Terrorbyte (29 page)

“That's the plan. If he can't get in, if we cut him off, we might be able to draw him out. Get someone to find the note and get it to us. I don't know when we'll be able to get to the scene ourselves. A photo of the note to one of our cell phones will do for now.”

Mac found his voice again. “Meanwhile?”

“Meanwhile,” I whispered so only Mac heard. “I want Praskovya here to start talking.” My arm ached. My head ached. Nausea wafted in and out, peaking simultaneously with the pain in my head. I adjusted my focal point, hoping to dislodge the fuzzy edges of my sight. It worked. I didn't need another migraine. With my vision stabilized, I let my mind drift and it wrapped itself around words. It chanted them repeatedly, ‘Expose the truth.'

There was something I'd been shown when I worked my first case down here. I couldn't remember if it was Caps or Tats but one of them had an aunt who practiced voodoo. She taught me how to use some herbs and in particular, a resin called copal.  There was a spell she wrote for me to uncover hidden truths, which involved burning copal. She declared the spell helped uncover the murderer and she could be right. All I know is we did it together and I found her daughter alive with the candy-bar killer.

“Tats, do you know what copal is?”

He shook his head. Wrong person. It must've been Caps with the hoodoo/voodoo aunt.

“Caps, your aunt who does the voodoo, is she still close?”

He nodded, “You need that copal stuff?  How much?”

“Tell her I need to burn a little. Couple of pinches should do it.”

“For you, no problem. I'll get it.”

“Thank you.”

Lee, Mac and Praskovya all watched me as if my head were about to spin and spray green vomit all over the room. “What?”

The door closed quietly as Tats and Caps left. The room pressure equalized.

“Copal?” Mac questioned.

I readied a fabricated answer, “It might clear my head.” Moreover, it will expose any lies and half-truths told in this room.  

I remembered the old spell, yes, that's right, a spell, a witch-type spell. This spell uncovered hidden truths and I believed that Praskovya was withholding information. Not lying exactly but not telling all he knew, either. I didn't think I needed to share my idea with anyone else. How the hell I could burn copal in a hospital room I didn't know. I'd figure that out when the boys got back with the resin. A dawning: my God, I was actually intent on chanting a spell and burning copal to get to the truth. 

Did I think this madness would work? Oh, this was much worse than hearing country music or having the world become a television show around me or seeing scenes from a Mills & Boon novel. This last anomaly really amazed me. I'd never read a Mills & Boon, but I have seen plenty of covers in stands at the grocery store. Apparently, all I needed was a cover and I could construct pure lunacy.

Mac eased up onto the bed next to me. I watched Lee gesture to Praskovya. They slipped from the room.

He leaned in close. “You feel all right?”

“I'm okay.” That was a stretch, but it felt good to be back with the familiar ‘I'm okay.' His fingers gave my shoulder a squeeze.

“Course you are … and now the truth.”

With that, the floodgates opened; there was no shutting them.

“I feel sick. I don't know how the Unsub knew about my informant. I think Praskovya knows more than he's saying.” I dragged a ragged breath inwards. “I know I've become a target, what I don't know is why … and I'm not sure I care.”

“Sweets, we'll get this prick.” I heard his confidence and appreciated it.

“He's killing too fast and I'm in here recovering from stab wounds!” My voice took on a tetchy edge, “Which could have been inflicted by the Unsub, which means he's military, and there are at least two of them. I killed Sadler, how many more are there? I think I'm only alive through sheer luck.  I have no idea how many Unsubs we have running about killing women – what the fuc'n hell is going on? Who the hell belonged to the voices at the bunker?” I sighed. “I need to get back to work. Where's the note Lee took off me?”

Mac blanched; guess he didn't think I'd remember about the note so soon.

“It's in evidence,” he said.

“What'd it say?”

“ ‘I hear you knocking,' ” Mac said.  Slowly.

“Does that mean we're getting closer or what? Before I woke up,” I said, then paused to consider the entire thought. “I saw a note which said, ‘People like you shouldn't procreate.' ”

“That's not one we've found yet,” Mac replied.

