Saboteur: A Novel (20 page)

Chapter
X

Downy sat on the edge of the cot with his eyes closed
thinking of the look in his wife’s eyes when she had first seen his face on set
in Rome. He’d been sitting in the corner that beautiful, crisp fall afternoon
taking notes as she played out her death scene for the cameras. Their eyes had
locked just at the horrible moment of surprise when Cleopatra’s guards and the
Roman Centurions had come for her head. She’d been utterly intoxicating, both
defiant and vulnerable in the scene. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off
of her since. He’d begged her to keep the Egyptian gown from the shoot. She had
often promised to wear it for him, though they never seemed to have time for
such playful things since they came back to the states. He silently promised
himself they would in the future.

He had done his best to explain in the short time they had
what had really happened between he and Samara. He could tell on the most
primal level that his wife believed the story. He had broken trust with her
though and knew it. He would need to spend the rest of his life getting it
back, which he was more than willing to do. What he couldn’t figure out was why
he was even considering Taro’s strange offer. The thing to do was to wait it
out of course, to get that union lawyer, but on some strange wavelength he
utterly believed Taro when he said it was the only way to clear his name. Was
it because of the glowing letter from the Monsignor? He couldn’t explain the
feeling rationally, but for some reason he believed Taro. He was already
accused of murder; how much worse could it get?

A voice came breaking his concentration.

“You gonna eat that boss? That’s
our best Salisbury steak.”

“You can take it” he said
emotionlessly.

“Hey Doc, I gotta tell ya that wife
of yours man, whew.”

Downy looked at him sideways,
without turning his head. “Thanks.”

“Show me a beautiful woman though
and I’ll show a man tired of fuc— “

“Don’t ever talk about my wife like
that
you
stupid son of a bitch,” he said flatly.

“There it is,” the guard said taunting
him. “Now see that’s the attitude that got you put in here in the first place.
I knew that cool exterior was all an act.”

“When I get out, you can repeat
what you just said to my face. When these are off,” Downy said holding up his
cuffs.

“You ain’t going nowhere so just
relax Professor Frankenstein.”

He smiled to himself as the guard
carried his food away. It felt damn good to threaten someone actually. He
hadn’t thrown a punch in years, but at the moment he felt anything was better
than just sitting, waiting. He wanted to get his hands on whoever had killed
Samara too. Thinking of her made him swell with rage.

Had the vision of Charlie at the
bar been only his imagination running wild? It must have and yet everyone was
behaving strangely weren’t they? Clellon now too. Why had he spoken so
cryptically? He knew he had to get out the cell to find out the truth and to
find out who had killed Samara. The police weren’t doing a damn thing to help
him. He heard the suctioned clank of the master cell door at the end of the
hall close, pulling all the air out of the corridor. It was going to be lights
out in a few minutes. The place was like a tomb and the silence was almost
unbearable. How in the hell would Taro get him out he wondered? A bribe? It
seemed unlikely. He lay down and closed his eyes. He was exhausted physically
and emotionally, but seeing his wife had changed his mood significantly. There
was a hope he could get his life back; he could see it in her eyes. That wasn’t
true for Samara though.

