Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (19 page)

He and Worthington had showed up shortly after she’d ordered the two out of their car—a call from Ronnie, no doubt—and she had welcomed the backup.

Ronnie, who had taken Evan down to a neighbor’s house, was back now, trying her best to tend to Pope, who sat on a nearby curb, holding a bag of ice to his neck.

He looked shaken, but thankful to be alive.

He caught Anna watching him, and gave her a small nod. His eyes seemed darker and more intense than ever, and she thought she saw a hint of embarrassment there. But he wasn’t trying to hide it, like most men would. Macho pride did not seem to be part of Daniel Pope’s lexicon.

Which, of course, endeared him to her. Attracted her.

Jesus, she thought. Get a grip, Anna.

Everything that’s happened in the last few hours and you’re thinking about how appealing this guy is?

The human mind’s ability to compartmentalize was nothing short of amazing. Nothing short of a
miracle
, in her case.

As Chavez’s squad car drove the two perps away, Worthington approached her. “Looks like my sorry sack of a cousin owes you his life.”

“I guess that makes us even. If he hadn’t called you this morning, I probably wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Yeah, I’m still trying to figure that one out. I’m sure as hell not buying this whole psychic-kid thing.”

“That’s not the half of it,” Anna said.

“Oh? What else is he trying to sell you?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve finished processing it.”

“Fair enough,” Worthington said. “He tell you what this new ruckus was all about?”

Anna shook her head. “Some vague story about cops and crooks and gambling debts. It’s all connected to the Oasis.”

Worthington rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Knowing Danny, it’ll probably take a loaded bong and crowbar to get the full story out of him.” He looked over at Pope and sighed. “I just wish he’d quit pretending to be a fuckup and get back into the real world.”

“I’m the last person to be judging anyone. But speaking of fuckups, is Royer still around?”

Worthington grinned, returning his gaze to her. “I told him the request for his help was rescinded. He seemed a little out of sorts when he left.”

“Does this mean you want me out of your hair, too?”

“The request was rescinded for
his
help, not yours.”

“Thanks,” Anna said. “But just so you’re up to speed, I’m about to be suspended.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to deputize you.”

Anna smiled. There was certainly something special about the Pope/Worthington DNA. “Any progress on our perp?”

Worthington shook his head. “He’s a phantom as far as I can tell. The head carny says he’s not one of theirs, and I don’t think they’re covering for the guy. I had them take that goddamn house of mirrors apart, piece by piece, and there’s just no way he could’ve gotten out of there.”

“What about the shoe?”

“I’ve got a forensics guy looking at it, and those cigarette butts you told us about. They look like they could be a foreign brand. At some point I’d like to sit you down with a sketch artist, but I’m not feeling too hopeful right now.”

“Any luck with the tattoo?”

“That’s the good news,” Worthington said.

“Oh? What did you find?”

He gestured to Pope, who was on his feet now. “Let’s get our wannabe fuckup back inside, grab some lunch, then head into my office. I’m gonna need a computer for this.”

Anna nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

I
T WAS THE
best tuna-salad sandwich she’d ever tasted. Whipped up by Worthington and Pope, no less. A throwback to their stoner days.

“The secret is the capers and the red onion,” Worthington said. “They give it bite.”

The two men worked together with an effortless rhythm that spoke of their affection for each other.

For the first time since she’d met the man, Anna saw a Pope from another era. And despite a lingering reticence, he seemed a bit more at ease now. At home. He was still fighting it, but it was a fight Anna didn’t think he’d win.

She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she took that first bite. She quickly devoured one sandwich and asked for another and Worthington gladly obliged.

They allowed themselves only small talk as they ate, Worthington telling stories of their childhood in Ludlow. Pope’s broken collarbone, caused by a skateboarding accident. The dime-store shoplifting incident that landed them both in jail until Worthington’s father, the Ludlow county sheriff, bailed them out. The secret field trip to Vegas when they were seventeen, complete with homemade IDs.

Somewhere in the middle of this, Ronnie, who had gone back to the neighbor’s to fetch Evan, returned with the boy in tow.

Pope rose at the sight of him, his voice slightly hoarse. “Hey, kiddo, I’ve got something for you in my backpack. Almost forgot about it.”

He disappeared for a moment, then came back carrying the little black box with the miniature disco ball. He flipped the switch on top and the ball began to spin as he held the box out to Evan.

“I promised to give it to you, remember?”

Evan stared, but didn’t reach for it. His eyes didn’t light up. No hint of a smile. And Anna knew that a part of him had shut down and wouldn’t start back up again for a long time. A very long time.

Apparently reaching the same conclusion, Pope hit the switch, bringing the ball to a stop, then set the box on the kitchen counter and tousled Evan’s hair.

“It’s here when you’re ready for it, okay?”

“Okay,” Evan said.

A
FEW MINUTES
later, Anna, Pope, and Worthington were gathered in the back office, Anna and Pope watching as Worthington returned his Glock to the safe, then flicked a switch on his computer monitor.

