The Circle of Eight (7 page)

And his
brain told him it must have been an accident, a terrible coincidence that was
life. It wouldn’t be the first time a witness had died on him from perfectly
natural causes, or at least causes unrelated to the case.

He was
certain it wasn’t suicide.

Not
in front of her parents. Nobody would do that!

He had
met the distraught Espositos. When the mention of suicide came up, it was
angrily shouted down. But they had no explanation, except that perhaps she
wasn’t paying attention. They had pulled surveillance tapes from the area and
all they showed was a cluster of people, too thick to see many details, other
than to see her surge forward into the crosswalk with the bus racing the amber
light.

There
was no evidence anyone had pushed her.

None.

He
wished there were.

At least
then he could pursue the case and try to pin a murder on the beast that was
Lacroix.

But
instead he had received a phone call from Lacroix’s lawyer, he was sure one of
dozens, within hours of her death, asking for the charges, which hadn’t even
formally been filed yet, to be withdrawn, to avoid any “embarrassment” to
either side.

He had
told him to “Piss off, the body isn’t even cold yet!”, or words to that
affect, and slammed the phone down on its receiver. But a call from the Public
Prosecutor moments later suggested he got the same phone call, and was handling
it a little more delicately.

“I have
no choice but to not proceed. Without her as a witness, I don’t have a case.”

“But
what about the witnesses. The photographic evidence. The DNA!”

“The
witnesses didn’t see the attack. Lacroix will claim it was consensual and that
she was a willing participant. It will become a ‘he said, she said nothing’
trial. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sorry.”

Laviolette
had slammed the phone down on him as well.

His
phone rang in his pocket as his keys hit the door. He fished it out and took
the call from the office as he turned the key in his lock.

“Oui?”

“Sir!
I’m so glad I reached you. There’s been a development in the case.”

“What?”
asked Laviolette as he pushed open his door and stepped inside. “I’m home!” he
called to his family.

“We just
received a phone call from the United States. Their State Department.”

Laviolette
kicked off his shoes, his aching feet sighing in relief.

“Yes,
what is it?”

“Your
witness, the Agent Green I think his name was, the one who attacked M.
Lacroix”—Laviolette froze, his heart beginning to pound in his chest—“is dead.
His wife and child, along with Agent Green, were blown up. A bomb in their
house!”

But
Laviolette wasn’t listening.

His
usual arrival at home would solicit pounding feet from the far reaches as
little legs carried little bodies to him from wherever they were, and a return
call from his wife, who would usually be in the kitchen preparing dinner.

But none
of that had happened.

In fact,
there was no evidence of any dinner being cooked. No sounds from the kitchen,
no delicious aromas wafting through the air.

There was
nothing but silence.

“Monsieur?
Are you there?”

The
phone was still pressed to his ear, but forgotten.

He
stepped deeper into the house, toward the kitchen, the floorboards creaking
slightly as he made his way, a sound he was so used to it didn’t annoy him
anymore. But the day they had rented the place, needing something bigger, it
had bothered him to no end. But with their fourth child on the way, they had needed
more space, especially with the fourth being a boy. A boy couldn’t be holed up
with his three sisters in one room, not as he got older.

He
entered the kitchen and found nothing. No evidence of a dinner being prepared,
no evidence of a dinner even begun.

“Sir!
Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

He left
the kitchen, and entered the living room and cried out, dropping to his knees,
the phone clattering to the floor. All the furniture had been pushed to the
edges, leaving the center of the room empty, and in the middle lay his family.

Dead.

His wife
was in the middle, her arms stretched out to the sides, her legs tightly
together, like Jesus on a cross. And his four gorgeous children encircled her,
his two youngest, only three and five, at the top, their feet touching his
wife’s hands, their hands her head, their bodies stretched out as if to complete
the arcs of a circle. Their eldest, seven and eight years old, completed the
bottom of the circle surrounding his wife.

