The Prophet (5 page)

Vasques slammed the door of the ambulance carrying Chains off for treatment at Alexian Brothers Medical Center. She glanced around at the assortment of police cars and officers. They were taking statements, gathering evidence, and cordoning off the area. The INS counselors had also arrived to take the girls into custody. They had been waiting on standby. Vasques didn’t know what the future held for the young women that Chains had forced into slavery, but she knew anything had to be better than the hell they had been enduring.

A familiar voice cut through the confusion. “Seems like trouble follows you wherever you go, Vicky.”

Only a couple of people in the world ever called her “Vicky”. She turned to find Detective Sergeant Trevor Belacourt leaning against the hood of a red metallic Chevy Impala. His arms were folded across his chest, and he wore a lopsided grin. Belacourt was a big, older man with a hairline somewhere between thinning and bald. A thick mustache hung under a long nose, and one of his front teeth bent outward. He wore khakis and a light brown cape-wool sports coat over a white button-down shirt. Belacourt had been her father’s partner during the three years before his death and had since been promoted to head of the Jackson’s Grove PD homicide division.

Seeing him here could mean only one thing, but Vasques thought it rude to raise the subject without any preamble. She walked over and gave him a quick hug. “How have you been, Trevor?”

His voice was deep but nasal. “Doing fine. I’ve been checking the mail every day for an invitation to your wedding.”

“I’d have to find a guy first. What about you? You going to spend your golden years as a bachelor?”

He laughed. “Marriage would just cramp my style at the nursing home, little girl. Don’t worry. I’ve got it planned out. I’ll be beating the widows off with a stick.”

She just nodded as she searched for something more to say.

“Go ahead and speak your mind, kid,” Belacourt said. “You know why I’m here.”

“The Anarchist is back. He’s killing again.”

“Found the first one last night. He killed the security guy at a storage yard, then set up his freak show in one of the empty containers. Same MO as before. I already spoke to your SAC and requested that he assign you to consult on the case. He took some convincing but, given your first-hand knowledge of how this guy works and your background in profiling, he finally gave me what I wanted.”

Vasques’s chest tightened, and memories of her father’s death flooded back to her. The Anarchist case had been the last he had worked before his death. She had reviewed the files exhaustively. Somehow, finishing his last case had seemed like the best thing she could do to honor his memory. But she hadn’t been able to make any headway. Then the killer had gone underground, and there had been no trace of him for nearly a year and a half.

Vasques nodded as a fierce wave of determination swept over her. She would catch this guy, whatever it took. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go look at a crime scene.”

In another life, Emily Morgan had been a clinical psychologist helping police officers work through traumatic events. She had married a man named Jim, a trooper with the Colorado State Patrol. They’d had a little girl and a beautiful green and brown two-story colonial that nestled among the trees of Southeastern Colorado. Then, through pure random chance, Francis Ackerman had come into their lives and changed everything.

But through her battle with Ackerman, she’d met a man named Marcus Williams who had introduced her to another man he referred to only as the Director. She had shown what they had called
great strength
during the confrontation with the killer, and the Director had offered her a position within the Shepherd Organization as a counselor to the field agents.

It had been a chance to start over, a chance to leave behind the memories of Jim and their old lives, and she had packed up her daughter and moved to a small town in northern Virginia.

That had been almost a year ago, and she still had made little progress with her main subject: Marcus Williams. Marcus had a good heart, but he also had a tendency to torture himself and let the weight of the world’s problems fall squarely onto his shoulders. In the field, he was a man of action, but when it came to his personal issues, he was a ponderer. She worried about him, and so did the Director.

“Would you like to try another session of hypnosis? See if you can remember any more details from that night?”

“What’s the point?” he said.

Marcus sat across from Emily on a tan leather sofa. She had tried to fill the office attached to the back of her home with soothing colors—neutrals and pastels—and peaceful images—babbling brooks, children laughing, forests, sunsets. She had studied the psychology of color and imagery in detail and was constantly experimenting with it, swapping out pictures, gauging the results. It wasn’t an exact science, but she desperately wanted to create a bastion for these men and women where they could feel safe and protected. The others seemed calm and relaxed here. But not Marcus. She often wondered if he would feel more at home in her office if she painted the walls black and replaced the babbling brooks with photos of crime scenes.

