The Soul Collectors (14 page)

Darby leaned forward and grabbed the phone.

27

Darby dialled the number, listening to the strange transcontinental double-ring for a phone on the other side of the world. Four of those double-rings and then Coop’s voicemail message played.

‘Coop, it’s me. I need a favour. A big favour, actually. I’m going to FedEx you a set of papers. I need you to process them for prints – and here’s the important part – I need you to figure out a way to feed them into IAFIS. I can’t do it here – long story – but I’m hoping you can. Last time we talked, you mentioned that the feds had provided access to IAFIS’s biometric data to test out the system on your end. Maybe you can use this as test data, I don’t know. Call me and we’ll talk. I lost my cell phone, so call me at home.’

She thought about adding
I miss you
and, instead, said, ‘Charlie Rizzo, that kid from Brookline who disappeared a decade ago? I met him, Coop. He’s been alive all this time, and I need to find out why. What happened to him.’

Darby hung up then grabbed the mouse and clicked the icon for the date and time. A clock and calendar opened: today was the 18th. She had been called to New Hampshire on the night of the 9th. She’d been locked up in that quarantine chamber for
nine
days. Nine days without showing any symptoms and they had kept her locked up and drugged.

Why?

She clicked on the Internet Explorer icon, relieved to discover she could access the web. At least they hadn’t blocked that out.

She headed over to Google news. In the search box she typed ‘Mark Rizzo’ and ‘New Hampshire’. A lot of links came back. She started with the first and most recent one, and it brought her to the website for New Hampshire’s Portsmouth
Herald
. The article was only a couple of paragraphs long. She read through it quickly, then went back to the main page and clicked on the link for the
Boston Globe
. Read that article and then read two more before stopping. Each newspaper was spouting the bullshit about Mark Rizzo and his family being killed in a drug deal gone bad.

Deborah Collier, a special agent from the FBI’s Boston office and acting spokesman for the Durham and Portsmouth police departments, had told reporters that Mark Rizzo, an accountant who had recently been laid off from a local NH firm, had turned to the lucrative world of methamphetamine manufacturing. Forensic agents from both the FBI and ATF reported finding traces of the highly addictive street drug on several debris samples recovered from the explosion. Special Agent Collier said that the remains of a fifth person recovered from the blast site had been identified through DNA analysis as belonging to Alex Scala, a 43-year-old meth user and distributor known to the FBI. Collier didn’t have much information about Scala other than that the man’s last known residence was in Dorchester, Massachusetts.

The explosion that caused the deaths of seven New Hampshire SWAT agents and five police officers, all unnamed, had been attributed to the release of phosphine, a deadly gas that can be emitted during methamphetamine production. Several local residents, all unnamed, had been treated at hospital and subsequently released.

None of the articles mentioned the 911 call placed by a man claiming to be Charlie Rizzo (although the
Boston Globe
article had briefly mentioned the boy’s abduction in 1984, when the family lived in Brookline, Massachusetts). No mention of the unidentified man Charlie had shot and dumped in the bushes. No mention of the ambulance that had gone missing. And the
coup de grace
: not a single mention of the army’s interest or involvement in the case.

With no new information released about the explosion, New England reporters had turned to churning out stories about ‘the new and explosive growth’ of homemade meth labs that were popping up all across the country in houses, apartments and mobile homes.

It was a great spin job – a
brilliant
spin job. The FBI spokesman had cleverly explained the explosion. Stories about methamphetamine were everywhere these days. The drug was cheap and easy to manufacture, provided the person knew what he was doing. More often than not, the labs were assembled by some meth-head who didn’t have the first clue as to how to properly store highly unstable chemicals like anhydrous ammonia. If that didn’t explode, they’d spill or mishandle some other volatile chemical and
boom
, the police had to wait for the deadly phosphine gas to dissipate before heading out to search for body parts.

