She squeezes her mascara-ringed eyes shut again and wails. “No! I never forgot. Never! I ran away a year later and came here to California. I whored for a while, did some drugs, and hated myself. But—but then I found God, and I turned my life around.” The eyes open, again, suffering, again. “Don’t you know that? I changed. I got away from my devil and I gave my soul to God. I work with children now, I help them, all to make up for what I did to Charles. Don’t you see that?”
She’s asking for mercy, but the murmuring I can make out tells me what I already know: he had none to offer. The murmur is his beginning recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…” Then a pause. “God is love, Maxine,” he says.
Fade to black.
My mouth has filled with bile. Adrenaline races through me and makes my heart jitter and skip beats. My skin feels flushed. I’m dizzy.
I’m flying apart, I realize. Right here, right now, with no warning at all.
I feel a cackling thing running through the night in my mind, scrabbling at great speed to try and jump from the darkness into the light.
See me, it cackles and snarls and growls. You know what I am. See me.
I clench my eyes shut and shake my head.
No no no no no!
The phantom from the night is back, grown to a monster this time, and he’s caught me by surprise.
I find myself longing for that bottle of tequila, longing for it with a level of savage naked need that terrifies me. This, I realize, is what drives the alcoholic to his next drink. The feeling that if he doesn’t, he’ll die a long, lingering, screaming, painful death.
I hold out my hand, palm down over my desktop. It’s shaking.
See me, the voice demands again, more strident and certain this time. No question, all command.
I feel nausea rising inside me. I realize it’s going to keep coming, I can’t fight it back.
Jesus Christ, I’m going to puke!
I bolt from my office and race to the bathroom in the hall. The door can’t be locked, but no one else is in it, thank God.
I fling the door to one of the three stalls open and I drop to my knees on the tile without ceremony. My gorge rises and my stomach twists and a brief, sweet pain spikes through my head and I’m puking my guts out in the next millisecond. It’s brief, but it’s violent. I can feel how flushed my face is, and the force of it all squeezes tears from my eyes. I grip the sides of the toilet bowl and wait to see if it’s over.
See me.
I’m twisting like a rope in a pair of strong sailor’s hands, bending like a violin bow, muscles spasming as I vomit again. It goes on a little too long, and puts spots behind my eyes.
This time I know I’m done and I fall into a sitting position, back against the wall of the toilet stall. I sit there for a moment and breathe, hand against my forehead, working to stuff the monster and his claws back into the box.
Now is not the time, I tell myself. There is a time, but it’s not now. Please.
I close my eyes and lay my head back against the stall wall and let myself drift. Time goes by in internal fuzzy flashes. Pictures come to me. They’re all unrelated, jumbled, no rhyme or reason. I see Matt, I see Bonnie, there’s Tommy telling me he loves me, and there’s Maxine with her raccoon eyes.
I open my eyes again and find that the voice is gone. I take advantage of the lull to stand back up on wobbly legs. I flush the toilet, and as I do, I realize that tears are running down my face.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
I hate crying, always have.
I seem to be a little more stable now. My stomach has stopped flip-flopping, and the yammering in my head has died down to a background whisper. My mouth, however, is filled with the acrid taste of vomit. I open the door to the stall and totter out.
“Better?”
I’m so surprised that I almost draw my weapon. I whirl on the voice and nearly fall over doing so, as my legs remain a little rubbery. Kirby is standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the door to the bathroom. She’s chewing gum and is staring at me with a look I can’t quite fathom.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I was making sure no one came in while you were falling apart.” She shrugs. “I came up to see Callie and watched you run into the bathroom. Got curious.”
I turn to the sink so I don’t have to look at her. I turn on the water.
“I wasn’t falling apart,” I say, defensive.
She cracks her gum. “If you say so. But you were sitting in that stall for almost twenty minutes.”
I stand up straight, shocked.
Twenty minutes? That long?
I sneak a look at Kirby. She’s just standing there, chewing her gum. Her expression is a mix of the patient and the bland. She seems to read my mind and holds up a wrist to show me her watch.
“I checked the time.”
I turn away again and splash water on my cheeks, which are now burning with embarrassment.
“And what the fuck is it to you?” I snarl.
“Well, I don’t respect too many people in this world, Smoky, but I do respect you. And I figure if you need to fall apart, then you deserve some privacy while you do it, you know?”
She says all of this with that same careless, happy-go-lucky tone she uses to talk about the weather or the dead.
La-di-dah, how about this heat? Sorry I have to kill you, but it could be worse, it could be slow instead of quick, you know?! Ha ha ha! Blam!
I rinse out my mouth enough to clear the taste of puke away and spend a moment taking stock of myself in the mirror. I look tired but I don’t look crazy. That’s something, at least.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“You’re welcome.”
I stare at myself one final time.
Secrets.
You can even keep them from yourself. Just not forever.