“I think we’ve made good progress. When we first started, you could barely remember anything except darkness and fear.”

“And what do I remember now? A voice in the darkness that you say probably wasn’t even there, and my parents screaming. We haven’t accomplished anything. It’s been a big waste of time. Mine and yours.”

Emily reached up and removed her glasses, laid them and her notebook on a nearby table. Then she leaned forward in her chair and braced her elbows against her knees. “I disagree completely, but you have never told me why you wanted to remember more about that night. Had you hoped to find their killer somehow? To remember some clue that would lead you to him?”

An unreadable emotion flashed through Marcus’s eyes, and for the briefest of moments, she thought that he was actually going to open up. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and showed her the time. “I think our session is over, doc. I wouldn’t want to have the taxpayers charged overtime.”

She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I’ve told you before. I’m here for you, day or night. Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else. You are the one who gets burned.”

Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “You read that on a fortune cookie?”

“My grandfather was Japanese and a Buddhist. He taught me that phrase. It was a teaching of Buddha. My grandmother was Irish Catholic. She taught me to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. That one’s from Jesus.”

He said nothing.

Emily considered another teaching of Buddha that her grandfather had taught her.
Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.
Unfortunately, she had yet to find anything to bring peace to Marcus Williams.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

“Why? You offering to tuck me in?”

She didn’t respond. She had seen him like this before. Any attempt at real conversation would be answered by a smart-ass comment to deflect attention from the issues at hand. She simply stood and walked back to her desk. She pulled open a drawer, took out a bottle of pills, and tossed them in his direction.

He snatched them from the air and stared down at the bottle. “What the hell is this?”

Emily sat down at her desk and started to make some notes. “I picked you up something to help you sleep.”

“Thanks, doc. But no thanks. I need to be focused. I can’t be taking crap like this.” Marcus tossed the pill bottle in her direction. She caught it and immediately threw it back at him with as much force as she could muster. It bounced off his chest.

“Focused? How focused do you think you are, running on fumes? Exhaustion reduces your operational efficiency to zero. It’s as bad as being drunk. You take those damn pills and get some sleep, or I’ll pull your ass from active duty. Is that clear enough for you?”

He stared at her for a moment, but then he reached down and retrieved the bottle of pills. He headed toward the door. She stared down at her notes for a second, but then said, “Marcus, be careful out there.”

Without turning back, he said, “You know that Buddha also taught, ‘The whole secret of existence is to have no fear. Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one. Only the moment you reject all help are you freed.’”

Emily opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words. She simply watched his back as he pulled open her door and slipped out into the night.

Marcus walked into his office and threw his leather jacket over the back of one of the black visitor chairs in front of his desk. The whole room smelled of new leather and old vinyl. The leather scent originated from the new furniture he had purchased on the Shepherd Organization’s tab. The old-vinyl smell came from his collection of records sitting in one corner. Movie posters lined the walls—Jack Nicholson films, the first
Predator
, the second
Aliens
, the first three Indiana Jones movies,
Die Hard
, and an assortment of his other favorites. All were signed by the cast and crew. A growing collection of screen-used film props rested in a display case in one corner. He had a lot of disposable income and spent what little downtime he had on eBay. The office contained no family photos.

He had sensed the man sitting on his couch as he entered, but he feigned ignorance until he sat down at his desk and started to open his mail. Without looking up from a package in a padded manila mailer, he let the other man know that he was aware of his presence. “You should be careful who you sneak up on. I typically shoot first and ask questions later.”

“How do you know that I haven’t already removed the firing pin from your Sig?”

Marcus looked up at the Director of the Shepherd Organization and almost reached to his shoulder holster to check. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

“I’ve told you, kid. Most situations you face are far beyond your control. So you need to control the ones you can.” The Director nudged a pillow and blanket resting against the arm of the couch. “I heard you got rid of the apartment we leased for you and moved into your office.”

