Dark Prophecy (26 page)

“Wait . . .”

“What?” Dark asked.

“He’s since been transferred—to Saint Jude’s in Fresno, California.”

And then the back doors of the van suddenly popped open.

chapter 62

Constance and Riggins had made a promise to each other: No matter what, they wouldn’t kill Steve Dark.

Both of them had chased fugitives long enough to realize that when cornered, people could be utterly unpredictable. Not a single member of Special Circs would admit it, but the best policy was to shoot first, let the lawyers sort it out later. This unspoken policy took effect not long after the Sqweegel murders. Many suspects were brought in dead. Riggins was forced to publicly question each case, but privately applauded them.

More than five years ago, such a thing would have horrified Constance. But she had lived through Sqweegel. And to be honest—by the time Constance and her colleagues had a monster cornered, they were assured of its guilt.

With Dark, however . . .

Constance didn’t know what to think.

As usual, Riggins was keeping his mouth shut. But he didn’t need to say a word. Constance was good at connecting the dots on her own. The Steve Dark she knew, the man who had trained her—and for a brief while, had loved her—well, he was gone. Something else was inhabiting his body now. Maybe it had happened when he watched the monster kill his wife. Maybe a little of the monster got out of Sqweegel and made its way into Steve.

Constance held her Glock in the standard two-hand grip, playing everything according to the manual.

But there was nothing in the manual about forcing open the back doors of a van and fully expecting to shoot a man you loved
in the arm or leg, hoping it was enough to put him down, but not make him bleed out.

“Ready?” Riggins asked.

Constance nodded.

They found the van thanks to Banner, who’d tapped into the Vegas traffic cams and pinpointed Dark’s rental vehicle, which was parked on the same level as this white van. Cameras inside the parking garage showed Dark bypassing his own rental and stepping into the van with an unidentified female. Constance couldn’t help but burn a little at that. He’d found someone else to team up with him on this insane investigation.

There had been no time to call reinforcements—no FBI, no Vegas PD, no SWAT. Doing things by the book could give Dark the time he needed to slip away. Constance and Riggins had a silent understanding. He was their mess. They needed to clean it up.

Riggins did the honors. Hand on the silver handle, silently mouthing a count—

chapter 63

“It’s over, kid,” Riggins said, aiming his Sig Sauer at Dark’s chest. “Step out quietly, hands locked behind your head—you know the drill.”

Dark had a hard time believing what he was seeing. His ex-boss, pointing a weapon at him. Constance, by his side, her Glock 19 trained on Graysmith. He’d been on the other end of this kind of thing hundreds of times in the past. Now Dark knew what it felt like to be pinned down by the FBI, trying to explain yourself to people in bulletproof vests, fingers trembling on the triggers.

“Riggins, what the fuck are you doing?” Dark asked. “Trust me, this is not the time.”

“Out of the van, buddy. Don’t make this something ugly. We can talk on the flight back home. There will be plenty of time to explain.”

Dark said, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“No need for the tough guy act in front of your girlfriend here.”

Graysmith put her hands up and glanced over at Dark. “Let’s all calm down, okay?” Then, turning back to Riggins: “Look, we’re all working for the same thing. You’ll see that if you give us a chance to explain.”

“Oh, you’re going explain it to me?” Riggins asked. “Yeah, that’ll be great. I can’t wait. Maybe you’ll want to start with who
the fuck
you are.”

“You don’t understand,” Dark said. “We know the identity of the Tarot Card Killer. We traced her here to the Egyptian. She’s working with an accomplice.”

Graysmith glared at Dark—the look a wife gives a husband when he’s said too much. Dark was genuinely puzzled. Fine, they wanted to operate without red tape or the usual departmental nonsense. But the gig was up. And the two best manhunters Dark knew were standing right here. If he could just explain the situation, the four of them could work together. The TCK would be history.

“Let’s just go with them,” she said.

