Rapture

Chapter Forty-nine

“You okay, big guy?” Jim asked as he carried Dog back up the stairs to the apartment over the garage.

The little man had been guarding the place all night, keeping everything as it should be, his eyes as fierce as his fur was not.

Up in the studio, Jim put the animal down and went over to the kitchen. “Just kibble this morning, sport. Sorry. But I’ll bring you back a turkey club, ’kay?”

As Dog let out a chuff of agreement, Jim figured deli sandwiches were probably not the best diet, but life was too short not to enjoy something as simple as what you liked to eat. And Dog loved ’em.

Running water in the sink, he rinsed out a small red bowl and refilled it. Putting the thing on the floor next to a cup and a half of Eukanuba, he stepped back and let Dog sniff around, take a test bite, and settle into his breakfast.

With the meal in progress, Jim walked over to the door and took out his cigarettes. Lighting up on the landing, he exhaled and braced one hand on the rail.

The reporter was at work; he’d checked on her as soon as he’d left the Marriott. And given that there was no sign of Devina anywhere, and the tracer spell remained up and rolling on both Matthias and the guy’s female, he’d decided to head back here and make sure all was cool.

Now he wasn’t sure what to do…except listen to Dog crunch.

Off in the distance, a truck traveled over the road on the far side of the meadow, going at a steady pace. Closer by, crows cawed to one another on the pineboughs. Behind him, Dog kept working his jaw.

Everything was so damned tranquil, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

It was on his second coffin nail that he realized he was waiting for Nigel to make an appearance. That British dandy always seemed to show up at critical times, and now felt like one: Jim couldn’t believe what Ad had done. The self-sacrifice, the mission critical, the man-up. On some level, it was unfathomable.

Eddie would have been really proud of the guy.

But what were they going to do now? Jim still didn’t know where the crossroads were, and Devina was undoubtedly getting up to something.

“Nigel—my man,” he muttered on the exhale. “Where are you.”

Instead of a royal visit, all he got was ashes to tap off the tip of his Marlboro, and he began to wonder if there hadn’t been a trickle-down effect to Devina’s getting her chain yanked by the Maker: Looked like the archangels were sitting back on this round as well.

Fair enough—

Just as he turned around, another vehicle came into view on the opposite side of the meadow. It was traveling fast—and it had a friend, a perfectly matched buddy.

Cops.

And what do you know, they were hanging a louie and shooting down the lane.

“We got company, Dog,” he muttered, grinding out his butt in the ashtray he kept on the railing. “Come here, my man. Let’s disappear together and watch the show.”

As he ducked inside, the pair of squad cars tore right up to the double doors, dust rising from their wheels grinding to a halt on the pea gravel.

Naturally, his phone went off as the unis were getting out. With his animal under his arm, he answered the call softly and watched through the drapes.

“I’m busy, Ad.”

“Where are you?”

“At the garage. And the CPD just showed up—make my day and tell me you got rid of the body?”

“We fish-tanked it, along with the car he came in. They aren’t going to find a damn thing.”

“So why are the cops here now?”

“I don’t know—hold on.” There was some muted conversation at that point. “Matthias is with me. He says it’s the bullet Mels took when she came out to the garage—she had it analyzed, and of course it matches the casings in the basement of the Marriott. You can draw the conclusions from there.”

“Great.”

Now Ad’s voice dropped to a whisper also. “By the way, your old boss is good with a computer.”

“What’s he up to?”

“I think he’s going to blow the lid off of the whole XOps operations.”

“He’s doing what?” Jim nearly forgot to keep his voice low. “How do you know this?”

“He and I left the hotel room together, and on the way to the exit, he made a little detour into Toshiba territory. He’s got a SanDisk with a lot of information on it—I was right behind him when he loaded up the damn thing.”

What was he going to-—

The reporter, Jim thought. He was going to give it to her, and tell her to do her job.