BACK AT DEATH CENTRAL I find a woman waiting for me. She’s very tall, about six foot, and, unbelievably, could give Callie a run for her money in the beauty department. She’s probably close to thirty-two, with long, straight, blonde hair and one of those fresh-scrubbed apples and oatmeal complexions. She has clear, intelligent blue eyes and a slim, athletic body. I want to hate her on sight, but then she smiles. It’s not the perfect white teeth that disarm me, but the genuine openness of the grin. She holds out a hand.
“Jezebel Smith,” she says.
I shake her hand and ignore Kirby’s chortling behind me.
Jezebel nods to Kirby, unfazed. “Yeah, I know, it’s some namesake. Mom was kind of an anti-fundamentalist, so…”
“Hey, my dad named me Kirby, so I know how that can be. There should be a law against parents naming kids whatever they darn well feel like, you know?”
“Amen.” Jezebel smiles.
“Kirby—” I say, turning toward her.
The assassin holds up her hands. “Say no more, boss woman. I’ll let you get back to what you’re doing. I just need to see Callie-babe about some wedding stuff.”
She saunters off after giving Jezebel a final wink and wave.
“Interesting woman,” Jezebel muses.
“You don’t know the half of it, and don’t want to know the rest. So did AD Jones fill you in?”
She nods, grave.
“Can I see one of the clips?” she asks. “I like to know what I’m a part of.”
I don’t ask her if she’s sure or if she’s seen this kind of thing before. If she has, the question will insult her. If she hasn’t, she won’t be prepared anyway. I take her to my office and I bring up a random clip. I look away as it plays. Jezebel bends over to watch. She’s silent throughout.
“Monster” is all she says when it’s done.
“Yes.”
“I deal with the victims regularly, doing what I do. I see them, talk with them—I’ve sat with them in their homes. This, what he’s doing, is going to hurt a lot of families.”
“He knows t
hat.”
She straightens up. “Okay. So, I will set up a phone bank in the conference room on the floor just below this. I’ll man it with six agents—I’d like more, but that’s all that AD Jones can spare for now. We have a set of phone numbers reserved for tip-line situations like this one. I’ll choose a number and let you know what it will be. I know the woman at HQ who is going to be the contact for media inquiry on this, so I’ll arrange with her how we go about getting that number out.”
“We should take a proactive approach on this,” I say. “Get ahead of the media.”
Her smile is gentle. “Trust me. They’re already way ahead of us on this one. I can guarantee you that media outlets all over the country have already been contacted. Think of it like a tsunami: it’s coming, it’s inevitable, and resistance is most definitely futile.”
“Swell.”
“The good news is, I’m really, really good at what I do. And so are the people that will be working on this at headquarters. You shouldn’t have to deal with the media at all except to refer them to me. My team will filter all the calls that come through the tip line. You’ll only get real leads.”
Her confidence is inspiring. I scribble my cell number on a Post-it and hand it to her.
“Call me with updates, please. I’ll be asked for regular reports—I’m sure you know the game.”
“I’m familiar with shit and the way it rolls,” she says with a grin. The smile fades. “Let’s get this guy.”
It would be more melodramatic if it weren’t exactly the right sentiment.
25
JEZEBEL’S METAPHOR ABOUT THE TSUNAMI HAD BEEN ACCURATE. The tidal wave hits at around two o’clock in the afternoon.
I’ve been continuing to watch my assigned helping of video clips. We all are. It’s quiet in the offices, but the air is thick with anxiety and the need to find him before he carries out his promise.
I’m noting the name of a particularly terrified brunette woman when my phone rings.
“The story is hitting the five o’clock news everywhere,” Jezebel says without preamble. “And it’s already five on the East Coast.”
“What are they saying?”
“That a guy calling himself the Preacher has posted video clips on the Internet of purported murder victims. That they’ve been able to confirm the identities of two of the victims already.”
“Great.”
“We knew it was going to happen, and we’re ready. I’ve been in contact with the media relations director at Quantico and she’ll be doing a press conference within the next half hour. That will be picked up nationwide and she’ll announce the tip-line number then.”
“Can you get me the names of the two confirmed victims soonest?”
“Within the next half hour. Do you want to see the press conference?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“It’s not that it’s not important, it’s just not my part of this. My team and I need to stay on identifying the victims. It’s the best thing we can do right now.”
“I understand. I’ll get you those names and will keep you updated. I expect the tip line to go crazy in the next few hours.”
“I’ll be here.”
I put down the phone, pick my pen back up, and click to continue the clip I was watching.
“Please,” she begs.
Please, please, it’s always please. The one-word lyric of the victim’s song.
ALAN IS AT THE DRY-ERASE board, writing down names and, where known, locations. I hand my list to him and take a moment to examine the data we’ve collected so far.
“All women,” I say.
“A sexual link after all,” Callie notes.
She’s right. If this was all just about truth and his opus on the subject, we’d see some men in there. He probably has no awareness of this, and would be surprised if it was pointed out to him. Murder is murder and it’s always an act of anger. The anger could be direct—he hates women—or it could be misplaced—he hates himself because of something that involves women. It’s intriguing.
“Common age?” I ask.
