Dark Prophecy Read online

  Fortunately, Dark had left himself a backdoor when he worked with some of Wycoff’s lackeys a few years ago. He didn’t abuse it, which was probably why no one had noticed it yet. Some files popped up. Not much—which meant the bulk of it was probably buried deep, and not even on a computer server anywhere.

  But from what Dark could gather, Lisa Graysmith was a member of an organization with ties to DARPA—the defense department’s so-called “out there” research division. Got a crazy defense idea dream and a billion dollars? DARPA will figure out a way to make it work. Or come close enough. Dark had read a piece the other day concerning DARPA’s efforts to turn soldiers’ waste products into tank fuel.

  What did she do for DARPA? And what did she mean by “help”?

  Dark hated the skullduggery. Five years ago, when Wycoff had started blackmailing him into an endless series of “favors,” the government had supplied a babysitter named Brenda Condor to look after Dark’s daughter, Sibby. Dark hated leaving his little girl in the hands of a stranger, whose allegiance was represented by a set of paper credentials (easily faked) and a phone call from Wycoff. But what choice did he have? It wasn’t as if Dark could pack a diaper bag and bring his infant daughter on an international manhunt.

  As it turned out, “Brenda Condor” was more than a babysitter. Wycoff had hired her to keep close tabs on Dark, which meant worming her way into his personal life. Fucking him, being the shoulder he could cry on, whatever it took to keep him together. Dark was an asset; Brenda Condor his handler.

  Some guys, they come home early one day to find their partners banging the garden boy. Not Dark. He came home early and caught her making a detailing report to Wycoff.

  That, somehow, hurt even more.

  Dark kicked her out, then sent baby Sibby to live with her grandparents. It was the toughest thing he’d ever done. The entire flight to Santa Barbara he kept looking at his fellow passengers, wondering who might be watching him. Trailing him. Sibby, meanwhile, was obliviously happy, drooling and playing with a tiny stuffed tiger he’d bought her. No idea she was about to be abandoned for the second time in her short life.

  I hope you’ll understand someday, little girl.

  And now, someone who reminded him a lot of “Brenda Condor”—if that was even the agent’s real name—was trying to worm into his life. He didn’t trust her. He also didn’t need it.

  Dark’s life was pretty fucking far from perfect, but it was also uncomplicated. Sibby was with grandparents who doted on her every move. Dark spent his time driving around, working on the house, or reading about murders in the lair. The whole reason he’d left Special Circs was to clear his head of the madness and try to figure out a way to enter his daughter’s life again. So unless this Lisa Graysmith had a way of bringing people back from the dead, he doubted there was anything she could do to help.

  Dark made his way upstairs to wash his face, grab a beer, try to tune things out for a while.

  But she was already sitting on his couch, patiently waiting for him.

  chapter 14

  “Want to tell me how you got in here?” Dark asked.

  Graysmith crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. She’d changed clothes. If this afternoon she wanted to project the aura of stone-cold professional, now it was laid-back confidence. She wore a designer T-shirt, jeans—casual chic. The kind of clothes Sibby would wear around their old house in Malibu.

  “Your security system’s good,” she said. “And I can tell you’ve done some of your own modifications. But no offense, it’s still kind of Fisher-Price, compared to the systems I’m used to.”

  “You can stop trying to impress me,” Dark said. “I’ve done my homework. I think I found what you wanted me to find. Your résumé would be a spy’s wet dream.”

  “I just want you to know that I’m serious.”

  “I am very much taking you seriously.”

  “I don’t think so,” Graysmith said. “Nobody ever has, really. They see my smile and think I’m blithe.”

  Graysmith reached into her bag and pulled out a photo. She placed it on Dark’s coffee table. “This was Julie.”

  Dark nodded without looking down. “I remember what she looked like.”