And in
the middle, surrounding his wife, was a pool of blood so large, so complete, it
gave the entire scene an almost artistic look, the shimmering red pool
appearing as if it had been meticulously painted, rather than running from the
arterial cuts that had been strategically made so the blood drained into the
center, rather than outside, spoiling the image.

Laviolette
stared, not sure of what to do. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. All he
could do was sob at the sight before him, at the loss of his loved ones, and in
a moment of final weakness, he decided he had to be with them

He
pulled his service weapon, and placed it against his head.

Then
pulled the trigger, begging God to forgive him for this ultimate of sins.

Outside Stucco’s Residence, Maas Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“You saw this in Geneva?” asked Red, his shaved head scratched and
bleeding. “Where?”

“On some
file folders in that Lacroix guy’s room.”

“So then
this
is
payback.”

“Almost
definitely.” Dawson lowered his voice. “Split into teams. Family men with
single guys. Get to your homes, collect your families, and get them to The
Unit. Don’t pack anything, just get them safe, then we’ll go back and clear the
houses and pick up anything you may need.”

“Do you
think he’s going to target all of us?” asked Niner. “I don’t have family on
base, but my folks are in California. This has me worried.”

“Call
them. Call whoever you think this guy might target and get them to safety. I’ll
have the Colonel contact the locals and try to get security details assigned
for the time being. I’m guessing though only Stucco and I have anything to
worry about.
Had,
I guess.” Dawson paused as they all bowed their heads
for a moment. “I’m guessing we’re the targets, since we’re the witnesses,”
resumed Dawson. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry, so protect your loved ones.
I’m going to meet with the Colonel.”

The team
split off into groups as Dawson strode toward his Mustang parked safely down
the road. To say he was angry would be putting it mildly. He was furious.
Enraged. If Lacroix were in front of him now, he’d tear his throat out and
watch him bleed to death while pissing in the hole he had made.

They
needed closure on this, and the only closure he could see would be against the
books.

Revenge.

He
pulled his cellphone from his pocket as he climbed in the car and dialed his
sister’s place. It rang several times then her old style answering machine
picked up.

“Sis,
it’s me, Burt. You there? Pick up if you are, it’s important”—he paused for a
few moments—“okay, well, as soon as you get this message, I want you to take George
and Jenny to the nearest police station, okay? Don’t stop to pack, just go.
Once you’re there, call me and let me know where. This is urgent, Sis, it’s
important. Please don’t ignore it. Love you.”

He hung
up and prayed not only that she’d get the message and act on it, but that there
was no reason to, this insanity over.

Köln, Germany

1472 AD

Dietrich stood in the shadows in front of Heike’s house, the rain
now hard and heavy. And cold. He shivered as he watched the door open
occasionally, the concerned look on her mother’s face obvious from the lantern
that hung outside, left to light her way home.

He desperately wanted to step forward, into the light,
and tell them what had happened to his beloved Heike, to their precious
daughter, but he couldn’t. He feared any contact with them would put them at
risk. Instead, he remained hidden, and when the door closed once more, he
plodded down the hill, the cobblestone slippery, causing him to lose his footing
several times before he finally reached the bottom, his heart aching as he
passed the wall where she had met her fate, again when he passed where he had
caught his last glimpse of her, and one final time as he walked past his
childhood home, his parents long dead from a return of the plague ten years
ago.

He had been an orphan, raised by the church, and had
shown great promise in Latin and the sciences, as taught in their limited
fashion by a paranoid religion. It was after his lessons one day, almost eight
years ago, that he was called into the Father’s rectory and introduced to an
imposing figure of a man with a gentle face.

He listened to the opportunities that would be afforded
him, and with a nod and not a word spoken, had left hand-in-hand with the man,
not to see the church or the Father again for five years.

And learned he had.

The knowledge bestowed him was wondrous, and
frightening. The things that were possible he had had no concept of, and when
asked if he would like to learn more, he jumped at the opportunity.