“We don’t know for sure without actual confirmation of their identities, but based on physical observation, I don’t see anyone older than the age of thirty-five. Most are younger than that.”
“How much younger?”
“All adults. Twenty or older. If he does kill a child, it looks like it would be a first for him.”
“Were all the victims attractive? No, scratch that. Not all the women I saw were classically beautiful. Some were pretty plain.”
“I can confirm that as well.” James nods. “One of the women in my group was obese. Another had a bad case of acne. Appearance is not a crucial part of his criteria.”
“But gender is,” I muse. “Okay. How about locations? How spread out has he been?”
“I’m getting a map printed out so that we can see it graphically,” Callie says. “He’s been a traveler, but with few exceptions so far, he’s stayed within the western United States, primarily California, Oregon, Washington, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado.”
“Interesting. So Virginia was well outside his common stomping grounds.”
Callie nods. “None of the other victims have been linked that far east.”
A thought occurs to me. “No other transgendered victims?”
“No,” James says.
“So Lisa Reid was another anomaly. She’s the only transgender victim and the only one found so far outside his normal killing zone. Which means that’s exactly why she was chosen.”
“He’s decided to come out into the open,” Alan agrees. “He figured she’d help him make the biggest splash. Killing a child, same thing.”
“Why now?” I wonder. No one answers. “What other commonalities?”
“He stops the clip before the actual murder of every victim,” James says. “As discussed before, he’s showing us that his overall message is more important to him than the deaths themselves. The murders were committed for a purpose, not titillation.”
“He cared for them, or wants us to think he did,” I say. “In one way he strips them naked—the whole secrets thing. But then he pulls the curtain over their last moments. He respects that privacy, preserves their dignity.”
“He never gets angry,” James notes. “He’s firm, but calm with every victim. He’s not above threatening them to gain compliance, but it’s detached. A means to an end, not a fantasy.”
“I take it the secrets theme has been consistent?”
“’Fraid so,” Callie says, “and not just in fact but in form.”
I frown. “Sorry?”
“She means there haven’t been any ‘I stole twenty bucks from Mom’s wallet’ kind of secrets,” Alan provides. “It’s all dark or twisted or sad or all three.” He consults notepad Ned. “Lot of it has a sexual component, of course. There’s some accidental murders that were then hidden, but there are a few premeditated killings in there as well. One woman had been beaten by her husband for years, so she took it out on her baby. With lit cigarettes.” He looks back up at me wearing a humorless smile. “A ghastly fucking gallery.”
My stomach twists once and I feel that voice again, not vocalizing yet, but stirring. Thinking about making itself known. I push it away and force myself to focus on the list of names and what they can tell me.
“He videoed every crime, obviously,” James says, “but the changes in video and sound quality show us that he’s been at this for some time. He probably started out on super eight or a similar medium and graduated up to better technology as the years rolled on. He’ll be fairly proficient technically, nothing earth-shaking, but more knowledgeable than the average computer user. He’d have to be to digitize old mediums and to create the various video clips, edit them, and so on.”
“It gives him credibility,” Callie observes, her tone grudging. “He’s been documenting his actions from the start, waiting for the day he’d bring his ??
?case’ to the world.”
“How could he be sure?” Alan muses.
I look at him and frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when he started this, the Internet didn’t exist, at least not for public consumption. He always planned to show his face and it’s pretty clear that he planned to use the videos to do it. Go back a few decades and we’d have gotten a stack of VHS tapes.”
“So?”
“Well, that would have been direct. Him to us. But this?” He gestures at the computer. “He put these clips up on a public website. How could he be sure he’d get our attention?”
“He chose carefully,” James answers. “The website he posted those clips on is the most viewed viral video site on earth. I imagine if we hadn’t taken notice on our own, he would have followed up with an e-mail or a letter.”
Alan nods, seeing it. “Maybe even a phone call.”
“Any way to track the clips themselves?” I ask.
James shakes his head. “No. CDs, DVDs, even printer pages can be traced to some degree, but a digital clip doesn’t have a watermark or buried signature by default.”
“What about the upload? He had to contact the Web somewhere to get these clips onto user-tube.”
“I already have computer crimes checking on that, honey-love,” Callie replies. “They’re rolling on the warrant as we speak.”
“Probably a dead end,” Alan observes.
“Probably,” I agree, “but…”
“Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes the bad guys are stupid.”
“Sometimes. Anything else?”
“Yes,” James says. “Again—where is he getting his information?”
The biggest part of the mystery. Lisa Reid left her story in a diary, fine, but the others?
“Maybe he’s a priest,” Alan muses.
“A traveling priest?” I say. “I don’t think so. Again, too high profile. Even if he was just posing as one, Father Yates didn’t mention anything about visiting clergy. Rosemary didn’t recognize her attacker.” I shake my head. “Not a priest.”
“It’s the question to answer, though,” Alan says.
“What about my earlier suggestion?” I ask. “Support groups? With these kinds of secrets, we’d see plenty of substance abuse problems.”