“See how they defend themselves? Instead of running away, they attack. They’re very aggressive that way. They have to be because they don’t make or stay in webs. Their habit is to wander around in search of prey at night. Then they seek shelter in dark places during the day—log piles, boxes, shoes, and in bunches of bananas. That’s usually where they’ll leave their hatchlings, attached to the peel. It looks like nothing more than a puff of cotton.”
The Iceman pulled the stick out and the spiders continued advancing up it until the stick disappeared out the small hole and they were forced to drop down or cling to the inside wall of the box.
“Do you remember what I told you the last time?” he asked, but now he remained bent over his spiders, his eyes not leaving them, his back to Falco.
Thankfully, he couldn’t see Falco’s eyes dart from side to side, trying to think what it was the man wanted him to remember about the last time. Immediately his mind conjured up the image of how the ants had covered the man’s naked body so quickly, red-black streams of them racing and pouring over the skin like water. And just then a trickle of sweat broke free and slid down his back. It took effort to keep from shuddering at the thought of those ants crawling and biting.
“Find what matters to a man,” Falco said, as if, of course, that was the first thing that entered his head. It had to be what the Iceman wanted.
“What else?”
“Find out what matters most to him, then crush it. Discover his worst fears and make them come true.”
The Iceman nodded. “If you’re successful, he’ll beg you to kill him just to put him out of his misery.”
Falco knew that was the Iceman’s signature and why so many feared him. Other cartels sent hit men and death squads to cut the heads off their enemies and dismember their bodies, leaving them in the streets or hanging from bridges as a warning. The Iceman could find you no matter where you tried to hide, and he would destroy your life and your mind, as well as your body.
“Their venom includes a neurotoxin that acts on the nervous system and muscles. The initial bite causes intense pain that spreads through the body and shocks the muscles. It’s said that men who are bitten can experience painful, long-lasting erections. What an interesting fate for our Casanova, yes?”
Falco felt a shiver slide down his back. He knew the Iceman didn’t expect him to answer, and he remained quiet.
“Bring him in,” the Iceman told him, suddenly jerking his head in the direction of the doorway. He said it loud enough to be heard in the next room. “They’re ready for him.”
Falco’s boot heels clicked on the cheap linoleum, even with the mud that had started to dry. He liked the sound—a click then a clack—a stride that announced confidence. Before he crossed the threshold he could hear the man in the other room already whimpering. No matter how much Falco hated spiders, he knew that by the end of the day this guy was going to hate them even more. And that made Falco smile.
13
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
MAGGIE O’DELL sat at a corner table in the cafeteria. The window looked down at the beginning of the forest. From her perch she could see the unmarked trailhead. It was overgrown and easy to miss unless you were looking for it. O’Dell was one of the few who used this path into the pine forest and onto the running trails that forked and wound through the trees.
Right now she wished she had her running gear on and she could escape. Even the heat and humidity would be a welcome relief. She’d already retreated from her cramped office down in the Behavioral Science Unit, six floors below ground. Lately she found herself needing a window, to see the outside and the sky. Sometimes even the elevator trip down made her feel like she might suffocate from the walls of earth surrounding her.
She knew her claustrophobia was progressing but she didn’t dare tell anyone. Assistant Director Kunze would find a way to use it against her. She’d learned years ago to hide any vulnerabilities and discovered early on that it was best not to remind her male colleagues that she was different. She wore form-hiding suits: navy or black, sometimes brown or copper. No jewelry, other than a watch, nothing that could get pulled or caught or grabbed. No spiked heels, only leather flats had become a part of her uniform. And never, ever anything pink.
She had the cafeteria to herself, if you didn’t count the sounds coming from back in the kitchen. O’Dell hadn’t been seated for five minutes when Helen—who had been a reliable and constant force in the cafeteria for longer than any agent could remember—brought out two coveted chocolate-frosted cake doughnuts on a plate and set them on the table in front of O’Dell.
“You’re getting too skinny,” she told the agent, pursing her lips to confine her smile, obviously pleased with herself for remembering how much O’Dell loved doughnuts, and that chocolate-frosted ones were her favorite. As quickly as Helen put the plate down, she pivoted on her tiny feet and scurried back toward the kitchen.
“Thank you,” O’Dell shouted, but the woman didn’t take time to turn, instead she raised her bird-like hand to wave her acknowledgment.
A run would have been better at calming her, but she bit into the soft cake doughnut and decided this was a well-deserved treat for putting up with Kunze’s floater assignment.
She had brought her laptop, a notebook, pen, and a color printout of the photo she had snapped of the victim’s tattoo. It hadn’t taken her long to find similar images, despite the red pustules that marred this victim’s skin. Her first impression had been wrong, but not by much. The tattoo wasn’t a version of the Grim Reaper but rather a female skeleton referred to as Santa Muerte, the saint of death.