As Dark and Graysmith climbed out of the van, Riggins and Constance kept them covered. Would they actually shoot if he made a break for it? Dark wasn’t sure about Constance, but he knew Riggins would. There was hurt and sadness in the man’s eyes, and Dark had no idea why. Couldn’t still be about leaving Special Circs, after all of this time . . . could it?

“We don’t have time for this,” Dark said bitterly. “The killers are still out there.”

Riggins pulled on Dark’s shoulder and then shoved him against the van, cuffs already in his hand, Glock in the other.

“Yeah,” he said.

Dark reluctantly put his hands behind his back. It didn’t matter now. He could tell Riggins about Roger and Abdulia Maestro, and then Special Circs could call in the cavalry to apprehend them before they put the Devil card into play.

Then he heard something snapping—and a sharp cry.

As Dark turned, he saw Graysmith slam a flattened palm into Constance’s throat. Constance struggled to breathe but held on to her weapon, staggering backward. Riggins turned and pointed his Sig Sauer but a second later it was flying out of his hands.

“No!” Dark screamed.

Graysmith was doing it all—disarming both of them with quick, violently efficient moves that left both Riggins and Constance on their knees, gasping for air, clawing at the ground.

Strands of hair fell into her face. “We don’t have time for this,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“You can’t ...”

“Let’s go. There’s a reason I went to
you
, Dark, and not Special Circs. They’ll never catch these bastards, and you know it. Can you live with more innocent blood being spilled while you’re debriefed in some conference room in Virginia? Come on.”

Dark gave one last glance to his former partners on the concrete floor as the van peeled away, locking eyes with Constance. The pain she was feeling was probably bad—but it was nothing compared to the look of utter betrayal in her eyes.

chapter 64

Fresno, California

 

 

After torching the van and switching cars three times, swapping license plates each time, Dark and Graysmith drove through the night—six hours, nearly four hundred miles. South on 15, then 58 West and 99 North. Dark steered the stolen SUV in stony silence through the shadowy California desert while Graysmith used her laptop to continue compiling dossiers on Roger and Abdulia Maestro. After a few hours she finally looked up, as if she’d just tuned into his anger.

“You know, I didn’t hurt them,” she said.

Dark said nothing.

“Honestly. I’m not Jet Li. I just temporarily removed their ability to breathe. They’ll be fine. We had to get out of there.”

“You don’t know them. They would have helped us.”

“I believe that. Tom Riggins and Constance Brielle have done good work over the years. But this is out of their control. Special Circs won’t be able to do shit about the Maestros until this is all over, and they’ve slapped down their last card.”

“What do you mean?”

Graysmith smiled. “Why did you leave Special Circs? Don’t answer that. I’ll tell you why you left. Because no matter how hard you worked, you felt like you were wrapped up in procedural bullshit and constant distractions from Wycoff and his peers, right? Sometimes you thought that if only you had a little more freedom, you could put more of these monsters behind bars. Well, let me fill you in on a little secret: It’s amazing you accomplished anything at Special Circs. The moment Wycoff started waving his dick around, Special Circs became a joke. Something to trot out at law enforcement conferences.”

“We stopped a lot of killers,” Dark said quietly.

“You weren’t supposed to. The fact that you kept taking these monsters out really pissed certain people off. Steve, there’s a part of the government that doesn’t want you going after some of these killers. Because they don’t see them as killers. They’re potential assets.”

“Assets,” Dark said coldly.

“I could show you a report about your nemesis, Sqweegel, that would make you want to storm the Pentagon with a sawed-off shotgun. This report talks about how Sqweegel could have been
weaponized
. Imagine an agent with his capabilities? Sneaking into any crevice, anywhere in the world? Some guys in my department were practically cumming in their pants thinking about it.”

“That monster killed my wife.”

“Yeah, and someone like him slaughtered my sister. Which is about the moment when disillusionment set in for me, personally. Why do you think we’re doing this?
Because nobody else can
. Not even your friends Riggins and Brielle.”