“Can I have your phone please?”

He handed it to me. I called my father. His phone rang and rang. I'd started to think he was out when he answered, breathless.

“You okay?” I asked, foregoing the usual greeting.

“I am,” he replied. I heard a female voice in the background.

“Company?”

“Making lunch … for a lady who moved in down the street.”

“Go, Dad,” I replied, happy for him.

“How can I help you, Ellie?” Much amusement in his voice.

“I had a problem with a Marine yesterday. I need someone at NCIS. Who should I call?”

“I know your type of problem,” he replied. “Call Special Agent Noel Gerrard.”

“He good?”

“I trained him.”

I felt a TV show brewing. “He doesn't resemble Jethro Gibbs by any chance?”

“I don't know Gibbs.”

I silenced the
NCIS
episode before it took hold. “Never mind – just one of my better interludes encroaching.”

“Call Gerrard. He's a good man.”

“That's all I need to know.”

“All right, Ellie. I have lunch to cook. Take care; say hello to Mac.”

“Bye, Dad.” I smiled at Mac. “Dad says hi, and he has a lunch date!”

He replied, “Go, Simon. Looks like he's getting on with life.”

It was good news. We all thought it was time dad moved forward after mom's death. So far he'd thrown himself into running our Foundation and didn't seem to want to date or meet anyone.

I handed the phone back to Mac. “See if you can get Special Agent Noel Gerrard over at NCIS to meet with us.”

“If he resists?”

“Tell him who my father is and, that I want to press charges against a Marine.”

Mac walked to the far side of the small room and made a call. I listened as he asked our switchboard to put him through to NCIS; that way the call couldn't be traced any farther than the FBI. Seems he didn't trust the military either. A few minutes later he smiled at me and nodded.

He hung up and sat on the end of my bed. “He'll meet with you, whenever you're ready.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

My door opened. Caine stormed in, followed by Lee and Praskovya.

“You okay?” he asked.

Mac jumped to his feet. “Caine.”

“Mac, sit. I want a quick word, then I'm out of here.”

I guess I looked bemused.

“Ellie, did you really think I wouldn't find out where you were?”

He looked fierce. Quick, answer him. “Um, no.”

He squinted out another characteristic gaze. “You capable of finishing this?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He spun on his heels and evaporated into thin air.

I was left waiting for the other shoe to drop. The silence was deafening for almost two whole seconds, then bam, the music started in my head.

My first reaction was to slap myself upside the head, good and hard, to dislodge it. But my slapping arm was bandaged and oozing so it wasn't an option. I was trapped listening to Bruce Willis singing ‘Swinging on a Star.' I remembered Hudson Hawk and I knew exactly how long that song lasts. I sighed as the third verse started.

“Ellie?”

I looked up to find Mac's questioning face. “You're sighing.”

I wanted to tell him about the song without Lee and Praskovya hearing me, or thinking I was suffering from a head injury. They might mutiny. The thought of mutiny almost caused me to laugh aloud; that's not Lee's style. Mac was still waiting, and the damn song kept on.

“Ellie?”

“Remember Hudson Hawk?”

He nodded. He moved closer to my ear and whispered, “Let me guess: you have ‘Swinging on a Star'  stuck in your head.”

“Yep, and it's just started again; thanks to you I now have another five minutes and thirty-two seconds of hell to listen to.”

“That means something, Ellie.”

He was right, mostly the songs meant something. So what was it I needed to glean from this one? Swinging on a star, Hudson Hawk, or a time value? This didn't mean I thought Bruce Willis was an Eastern European serial killer.

Praskovya and Lee stopped their conversation and joined ours. I don't know how much they'd heard; we kept our voices barely above a whisper.

I decided to ask the group questions.

“Do the numbers five, three, two mean anything?”

This drew blank looks.

“How about as a time? Five minutes thirty-two seconds?”

Nothing. I moved right along. Maybe it wasn't the song length. “How about the name Hudson Hawk?”

