Diabolical (32 page)

“Wonderful. You mean they're going to kill him in some ritual? Cut his fucking heart out or something.”

“No,” Bartlett said. “More like exchange him for someone else. A truly innocent soul offered in trade for a truly diabolical one. We can't be sure, of course. But that's our best guess.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

Bartlett said, “That they plan to send your nephew to Hell, so that they can raise the one true unified demon, the god and goddess of damnation.”

“The Baphomet,” Hatcher said.

“I'm glad to see you were paying attention.”

“When is this supposed to happen?”

“Soon.”

“Where?”

“We don't know yet,” Edgar said. “They haven't confided the location. But we know it has to be underground. Possibly some cave or tunnel.”

“So why the Hell are you helping them get so close?”

Bartlett clasped his hands together on the table and frowned at them. “Calvin?”

Calvin straightened his back. “The objective is to identify the target location, ascertain the time when they will all be gathered for the event, secure the location, remove the boy, and destroy the premises.”

“Destroy? You mean, like, blow it up?”

“Yes, if possible.”

“And what will that accomplish?”

“If all goes according to plan,” Bartlett said, “we'll have buried one of the Seven Gateways to Hell. And, more important, we'll have buried and destroyed almost all of the known artifacts necessary to open it.”

“But how do you know they'll tell you when? Or where? How do you know they're not doing it right now?”

Bartlett nodded to Edgar, who leaned forward.

“Because . . . we have one of the artifacts they need. They can't proceed without it.”

“So why not just destroy it? Wouldn't that solve the problem?”

“Not necessarily,” Bartlett said. “There are likely others out there, somewhere. Edgar's heard them talking about it. Eventually, they'll be found. In archaeological digs, or by some construction crew excavating a foundation. This is our chance to get all the ones they have.”

“How do you know they haven't already found one of the others?”

Edgar smiled. “Why do you think they've been willing to let me so close? They need this one, just like they needed your nephew.”

“And you delivered him.”

“You have to remember, it's all part of the plan. This is why we couldn't tell you.”

“You guys are out of your minds. The Carnates aren't stupid. They barely trust each other. They sure as hell aren't going to trust you.”

“They have no choice. We have the artifact.”

“So why am I here, if you have it all under control?”

Bartlett exchanged glances with Edgar, then Calvin.

“Well?” Hatcher said.

“We were concerned you were going to interfere with the final phases of the operation.”

Hatcher's gaze moved from Calvin, to Bartlett, back to Calvin. “Why would you suddenly be concerned about something like that . . . unless . . .”

Bartlett pushed back from the table, as if ready to leave. “I think it would be pointless to debate side issues right now. We have—”

“Unless you were counting on Vivian to rein me in, and when you heard she'd been killed, you realized I was going to come gunning for you. But you had to figure I'd come looking for the boy, anyway. So why . . .”

Hatcher snapped a glance to Edgar, then back to Bartlett.

“You've been tracking me. A GPS. In the car. The car you rented for Vivian.”

Bartlett stared at the table, a sober smile shaping one side of his face.

“And when you found out I'd tracked down the cop, you knew I'd find a Carnate next. And you couldn't be sure what would happen then. Whether I might actually find the boy or start piecing things together. Mess everything up.”

Edgar shrugged. “Close enough.”

“And you,” Hatcher said. “You wanted me to think you were turning on Bartlett's program. Why?”

“Just trying to keep tabs on you.”

“No. There were other ways to do that. You were worried. When you saw I was heading to the clinic, you realized I was trying to track down Sherman. But you didn't want me chasing that lead, because if I found him, he might tell me something outside the script. Or he might kill me. Either way, you wanted to distract me, get me back to tracking down the boy. So I could lead you to him.”

“You're a smart man,” Bartlett said. “Smart enough that you should understand we're working for the greater good here.”

“I'm going to ask you again,” Hatcher said. “Same thing I asked you the first time we met. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stand down, soldier. Let us take over from here. Just stay out of our way. Don't interfere with the Carnates. When we're ready to enter the final phase, we'll let you know.”

“And then what?”

“Then, we finish what we started.”

Hatcher frowned. “
We
, huh?”

“Yes. I assume you want your chance to exact revenge against whoever killed Vivian, don't you?”

“I thought you said you had no idea who killed her.”

“No, you asked why she was killed. I said that had me stumped. But we do have an idea who.”

Hatcher leaned forward in his seat. “Don't play games with me, General.”

“Because I understand that you're still quite upset,” Bartlett said, his expression stern. “I'm going to overlook the hyperaggressive hostility you seem intent on displaying.”

“Just tell me what you know.”

Bartlett turned a palm toward Calvin, who leaned forward over a laptop and tapped a few keys. He stared at the screen, tapped a few more. Then he turned the laptop around and slid it toward Hatcher.

“We think it's this man,” he said. “His name is Morris Sankey.”

Hatcher looked at the picture on the screen. It was the lanky guy who had approached him on the street, right before Fernandez showed up.

“He's wanted in connection to several murders of young women. While Ms. Fall doesn't exactly fit the profile, the MO is close enough. Mutilation, rape, sodomy. We can surmise what he's done to her body. The work of a sexual psychopath. A serial killer.”

Flashes of light gradually blocked out Hatcher's vision as he stared, until he could barely see at all. His mind replaced the image on the screen with ones of Vivian, eyes bulging in terror, trying to scream through a hand covering her mouth, her last moments alive spent being violated, brutalized. Tortured.

“Why,” Hatcher said. He had to struggle to get the word out through clenched teeth.

“Like I said, we're not sure. But Edgar was able to confirm Sankey is here, and that the Carnates have been dealing with him.”

