Dark Prophecy (10 page)

The thing was, Constance would probably open up the murder book for him. But that would open the door again. Dark was capable of many loathsome acts, but not that.

Then it occurred to him—how to get those details. He picked up his wallet, pulled out a credit card.

chapter 20

Flight 1412, Los Angeles to D.C.

 

 

Dark hadn’t flown since his last Special Circs mission. For close to five years, he’d been shuttled to all corners of the world at a moment’s notice. There were some days when his body clock was so scrambled he had a hard time telling dawn from dusk—and had to wait and watch the sun to see what it would do. Dark had grown to hate flying so much that when he pulled the plug, he rented a car and drove I-40 all the way to L.A., forty-seven hours straight, with stops only for gas and food.

The move to L.A. put him closer to his daughter. L.A. was also a city Dark could lose himself in—a city he knew better than any other. A dozen cities stitched together by mountains and ribbons of asphalt and crime and sunshine and sex and dreams. A city he used to consider home.

Now Dark was preparing to leave it again. He approached the LAX baggage check counter, slid his driver’s license into the slot, and waited. Entered the first three letters of his destination. Waited again. Then . . . nothing.

Within seconds, two uniformed LAX security guards were flanking him. “Could you step to the side, Mr. Dark?”

“Why?”

“Just step to the side.”

Half an hour later Dark was still sitting at a chipped conference room table in a stuffy, locked room. Nobody told him why he had been detained, but Dark figured it out for himself. Someone, probably Wycoff, had put him on a watch list. He tries to fly anywhere, alarm bells go off. Two uniformed guards escort him to a windowless room. Indefinitely.

Finally, a man in a navy blue suit walked in, manila folder in his hand. An airline logo was embroidered on the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Did I miss my plane?” Dark asked, knowing full well that his flight to D.C. was long gone.

“We’ll get to that.”

The man walked around the table, pulled out a chair, but stopped short of sitting down.

“I understand you’re a retired FBI agent?”

Dark nodded.

“Which field office?”

“If you know I’m a former FBI agent,” Dark said, “then you’d already know.”

The man nodded, then casually flipped open the manila folder and rifled through a few pages, raised his eyebrows a few times. After a while Dark realized who this guy was: a professional time waster. Someone to keep Dark on edge until the person who was really in charge showed up.

So Dark shut down. Said nothing. Wondered how long this would take.

Another forty-five minutes, as it turned out. After fifteen minutes of an awkward, one-sided interview, the time waster was summoned out of the room. When he returned a half hour later, Dark was told he was free to go. No apologies, no further comment. Dark stood up and walked out of the room. He passed through a series of winding hallways until he was back inside the main terminal.

Where Lisa Graysmith was waiting for him.

“Sorry that took so long,” she said. “Sometimes the wheels of Homeland Security turn more slowly than I’d like.”

“Right,” Dark said. “I’m supposed to think you just sprung me.”

“Yes. Because I did.”

“You probably put me on a no-fly list to begin with.”

Graysmith smirked. “Paranoid much?”

Dark said nothing.

She walked toward him and extended a flimsy airline packet. “Here. You’re on the next flight to D.C., nonstop, first class. I would have booked something private, but I didn’t want to waste any more of your time transporting you to another airport. Next time.”

Dark looked down at the tickets in her hand. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave. Go back to his house. Finish painting his daughter’s bedroom. Finishing getting on with his life. You quit this bullshit, he told himself. So be a man and
stay
quit.

Instead, he took the ticket from Graysmith’s hand. “This changes nothing,” Dark said.

“Of course,” she replied.

Dark tried to sleep on the flight, but that was a futile task. He hardly slept at home. Why would he be able to relax in a tin can 35,000 feet in the air? Dark thought about Graysmith. She claimed she could get him any details he wanted, access, everything. But he’d just spent the past five years under Wycoff’s thumb. He wasn’t eager to slip under someone else’s. So why was he doing this, flying across the country to investigate a murder? Why couldn’t he leave it to Riggins and the rest of Special Circs? What was wrong with him, anyway?

Dark had no real answer for that.

A few hours later, Dark was retrieving his small overnight bag from the overhead bin and making his way up the aisle. It was already evening. He hated the hours he lost going east.

There, waiting in the terminal, was Constance Brielle.

 

 

Constance thought she’d be immune to it by now.

But there was that telltale sting, whenever she looked at Steve Dark. The body naturally adapts to negative stimuli, doesn’t it? You press a button and receive an electric shock often enough, eventually your body’s going to get the idea that
hey, maybe you shouldn’t do that
. Why couldn’t that be the case with Steve Dark?

A call came from someone in Wycoff’s office; Dark’s name popped up on a watch list. Riggins had asked Constance to meet him at the airport.

“If I go, I’m going to end up punching him in his fucking face,” Riggins had said.

“What makes you think I won’t do the same?” Constance had asked.

“I don’t,” Riggins said. “I’m hoping you’ll hit him harder, actually.”

They joked with each other, in that usual grim Special Circs way, but the pain beneath was real. When Dark left, he’d abandoned both of them. Now he wanted back in? This day, of all days?

But Constance knew better than to blur the line between personal crap and the job. The job was simple: She was to put Dark back on a plane to L.A. immediately. If he refused to go, then she’d arrest him. And you know what? She probably
would
punch him in the face if he tried to resist. There she went again; blurring the line.