  Graysmith smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell you a sob story. Julie was a bratty little sister. I was ten years older, so it felt like we grew up in two different homes. My parents were tough on me. They were a lot easier on Julie. It bothered me—it was like she could get away with anything, being out late, drinking, partying. I focused on my work, and figured that Julie and I would get to know each other later, when I didn’t think she was a spoiled little brat. Well, I never got that chance.”

  Dark couldn’t help himself. He glanced down at the photo and saw that Graysmith did resemble her younger sister. Same eyes and facial structure. Same small ears, delicate nose.

  “Her murder devastated my parents,” Graysmith said. “They’re filing for divorce now—which is common, I understand. Sometimes you just can’t go on after something like this. It takes a uniquely strong-willed individual to keep waking up in the morning after losing a loved one.”

  The way she looked at Dark seemed to be an invite. Go on. You’ve lost your wife in the most horrible way imaginable. Tell me you understand. Tell me you feel my pain. But Dark refused to take the bait. “And you?” he asked.

  “I approached it clinically. It’s what I’ve always done. If you have a problem, you simply bring together the pieces that will solve it.”

  Dark turned Julie’s photo around with his fingertips, then slid it back across the coffee table toward Graysmith. “You think I’m one of those pieces.”

  “I know you are. You’re the best there is. That is not hollow praise. It’s a fact.”

  Dark ignored her. He went to his kitchen, took a bottle of beer from a shelf, uncapped it, tossed the cap into the trash. “I’m not what you’re looking for. You should go.” He took a long pull of his beer.

  “Have you heard about Jeb Paulson yet?”

  Dark slowly pulled the beer bottle away from his lips. Paulson was the newest member of the Special Circs team. Dark had worked with him once before, on a case in Philadelphia. Last he had heard, Paulson was his “replacement.”

  “I just received word that he’s dead,” Graysmith said. “Seems like it’s the second in a series.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dark asked.

  Graysmith lifted a thumb. “Martin Green was first. Special Circs sent Paulson down to the murder scene.” Then an index finger. “Now it’s Paulson. Whoever this is, he’s just getting started.”

  “How do you know about this?” Dark asked.

  “I have people back in D.C. who keep me informed of anything that even remotely seems like a serial killing. Like I told you, I am serious about this.”

  Many thoughts were racing through Dark’s head right now—but most of all, the grisly thought of a Special Circs agent dying. “What happened to Paulson?”

  “He was thrown off the roof of his apartment building. Say the word and I’ll get you to the crime scene in Virginia within four hours.”

  “For what?”

  “To do what you do best.”

  “No,” Dark said. “Special Circs will be all over this.”

  “Yeah, but Special Circs is not you. They were never as good as you.”

  Dark looked away.

  Graysmith stood and moved quickly to his side. “This killer’s not going to stop. I have the resources to catch him. The money, the tools, the access. The only thing I don’t have is a mind like yours. You were born to catch these monsters, Dark, and I don’t think you can just walk away from a gift like that. I think you’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this since June. Well, here I am. No strings attached. I won’t direct you. I won’t order you. I won’t influence your investigations in any way. I’ll just fund you, give you the tools you need.”

  When something seemed too good to be
true, it always was.

  “So what do you say?” Graysmith asked.

  “No,” Dark said. “I’m through with that life. You can go now.”

  “You’re lying to yourself. This is what you were born to do.”

  “Okay, I’ve tried polite. So how about this: Get the fuck out of my house.”

  Graysmith stared at him for a moment, almost pleading with her eyes, but then left without a word. She left the photo of her sister, Julie, on the coffee table.

  chapter 15

  Quantico, Virginia

  The phone woke Riggins from a hard dead sleep. He’d been enjoying the blissful feeling of not remembering who he was or what he did for a living until he fumbled for his cell, pressed it to his ear, then heard the voice of Constance Brielle—his second-in-command. And then it all came rushing back.

  “Tom—it’s about Jeb.”