The spin job had worked. The Rizzo story had been confined to New Hampshire and neighbouring Massachusetts. The surrounding states had their own problems to report about, along with terrifying the public with article after article on the swine flu pandemic that, if the quoted experts were to be believed, would turn the entire country into the same kind of apocalyptic landscape Stephen King had written about in
The Stand
.

Darby imagined Special Agent Collier and her PR cohorts standing inside her office. Imagined lots of backslapping and self-congratulations for launching yet another successful spin that had pulled the wool over the public’s eyes.
She probably corked a bottle of champagne for this one
.

Why had the truth been swept under the rug? Was it because sarin gas had been used? If that titbit of information had been made known, New Hampshire hotels would be doing brisk business trying to accommodate the swelling numbers of media outlets coming in from across the country to get the inside scoop on a chemical attack on US soil – the first, Darby suspected.

The real inside scoop, though, wasn’t the sarin gas but what had happened inside the Rizzo home. Imagine if that story broke.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve received confirmation that the Rizzo family was held hostage by a man claiming to be their son, Charles, who disappeared without a trace twelve years ago. The only person who lived to see these horrific events transpire is Dr Darby McCormick, a former investigator for Boston’s Criminal Services Unit.

Which, Darby suspected, was the reason why she’d been locked inside the quarantine chamber; the feds needed some time to work their spin job and feed it to the media. Nine days later, after she put up a fight, they agreed to release their only eyewitness, provided she signed a thick stack of legal forms that prevented her from speaking to anyone. She was the wild card, the only one who could derail the spin campaign.

And Charlie’s 911 call, what had become of it? All 911 calls were recorded and copies were often made public. Not Charlie’s.
The feds must have confiscated it
. The audio and video recordings from inside the mobile command centre – had those too been confiscated? She’d have to find someone in New Hampshire who would be willing to speak to her off the record.

Heading back to Google, she typed in the tattooed words she’d seen on that thing’s neck. The phrase
Et in Arcadia ego
came back with pages and pages of hits. Most of the info underneath the links referred to a pair of paintings by a French classical artist named Nicolas Poussin. She clicked on one and found that the Frenchman, born in 1594, had created two highly influential pastoral landscapes in which shepherds come upon a tomb. The more famous of the two versions hung in the Louvre in Paris. According to several scholars, the tomb housed God.

Darby was more interested in the meaning of the actual words. There were more links, more pages and pages of information, some of it quite detailed.

She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes until the last FedEx pickup of the night. She shut down her computer and grabbed one of the flat FedEx mailers on her way out the door.

28

Darby emerged from the police station and managed to hail an empty taxi on Tremont Street. She hopped in the back seat, checked her watch and told the driver to take her to the Boston Garden. Then she remembered it wasn’t called that any more. Fleet Center or TD Bankgarden North, she forgot which and didn’t care. For her it would always be the Boston Garden, not the name of some bank which had paid for naming rights.

Twenty minutes later, when she reached Causeway Street, traffic slowed to a crawl, then came to a jarring stop, just as she suspected.

‘Celtics game is over,’ the driver said. ‘We could be here a while.’

‘They win?’

‘By two. My boy Pierce dropped a three with ten seconds left.’

‘They’ll need to get Garnett and Wallace off the DL if they’re going to go through to the playoffs.’

‘True that.’

She handed the driver a ten, told him to keep the change and got out.

Darby took her time walking. She didn’t bother trying to spot her tail. She had the tracking device in her jeans pocket, so they could afford to hang back and watch from a safe distance.

People were pouring out of the Garden, flooding the streets and packing the sidewalks. She slid her way through the bodies, taking her time as she made her way to Staniford Street, which would take her right back to the top of Cambridge. Once she’d crossed that, she’d be on Temple. She wanted the people tailing her to think she was heading home.

She slid the tracking device from her pocket, about to toss it on the ground, when a new thought occurred to her: use the tracking device to draw them out. She had no idea how many were watching her right now, but she needed to capture only one – so that he could tell her what had happened to Mark Rizzo.