Praskovya leaned forward and repeated the name as if he hadn't heard correctly, “Hudson Hawk?”

“Yes.”

“You came up with the name Hudson Hawk by yourself?”

“Yes.” Parts of the movie circled slowly overhead like Leonardo Da Vinci's flying machine. “What are we expecting here? A Vatican robbery … the CIA … alchemy … a nun? Did the fuc'n butler do it?”

Praskovya shifted his weight from his right to his left foot, he looked perplexed, and then he spoke, “A few years ago that name came to our attention.”

“Our?” And now he talks.

“FSB.”

“Carry on.”

“Someone by the name of Hudson Hawk was giving large sums of money to orphanages across Europe.”

“Large?”

“Millions of U.S. dollars.”

“Generous man, this Mr. Hawk.” I resisted the temptation to ask if Hudson Hawk had his pal, Tommy ‘Five-Tone' with him.

Praskovya nodded. “Exceptionally. No one knew who he was, or is, but over a five-year span he was a benefactor extraordinaire, giving nearly twenty million dollars.”

“And?”

“The money stopped a year ago.”

“And the money, how was it transferred?”

“Always contact was made through a third party who contacted the orphanages in question to obtain bank account details. The money was transferred from a numbered Swiss account to the orphanage account overnight.”

“How did you find the name?”

Praskovya smirked before replying, “He sent cards signed Hudson Hawk. The cards arrived in the next mail delivery, always after the money. They said ‘Merry Christmas', even though he never transferred any funds during any Christmas period. All the transfers were made during summer months.”

“Any theories as to why they stopped?”

Praskovya shrugged, “He could be dead, in prison on an unrelated matter, or he may have given away all his money.”

“Yeah … maybe.” On the other hand, he could've left Europe.

Praskovya leaned against the wall. “Why do you ask about Hawk?'

Now that was something I didn't want to answer. I fumbled about in my head looking for something reasonable to say. “Call it intuition. I think someone using the name Hudson Hawk has a connection to this case.”

“And you pulled that out of thin air, with this intuition you speak of?” Praskovya radiated incredulity; even his long black coat draped over a chair seemed to confront me with a large dose of skepticism.

I watched Lee's face contort as he considered what had been said and, probably, Praskovya's reaction. Finally he said, “More spooky shit, yeah?”

I nodded. One glance told me Praskovya was lost. And I didn't want to explain to him what Lee meant. But it didn't look like I'd need the copal or to play with voodoo and magick spells after all.

Mac spoke, “What if Hawk, Selena, Unsub, Sadler, the Marine and the mystery military man are all part of the same cell?”

I picked up on his drift. “And the money he was giving wasn't so much a gift as insurance, making damn sure he or they had a safe house. Who would look for criminals in an orphanage?”

“You have a point,” Lee concurred. “And they'd be fairly comfortable places with that amount of cash pumped into them, if indeed it went to the orphanages and not a particular person.”

I smiled. “I thought I had a good point but it is speculation and gets us no closer to the Unsub, or even an idea of who he is. People are still dying.”

Praskovya stood up. He paced the confines of the small room. “It may.” He picked up his coat and plunged his arms into it. I thought he was going to leave but he pulled his cell from his coat pocket and punched in many numbers. Several minutes later, he spoke in Russian. I sat mesmerized by the beauty of the language. Three more phone calls followed, then finally Praskovya spoke English to us.

“A woman and four men visited three orphanages on our list, at different times, staying for approximately two weeks at each place over the course of several years. There was an increase of murders in the areas during those times, mostly vagrants and prostitutes – this was recently discovered. We have identified only one man by name.”

I was barely breathing. “A name?”

“Christos Von Crichton.”

Lee was already on his laptop, running the name through Immigration, as well as airport security. Praskovya called another number, speaking Russian again. Moments later he said, “A photograph is being faxed to your office.”

“Was anyone ever charged with any of those murders?” Questions bubbled up inside me. I wanted to know the exact details of each murder.

“No, in one town the police suspected a farmer who had a history of alcohol-related violence.  His death coincided with the cessation of the murders.”