  Constance speed-talked him through what had happened, and told him Falls Church PD had sealed off the scene for them. Before Riggins even had a chance to react or respond, Constance said she’d be by within a few minutes. Riggins let the receiver fall from his fingers, feeling a burn of rage and hurt and confusion. It quickly consumed the pleasant narcotic effects of sleep.

  Not another one. Not so soon. This was insane. This whole job was insane. And Riggins considered himself insane for staying in it so long. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was the kiss of death. Work with me—die or go crazy soon after. Jeb Paulson had been with Special Circs what—a month or two?

  What really troubled Riggins was Wycoff. As usual, he’d played his cards so close to his vest they were practically tucked up inside his cold, black heart. What did he know? Why had Wycoff insisted that Riggins go down to Chapel Hill personally? Did that son of a bitch know that whoever went down there would become this psycho’s new target?

  Riggins stood up. He was wearing boxers and a ribbed T-shirt. He needed to find his shoes. If a man’s going stomping around a crime scene in the middle of the night, he needs his shoes. But the thought of Wycoff enraged him.

  Get a hold of yourself Tom, he thought. You’re almost smashing through the guard rails and headed into Paranoiaville. Population: One (Everyone Else Is Out to Get You). Wycoff’s a prick, but he’s not indirect. If he wanted Riggins dead, he’d send his goon squad after him. They’d take him somewhere quiet, then slam some poison into his veins and that would be it. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, considering.

  Still—Wycoff wasn’t telling him everything. And Riggins couldn’t escape the fact that he’d essentially sent the new kid down south to die.

  All too soon, Constance called again. “I’m outside. You ready?”

  “Yeah,” Riggins lied. His pants were barely up around his waist, and he was pretty sure he was out of clean shirts. Amazing what you forget when you’re clocking hundred-hour work weeks because there’s no one waiting for you at home. Riggins found the least offensive shirt, clipped his sidearm to his belt, slipped into his shoes, and made it out of his apartment.

  Constance, of course, looked gorgeous. “You okay, Riggins?”

  “Sure.”

  Except he was pretty damn far from okay. Part of him prayed he was still dreaming, and that this was a nightmare.

  They set out for Falls Church, on the edge of the D.C. border—about a forty-five-minute drive. The way Constance was riding the accelerator, it’d be more like thirty.

  Constance Brielle couldn’t drive fast enough. The name that kept flashing through her mind like a twitchy neon sign was Steve Dark, Steve Dark, Steve Dark. But this was not about Steve. This was about poor Jeb Paulson.

  At first she’d been a real bitch to Jeb. There was a quiet cockiness about him, as if his place at the table was a foregone conclusion. She hated that. You had to earn that. You didn’t just walk in and expect the shorthand to be explained, the in-jokes decoded for you. Nobody had done that with Constance, Christ knows. But soon Constance realized that it was nothing more than a defense mechanism. Jeb sought her out. He’d quietly pick her brain about a few things. No stupid questions. Good questions—stuff Constance didn’t think to ask back in her first few weeks at Special Circs. Soon, she realized that she was falling into a kind of mentor role with Jeb. Just like Steve Dark had assumed a mentor role with her.

  Well, okay. Constance had kind of pushed Dark into that role.

  With Jeb, though, it had become welcome. It meant, in some strange way, that she’d graduated. She’d lasted longer than almost anybody at Special Circs—the burnout rate was unreal—and now she was second only to Riggins. And now Jeb was gone.

  It didn’t make any sense. Just like it didn’t make sense when Steve’s family had been attacked at random.

  Constance wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. It was too late to save Jeb. But it wasn’t too late to stop the monster. Her foot stomped down on the accelerator.

  chapter 16

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Auniformed officer escorted Riggins and Constance to the scene, which had been quickly obscured from the street with yellow tape and tarps. On his cell phone on the way there, Riggins had laid down the law: total media blackout. Nobody sees shit. And no cops say shit, Riggins warned, or I’ll have them fucking killed.

  Targeting a Special Circs team member meant the killer wanted attention. Well, fuck you, Riggins thought. You’re not going to see shit about this in the papers.