Turns out people prayed to Santa Muerte for “otherworldly help” for a variety of things, such as landing better jobs or stopping a lover from cheating. O’Dell had been raised Catholic, but the idea of praying to some mediator other than God had always seemed like a waste of time and effort. Her mother, however, prayed to Saint Anthony when she couldn’t find something and invoked Saint Christopher before she stepped from the Jetway onto an airplane. Of course, the prayers to her favorite saints were usually fortified with her earthly companions, Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker.
Having tracked serial killers, mass murderers, and terrorists, O’Dell had grown weary of and impatient with those who used religious icons and ideology simply to promote and validate their predilections. So she wasn’t surprised when she discovered that some prayed to Santa Muerte for fending off wrongdoing and carrying out vengeance. Nor was she surprised to learn that Mexican and Colombian drug runners often sought out Santa Muerte’s protection to ward off law enforcement. Safe houses set up shrines with miniature altars. Smugglers placed small statues of the saint on the dashboards of their vehicles, even as they drove across the border.
The more O’Dell read, the more she believed the victim from the river probably didn’t tattoo his left shoulder blade with the saint so he could find a better job. Chances are it was to protect him from the job he already had. And O’Dell had made up her mind about the man before her cell phone started vibrating on the tabletop.
She glanced at the caller ID as she grabbed the phone. It was an extension she recognized from the ME’s office.
“This is Agent O’Dell.”
“I’m confirming fire ants,” Stan Wenhoff said without an introduction. “The blisters contain a toxic alkaloid venom called solenopsin. It’s from the class of piperidines. The liquid is both insecticidal and antibiotic. Odd combination, I know.”
“So fire ants inject this when they bite?”
“Fire ants bite only to get a grip. They actually sting and inject from their abdomen.”
“Impressive little buggers. Can this stuff cause death?”
“This many stings could certainly have sent him into anaphylaxis. He’d have difficulty breathing, rapid heart rate. His throat would swell. Certainly may have contributed to h
is death. His lungs and heart tissue showed signs of congestion, consistent with undue pressure. Probable cause of death was suffocation. I need to wait for blood analysis results, but I suspect a high concentration of cocaine will have also contributed to his demise.”
“What about the ligature marks?”
“Definitely restrained. Both the wrists and ankles. I can’t estimate for how long, but there was a good amount of struggle.”
“I’m looking at similar images of the tattoo,” O’Dell told him.
Before she could go on, Stan interrupted. “And you’re discovering it might be linked to the drug trade.”
“So you recognize it?”
“No, can’t say that I do. But I’m guessing a man who puts a tattoo of a female skeleton that looks like the Grim Reaper on his back, a man who may have died of a drug overdose and who was most likely tortured by being tied down on top of a massive mound of fire ants . . . well, it wouldn’t take a stretch of the imagination to guess this is drug-related.”
“Dumping the body in the river could be a warning, but why in the Potomac? You said you believe he died somewhere down South. Do you still believe that?”
“You’re free to double-check, but my recollection is that fire ants don’t exist in areas that periodically have temperatures below freezing. Messes up their whole colonization thing. Besides, I’m guessing he probably died closer to his home.”
“And you know where that is?”
“Yes. I can even tell you his name.”
The offer surprised O’Dell enough that she hesitated before asking, “How are you magically able to do that?”
“Actually, no magic at all. I found a driver’s license shoved halfway down his throat. And despite the fact that he is currently a bit bloated, the resemblance is enough that I’m quite certain it’s his.”
14
O’DELL STOPPED IN HER OFFICE to collect copies from her printer. She used it as a detour to dilute her frustration before she confronted her boss. Everything about “the package in the Potomac”—from the tattoo to the driver’s license shoved down the victim’s throat to the dumping of the body in a public place—was adding up to be some kind of drug-related hit.
Why had she been sent? She specialized in profiling killers, tracking them, and stopping them before they killed again. But if this was a drug-cartel hit, it should be investigated by the DEA.
And that’s exactly what she intended to ask AD Kunze when she showed him a copy of Trevor Bagley’s driver’s license. She had obtained a printout from the Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles, but she included the copy Stan Wenhoff had e-mailed her of the crumpled, bloody original that he had removed from the man’s throat.
The creases in the laminated card made it difficult to identify Bagley. The bloodstains that had seeped behind the lamination suggested that the victim was still bleeding when his killer forced it down his throat. But Stan had confirmed the card alone would not have caused a suffocation that led to the man’s death. That, he still maintained, was due to the cocaine and the fire ants.
Still, O’Dell wanted AD Kunze to see the mess and had even used the color option on her printer to make a copy of the driver’s license, along with a photo of the bloated corpse and the shot she had of the tattoo.
She marched down the hallway, through the lobby, and headed for the assistant director’s closed door.
“He’s with someone,” his secretary told her. When she realized O’Dell wasn’t going to stop, she jumped out of her chair and shouted, “Someone is in there with him.”
O’Dell knocked, two short taps. Ignoring the secretary coming up quickly behind her, she pushed the door open before Kunze could respond. He looked up from behind his desk, surprise registering on his face before he scowled, first at O’Dell, then at his secretary, who had stayed back in the doorway. Across the desk from Kunze was, indeed, a visitor. And when the woman turned to look over her shoulder at the intruders, it was O’Dell’s turn to be surprised.