Downy laid down pulling his arm across his forehead. There
was nothing to do in this place but sleep, so he started to doze. His
imagination ran wild. He found himself in complete darkness, but then someone
spoke in a low voice. An answer came back in the form of a chant. He found
himself in a room which looked like an ancient temple of some kind, but
strangely reminded him of the church services he’d gone to as a boy with his
mother, where the pastor offered a prayer, which the parishioners answered back
to in unison. The smell of ambrosia, just like his wife’s perfume in fact,
wafted in the darkness. But there was another subtler smell, like something
metallic and burnt. In front of him a tall, muscular man stood at the head of
an altar, where a bull’s body lay, moving sluggishly on a ledge just above the
floor in front of him. The beast snorted uneasily, it’s hooves clacking against
the floor in agitation, sensing some danger. The man, whose face was smeared
with blue paint, suddenly held something glimmering in the air and swung it to
a slicing blow. Blood poured from the decapitated animal’s quivering body into
a chalice being held by a woman at its feet. She was down on her knees, in
silhouette, and bent to catch it, but as the cup filled it overran the edges
and the blood poured down onto her arms instead, then her neck and her chest.
Her white gown was now soaked in it. Downy started to sweat. Rhythmic chants
came from the darkness and the woman began to sway in a seeming trance. The
muscular man raised his right hand, lowering his head near a fiery pit at the
altar, suddenly casting blood into the fire, which erupted into a drowsy blue
flame. In its reflection he could see the man’s face, which was painted blue,
but somehow he looked familiar. His black, piercing eyes raged in the
reflection from the fire; he too swayed to the chanting. The girl reached
across her chest lurching back on her knees and tore her gown away from her
body, seeming to surrender to the trance. She moved her hands, covered in the animal’s
sacrifice, to her face smearing it into her cheeks. The pace of the chanting
became frantic now and the girl was suddenly surrounded by figures in dark
hoods. They appeared from the darkness on all sides, pulling at her body,
lifting her into the air. They seemed to consume her, tearing away the final
vestiges of her gown, but suddenly the chanting stopped and they scurried away
in fear. The girl lay silently on the ground. He could see her chest rise and
fall from the attack, her breasts reflecting in the fire. Across her shoulder
was a tattoo with the one recognizable word,
VERITAS
, etched into the blade of her back. As she lay on the
ground writhing, her head turned suddenly back to Downy as if she’d always
known he was there, her eyes locking seductively with his in the low light of
the flames.

“Samara!” he screamed.

He awoke on the bed with a start,
his face covered in sweat, heart pounding in his throat. He looked all around
the cell and without a word began removing his clothing, folding it into a neat
pile on the floor next to the cot. His decision was made. Whoever had done this
to her must pay.

Chapter XI

Sullivan paced back and forth looking at the clock in the
corner. There was much activity in the usually quiet corridors of the precinct.
Tierney had apparently gotten his wish and Homeland Security was now involved
in the operation. It was going to mean more resources, but unfortunately more
complications as well. If he had it his way, he would have kept it in house. He
was finished with the case files anyway, so turning them over was no problem,
but bringing everyone up to speed was going to be a nightmare. Bureaucracy on a
massive scale, wasted time when they had none to spare, men in dark, clearly
starched suits stood in the corner with Tierney pointing all around the room,
staring in Sullivan’s direction. Feds were the worst and they always traveled
in packs. There had been a joke back in Richmond at the station that went:
‘what’s the difference between a federal agent and serial killer?’ The answer,
according to his old boss Carl Dickson was, ‘Feds have to get permission to
randomly kill innocent people in large numbers.’ He figured the only real
reason Carl had agreed to his transfer in the first place instead of firing him
was that he’d secretly been proud of him for cracking the case of the Redneck
killer before the FBI could.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It
was Tina:

Is the Joker behind bars yet Batman?

He grinned. Was he falling for this girl? She was a clever
one, but he had always managed to go cold, even when things started out white
hot with a girl. Work. The job was a huge problem. It was the reason why a
one-night stand always seemed the sensible thing to do. He sure wouldn’t want
to be married to him. How could anybody else he figured? And so younger, less
demanding girls always seemed the most attractive option. They weren’t thinking
about marriage yet were they? That was it. They simply couldn’t imagine how
hellish a life it would be, married to a man who came and went at all hours and
really couldn’t be counted on to do anything but chase fiends, the low-
life’s
of the world. He thought of the professor now, down
in his cell, so far away from his wife--his fault. He’d taken a long look at
Naomi Downy in the interrogation video room. She was incredibly beautiful
herself and he sensed sophisticated as well. What was she probably thirty,
thirty-two? It was a helluva difference in age and he had to admit that a more
mature woman was probably what he should be thinking about at this point in his
life. My god, he would turn forty-one in less than six months he realized. He’d
been playing around for a long time. At some point it was going to start
looking awfully tacky and how long could he continue to expect girls in their
twenties to find him worthwhile and attractive?

He typed back on his keypad:

Joker
is still wild, maybe the Penguin and the Riddler too.

I
miss you.

Let’s
go on another date. A less interrupted one. Soon.

As he was about to hit send he realized Tina would want to
know about Tackett. It was a bad time to tell her though, or maybe he just
didn’t want to. He would tell her all about it when he had him back safely.