Instead of making for home, she turned right and ducked on to William Cardinal O’Connell Way, the street named after the Archbishop of Boston who, at one time, had urged his priests not to give Communion to women wearing lipstick. Darby knew the deceased prelate by his more recent headline-grabbing accomplishment: he’d been one of the high-ranking clergymen who had helped shift well-known child-molesting priests to other Boston parishes.

The parking garage had a back entrance for those who paid for monthly spots. Darby unlocked the door and then took the stairs to the ground floor.

Her last car, a vintage forest-green Ford ’74 Falcon GT Coupe in pristine condition that Steve McQueen would have been proud to own, had been stolen by one of Christina Chadzynski’s henchmen on the night she’d been abducted from Coop’s house and taken to the abandoned auto garage to be killed. With the car most likely dumped at the bottom of some river or quarry, and the insurance company’s auditors haggling about the car’s
actual
cost and not its
perceived
cost, Darby decided to make do with a beautiful, old-school motorcycle: a black 1982 Yamaha Virago 750. It had been well cared for by the previous owner, and she changed only one thing: the drag bars, preferring ones a little bit lower for a more comfortable ride.

The parking spot offered a decent light, but she removed her flashlight and began a thorough inspection of her bike. It didn’t take long. She found the tracking device mounted underneath the hugger, secured to the steel by a tiny adhesive Velcro strip. At least the person who did this had taken the time to spray-paint it black so it would blend in with the paintjob.

She left the device where it was, then put on her helmet and hopped on her bike.

Darby hooked a sharp right and turned on to Moon Island Road, the mile-long stretch of causeway that ran over Quincy Bay and led to the 45-acre island sitting smack dab in the middle of Boston Harbor. As she drove she could make out, in the distance, the dark silhouettes of boats rocking lazily on the calm water. The road was pitch black, and the only source of light came from the single lamp set up on the desk inside the security guard shack.

She stopped in front of the gate and, leaning her foot off the bike, followed the protocol: took off her helmet so the guard and the single security camera mounted above his sliding glass window could see her face; unzipped her jacket, picked up the laminated badge hanging around her neck, held it up to the camera and then showed it to the guard.

He ducked his head back inside his shack and entered her name into the computer to see if she was authorized to enter. She doubted she’d be turned away. During her suspension, she had logged a lot of time at the shooting range and practised SWAT exercises during odd hours of the night without a problem or complaint – unless Leland had decided sometime during the day to call here and get her privileges revoked.

He hadn’t. The gate lifted, and Darby drove a few feet along a stretch of dark road. She stopped, parked her bike and left her helmet on the seat. From the small trunk she removed a pair of field glasses and jogged back through the dark to the gated security post.

She found a spot and, leaning back against a tree, checked her watch and recorded the time. Then she watched the causeway through her field glasses. There was no light source down there, but her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could make out the road, the shape of the trees. She would be able to see movement.

When it came to counter-surveillance, the first law was never to assume anything. If the people following her were from out of town and didn’t know this area, there was a chance her tail might make the mistake of trying to drive across the causeway. The posted no-trespassing signs were visible only
after
you turned on to the road.

She kept track of the time, counting the seconds off in her head. Four minutes and twenty-two seconds later, a car turned slowly on to the causeway.

29

Darby zoomed on the car, which had come to an abrupt stop.

Must have seen the signs
, she thought, catching sight of the BMW hood ornament as the car backed up. It was black or a dark blue, and the tinted windows prevented her from seeing whoever was inside the car.

She watched as the BMW drove down Border Street and slowly turned right into Bayside Road.
They look for a place to wait, then follow me after I leave.
The red brake lights glowed on the dark road and then the car took another slow turn into Monmouth. The BMW’s headlights went out but she could still see it, watching as it did a three-point turn. It came to a stop in front of a house near the end of the street, and looked like just another ordinary parked car. That spot offered a clear, unobstructed view of the causeway, the only way off Moon Island.