“Senator Delanor-Ramos?”
O’Dell saw the woman flinch and realized she should have left off the Ramos. The senator had been doing everything possible to disassociate herself from her ex-husband, and with good reason.
“Call me Ellie,” Senator Delanor said, standing and meeting O’Dell with an outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Agent O’Dell.”
Less than a year ago the senator had used her political connections, including Assistant Director Kunze, when she was concerned about her then husband, George Ramos, and her two children. They had gone out in their houseboat on the Gulf of Mexico and gotten caught in a night of brutal thunderstorms.
But Ramos had fooled everyone: the authorities, his friends, his family, even his wife. He was using his kids and the storm as a cover to make a drug pickup in the middle of the Gulf. O’Dell and her partner, R. J. Tully, had been sent to rescue Ramos and his kids. Instead, they ended up arresting him.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” O’Dell said.
“Yes, you did.” AD Kunze glared at her. “Or you wouldn’t have barged into my office.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” his secretary said. “I did tell her—”
“That’s fine, Ms. Holloway. I’m sure it must be something terribly important.” He continued to glare at O’Dell before he shifted his attention back to the senator. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Ellie.”
“No, not at all. I should let you all get to your work,” Senator Delanor said. “Raymond, perhaps you can call me later.”
He nodded, and O’Dell could swear she saw a look exchange between the two, one that seemed more intimate than professional. Nevertheless, Senator Delanor headed for the door, brisk, confident steps in three-inch heels. O’Dell couldn’t help thinking that the junior senator from Florida looked like a model, which probably caused some to underestimate her. The woman carried herself like a CEO for a Fortune 500 company, but she was still a politician, and O’Dell didn’t trust politicians.
Self-preservation seemed to trump everything else with them. O’Dell had stuck her neck out for this one’s family, and the senator’s presence here today only made O’Dell more suspicious of Kunze’s motives for sending her to oversee the retrieval of the package in the Potomac. Was he using her again to repay some political favor?
Raymond Kunze had been O’Dell’s boss for less than two years. He would never be able to fill the previous assistant director’s shoes. Kyle Cunningham had been an icon at Quantico. To O’Dell, he had been a mentor and, in some cases, even a father figure. His death had left the entire department feeling his absence. Perhaps Kunze came into the position with a chip on his shoulder, knowing he could never replace Cunningham.
Whatever the reason, he appeared to take it out on O’Dell over and over again, as if making her prove her worth. He had sent her into the eye of a hurricane to investigate a cooler full of body parts. Last fall he had her “stop off” in the Nebraska Sandhills to check on cow carcasses that had been mysteriously ravaged. And then there was the storm on the Gulf that he sent her into to retrieve Senator Delanor’s husband and children. Each and every time, O’Dell stumbled onto something murkier, uncovering secrets and even conspiracies—and in Senator Delanor’s husband’s case, illegal dealings. She no longer trusted her boss’s motives.
The door had barely closed and O’Dell continued her march to Kunze’s desk. Instead of slapping the sheets of paper down in front of him, she placed them respectfully on the desktop, her compensation for barging in and interrupting.
He glanced at the papers and shook his head. “So what is it that has you all hot under the collar?”
She bit her lower lip to stop a comeback. Every time she thought she had made some headway with this man, he erased it with another degrading comment like this.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you k
now and save me a bunch of time?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The package in the Potomac.” She pointed for him to take a closer look. “It’s a drug hit, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his square jaw and took a deep breath, glancing at the top copy of the mangled driver’s license. In another life, Raymond Kunze could have been an NFL defensive back. Probably where he got his witty repartee. Usually he wore blazers that fit him a size too small, emphasizing his massive shoulders and tight abs. But the colors he chose—today’s was a shiny emerald green—made him look more like a cheap bouncer at a nightclub.
“What makes you think it’s a drug hit?”
She pulled out the photo of the victim’s left shoulder blade and set it on top.
“A tattoo? That’s your proof?”
She pulled out the photocopy of the crumpled, bloody driver’s license and laid it next to the tattoo, as if they were cards in a deck and she was presenting him with a blackjack.
“A driver’s license? Why are you wasting my time with this, Agent O’Dell? It looks like you have plenty of pieces to the puzzle, so you might be able to do what I sent you to do—investigate.”
She stood still, watching him and trying to determine whether or not he already knew any of this. Had she jumped to conclusions?
“You’re making a serious judgment on poor”—he sorted through the pages again to find the man’s name—“Trevor Bagley.”
“Are you saying this isn’t a hit by a drug cartel?”
“I have no idea, Agent O’Dell.” But he didn’t look up at her. There was something he still wasn’t telling her. “I suggest you go do your job and find out.”
“Stan Wenhoff believes Bagley was restrained . . . tied down. There are ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. He thinks he spent some time lying on a mound of fire ants. His entire back”—she pointed out the photocopy—“is covered in tiny pustules.”