Just get him out of here
, Constance told herself.

Dark walked right up to her. “I guess you’re here to ask me to go home.”

“Not asking,” Constance said, holding up a paper ticket. “You’re on the late to Burbank by way of Phoenix.”

“The government won’t even spring for nonstop to LAX?”

“It’s the next available flight.”

“You take it. Weather’s nice in L.A. this time of year. You won’t have to put up with the Santa Anas for another few weeks.”

“Don’t make me do this, Steve.”

“Don’t get in my way, Constance. This has nothing to do with you.”

When he tried to move past her, Constance grabbed his wrist. Squeezed it tight. Pulled it in. Put her face close to his.

“I know why you’re doing this. Riggins thinks you’re just trying to piss him off. But I know you better than that, Steve. You think history’s repeating itself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Constance. Let go of me.”

“Well, it’s not. We’ll get it under control. Go back to your life.”

Dark sighed. For a moment, she thought he was giving up. Instead he twisted his hand and reversed the hold. A second later sharp pain was racing up Constance’s arm. She started to reach for her cuffs, but hesitated.

“Besides, she’s not at the apartment anymore,” Constance said. “She’s under guard.”

There was a moment of surprise on Dark’s face. You had to be quick to catch it. Constance knew she’d hit a nerve. Riggins thought this was about Dark feeling guilty—thinking Paulson had taken his place, and gotten himself killed for it. Constance knew better.

“Stay out of my way,” Dark said.

Then he let go of her arm and stormed down the terminal.

Constance added, under her breath: “She’s not Sibby.”

chapter 21

Falls Church, Virginia

 

 

Constance had been right—Stephanie Paulson was nowhere near her apartment. She was staying with her college room-mate, Emily McKenney, who also taught in the D.C. school district and had an apartment in Georgetown.

Dark watched them from across the street. Paulson and McKenney were in a diner. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but the body language was clear.
C’mon, eat something. Drink something. You don’t have to figure out everything tonight, you just have to eat something. Jeb wouldn’t want this. He’d want you to eat the blueberry muffin in front of you.

It wasn’t so long ago that Dark would look at food and be repulsed by the sight of it. What use was food, if you couldn’t enjoy it with the one you loved? Every type of food reminded him of Sibby. It had been one of the many ways she’d expressed her love for him. Every meal was a kiss. Without her, eating was simply a physical process. Converting calories into energy. Might as well slip an IV needle into his arm, get it over with that way.

McKenney put her hands to her friend’s face, forced her to look up. McKenney smiled. A big, gorgeous, friendly smile that said:
I’m with you, I’m not going anywhere, I’m going to continue to be with you.

But Stephanie’s look was blank. She saw her friend, she nodded to acknowledge her words, but they meant nothing.

Dark had come here to speak to Stephanie. But now that he was standing across the street, he couldn’t bring himself to intrude on her grief. What was he supposed to say—
Oh yeah, I used to work in the job that’s just killed your husband. And guess what? A maniac killed my spouse, too.

It was absurd.

 

 

When his daughter was just a baby, Dark felt like he’d have some time to get his mind right, then return to become a real father to her. Nobody remembered anything before they were two years old . . . maybe even three, right? Dark only remembered little scary fragments of his own early childhood. Flashes no more real than a dream. The more Special Circs cases Dark worked, the more he told himself:
There will be time.

The years had slid by fast, though. Now his baby girl was five years old. What must she be thinking? Especially when he couldn’t even pay attention long enough to tell her good night, and that he loved her?

Everyone Dark had ever loved had been taken away. His birth parents. Henry. His adoptive parents—and, worst of all, that had been Dark’s fault. His mother. His father. His nine-year-old brothers, all lined up, shoulder to shoulder, mouths taped shut, and shot execution style. All because Dark had pursued a monster. Same with Sibby, the love of his life. Dark had gone after the same monster, trying to set things right, and the monster had taken her away, too.

Dark’s worst fear was that his daughter would be next.

III

three of cups

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and
enter the code: cups.

West Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

 

 

The stranger had been watching the women for an hour now. They laughed loud, nudging each other’s shoulders, and had one thing on the agenda: getting drunk. Which was going to make this easy.

He made eye contact with the one on the end—the small blonde who looked like an actress. She’d probably been told that a million times. The look on her face dared him.
Go ahead. Try something. I’m not interested. I’m defiant.

Raising his hand, the stranger curled his index finger. Come here.

There was the hint of a smile on the blonde’s face, but she pretended to ignore the stranger and turned her attention back to her friends. That was fine. The stranger was patient. There was plenty of time.

When the blonde looked over again—of course she was going to look over again, it was part of the game—the stranger wiggled his finger.
Come on. Come over here.

The blonde’s mouth twisted into a pout; her eyes narrowed into a look of annoyance.
You want me?
her eyes asked. You come over here. Again, she looked away.

She couldn’t fully ignore the stranger, though. He was too ruggedly handsome to be completely dismissed. And while she may have grown up being told she resembled a particular actress, she was just a facsimile. Her nose was bigger than the real thing; her lips not as full. And she knew it.

When she looked again, the stranger smiled innocently and wiggled his finger again.

She flashed a churlish smile.
Okay, asshole. Have it your way.