Dark Prophecy (27 page)

Dark nodded. “Father, I’m serious about this threat. Your life’s in danger.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Let me protect you.”

“From what, exactly?”

Dark explained that his suspects were Roger and Abdulia Maestro, that they had a little boy who had died in Delaware about a year ago. A look of recognition, then sadness, spread across the priest’s face. The memory was painful.

“Of course I remember them. It was only a year ago. That was a horrible loss. But I can’t believe they would be responsible for something like . . . well, what you’re alleging.”

“You know,” Dark said, “I’ve been chasing monsters for twenty years, and that’s exactly what I hear from most people after a neighbor or a friend or a boss or a family member is revealed as a vicious sociopathic killer.
I never thought they could. They seemed like such nice people. They can’t be responsible.
Will you let me protect you?”

“How? Am I supposed to pretend you’re a visiting monk, or something?”

“Just tell me your schedule, and we’ll take care of it from there.”

“We?” the priest asked.

“I’m not alone.”

“None of us are, my son.”

Dark stared at him.

“Priest humor,” Donnelly explained, reaching down into a desk drawer. “You like your bourbon neat, or are you one of those sissies who needs ice?”

chapter 67

Las Vegas, Nevada

 

 

Tom Riggins’s Rule #1 when dealing with reporters: If you’re going to let them use you, then you have to make sure you use them back—harder.

Johnny Knack being in Vegas for the Kobiashi murder wasn’t a coincidence. Riggins knew better. Someone had steered him this way. Could be Dark, could be his mystery woman. Either way, he’d know in a minute—once Banner finished downloading the guy’s cell phone records.

For once Norman Wycoff had come in handy. The Department of Defense wasn’t even putting up the pretense of citizens’ privacy anymore. Every Web page you visit, every e-mail you send, every call you make, every text you thumb—all fair game. Within minutes Banner had what he needed, and began sorting through the files.

And Wycoff could barely contain his enthusiasm when he learned that Dark was the prime suspect in the Tarot Card Murders. Since June the man had been looking for any excuse, the flimsiest of reasons, to sic his black-bag kill squad on Dark. Riggins had to play this carefully. As they all agreed: They wanted Steve Dark captured alive. Despite appearances, their friend and loved one was still in there. He deserved a chance to explain himself. He deserved a shot at salvation.

They had gathered in a small room at the Egyptian to strategize, ice down their bruises, and, in Riggins’s case, drown his aching muscles in a little whiskey. “FBI business,” he’d told the room service guy. “Keep it coming and don’t be stingy with the ice.”

Constance watched him pour a drink, at least six fingers’ worth.

“I don’t feel good about this,” she said.

“I’m not planning on driving,” Riggins said.

“No, I mean bringing the media into this. What if we’re wrong? What if we’ve just ruined his life?”

“More than it already is?”

“You know what I mean, Tom. This is Steve we’re talking about. No matter what we think he’s been up to, it’s all conjecture. We’re dragging the man’s reputation straight into the toilet here. Would you sell me out to Slab just as quick?”

Riggins sighed. He lifted the tumbler to his mouth, then paused. “Dark’s already fucked us over, remember? I flew five hours to give him a chance to come clean with me, and he didn’t say jack shit. He’s had his chance to explain.”

“What if someone decides to shoot first, question Dark later?” Constance asked.

“I’m not too worried about that. Not with Jane Bond there, serving as his bodyguard.”

Constance grimaced. She had a bruise on her upper chest that already looked like a purple and yellow storm cloud, and it hurt every time she swallowed. Just the look of that woman pissed Constance off. Smug. Superior. No matter how far you made it in your own career, life was still like high school. There were still people who would piss on you just as soon as look at you.

“I run into her again,” Constance said under her breath, “I’m going to kick her ass.”

Riggins nodded. “Hey, I’ll hold her down for you.”

They exchanged glances. The gallows humor again. Sometimes in this line of work it was all they had. No matter how desperate the circumstances.

And then Banner spoke up. “Guys.”

“What?”

“Ever been to Fresno?”

chapter 68

Fresno, California

 

 

Graysmith found a hotel room not far from the church. In the meantime, she’d gathered some supplies—extra Glock 22s and magazines, surveillance gear. Dark didn’t ask how. He supposed there were individuals spread all over the country just waiting for the predawn call from a CIA spook who needed equipment and was willing to pay a premium for it.