“When you told me about the tattoo,” he said to Anna, “I was pretty sure I’d seen it somewhere before.” He dropped into his desk chair as the screen came to life, then opened up an Internet browser, typed in a URL. “So I did a quick Google on my cruiser laptop and found this.”

A moment later, a Web page blossomed on-screen and at its center was a familiar-looking graphic:

Anna’s heart skipped.

“This is it,” she said. “Except his tattoo was missing a couple of spokes.”

“So what is it?” Pope asked.

“The Roma chakra,” Worthington said.

“The what?”

“The symbol of the Romani people. They adopted it in the early seventies, but it’s been around for decades. Based on an earlier Hindu version.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but who are the Romani people?”

“Gypsies,” Anna told him. “Only I’m pretty sure they consider that a derogatory term.”

“That they do,” Worthington said. “I found that out the hard way a few years ago when I busted a drifter for shoplifting. I made the mistake of calling her a gypsy and she almost bit off my nose. She was part of a Roma caravan camped just outside of town.” He nodded to the screen. “And she had one of those tattooed on her forearm.”

Anna’s heart skipped another beat.

“So then our guy’s a gypsy?” Pope said.

“Based on Anna’s description, it sure as hell sounds like it. We don’t have any caravans on the radar right now, but I’ve got a call out to the Barstow and Vegas PDs to see if they’ve encountered any.”

“So what exactly does this thing signify?” Pope asked.

“It’s a wagon wheel. Gypsies are nomads. Used to travel from town to town in wagons.” He paused. “But it also represents the Roma soul.”

Anna’s heart seemed to stop altogether now. “The soul?”

He nodded to the screen. “That’s what it says.”

“How oddly appropriate,” Pope muttered.

Worthington looked at him. “Meaning what?”

“Just a theory I’ve been working on. Agent McBride here can tell you all about it.”

But Anna was barely listening to them. Her mind had locked onto that one word, that single syllable that was like an icy wind rattling inside her chest.

Soul.

The girl who stole my soul
.

Was that why there were spokes missing from Red Cap’s tattoo? Did it represent a missing or broken soul?

Worthington seemed to be waiting for Anna to say something, but she wasn’t quite ready to revisit Pope’s claims of past lives and concussions and reawakened memories. What little sense any of this made to her at the moment did not fill her with warmth.

“I’m not sure it matters what this stands for,” she said. “And right now I’m not feeling too optimistic about finding this guy.”

“Maybe you should be,” Pope said.

Anna turned. “Why?”

“Because we both know he’s killed before. And that simple fact could help us quite a bit.”

“Killed before?” Worthington frowned at him. “Do you two know something about this clown that I don’t?”

Pope ignored the question, his gaze on Anna. “We can stop him. Before he comes after you again. And I think he will.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“I’d put money on it. All we have to do is take a look at the previous killing. Dive in, get some details, then go from there.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” she asked.

“I think you know,” Pope said, then raised a hand, giving her a Svengali-like finger wave.

And there was no doubt in Anna’s mind what he meant by this.

He wanted to hypnotize her.

2
4

“
WOULD ONE OF
you mind telling me what the hell you’re talking about?”

Pope turned to Jake, offering him a weak smile. “Maybe you don’t want to know.”

“Spill it, Danny. What kind of nonsense are you spewing
now
?”

The choice of words didn’t surprise Pope. While he himself had always tried to keep an open mind, Jake was a rationalist and skeptic who believed only in what could be seen or experienced or explained. And if he
had
no explanation, he’d look for one based on evidence, not what he called voodoo speculation.

When they were kids, Jake had been the first to question the existence of the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, just as he had later proclaimed—during a pot-fueled soliloquy—that the story of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection was a longstanding and commonly told myth. A myth that had traveled from religion to religion, culture to culture, for centuries before Jesus was supposed to have been born.

“The only evidence that he ever existed is the Bible,” Jake had said. “And that’s neither historical nor accurate, and was never really meant to be.”

“What about faith?” Pope had made the mistake of asking.

“Faith is nothing more than wishful thinking, based on conditioning, fear, and the desire for a reward. Ask any kid if he believes in the Easter Bunny, he’ll tell you with the greatest conviction that he does. It’s the same for those who believe in religious deities. Or ghosts and goblins, for that matter.”

“I hope you realize,” Pope said, “that you just insulted about ninety percent of the world’s population.”

Jake, who had just taken another hit of weed, exhaled a plume of smoke. “So sue me. The truth isn’t always pretty.”

Except for the switch from a pipe to a deputy’s badge, Jake hadn’t changed much since those days. To tell him now about McBride’s visions and the theory that she’d been murdered in a previous life—by the same perpetrator no less—made about as much sense as telling him that Dorothy’s adventures in Oz were based on true events. Especially after Pope had already sprung the Evan’s-a-psychic story on the poor guy.

But the popcorn was already out of the box and Pope felt he had no choice but to offer Jake a full confession. So he laid it out, sparing him nothing, as Special Agent Anna McBride remained uncharacteristically mute.