Dark Hunger (17 page)

Detective Barbaris pulled his hand down his chin. “They may be damaged from the explosion.”

“Get them anyway,” Quinton said. “Some of our techs may be able to restore the images.”

“I’m on it.” Detective Barbaris clapped his thigh with his hand. “What about you guys? Any idea what’s going on here? You think these perps got together and planned this?”

“We’re looking at an online support group for veterans,” Quinton said. Although he refrained from adding that he believed a demon was responsible. Instead, he let the other agent handle the question, and he headed into the crowd, forced himself to focus, to zero in on the people’s thoughts.

Pain, shock, anger, and fear dominated their minds. And the overpowering scent of death permeated the air.

He spotted the black vulture perched on the sign in front of the coliseum, its beady eyes boring into his. The Death Angel was taunting him, a sign that Vincent had been right. That demons roamed the earth now, trying to destroy it with evil. A gray mist shrouded the area, telling him that Soul Collectors had also swooped in to steal souls from those who died.

Quinton glared at the bird of prey, his demonic side emerging. Then the vulture squawked and flew away from his attack, screeching again as if mocking him.

He cursed.

The Death Angel thought he’d won. Maybe he had tonight.

But he’d met his match.

Soon Quinton would destroy him. Then he’d laugh at the vultures as they fled in terror.

The vulture buried its head inside the decomposing body, savoring each tasty morsel of bloody carrion as if it were his last meal.

Although he could always find food later.

Because death couldn’t be stopped.

And there were dozens of bodies tonight, enough to feed him and all his friends.

Delicious death. A constant part of the natural order of life. So why did people fight it as if they could actually defeat the inevitable?

And why had the foolish reporter gone toward the light in Savannah when immortality waited in the darkness?

Frustration made him flap his wings wildly and screech his fury. Why had Quinton Valtrez saved her? Was the Dark Lord turning… good?

They had to force him one step closer to his destiny as a Dark Lord, force him to join the underworld and scrap the rules of humanity.

Evil had no rules.

It played to win and it would.

Eventually Valtrez would realize it and cross over. If not, he’d take him against his will.

After all, he was Death. And no one could stop him.

A feeling of déjà vu along with memories of the Savannah bombing struck Annabelle. Although the coliseum was large enough that the damage seemed to be contained to the upper area, people raced from the building in a steady rush of panic. She searched for Quinton but didn’t see him.

Knowing she had to help, she rushed over to assist two young girls who were frozen in fear, hunched over and trembling against a large chunk of concrete.

As they stumbled outside, she noted moments of heroics as a young man or woman stopped to help another, as teens carried the injured to safety. A young woman knelt and ripped off the tail of her shirt to bind the wound of a stranger.

But the vultures soared above, dipping and attacking the dead.

One of the policemen glared at her as if she were a vulture herself, and she glared back. She realized some people viewed reporters as leeches, but she wasn’t callous or unsympathetic.

Still, she would ferret out the truth about this bomber anyway she had to. People deserved to know the truth.

Two teenagers huddled together beneath a blanket, their surface injuries already attended to. She stopped to tell them she was sorry.

“Did you see anyone suspicious?” she asked.

The young girl buried her head in her boyfriend’s shoulder. “No, we just came to the concert.” Her cell phone buzzed and panicked eyes shot up. “Oh, God, that’s my mom. She’s probably freaking out.”

Annabelle patted her gently on the shoulder. “Answer it and assure her you’re all right.”

She moved on to another group of teens gathered in a circle, waiting on their parents to arrive. “Did anyone see anything suspicious tonight?”

“The guy behind me was snorting coke,” one girl said.

“And a guy had a big backpack,” another boy said.

The redhead with tattoos beside him rolled her eyes. “He had a twelve-pack in that backpack, not a bomb.”

“Miss, miss!” a woman dressed in a cleaning lady’s uniform waved at her, and Annabelle veered toward her.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Annabelle asked.

“Yes, yes, but I saw a man pushing a cleaning cart. He wasn’t from our company.” She gestured toward the logo embroidered on her uniform. “His clothes smelled like sweat. And he looked glassy-eyed.”

“Can you describe him? Did he say anything?”

“He had gray hair, wore work boots, and he favored his right leg.” She rubbed at her arm, now bandaged and in a sling. “But he didn’t say anything. Just pushed that cart along slowly. Then suddenly I heard a noise and the bomb exploded.”

Sounded like the man security had zeroed in on earlier. B.J. Too bad they hadn’t reached him in time.

Annabelle squeezed her shoulder, then took her contact information and glanced up, searching for Quinton.

She finally spotted him, ran to him, and relayed what the woman had told her.

Quinton nodded. “CSI is supposed to bring us the tapes to verify his ID.”

