Beyond belief (20 page)

Jesse wasn't sure if it was day or night. There were no windows in the large padded room, and someone had taken his C-3PO watch. A big, bearded man dressed in the same strange paper uniform as the woman had silently come into the room and left a steak, a baked potato, and a glass of fruit juice near the door panel, then left. The empty dishes were still piled in a corner of the room. There were mirrors high on each wall, where he guessed that people were watching him. The way Dr. Nelson had during his experiments.

The door swung open. The woman again. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks red. She looked as if she'd been crying. She walked over and knelt next to him.

“Hi, Jesse.”

“Hi.”

She squeezed a foam rubber ball in her right hand. “Did you like your food?”

“It was okay.”

“Would you like something else?”

“Like what?”

“Ice cream?”

“No, thanks.”

“I'm sorry about all this, honey. I really am. I wish we could get out of here.”

“Are they really keeping you here too?”

“Yes.”

“But why do they want
you?”

She cast a quick glance at one of the mirrors. “I've worked with children before.”

“Kids like me?”

She smiled warmly. “Oh, no. No one's quite like you, Jesse. I've seen what you can do. I guess they thought I could work with you and help you show them your abilities.”

“If I do my stuff for ‘em, what will happen then?”

“They'll watch you, maybe suggest a couple of other things for you to try, and that will be it. I'll go home to my kids, and you'll go home to your mother.”

“You have kids?”

“A little boy and a little girl. The boy is just a little younger than you are. I really miss him. He probably doesn't know what happened to me.”

Her frizzy blond hair fell over her forehead as she turned away from Jesse. She was crying. Her hands went limp, and the foam rubber ball dropped to the floor.

Jesse looked up at the mirror. Who was behind that glass? What did they want?

He turned back to the ball and stared at it. It rocked for a moment, then rolled a few feet away.

The woman took a sharp breath.

“There. That's what they want, isn't it?”

She nodded.

“That's what you wanted too. That's why you brought the ball.”

“Thank you. Will you do some more for me?”

“Not now.”

“When?”

“Maybe later. But I want my glasses back. I'm not doing anything else until I get my glasses.”

“I'll see what I can do, Jesse.”

“What's your name?”

“Myrna.”

“Don't worry, Myrna.”

“My husband told me not to let you in again,” Crystal Rawlings said.

Joe stood facing Crystal on her front porch, and this time she seemed stronger and more confident. “That sounds like a guilty person talking,” Joe said.

“I can't talk to you about Dr. Nelson.”

“Guiltier still.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Then talk to me about your daughter.”

She went white. “Gaby? Why do you want to talk about her?”

“She has something to do with this.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“When we were here asking about Dr. Nelson, you were thinking about her.”

“I always think about her.”

“Especially then.”

“There's nothing to say.”

“I know you miss her,” Joe said softly. “I lost my wife a couple of years ago, and it's hard to keep going sometimes. I'm sure Gaby meant a lot to you.”

“Of course she did. She still does.”

“Has anyone tried to reach her for you? Dr. Nelson, a spiritualist, anyone from the Landwyn parapsychology program?”

“No. I don't believe in that stuff. I don't believe in any of it.”

“Tell me about her. Please.”

Crystal's eyes were starting to mist.

Could he be any more of a schmuck? Joe thought. He was following the playbook, eliciting information by provoking a strong emotional response. He felt rotten, but it made him feel a little better to think that Crystal really wanted to talk about her daughter.

“Gaby would have turned seventeen tomorrow,” she said.

“I didn't realize that. I'm sorry. This must be an especially difficult time for you and your husband.”

She nodded.

“I know this is painful, but what exactly happened to her?”

“Her appendix ruptured.”

“Was there anything suspicious about the way she died?”

“Suspicious?”

“Anything I should know about?”

“No. It was natural causes.”

Joe spoke gently. “Ms. Rawlings, why was there pig's blood on your daughter's shirt when you brought her to the hospital that night?”

She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath. “Pig's blood?”

“Yes.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“How did that blood get on your daughter?”

“There must be a mistake.”

“No mistake. Her doctor told me. He checked it out.”

“Please leave us alone.” Her voice shook. “We can't help you.”

“I think you can. Did you know Dr. Nelson before your daughter died?”

Crystal hesitated. “Yes.”

“Under what circumstances?”

Another pause. “We helped him with one of his projects.”

“A paranormal studies project?”

“I can't discuss it.”

“You can, and you must. This man was murdered, and we're evaluating everyone in his life as a possible suspect. The fact that you're being so secretive makes you and your husband look suspicious. Are you protecting your husband, Ms. Rawlings?”

Her eyes widened. “No!”

“Convince me. Tell me about Dr. Nelson. When did you first meet him?”

“A few months ago. I saw him only twice in my life.”

“Two meetings, and he gave you a hundred and sixty thousand dollars?”

“I can't discuss this anymore.”

“Nelson's dead, and if there's someone else involved, I need to know about it.”

“That little black boy killed him, didn't he?”

“I think someone wants us to believe that. Dr. Nelson's killer is out there, and you may be shielding him even if you don't realize it. You could be putting yourself and your husband in a dangerous position. If the killer thinks you're holding information that may incriminate him, you could become a target.”

“My husband told me that you guys might try to scare us.”

“That's not why I'm here.”

“Oh, no? In the past two minutes you've told me that I might be a murder suspect and a possible murder victim. What do you call that?”

“Pointing out some simple truths. Please. Talk to me. I don't want to bring you to the station, but I will.”

“It won't do you any good.”

“I want you to think about something. What would your daughter want you to do right now?”

She bit her lip. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Is the memory of your daughter best served by your silence? Is that what
she
would have wanted?”

“You have no idea what Gaby would have wanted.”