By the time they arrived in Fresno, it was late. No time for any rest at all—even thought Dark’s entire body was crying out for just a few minutes of downtime. They had to see this priest and warn him—and figure a way to catch the Maestros in the act.

Dark agreed that he should be the one to talk to the priest. Meanwhile, Graysmith would scope the church and rectory—for all she knew, the Maestros were already here.

chapter 65

Las Vegas, Nevada

 

 

By the time the shock wore off, Knack had already e-mailed it to his editor in New York—the second biggest story of his career:

The first biggest story? Well, that would be when Knack filed Steve Dark’s jail cell confessions—the tell-all to end all tell-alls.

But no, the shock wasn’t because of the material. It was the identity of his “source.”

Tom Riggins, head of Special Circs.

Even more incredible, Riggins had called
him
. Told him he needed to spread the word about something immediately—on deep background, of course. But Riggins had promised: Help us catch him and you’ll have all of the access you need. The old buzzard had seemed disturbed to discover that Knack was in Vegas, too—but for the time being, he swallowed it. Watch the tough old worm turn. The game was different now, because Riggins needed Knack.

 

 

The details Riggins wanted leaked:

That a former agent named Steve Dark—famous for the Sqweegel murders five years ago—was now wanted as a “person of interest” in a series of homicides the media (
c’mon, Tom, it was us! It was US!
) dubbed the “Tarot Card Murders.” Dark is believed to be in the company of an unknown female subject, description attached, also a person of interest in the case. Do not approach. Call the tip line if you see either, mostly likely in the Southwest or California areas.

Knack also pried some more out of Riggins about the Kobiashi murder—the strange game of Russian roulette the billionaire had been forced to play. The fact that he was buck nekkid when he played it.

The big question now, though: Should Knack tell him about his Mystery Texter? Or was that a card better off left in Knack’s back pocket?

And would the Mystery Texter be happy or upset with this latest development?

Knack waited for his cell phone to buzz. Any second now . . .

chapter 66

Fresno, California

 

 

Father Donnelly was unlike any priest Dark had met before. Still in his early forties, short black hair, and with a friendly face and an acid black humor about him. God knows what his parishioners thought. When Dark had knocked on the rectory door in the middle of the night, Donnelly had taken his arrival with good humor, considering it was almost ten at night and the story Dark hurriedly told him bordered on the insane.

“So let me get this straight,” Donnelly said, dressed in slacks and a ribbed T-shirt, short stub of a cigarette tucked between two fingers. “You’re a former FBI manhunter now working freelance, and there’s a pair of psychopaths who want to kill me—but I can’t confirm this with the FBI, because they’re now after you, because they seem to think you’re involved with one of the psychopaths. Do I have that right?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Okay, good. Come on in. You a bourbon man, by chance? I’ve got a bottle of Four Roses somewhere.”

Donnelly led him to a small office just to the side of the main hallway. The office would have been described as spare, had it not been jammed with books—in shelves, in great piles on the green-gray carpet. Donnelly’s desk was littered with more books, legal pads, pencils, and pink rubber erasers. Not a computer in sight. Not even a phone.

“I was working on my homily,” Donnelly explained. “I tend to obsess over these things, even though I suspect most people tune me out until I start leading the profession of faith.”

“Then why so much effort?”

“Ever hear the story about Creedence playing Woodstock? They went on at . . . well, around
this
time of the morning, and John Fogerty noticed that everybody was asleep. All except for one guy in the back, flicking his lighter, cheering them on, saying
Don’t worry about it, John, we’re here with you
. So that’s me. Playing for that one guy in the church with a lighter.”

“A priest who listens to Creedence,” Dark said.

“Better than when I wore eyeliner and listened to the Cure.”

Dark couldn’t help but smile.

“You were raised Catholic, weren’t you?” Donnelly said. “I can tell by the way you look at me. There’s still a glimmer of respect, buried somewhere deep in that brain of yours. You don’t look at me like I’m going to try to rape the nearest available child.”