The next two hours passed in a blur. Finally they left the site for the rescue workers and CSI to process while they went to the police station. The crime scene unit had gathered pieces of what they suspected were the bomb and the clothing from the man who’d set it off. His body had been transported to the medical examiner’s office. Dr. Sam Wynn, the ME who’d worked on the Savannah case, had been called in to do the autopsy and help identify other victims.

“B. J. Rutherford is the man we believe to have been the bomber,” Quinton said. “The director of the veterans hospital told us he was bipolar.”

Detective Barbaris nodded. “I’ll tell Dr. Wynn to obtain the man’s medical records for comparison. That will speed up the ID.” He fidgeted, his gaze raking over Annabelle. “You think these are connected through that online group?”

“Maybe. The Savannah bomber was a homeless man who suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Annabelle said. “B. J. Rutherford also suffered from PTS and when in his manic state, lived on the streets. I think someone is taking advantage of these men’s mental problems and using them to commit the crimes. Whoever did it found the men through that chat group.”

He rubbed his chin. “Interesting theory.”

He excused himself to contact Dr. Wynn, and Annabelle turned to see Quinton glaring at her.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

“Just how far would you go to get your story?”

Anger slashed through her, and she jammed her face close to his.

“How dare you suggest I’d do something immoral when you have no morals yourself.”

Quinton silently cursed himself. Why in the hell had he said that?

Because he hadn’t liked the way the detective looked at her.

“I do have morals,” he said in her ear. “I choose who I kill. I also want to fuck you,” he murmured, “and so does every man who sees you, so you should watch whom you’re being nice to.”

“Being nice is my nature.” Annabelle’s eyes blazed. “And we were simply discussing the investigation.”

He moved closer to her as if staking out his territory, and Annabelle’s eyes flickered with unease. But Detective Barbaris loped back into the room, cutting their conversation short.

“Come this way.” He led them to another room with a monitor for viewing. Special Agent McLaughlin had just arrived.

“What have you found out about the bomb materials?” Quinton asked.

“Our EDU-BDC unit has collected small fragments of the explosives at the crime scene, and forensics is conducting tests now,” McLaughlin said. “We’re comparing them with the bomb in Savannah to see if they were created by the same source and where the materials might have originated from, if they were homemade or if we’re dealing with a terrorist cell.” McLaughlin paused and set up the tapes. “We’re also cross-checking for matches across the States.”

Quinton folded his arms. “You have any leads?”

Agent McLaughlin sighed. “I’m afraid not. We’ve alerted security at airports, federal buildings, and other possible targets designated in studies by Homeland Security.” He dropped down in a chair. “Unfortunately, since these two attacks occurred only days apart, we may be looking at another one soon.”

He was right.

McLaughlin scrolled through several sets of tapes from various areas of the coliseum first, showing feed of hundreds of teenagers and college students entering the stadium, along with vendors, security, and cleanup crews.

“Here’s our person of interest.” McLaughlin pointed out a gray-haired gentleman dressed as a janitor. Quinton frowned and leaned closer, noting the deathly pallor of the man, the glassy-eyed look, the way his movements were robotic.

“Yes, that’s B. J. Rutherford,” Quinton said. “But I couldn’t reach him in time.”

McLaughlin fast-forwarded through several more sections of tape, then focused on the immediate area where the bomb had exploded. A vulture hovered above, others circling and preparing to feed.

Detective Barbaris returned, rubbing his eyes. None of them had slept, and he looked bleary-eyed and exhausted. “Ms. Duffy is faxing over B. J. Rutherford’s medical reports so we can verify the ID. She said his therapist had referred him to Dr. Gryphon, a specialist working on research regarding dementia, Alzheimer’s, and PTS. She didn’t think they’d met yet.”

Annabelle and Quinton exchanged looks.

“Maybe we should talk to Dr. Gryphon,” Annabelle said. “He might be able to offer insight into how someone could brainwash two former soldiers into strapping on bombs and walking into a public place and setting them off.”

Quinton knotted his hands. They had been brainwashed. Been subjected to mind control. He knew the techniques, and given the men’s already troubled mental states, it probably hadn’t been that difficult. A combination of drugs and hypnosis?

A doctor certainly would have the knowledge to do it.

And so would a demon who possessed the ability to bend a person’s mind at will.

The weight of the night settled over the car like a thick, hot blanket. Annabelle lapsed into silence again as they drove into the heart of Charleston and back to the hotel.

News of the explosion had obviously spread, and human nature and self-preservation had kicked in. The residents huddled in fear within their homes, their private sanctuaries where they were safe.

She had always thought in blacks and whites. She’d gone to Savannah to expose Quinton because what he was doing was wrong. Yet now she was relying on his help.

“I feel sorry for B. J. Rutherford,” Annabelle said.

Quinton grunted. “Even though he killed tonight?”

She sighed. “I think he was a victim himself.”