He snorted.
Yeah, right. Mass gathering, my ass
. The men were probably out drinking in town.

He scanned the crumbling blacktop, his eyes flitting between the small homes. He was driving through a ghost town. The place had lost all of the vibrancy it had had a couple of years ago when he first joined the fold. People truly cared about one another then, there would be public get-togethers at the communal vegetable gardens, new harvest feasts, first seasonal rain celebrations.

Since Lamont’s arrival all that had disappeared. Now people were spending more time up at the Park, marveling at the bullshit hocus pocus shows that Di Mardi was putting together. And the church numbers had grown exponentially. Lamont was recruiting followers from Europe, Asia and Africa, wowing them with his public speaking abilities. The temple had become a cultural hotpot of disciples stewing in their own ignorant bliss.

He lifted the bottle and sucked back another mouthful of the alcohol and coughed as the liquid burnt his throat. He tossed the bottle out of the window and maneuvered around a corner, adjusting his rearview as a police siren sounded and the emergency lights flashed.

“What the hell?” he said, looking back over his shoulder. Cops weren’t supposed to patrol the communal suburb, Illumenex had their own security detail which he headed.

He slowed down and skidded to a stop next to the sidewalk. The cop car pulled up behind him. He heard the door open and then slam closed, footsteps approaching him.

The cop strode to the passenger side of the vehicle and pulled open the door. “Hiya, Teddy,” Bradley Ortell said and eased himself into the seat beside him. He was armed, holding the CZ-75 casually, pointing it at Ted’s ribs.

Shit. This isn’t good.

“Drive,” the Inspector ordered.

Ted Olsen shifted the car into gear and the car jerked into motion. “Where we going?”

“Just drive.”

They sat in silence, Ortell apparently lost in his own thoughts, humming a simple tune that Ted had heard somewhere before. “Take a right here,” Ortell ordered. He continued directing him onto the interstate, then sat back and closed his eyes. “Drive for another thirty miles.”

Ted glanced at the man. The gun was still pointing at his ribs, unwavering. He didn’t know the Inspector that well, but one thing was certain. Ortell did Di Mardi’s dirty work, cleaned up the neighborhood, Lamont used to say. He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the foggy alcohol buzz. He needed to do something soon.

As if reading his mind, Ortell said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Ted Olsen glanced back at the road. The monotonous singing of the tires on the blacktop and Ortell humming that irritating tune were the only sounds. Time seemed to slow down as Ted Olson’s mind raced, trying to find answers to the inevitable question it had been confronted with.
Am I going to die?
 

After forty minutes, Ortell sat up in his seat and scanned the road. “Take that road,” he said, pointing to a nondescript dirt pathway beside the highway.
 

Ted veered left and pointed the nose of the vehicle down the narrow path. They bumped and rattled their way down the dirt track, Ortell leaning back in his seat again. “Five miles.”

Ted checked the rearview. The lights on the interstate were becoming distant glimmers through the haze of dust behind them. He licked his dry lips. “You’re going to kill me, right?” he asked hoarsely.

Ortell opened his eyes and glanced at Ted. “Yes.”

Ted Olson nodded slowly. His heart hammered in his chest as he sucked in raspy breath. “Shit.”

“Wanna know why?” Ortell asked without opening his eyes.

Ted snorted, threw his hands in the air. “Yeah, sure, why the hell not?”

“Your screw-up with the agents.” The inspector opened his eyes briefly. “Watch the road.”

Ted glanced at Ortell. “What, Di Mardi never heard of second chances? C’mon Ortell, I’ve never let Di Mardi—”

Ortell cocked the weapon. “You’re way past your second chance, Teddy boy.” He looked up. “Stop here.”

Olsen skidded to a halt.
 

“Switch off the car.”

He cut the ignition. They sat in silence for a minute, the muffler box ticking and crickets chirping outside, the sound of his breathing sounding unnatural, forced. He swallowed, then yanked open the door and tried to bolt out of the car, but Ortell grabbed his belt and his pistol barked twice as the inspector fired straight through the roof.

“Don’t!”

The acrid smell of sulphur hung in the air.

“Get out, slowly,” Ortell ordered, opening his door and pulling himself out of his seat. He walked around the car and motioned with the gun. “Climb through the fence.” He switched on a flashlight and directed Ted where to go.

They walked ten yards and Ortell ordered Ted to stop.
 

Ted scanned his surroundings. It was dark, and he could barely make out the shape of the car in the dark night. Above him the stars glittered in the black expanse, he had never seen them so bright. He shivered as a cold breeze cut through his T-shirt. “What was that tune you were humming?”

Ortell chuckled. “Theme song from the Walking Dead.”

Ted Olsen nodded.

“Any last wishes?”

Ted shrugged. “A drink?” he said, his voice cracking. “I have some in the car.”

Ortell sighed. “Get it.”

He strolled to the fence, Ortell lighting the way, keeping a close eye on him. He climbed through the fence, then rummaged through his glove compartment, his hands shaking. He managed to pull out three miniature bottles of whiskey that he had grabbed from the mini-bar at the Ho-Jo’s in Las Vegas.
 

A peaceful calm descended upon him. He put a bottle in his pocket, then fumbled for the key and put it in his mouth as he climb through the fence. He offered a bottle to Ortell who shook his head.
 

Ted shrugged, stripped the tiny cap of the bottle and poured it into his mouth, then did the same with the second. He swallowed painfully, grimacing as he tried to swallow the metal object. It got stuck, and he coughed and spluttered, grabbing his throat with both hands, the whiskey dribbling from his nose.

The shot sounded loud in the night, and he dropped to his knees, then slipped onto his side. He blew the last breath from his nose as the eternal darkness descended.

Mojave Desert, Vegas

Alexa looked up at Neil. “Recognize him?”

Bodies were popping up everywhere, this had been the third fatality during the past three days.
 

Neil kneeled beside her. “We drove past him a couple of days ago when we went to visit Eden Calloway.”

“When did you find him?” she asked Investigator Bradley Ortell.

“Early this morning, a farmer phoned it in.”

Alexa stood up, slapped the dirt from her hands. The body had been searched, his jean pockets turned out and a wallet had been tossed beside the dead man’s head. Alexa cast Ortell a questioning glance. “Was he mugged?”

Ortell lit a cigarette. “Yep, wallet’s empty. Look, I’m going to let the coroner pick the body up now. Our guys have taken photos, if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to the office.”

Alexa nodded again, scanning the horizon as she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. A warm wind was blowing, causing eddying puffs of dust to dance around their feet.

Two guys carrying a stretcher walked up and lay it down beside the body as Ortell waved good bye, his tires kicking up dust and stones as he accelerated away.

The men proceeded to unfold a black body bag and lay it out on the ground next to the body.
 

Alexa kneeled down beside the body. “Hang on for a second.”

They stood back.

An amber, bloody mixture dribbled from the dead man’s lips, and she noticed a slight protrusion in his cheek. She rolled the man onto his back. “Hand me some gloves, would you?” she asked one of the guys.

They handed her a pair of latex gloves and she snapped them on.

She pushed two fingers inside his mouth, then pulled out a key, held it up to Neil. “What do you think?”

“Might be something useful, might not. Why would the guy have a key in his mouth?”

She pulled off a glove and slipped the key inside. “I think he tried to swallow it, then choked before he was shot.”

“Why?”

“He obviously wanted to hide it from the person who shot him.” She crossed her arms. “Let’s go to the commune, someone may have known him.”