But the cost had been his soul.

He had sworn to remain a bachelor, to devote himself to
the sciences, and to commit, for life, to The Order. Naively he had agreed, and
the rest was history. And now that he was a doctor, and understood what The
Order was, what the Circle of Eight were, and his future within that, and what
the consequences were, he was filled with a horror of regret, not only at the
cost he had already borne, but what his future of loneliness would bring.

And tonight, with the knowledge he had nothing to live
for except The Order, he made one final commitment, then a silent prayer for
his lost Heike.

He stepped through the entrance of his master’s home,
and resigned himself to his fate.

Westover Hills Blvd, Richmond, Virginia

Sylvia Dawson-Biggs entered the driveway and sighed. Every time she
pulled up to her house lately it pissed her off. Things had been tight since
her husband George had lost his job. He had looked for almost a year for
something in his field, banking, but as their savings rapidly dwindled, and
their house barely maintained a value above their substantial mortgage, he had
finally announced he was going to take anything, even minimum wage, just to
start bringing in something.

She had
been the sole breadwinner that year, and for the past three years might as well
have been. She had a decent paying job as a nurse, but their lifestyle demanded
more, much more. They had cut back everywhere they could, including house
maintenance. The lawn wasn’t getting mowed by a service anymore, the weeds
weren’t getting sprayed, the gardening wasn’t getting done, and the
driveway hadn’t been sealed since he had been laid off. They needed a new roof,
the shingles curling badly, and the trim desperately needed a paint job.

It was
embarrassing.

They
kept driving the same cars, the Jaguar already paid off, but the constant
repair bills now that it was out of warranty were higher than the monthly
payments they were supposed to be now saving. It was bankrupting them faster
than the house, but George insisted on keeping it, wanting to maintain appearances.
She begged him to sell the albatross to some other poor fool, but George
wouldn’t hear of it.

Instead
he had set up an eBay account and was selling off everything that he could to
try and make ends meet so they could pay their mortgage and keep food on the
table. Neither of them had parents with enough money to help out, no rich aunts
or uncles, no big inheritance that might be just around the corner.

They
were screwed.

If George
couldn’t get a better job soon, they’d have to sell the house. She had long
argued they should—it didn’t matter to her. It was just a building they lived
in. But to George it was a sign of failure to give up. To drop from high-middle
income to low middle-income was just something he couldn’t bear.

Eventually
things will come to a head.

She
reached up and pressed the garage door opener out of habit, then cursed as it
did nothing. The opener had stopped working two weeks ago. No money to have it
repaired.

She
climbed out of her car, grabbed her gym bag from the backseat and released her
nine year old Jenny from the booster seat. She followed Jenny up the front
walkway, eyeballing the weeds and lack of flowers. No money for annuals this
year. Or last.

She
unlocked the door and went inside, Jenny sprinting up the stairs to her room,
she entering the code in the unmonitored security system. The panel beeped
twice, then she closed the door. The answering machine sitting on a console
table near the door was flashing with several messages. She prepared herself
for more bill collectors as she pressed the button.

The
machine beeped and the misery began as she kicked her shoes off and made her
way to the kitchen.

“This
is Franco from Tim’s Autopalace. The new ABS module for your Jag is in. Can you
give us a call at 555-7838 to arrange an appointment to have it installed?”

George had
learned how to do his own oil changes and basic maintenance like topping up
fluid levels, rotating tires, and what not, but not the big things, which were
constant. Her car needed new tires, his were probably on their last five
thousand miles and with the damned Jag it was one thing after another. ABS
module, new battery, alternator, electrical problems coming out of the
woodwork. And a leaking roof. The thing that had finally told her the Jag
people hadn’t a clue was when they said all convertible roofs leaked in car
washes. She had screamed at them. “This is our fourth convertible, and it’s the
only one to have ever leaked! And you’re telling me that’s normal?”