As Graysmith handed him a plastic bag full of motion detectors, she asked about the priest’s itinerary.

Dark said, “After he finishes writing his homily, Donnelly says he’s going to try to sleep for a couple of hours before early morning Mass, followed by the morning Mass, then the children’s Mass, and then finally a Halloween parade for the parochial school children.”

“That’s when they’ll strike,” Graysmith said. “Plenty of parents. Plenty of masks and costumes. Lots of confusion.”

“I thought the same thing. So let’s have him cancel the parade, put him into some sort of protective custody.”

“Then what? They’ll just find another Devil. Look at what happened to Jeb Paulson. Do you really think he was the original Fool they had in mind?”

A good point. Abdulia’s plan was adaptable. Hiding Donnelly might piss them off, but it wouldn’t stop the murders.

“So what then?”

“
We
protect him.”

“Just two of us? We can’t even call in reinforcements. How are the two of us supposed to cover a parade?”

Graysmith called up a document on her laptop and showed it to Dark. “These are Roger Maestro’s military records. He was a sniper—one of the best, taking out countless Afghan warlords and drug traffickers from pretty much a whole mountain range away. Their last few murders haven’t been as elaborate as the first. They have our attention now. They’re going to go for something clean and simple.”

“A rooftop shot,” Dark said. “Or from one of the church or school windows.”

“Maestro could also blend into the crowd as one of the parents. They could come from anywhere. So let’s give the priest some Kevlar to wear under his vestments. Roger goes for his shot, Donnelly lives, and we get the chance to take down Roger.”

Dark called up the Devil card on his phone. “And what if he goes for the headshot on the Devil? Look at the pentagram in this illustration. The tip points to the middle of his forehead. Roger won’t go for a chest shot. If what you’re telling me is true, then he’ll be able to hit anything he wants.”

“Talk to Donnelly. See what he’s comfortable doing.”

 

 

“That is not a garment of the Lord,” the priest said.

Dark looked down at Donnelly’s shoes. “And those Rockports are what—blessed by the Vatican?”

“Hey, I have fallen arches. Am I supposed to suffer for my faith all day long?”

Dark pulled the Kevlar vest out of its plastic bag. Another score from Graysmith. It offered Type III protection, which meant it could potentially stop a round from a rifle. He handed it to Donnelly, who rocked it up and down on his fingertips.

“This is ridiculously heavy,” the priest said.

“The stronger the protection, the heavier the armor.”

Donnelly frowned. “Do you know how much my back kills me after chasing around these kids on a normal day, let alone during a parade?

“It’s not just about you, Father. We want to catch these people. You’re our best shot to do it.”

“That’s an extremely poor pun,” Donnelly said. “Considering the circumstances.”

Donnelly looked at the vest, running his fingers over the rough surface, eyebrows furrowed. Then he spun in his chair and draped it over a bookshelf packed with leather-bound religious volumes before turning around to face Dark again.

“You’re not drawing them out to kill them, are you?”

“We want to stop them,” Dark said.

“I understand that, and of course I want the same. But what troubles me is that you and your associate—who you won’t even name, or introduce—well, you’re not with any law enforcement agency. No one is holding you accountable for your actions. In fact, law enforcement seems fairly determined to stop you. Now, don’t get me wrong. I believe your story. But I won’t be party to a slaughter.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to prevent,” Dark said.

chapter 69

The next morning Dark made his way through the swarms of masked children—comic book characters, wild animals, celebrities, angels, devils, dinosaurs, spacemen. Clowns, too. Dark had a special hatred of clowns, dating back to a case from his early career. He could do without clowns. What made matters worse was that some of the parents were costumed, too. No problem with them joining in the fun. But they made it easy for a killer to hide in the crowd.