Sullivan started for his things. He
needed to get the hell out of dodge before one of the suits laid into him.
Tierney seemed distracted for the moment, so he made a run for the door. He
decided to swing by the detention block to check in on the professor instead.
His Spidey sense was tingling a bit and this would of course be a helluva
moment for the whole operation to unravel. It made sense to be extra cautious.

As Sullivan walked into the cell
block he could see Mark, his old pal, sitting silently at the front desk.

“Hey, my man. How is the good professor?”

“Detective.”

Mark seemed solemn, glum. Perhaps
the rumor he had spread about Tierney’s cross-dressing had already come back on
him. Sullivan almost felt bad. It was a lesson worth learning in any case, so
he said nothing.

“He skipped his meal and threatened
one of the guards, but we got him safe and sound down there.”

“Really, I didn’t have him pegged
as the type to make threats. Somebody push his buttons by chance?”

“Well, it was Mitchell over there
who’s on duty. You’d have to ask him.”

He peered over his shoulder to see
Mitchell looking back at them. His uniform’s sophistication and his
overly-upright carriage suggested he might enjoy his job a little more than was
necessary. His hardened expression seemed an open invitation to leave him alone.

“It’s ok,” he said smiling at Mark,
“as long as he’s well protected.”

“We’re expecting additional agents
at the seven o’clock shift change,” Mark said pointing to the clock with his
pen. “Right now we got two patrolmen at the front just watching the gate.
Cameras are clear.”

“Sounds good, man. Have a good
night.”

“Hey, detective?”

“Yeah man,” he said on his way out.

“That was a good one; you got me,
Tierney being a cross dresser. I deserved that, ok? Sorry, you win.”

Sullivan smiled. “Loose lips sink
ships, Mark. Remember that,” he said walking out the front door, but then
paused. He rubbed a hand through his hair, then drug his hand along his jaw
line, grinding against the two-day stubble.

“Hey Mark, I thought they had you
at the desk over in evidence? You get a demotion or promotion or something?”

“Nah, man. I always work this
desk.”

“Are you sure about that? Didn’t I
see you the other night over in evidence, that’s where we talked about Tierney,
the club, right?”

“I’m right here five outta seven a
week, never worked evidence yet. Though the boss says maybe next year or the
year after.”

He rubbed his face as if he were
trying to scrub off a momentary confusion.

“You alright, detective?”

“Yeah,” he said recovering
suddenly, “call me Nick, man.”

“Ok thanks,” Mark said smiling with
some of his enthusiasm seeming to return.

He made his way slowly down the hall detouring into the
men’s restroom before leaving the building. He turned on the faucet splashing
cold water onto his face. He reached for a paper towel out of the box to wipe
away the water, but it was empty. He looked at himself in the mirror under the
fluorescent lighting. He looked tired, damned tired; he was, but he
had
seen Mark at the evidence desk, he
was sure of it. Kid must have forgotten somehow; he was working too much
probably. He suddenly realized he wasn’t alone. He could hear a scratching
noise in the stall behind him. It sounded like someone writing on the wall.
God, people were weird ass idiots everywhere you went. He lowered his head to
see if it was a cop or just some ratty kid. He could see no feet though, but
suddenly a pencil rolled out from under the stall. He pushed slowly at the door
not sure what to expect.

“Hey man, we’ll only arrest you if
you’re writing your phone number, ok?”

The door creaked open, but the
stall was completely empty, except for the smell; probably a homeless sleeper.
He surveyed the whole room, backing up to look for whoever it was. All was
silent and empty. He looked back inside yet again and on the wall inside the
stall he could see the writing:

You
aren’t where you think you are detective. Bring the waitress. It’s the only way
to save her. Don’t be late.

47 58 87: 5:55
10/22/14

He grabbed his phone and snapped a
picture, then reached for some paper towels to wipe his face and then threw
them into the wastebasket, walking back into the hall. Oh well, the musings on
bathroom walls on the west coast were a little more highbrow at least.

“Hey Mark!” he yelled again.

“Yeah, Detective Sullivan?”

“You see anybody else come out of
the bathroom?”

Mark looked up at the cameras and
then back to him. “No, just you and me and Mitchell here now. Everything ok?”

“Guess so,” he said shaking his
head.

Then Sullivan walked out the door
into the night.