“That's why I'm asking you.”

She thought about it. “Do you people look at phone records?”

“For who?”

“Anybody. Murder victims, the other people involved.”

“Usually.”

“So, you've probably looked at Dr. Nelson's calls.”

“I can't comment on that.”

“Have you looked at ours?”

He stiffened.

“You may already have your answer, Detective. You just don't realize it.”

She slammed the door closed.

*   *   *   

“I put in for the Rawlingses’ phone records right after our chat with them the other night.” Howe's voice crackled through the lousy connection. Joe was on his way back to town, talking to him on his portable phone.

“Damn, Howe, maybe you
are
a good cop.”

“That'll be our little secret, okay? The phone records might be in already. If so, I'll do a cross-check with Nelson's records. I'll put the Little Bastard on it.”

The Little Bastard was a processing unit that scanned a variety of standard documents, then searched for data matching designated parameters. The machine's colorful nickname stemmed from its infuriating tendency to malfunction whenever it was needed most.

Joe heard Howe's other line ringing. “Hold on, Bailey.” After a minute, Howe returned. “Where are you?”

“I-75 and the Marietta Parkway. Why?”

“Get over to the Charlie Brown airport. I'll meet you there.”

It was a few minutes past noon when Joe arrived at Charlie Brown's Hangar C. Howe, Fisher, and a group of police and FBI officers were already on the scene.

“What the hell happened?”

“Ask those guys.” Howe pointed to Fisher and a pair of FBI agents. “They're the ones who sat on this for two hours before tipping us off.”

Joe and Howe strode into the hangar and walked toward the repair station, where Fisher stood over Toby Cooper's corpse. The man's throat had been cut open.

Joe turned to Fisher. “This is the mechanic whose sticker was on that helicopter?”

Fisher nodded. “It happened early this morning sometime. His kid was home in bed and had no idea he was even gone. It looks like Jesse Randall's abductors were covering their tracks.”

“Why would they wait?” Joe asked. “They planned everything else out to the nth degree. If they were afraid of this guy, they could have killed him days or even weeks ago.”

“Who else would've done it?” Fisher's tone was mocking. “Jesse Randall? Yeah, maybe he used his psychic powers to strike at the mechanic who once serviced his kidnappers’ helicopter.”

Joe sighed. “Don't even say that as a joke, or it'll be on every newscast by dinnertime.”

Lyles laid out his ivory squares on the car seat, waiting for the amphetamines to kick in. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Jesse Randall's abduction, and he hadn't even thought about sleeping. He couldn't. Not until he found Jesse and brought him back.

He'd tracked down the car license plate number that Toby Cooper had dutifully scribbled on the helicopter repair invoice. The info had cost Lyles $39.98 and a visit to a cyber café, where the data-x.com Web site kicked out the owner's name and address in a
matter of minutes. Different from the name on the invoice, he noticed. Gino Lockwood of Roswell. Lock-wood lived on the ground floor of a two-story apartment building. Lyles had found a spot at the curb that afforded him a view of Lockwood's parking space and apartment windows.

If only Bertram and Irene could see him now. Finally he was fighting for something that truly mattered.

He glanced down at the carved squares. Perhaps they could give him some guidance, some inspiration. He spread them out in a large grid of ten rows and ten columns.

Except he couldn't complete the pattern.

There weren't enough squares; he was one short. He checked his pockets. Empty. He searched the car seats and floorboards.

Shit. He'd lost it. But where? The church? Cooper's house? The airport?

He didn't believe there was any way it could be traced back to him, but it was still a loose end. He hated loose ends.

Unless this was meant to happen.

Unless the will of Alessandro was truly working through those squares. Then it would be all right.

He scanned the remaining squares, keeping a mental tally of the symbols present and accounted for. He realized which one was missing.

Vivida.
Deception.

Was it a warning? A clue?

He glanced up, grabbed the squares, and jammed them into his pockets.

Gino Lockwood had just come home.

D
eception?” Joe held the plastic evidence bag at eye level and squinted at the carved ivory square.

Raymond Fisher stared at him in surprise from the other side of the police conference room. He was flanked by two other FBI agents, who had been hastily introduced as Muñiz and Hill. Howe, Lieutenant Gerald, and Detectives Powell and Kessler, who were spearheading the abduction case, joined Joe in representing the Atlanta P.D.

“Very good,” Fisher said to Joe. “It means lies or deception. Didn't anyone tell you that Latin is a dead language?”

“If they had, I wouldn't have wasted two years in high school studying it. So where did you guys find this?”

“Actually, one of your officers found it on the roof of the church schoolroom. It was clean, so it couldn't have been there long. At first, we thought it might be a piece from a language learning set.”

“It's not,” Joe said as he studied it. “It's called a reason square.”

“You're familiar with it?” Fisher asked.

“One of the millennial cults uses them. They use these little squares like some people might use tarot cards—to predict the future, make sense of the past, give guidance, that sort of thing.”

Muñiz, a bespectacled man in his early forties, stepped forward. “That's right. I'm a specialist in cults. I'm surprised you even know about this.”

Joe shrugged. “I occasionally deal with cults in my work. A lot of them are fond of using tricks to convince people to join them and hand over their worldly possessions. I don't remember hearing anything negative about this one though.”

“They call themselves the Millennial Prophets, and they're very secretive,” Muñiz said. “Most millennial cults started springing up in the early nineties, and many have already disbanded. Their numbers peaked with the turn of the millennium, but it will probably take another decade or so for most of them to dwindle out. The Millennial Prophets go further back though. The religion was founded by an excommunicated Presbyterian minister, Alessandro Garr, in England, around the end of the nineteenth century.” Muñiz took back the reason square. “There are one hundred words represented by the squares, and
vivida
is one of them.”