The Halloween Morning Parade began a few years ago when concerned parents stopped taking their kids out at night for trick-or-treating. A couple of miniature candy bars and sticks of gum weren’t worth the risk of being mugged or shot. And since the beginning, the pastor of Saint Jude’s Parish was at the forefront, organizing the costumes, the music, the food, the drink, the prizes. With the arrival of Father Donnelly, it had blossomed into something even bigger, with local companies vowing to donate “treats” to the impoverished neighborhood in the form of grants and food-bank donations. Donnelly had been working toward this event since he was assigned to the church a little more than a year ago, and he wasn’t about to hide in the rectory, no matter what Dark said.

So now Dark was strolling the streets, Glock 22 hooked to his belt, concealed under his black button-down shirt, looking for someone who could be Roger Maestro.

Or Abdulia.

The wife, the tarot reader, knew what Dark looked like. He had to assume Roger did, too. Who would recognize who first? Would they even be here?

Making matters worse was the fact that Dark’s face had been all over the news this morning, telling viewers that he was a “person of interest” in the Tarot Card Killings. Dark should have been the one wearing the mask out here. At any moment he was expecting to feel a strong grip on his arm, and a Fresno cop telling him to step aside . . .

Static popped in Dark’s ear.

“Anything?” Graysmith asked.

Graysmith had perched herself in the choir loft of Saint Jude’s, the tallest structure in the area. A bird’s-eye view might help her spot one of the Maestros before it was too late. Of course, both of them knew this was close to absurd—a two-person team trying to trap a decorated sniper.

“Nothing yet. You?”

“Just a lot of little screaming reminders why I never had kids.”

Dark was feeling the opposite. Here it was Halloween and he had no idea where his daughter might be, even if she was dressing up. Sorry, kid. You can never have a normal holiday because your dad fucked up your entire life. Better luck at Thanksgiving.

And there were dozens of parents, snapping photos on their digital cameras, recording the mayhem. Father Donnelly, meanwhile, seemed to revel in it. He was a man who genuinely liked to see other people happy, took strength from it.

Dark continued to scan the crowd. He saw something that made him tense up—a man and a woman in wedding garments, connected by plastic chains. Just like the Devil card. A couple in chained bondage. Dark examined their faces carefully. The outfit was a joke, of course—a play on “the old ball and chain.” But killers often hid behind jokes and smiles. The bride could have a rifle under that gown; the groom could have sharp knives up his sleeves.

Then a pair of kids—a boy and girl—came crashing into the couple, almost toppling them over, screaming, “Mommy! Daddy!” The bride and groom exploded with laughter. Dark exhaled. For a second, anyway.

Someone grabbed Dark’s arm. He spun around and reached for his Glock at the same time.

A pale-looking man with curly hair looked at him. “Whoa! Didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to introduce myself.”

Dark narrowed his eyes. The guy held out a hand, but Dark ignored it.

“I’m Johnny Knack. I write for the Slab.”

The receiver in Dark’s ear crackled to life. “Who is that?” Graysmith barked.

Dark pulled his arm away. “I don’t have time for this now.”

“You don’t understand. Riggins and Brielle know you’re here. They’re in the city right now, only they don’t know you’re at the parade just yet ...”

“Leave me alone,” Dark said, and darted back into the writhing swarm of children.

“Dark, what the fuck’s going on down there?” Graysmith hissed.

Lifting his right wrist to his face, Dark whispered: “A reporter. The guy from the Slab. He says Riggins is here, too.”

Knack caught up to him quickly, though, and practically had to shout to be heard over the screaming, laughing Halloweeners.

“I can help you! Just stop and talk to me for a moment, please.”

Dark stopped, spun, and grabbed Knack by the shoulders, ready to knee him in the fucking balls if he had to. But then came a sharp cry in his ear. Graysmith. Screaming.

“Dark! To your left!”

There.

A tall man in a goat mask, lifting a rifle to his shoulder.

Dark launched himself away from Knack and began pushing aside the kids, screaming at them, plowing through them. As he ran, he followed the rifle’s trajectory—which led right to Father Donnelly’s face, just thirty yards away. The gunman lined up the shot. Dark dove through the air. Graysmith shouted through the earpiece—
I don’t have a shot!
Dark’s outstretched hands slammed into the gunman’s forearm a second before he squeezed the trigger. The barrel went up in the air a few inches. The shot echoed off the façade of the church. Children screamed. Parents rushed forward to scoop their sons and daughters out of the way.