“The apartment was pointless. I’m on the road ninety percent of the time, and when I’m not I spend all my time here. Think of all the taxpayer dollars we’re saving.”

“It’s hard to have a home life when you don’t have a home, Marcus.”

He spread his arms. “This is my home.”

The Director looked around the office at the various collections, then his eyes settled on stacks of crime-scene photos resting on the desktop. “Are things any better between you and Maggie?”

Marcus said nothing. He stared expressionlessly at the Director for a moment and then pointed at a file folder tucked under the older man’s arm. “We have a new case?”

“Old case, actually. New developments. But you didn’t answer my question.”

He didn’t respond.

“She loves you. You know that, don’t you?” the Director said.

Marcus stuck out his hand. “Are you going to give me the file? If it’s anything like the other cases we work, there’s no time to screw around.”

The Director stood statue-still, the file pressed firmly under his left arm. “How have you been sleeping?”

Marcus blew out a frustrated breath and came around the desk. “You brought me in to do a job, and that’s what I’ve been doing non-stop for the past year. I live and breathe it. I’ve brought down every bad guy you’ve put on my desk. Do you have any doubts that I can do the job you recruited me for?”

The Director’s gaze didn’t waver. “You know I don’t.”

“Then give me the damn file, and let me do my job. If you’ve got a problem with the way I’m handling things on a professional level, feel free to bust my ass for it. Anything beyond that, keep it to yourself.”

The Director was quiet for a moment. Neither of them moved. Then the Director’s right hand reached across his chest and took hold of the file. His arm straightened, and he stuck the file out between them. Marcus snatched it from the Director’s grasp, leaned back on the corner of his desk, and opened it at the first page. “The Anarchist?”

“That’s right. We don’t actually know how many he’s killed, but there’s definitely some type of an occult connection. Details are in the file. He’s been dormant for about a year and a half. Allen worked the case briefly before the killer went under and is planning on meeting you in Chicago. This guy killed three women and then five more disappeared without a trace.”

“No bodies were ever found for the five?”

“Not yet. But, of course, they’re assumed dead. Remember, let the police do their jobs and keep a low profile, but do whatever’s necessary to stop this guy.”

Marcus nodded. When he had first been recruited, the Director had made it seem that their only desirable outcome was to kill the men they hunted, but sometimes it worked out fine to just help where they could and let the police take the killers down. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to do any killing on this trip.

The Director started toward the door but added, “I want you to get at least a day’s rest before jumping into this case. The police can start laying the groundwork, and you’ll be there in plenty of time. We need you at one hundred percent. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, crystal clear. One hundred and ten percent.”

The Director’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t comment further. As he closed Marcus’s door, he said, “Godspeed and good hunting.”

Marcus walked back toward his desk and cleared off a spot for the file. There was a thumb drive in a plastic baggy attached to the cover page. He slipped it out and plugged it into his Macbook Air. He wondered why the Director still brought him paper files. Since taking over, he had transitioned his entire team to digital. He opened the case files and dropped them into a secure email for Andrew and the other members of the team. Then he brought up pictures of the women that the Anarchist had killed a year and a half ago and the girl from the previous night. The images were candid shots of happy smiling faces. He imagined some of these pictures probably adorned missing-persons reports posted around the Chicago area. These women had once had families. They had once had hopes and dreams, wants and desires. But everything they were and would ever be had been stolen from them. He studied the eyes. He memorized the faces.

After a few moments in silence, he retrieved the cell phone from his pocket and dialed Andrew. “I just sent you an email.”

Silence stretched on the other end of the line. “We’re going out again already?”

“No rest for the wicked. I want to be on the road in a few hours. Start gathering our things.”

Andrew sighed. “You’re the boss.”

Marcus hung up and then punched a key on his computer keyboard to bring up the case files. He felt for the pills in his pocket and stared down at the bottle. Then he dropped it into his desk drawer and shut it away. Innocent lives hung in the balance, and he had a lot of reading to do before they headed out for Chicago.