Dark Hunger (16 page)

“Have you found anything?” Quinton asked Detective Barbaris.

The cop shook his head, his expression worried. “Security is all over the city. We had bomb dogs search the entire Citadel stadium. Your chief and one of our officers are stationed in the security office now watching the feed.”

Quinton nodded. The fans were pouring toward the stadium, excited and oblivious of the fact that their game might draw a crazed killer.

But calling off the game would give the bomber too much power. And what if they were wrong? What if there was no attack?

They had no concrete lead on a terrorist cell or a location for an attack.

“Let’s review the security tapes,” Quinton said.

Annabelle followed him, and for the next two hours they studied the cameras.

“I feel helpless,” Annabelle said quietly.

He squeezed her arm. “We’ve done everything we know to do. Security is all over the place.” But the threat of one lone bomber slipping through undetected was very real.

Annabelle sighed and rubbed her forehead. “He may be at the coliseum or even at the church where Reverend Narius is.”

“True,” Quinton said. “Unless Narius is part of this.”

Annabelle’s cell phone jangled, and she quickly answered it. “Yes, Annabelle Armstrong.” A pause. “All right, Ms. Duffy, we’ll check out those two names.”

“What?” he asked as she disconnected the call.

“Ms. Duffy said she spoke with two of her therapists and gave me the names of a couple of patients they were concerned about.”

“Really?” Quinton said. “What about her strict rules and patient confidentiality?”

Annabelle frowned. “If anyone asks, we didn’t get this information from her.”

“What about these men made the therapists think they might be suspect?”

“The first one, Tobias Longfellow, has been suicidal for weeks. And the second, B. J. Rutherford, is bipolar. When he’s in his manic state, he leaves home and lives on the streets.”

Quinton nodded and took her arm. “Let’s check them out. Maybe we’ve finally got a lead.”

Annabelle’s heart raced as they drove toward the Isle of Palms where Tobias Longfellow resided. Finally, they might have a clue.

Grandiose two-and three-story mansions lined the coast, and Tobias’s house was an impressive beachfront antebellum with wraparound porches on three levels.

Three rings of the doorbell, and a woman wearing a maid’s uniform answered.

Quinton flashed his ID and Annabelle introduced herself. “We’re looking for Tobias Longfellow.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not here.”

“Where is he?” Quinton asked.

“His brother came this afternoon and drove him to his place. Mr. Longfellow has been depressed lately, so Mr. George thought it would do him good to stay with him for a while and help with his business.”

“Can you call and verify that he’s there?” Quinton asked.

The woman frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“We just want to make sure he’s safe,” Annabelle said.

Her hands fluttered to the collar of her uniform. “Is there some reason he wouldn’t be?”

“Just check,” Quinton said in a commanding voice.

She looked irritated and worried but hurried to get the house phone, and dialed the number. “Yes, Mr. George, I’m calling to check on Mr. Longfellow. How is he?”

Relief softened the lines on the woman’s face as they conversed. Tobias was obviously safe—not the man they were looking for.

The housekeeper disconnected the call and gave them a smug smile. “Mr. Longfellow is doing fine.”

“Thank you.” Annabelle took Quinton’s arm and pulled him down the steps toward the car.

“Where to next?” Quinton asked as he started the engine.

She gave him the address of an apartment building on the outskirts of Charleston, and he raced toward the address. A few minutes later, she spotted the run-down building and sighed.

She checked her watch as they parked. Eleven p.m. Only one hour until midnight.

Both feeling the time crunch, they jumped from the car and hurried to the apartment door, but the interior was dark, and no one answered their knock.

Quinton used his credit card to break into the apartment. Annabelle frowned but stood in the entryway as he combed through the small, dark rooms. Weathered ancient furniture, the stench of stale beer, an empty fridge. He checked the desk for notes that might offer some information on the man but found nothing except a newspaper.

Then he glanced at the open page—a feature on the band Death’s Door that was performing at the coliseum. B. J. had drawn a big red circle in marker around the name of the group. Death’s Door apparently rapped about devil worship.

“That’s it.” He turned to Annabelle and waved the paper. “The coliseum in north Charleston—that’s the target.”

Annabelle’s pulse pounded as they drove toward the coliseum. Quinton phoned Agent McLaughlin and told him that he suspected the concert was the target, and to secure a photo of B. J. Rutherford and pass it to all the security guards and police.

Traffic crawled by, clogging the road to north Charleston.

Quinton honked his horn and maneuvered around cars, sometimes taking the shoulder in his haste. Midnight was less than half an hour away when they arrived. Fans had filled the coliseum, a mixture of teenagers and young people with no idea that they might die tonight. Dozens of vultures had gathered atop the building, with more soaring above as if in anticipation.

The parking lot was packed, and people were jammed inside as rock music blasted the coliseum. Quinton ran the car up on a curb near the closest entrance.