  Paulson’s body was past the apartment complex’s front lawn resting on concrete. Riggins and Constance looked down at their fallen colleague. His limbs were twisted in unnatural angles. In his right hand was a white rose. There was also, strangely, a feather tucked in his brown hair. “Fuck,” Riggins muttered. He had sent the boy down to Chapel Hill to that murder scene. God help me if the killer saw him and followed him back here, he thought.

  “Do you think it’s him?” Constance said, seeming to read his mind.

  “Who?”

  “Whoever killed Green. The body was staged, just like Chapel Hill. Jeb was there on Saturday.”

  Riggins looked at Paulson’s broken body. “I don’t know.”

  But deep down he did. There was really no other explanation for it. Riggins had sent yet another young man racing off to his doom. What if he’d listened to Wycoff and traveled down to Chapel Hill? Would that be him on the ground, bones shattered and lifeless eyes staring at absolutely nothing? That would have been so much better. Riggins had nothing keeping him in this world. Jeb Paulson, on the other hand, had everything. Unlimited potential, snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

  There was commotion a few flights up—panicked cries for a medic. Riggins and Constance looked at each other, then rushed into the building.

  One of the Falls Church cops was down in the middle of the hallway—moaning, half-conscious. His body trembled slightly. It was strange to see such a stocky guy down on the ground, curled up like a baby. A medic rushed to his side, lifted his head slightly to place a towel beneath, turned him on his side and lifted his chin slightly so his airway would be clear. Two other medics quickly joined him and grabbed his arms and legs to keep him stable enough to be moved to an ambulance.

  “Where was he?” barked Riggins. “What happened?”

  The nearest cop told him: “Right here next to me. We were coming out of the apartment and bam, he just went down.”

  “Something airborne?” Constance asked. “Something he touched?”

  “No idea,” Riggins said. “Nobody move. Don’t touch a damn thing.”

  It occurred to Riggins that maybe this killer wasn’t just targeting Paulson. Maybe the idea was to take out a young member of Special Circs—knowing that senior members would rush to the scene, eager to avenge their own. And then, you spring the trap . . .

  “You,” Riggins said, pointing at the cop who’d watched his partner fall. “Tell me exactly what happened.

  The cop retraced his every step out loud, from arriving at the scene to checking the Paulson apartment, ro
om by room, closet by closet, to stepping outside for a breath of fresh air.

  “. . . and then Jon pushed the door open a little, and the next thing I know, he’s down.”

  “The door,” Riggins said. Something had knocked Jeb Paulson out so hard that he didn’t notice being dragged to a roof and eventually pushed off the top to his own death. Had to be something on the door.

  Constance went to the door, crouched down. “Riggins, there’s some kind of viscous fluid on this knob.”

  “Okay, let’s bag a sample, then do the same with this guy’s hands. Then we cut the rest and get it over to Banner. I need somebody with a saw up here. Now.”

  chapter 17

  Special Circs HQ / Quantico, Virginia

  A few years ago, if you had died a violent and mysterious death in L.A., whatever they didn’t bury or divide among your heirs ended up in Josh Banner’s trace analysis lab.

  Since then, Banner had gone global.

  Banner had helped Special Circs track down Sqweegel. Riggins wasn’t a man to forget favors. The moment a spot opened up, he asked Banner to join them full-time at Special Circs in D.C. And he loved it. Specifically, Banner loved being surrounded by evidence. It wasn’t subject to human emotions or whims. Evidence was merely pieces of a story you had to put back together again. And Special Circs afforded him the chance to work on the best puzzles in the world. Of course, the key to staying sane in a job like this was blocking out the fact that these puzzle “pieces” were actually broken pieces of someone’s life. And that the only reason they ended up here was because that person had died in one of the most horrible ways imaginable.

  But Banner had grown up learning how to compartmentalize. It’s how he solved problems. It’s how he kept his head together. Well, that and comic books.