Hatcher whipped his head around to look at Edgar. “Now is not the time to be holding anything back.”

“Honest, Bro,” Edgar said, crossing his heart. “They never said anything about killing Vivian.”

Eyes were steady but not forced. Facial muscles tensed slightly, but within a normal range for a tense conversation. Body language was quiet. Posture slightly closed, but not beyond what would be expected. Words were clipped a bit, which tended to show frustration with an accusation.

It was an imperfect science, more like an art. But Hatcher had nothing else to rely on. The man was likely hiding something, but Hatcher couldn't say what or why.

“Where do I find him?”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Bartlett said. “As best we can tell, he's part of their plans.”

Hatcher looked up to find the general peering at him intently.

“Let me put it this way—when you're there to throw him through the gates of Hell, he won't have very far to travel.”

Hatcher said nothing. He let his gaze jump from Bartlett to Calvin, float around the table a bit before settling on Bartlett again. He was trying hard to keep from showing any reaction, forcing himself to act normal while he processed the message. Not the one from Bartlett, the one from Edgar.

The one being tapped out on the side of his shoe by Edgar's foot under the table in Morse code, repeated several times over.

 

THEY DROPPED HATCHER OFF IN THE PARKING LOT NEAR THE rental car. He slid behind the steering wheel, slipped the key in the ignition, and stared through the windshield.

The GPS was beneath the passenger seat, right where they told him it would be. It was a small black device encased in solid plastic, about half the size of a cell phone. Hatcher looked it over a few times, then opened the car door, leaned out, and tossed it behind the front tire.

Bartlett and company had demanded he stand down, wait for them to contact him. Fat chance. He had let them interpret his silence on the matter however they wanted. But there was no way he was going to sit around and do nothing, waiting for a phone call.

He started the car and backed up, listened for the satisfying crunch of the tracker beneath his tire. He pulled out of the parking lot, merged into traffic, and drove. He thought about calling Susan. He thought about calling Amy. He thought about Vivian. A lot. If only they'd been tracking her, instead of him.

Almost unconsciously, he yanked the steering wheel and screeched into the parking lot of a supermarket. He slammed the Cruiser into park and opened the door. Crouching on the pavement, he felt under the driver's seat, slid it back and put his head as low in the footwell as it would go. Nothing. He climbed in the backseat, pushed his hands beneath the cushions. He groped the interior lining of the roof, checked every compartment. He thought for a moment, then popped the trunk. He lifted the carpet, removed access panels. He knelt down and ran his hands along the rear underside of the bumper. He bent down onto his forearm and scanned the undercarriage.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. He checked the wheel wells, under the hood, in the grill. Still nothing.

He got back in the car, let his eyes scan the interior. Console, light, shifter, radio, nav system, heat and air controls.

His eyes settled on the nav system. Typical rental car bolt-on, mounted to the front console, protruding on an adjustable arm.

Son of a bitch.
Tactical redundancy. Hide two, in different ways. There was a reason things were always found in the last place someone looked; no one keeps looking after they find what they were looking for. No doubt they had switched out nav systems. This one had a transmitting chip in it. Guaranteed. You could buy them online for a few hundred bucks. If someone did an electronic sweep, chances were they wouldn't think twice about detecting something from it. And it was right there. A GPS unit that didn't even pretend to be something else. Hidden in plain sight.

Hatcher yanked the device off its mount and was about to throw it across the parking lot, but stopped. He got out of the car and scanned for nearby vehicles. It was late, and there weren't many. He settled on a small pickup, crossed the lot toward it. A few discreet glances, then he checked the bed. Nothing but a few ratty blankets and a plastic tarp. He was hoping for a cooler or wooden toolbox, but this would do. He stuffed the device into one of the blankets, bunched the cloth up tight against the sidewall and pulled the tarp over it. Then he wedged his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and walked back to the car, his pace controlled but brisk.

All nav systems, even regular ones, had batteries. Otherwise the device would be useless unless the ignition was engaged, or if the car was dead. The batteries kept themselves charged off the car's electrical system. Ones designed with covert tracking devices that needed to transmit information would have extra need for battery power. This one should have plenty of juice. Hatcher figured it would give him at least an hour before anyone realized it had been removed. Maybe several.

He started the Cruiser and swung the car around, asking himself where he should go now that he knew no one was following. Not the most legitimate question, he realized, since he hadn't known he was being followed before, but an answer popped into his head nonetheless.

Pulling onto the main road, he headed back the way he'd come. He drove until he reached the Sand Dollar Inn.

The motor court had a single lamppost in the rear, throwing off barely enough light to see the cars, let alone door numbers. Hatcher rolled the car around the perimeter of the lot with his foot off the gas, letting the reflected glow of the headlights off the cars illuminate what it could. Room 9 was the fourth to the last room on the immediate right.

A black Audi rested in the space directly in front of the door, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Hatcher parked several doors down, glanced around casually as he got out of the car, and headed over.

The room had one wide window next to the door. A dim light rose from beneath the curtain and around the edges. He stood in front of the peephole and raised a closed hand. Stayed like that for several beats. Then he reached down and gently tried the latch. It moved but didn't engage. He thought for a few more seconds before raising his fist again and giving two short, hard raps with his knuckles.

He waited. The handle made a mechanical sound and the door moved a fraction of an inch. When it didn't open, he pressed his palm against it. There was some pneumatic resistance as it started to swung, requiring him to push harder.

The only light was from a small lamp in the corner. A sheer piece of red cloth was tossed over the shade, throwing a crimson hue over the room, the shadows it cast darkening the walls like bruises. Deborah was on the bed, settling back down, reclining against a cloth-covered headboard.