A nasty black vulture dove toward the windshield of his car, its wingspan casting an ominous shadow across the glass, then pecked viciously at it.

Normally Quinton connected with animals. He felt a connection now, except this connection wasn’t friendly. The vulture had only fierce hunger for carrion on its mind, and it craved human flesh.

Quinton’s. Annabelle’s.

It was almost as if the bird knew him. As if he’d come for some kind of sinister revenge.

“You’re not going to win,” Quinton growled.

But as he climbed out, the vulture swooped down in attack. Soon another bird joined in, and he shouted at Annabelle to stay in the car. Two more appeared, diving toward the glass and pecking it viciously.

He focused his eyes, and his mind, on the creatures and suddenly sent them bouncing backward off the glass. Annabelle gasped in shock but jumped out, burying her head in the crook of Quinton’s arm to shield herself from others who attacked as they raced toward the building.

He met a security guard, identified himself, and asked to be patched into the head security station. A team had arrived with dogs and began to comb the stadium. Meanwhile, he continually searched for someone suspicious. For the smell of death he’d noted in Savannah. For a person with suicide on his mind.

For B. J. Rutherford.

But there was too much noise and too many people, the stands pulsing with the heavy-metal beat.

He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight.

They hurried into the security office on the main level, and he introduced himself to two officers who were watching the feed from numerous sets of cameras situated on the various levels of the coliseum. Thousands of people overflowed the stands, singing and dancing in their seats.

“You haven’t noticed anything suspicious?” Quinton asked, his nerves on edge.

“Are you kidding? Have you seen the way half these kids are dressed?”

One camera panned the stage—the members of Death’s Door wore black T-shirts with “Purgatory” in red letters on the front, letters that appeared to be dripping blood. Many of the fans were dressed similarly, and sported the goth look with their chalky faces, black lipstick, and garish makeup.

McLaughlin ran in with an army photo of B.J. on his PDA and showed it to the guards. “If you spot this man, let me know.”

Quinton scowled. What if they’d been wrong? What if the suicide bomber wasn’t B.J.? What if this time the demon had chosen a teenager? If the Death Angel could bend a person’s mind to his will, a young, impressionable kid would be the perfect subject.

And if these kids were into devil worship as the rock band professed, their souls were already half lost.

“Hey, wait a minute,” one of the guards said. “I see an old man up on the third floor. He’s pushing a cleaning cart, but it looks like he might have something beneath his jacket.”

“Get him and start evacuating!” Quinton ordered.

He pushed Annabelle toward the exit to safety, then jogged toward the stairs. He had to find this guy and stop him.

But suddenly an explosion sounded, the building shook, and pieces of concrete began to crumble.

The vulture hovered above the North Charleston Coliseum, watching as hundreds of mortals raced from the stadium, a host of teenage humans and college students.

A wicked sense of delight had bolstered him when he’d heard the name of the group.

So fitting tonight, when death would greet them into its welcoming, endless darkness.

More delicious bloody bones to clean, and all from young, youthful bodies. So many more souls to join Satan—Zion’s kingdom would grow exponentially.

The reason he’d chosen this venue for his mark.

He screeched his call, alerting his fellow vultures to join him for the party so they could fill their bellies with the human remains.

The sight of the dozens and dozens of vultures soaring above the North Charleston Coliseum roused Quinton’s dark side, yet at the same time, knowing they had come to bury their ugly bald heads inside human carcasses made his skin crawl.

He understood the predator’s natural instinct to hunt. Related to the bird’s senses tuning in to the smell of blood and decomposing flesh. His own mouth watered for the taste of death.

And now justice.

Dammit, they’d been so close to catching this guy. Maybe stopping him.

Dilapidated sections of the building lay in concrete and stone rubble, the scent of smoke and burned bodies nearly suffocating as he moved through the mess to assist in the rescue. Paramedics rushed onto the scene to carry victims to safety and to ambulances. Police, security, and FBI agents swarmed the coliseum, as well as crime scene units who began to comb the massive area, trying to piece together exactly what had happened and identify the bomber as well as the victims.

He made it outside and helped a young woman to an ambulance, then Detective Barbaris approached, rubbing soot from his forehead. The Homeland Security agent joined them. “Did anyone see the bomber?” Quinton asked.

“We’re still questioning witnesses,” Barbaris said. “But half of them are so in shock they don’t know what the hell happened.”

“It’s a cluster fuck,” the other agent muttered.

Quinton noticed Annabelle working her way through the crowd, stopping to interview various witnesses and offer sympathy and help where needed. She was amazing. Obviously upset over the senseless deaths but strong and willing to help those in need. Her stories weren’t written simply for purposes of sensationalism—she really wanted to do what was right.

“Make sure CSI collects all the security tapes,” Quinton said. “I want to view them myself.” And verify if B. J. Rutherford was their man.