Man, talk about your one-eighties. Matthias had devoted his life to keeping XOps hidden. Had killed for it, tortured for it, turned on friends and allies for it. He’d bullied the White House and frightened worldwide leaders; he’d leveraged money and sex; he’d double-talked, double-crossed, and buried the quick and the dead.

And now he was letting it all go?

“We’ve done it,” Jim breathed. “This is the crossroads.”

“Looks like it.” Ad’s voice resumed normal volume. “Anywho, he’s all worked up about you—he doesn’t want you shanked and told me to call.”

Which was another surprise. “Tell him thanks, I can take care of business here. Where’s he going?”

“Won’t say, and he wants privacy.”

“Well, give it to him, but stick around.”

“You got it, boss.”

Jim hit end and scrubbed his face. It appeared as if he’d won the round…because the crossroads could be any number of things requiring a choice or a decision that revealed the quality of the soul in question.

And that man was giving up his seat of evil—not by stepping down, but by blowing the place the fuck up.

Jim would have spiked something at the goal line…but he didn’t want to upset his visitors: Down below, the cops were sniffing around, checking those locked doors where the F-150, the Explorer, and the Harleys were kept. Their next move was to head for the stairs, and as they ascended, he was grateful that Dog stayed silent.

Knock. Knock.

“Caldwell Police,” came the shout. “Anybody home?”

Knock. Knock.

“Caldwell Police.”

One of the pair cupped his hands together and leaned into the glass, peering inside.

Jim raised his invisible palm and gave the guy a little wave just to be neighborly—but what he really wanted to do was flip his middle finger. This visit probably meant he and his boys needed to decamp—peace and quiet were going to be impossible to come by after this, particularly when the police followed up with his landlord.

But he had other problems at the moment

Especially as the police decided to throw civil rights out the window, and jimmied the lock.

“Mels Carmichael.” Mels frowned. “Hello?”

When there was no answer, she hung up and checked the time. One o’clockish. Grabbing her coat, she got to her feet and gave Tony a wave.

As she left through the newsroom’s front door, she wondered if she shouldn’t have had her buddy get off his phone and come with her. Last time she’d done this, she’d nearly died.

Then again, she wasn’t meeting Monty anywhere near the river. And how many people had kicked it in an urban Barnes & Noble?

Stepping over to the curb, she measured the traffic and the temperature, and decided to hoof it instead of take a cab: Monty wanted to convene at that same open-air mall where she’d met Mr. Ballastics the day before, and it was only five blocks away—besides, maybe the walk would clear her head.

Not.

She spent the entire trip looking over her shoulder, wondering if she was being followed.

On the plus side, there was nothing like a good shot of paranoia to get someone over the afternoon hump. The stuff was better than a shot of espresso, and free.

The street mall was busy again, people out in the April sunshine, hustling between the shops and those chain restaurants where you could eat a huge plate of food as well as a dessert for fifteen bucks. The bookstore was at the far end, and when she walked in, she casually strolled through the stacks.

One good thing about getting out of Caldwell would be never having to deal with Monty and his stupid-ass, pseudo-spy crap again.

As instructed, she went to the back, passed the magazine section, mounted the three steps up into the Romance and Fiction area, and then headed farther down to Military.

Naturally. Because when you were pretending that you were sharing intel of national security-level importance, you didn’t want to do it in the Health & Beauty section: A background of picture books of guns and wars were much more manly. Yup.

“You’re here,” came the hushed voice.

As she turned to Monty, she braced herself—but this was actually him. Same big forehead, same pinchy little mouth, right pair of sunglasses, which he kept on—because wearing something like that made you much less noticeable indoors. Another great plan.

God, her Ray-Bans…Matthias had kept them, hadn’t he.

“So what have you got for me?” she said roughly, forcing herself to plug into the conversation.

It was so tough to concentrate. The blowup with Matthias had scrambled her so badly, anything that had gone on before it seemed like ancient history. But those two women were still dead, and she was determined to finish the story before she left town.

Monty took a book on WWII aircraft off the shelf and idly flipped through the thing. “You know the victim who was found on the library steps? My pictures match what was on her stomach.”

“Her abdomen was marked as well?”

“Yup.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” And highly suspicious. “But they still don’t match the first victim’s actual body—which is the problem.”

“Don’t you think that’s curious, though? Two dead women with identical inscriptions in their skin, in the same place on the belly—and they were killed in the same way.”

“Are you sure you want me to extrapolate from that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, at least one conclusion is a little disturbing. Maybe you’re the killer.”

His head turned around so fast, his sunglasses wobbled on his nose. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Let’s look at things from the beginning. The true “first” victim was the one with those markings who was found in the quarry. She’s blond, she’s young, and she’s got her throat slit. Victim number two is a prostitute who colors her hair, blows it out straight, and has her throat slit. Third one? Color. Blowout. The same method of death. And here you are, in the middle of all this, showing up with a photograph of number two with markings superimposed on the abdomen—just like numbers one and three. Now, this second dead girl is a prostitute—perfect place to start if you want to be a copycat in real life. You hire her, kill her, except you get interrupted before you can put the marks were they need to go. You take the pictures, Photoshop them, and show me because you need someone to see your work—someone other than your good self.”

He snapped the book shut and took off the glasses. His eyes were dead serious. “Not at all what happened.”

“Then how do you explain what you gave me?”

“Someone tampered with her. I’m telling you.”

“No offense, but bullshit. Scars don’t disappear from skin.”

The instant the words came out of her mouth, she thought of Matthias—and then reminded herself that there was no magic in the world. There was, however, plenty of makeup. She’d used it on her own bruises. So had he.

Monty jutted forward on his hips. “I’m not feeding you any more information. I had something you might like to know, but you can go to hell—and give up your day job. I can make it so no one talks to you about so much as the fucking weather.”

Mels closed her eyes and bit her tongue.

The truth was, she didn’t actually think Monty killed anyone. Egomaniacs were not necessarily murderers—and she’d rolled out that soliloquy because she was tired of being jerked around.

After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry. You’re right….” Ego stroke, ego stroke, apology…girl eyes. “I didn’t mean to go overboard and offend you.”

“You need to learn how things are done,” Monty grumbled.

“Clearly.” Oh, teach me, big boy—blech. “So…what else do you have for me?”

He didn’t answer her in a hurry, and she had to invest some more smooth-over effort. Eventually, however, he came back around.

“Someone brought in a bullet casing that matches the ones found in the Marriott basement.”

Mels lifted her brows. “Really.”

“Yup. It’s a confidential source, apparently—but CSI established that it was indeed from the gun used in that murder. And here’s the bizarre thing. The owner’s name that was given over? A dead man by the name of Jim Heron.”

Okay, she could not believe the guy was feeding her her own damned story.

Monty leaned in. “The question is, how does the gun of a dead guy end up shooting someone in a hotel a good week or more after he died?”

“Someone took the weapon,” she said flatly. “And used it.”

Monty shrugged. “They’re sending officers over to Heron’s last known address right now to find out more. And I don’t need to tell you that any link to that disappeared body at the Marriott is significant.”

“True….” Hell, at least she knew she’d made a difference. And she’d had to bring Jim Heron in on it when she’d talked to de la Cruz: In spite of the fact that the guy had saved her life—twice—the bottom line was that a criminal was a criminal, and obstruction of justice was not just a felony; it was, in her view, a moral outrage.

“Maybe I’ll let you know what comes of it,” Monty said. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not I’m still pissed off at you.”

As he sauntered away, she cursed and wanted to kick the stack of books next to her. Way to handle a source: by accusing him of murder.

Note to self—save the insults for after she got the information.

Although really, what had he given her?

Bracing her elbow in front of a three-volume set on Allied flight paths, she leaned into her hand and cursed—

“Don’t turn around.”