Angel Killer (6 page)

I wipe my hands off and stand up when I notice the medical examiner is watching me. I ignore her gaze and look down at the grave markers.

What if this isn’t Chloe’s grave?

For a moment I wonder if it’s a kind of puzzle. Did the man who did this just move the markers? That would be the easiest way.

I count twelve in this row and move on to the next.

Agent Shannon walks over to me. “Counting plots?”

“Yes,” I reply. My eyes stop on a marker for a woman who died the same week astronauts landed on the moon.

Shannon gives a reverential nod to the markers. His voice is hushed like we’re in a church. “We did that earlier. Pulled the records on the graves. No dice.”

“I didn’t think there would be any. But it’s worth a check.” I’m glad they already thought of it.

“Ever see anything like it?” Shannon asks.

“Besides in a magic trick? No. But that’s what this is.” I don’t mention that the last time I saw something like this I was on the inside of the coffin, or that I almost died. I don’t want to sound hysterical or try to make it about me. I don’t think my particular experience is relevant, just my general knowledge.

He folds his arms and looks back at Chloe’s body. “Hell of a trick.”

He’s trying to understand what’s going on here. I’m sure he’s imagining her crawling out of the ground, while the medical examiner is wondering how she possibly could have screwed up and declared a living girl dead. Danielle and her team are trying to figure out the soil chemistry and look for clues there.

I think of Ailes’s example with the deck of cards. We’re looking at the pieces of cardboard, but not seeing what really happened.

We’re all distracted. Each one of us thinking along our own biases. Shannon, the physical solution. The medical examiner, the procedural error. Danielle, the scientific explanation.

I walk back over to the table with the ground radar. The tech who had the handheld scanner, Agent Davis, is offering his theory. He waves his hand toward Chloe and shakes his head as he dismisses the whole thing. “We get this in the South all the time. The soil gets real damp, cracks open a coffin, and a body floats to the top in the mud. We even have tombs where the coffins get rearranged because of the flooding. People think it’s ghosts.” He seems confident in his theory, but I notice he doesn’t look over at Chloe when he says “ghost.”

Words have power.

He seems happy with his explanation and looks at the other members of the team, waiting for their approval.

The medical examiner speaks up behind us. “Do your bodies manage to change their cause of death? Miraculously heal from their wounds, only to die two years later from asphyxiation? Spontaneously dry the mud in hours?” Gladys’s words are bitter.

Detective Gimbal tries to calm her down. “Gladys, your judgment is the last thing anyone here is going to question.”

She gives him a sharp look. “I’m not worried about that. I just want to get her out of the ground and onto my table so I can do a proper exam. The sooner you finish with the technology demo, the better.”

“You got your blood samples,” replies Shannon. “And I think we’re going to need to evaluate where we do the autopsy . . .”

Gladys’s eyebrow shoots up. “I see.” Her tone is chilling. “If I’m no longer needed here, then I guess I should be going home. Give my regards to her family. Again.” The last word punctures the air like a knife.

Gimbal chases after her to try to calm her down. It’s obvious she feels like she’s on trial here. I reach her first. I can see the hurt in her eyes.

She turns to me. “Who are you?” The question is cold and clinical. I feel like I’m on her autopsy table, about to be dissected.

“Special Agent Jessica Blackwood. But that’s not important.” I try to find the right words. “We need your help. There are two murders here and a killer to catch.”

Shannon is just over my shoulder. “We haven’t established that it’s a murder investigation yet.”

I wheel around to him. “Of course it is. You have two murders. The one two years ago and the one of this girl. The real question, besides who did this, is which girl was the real Chloe McDonald.”

I’m speaking my gut. It’s the only logical conclusion. Someone has to say it.

Shannon is about to say something, then stops. The words are soaking in.

Gladys’s expression softens a millimeter when she realizes I’m not attacking her.

To be perfectly honest, I spoke without thinking. I’m missing something. We’re watching a magic trick, but only seeing part of it. There’s something more. The Warlock wanted us here to see this. He probably stood right where I’m standing, just a few hours ago. Everything is planned. From the code on the FBI computer, the two killings two years apart, to this moment. We’re his intended audience. The show is only getting started.

I turn around as two county techs are preparing to pull Chloe’s body out of the ground.

Something is wrong.

I scream, “Stop!”

A
LL EYES ARE
on me. A deputy reflexively puts his hand on the butt of his gun. I sound like I’m insane. My voice is shrill and panicked.

I ignore the looks and run back to Chloe’s body.

“Just step back,” I tell the techs in a calmer voice.

They set down their plastic shovels and move away from the body, not sure if I’m making a threat. One of them looks for a supervisor to tell them how to handle the crazy woman yelling at them.

“What the hell, Blackwood?” Agent Shannon’s face is red with fury as he runs over to us.

“The body.” I point to her as I try to find the words to explain. “There are only two possibilities. It’s either Chloe McDonald or another girl. Either way, we know this girl only died a few hours ago. But we’re supposed to think that this is the same girl who died two years ago, yet miraculously came back to life and crawled out of her grave. Which we know is bullshit. We know it’s not Chloe.”

Shannon shakes his head. “How?”

I point to her bloody fingers. “Because her fingerprints would show us that. That’s why he made it look like she shredded them climbing out of the ground. So there wouldn’t be any. It’s misdirection. It’s the weakest part of the illusion, so he eliminated it.”

Something is still nagging at me. It’s the easiest way to explain why they shouldn’t touch the body. I still haven’t wrapped my mind around what’s really going on here. It’s bigger. So much bigger . . .

“The blood matched.” The ponytail tech’s voice is almost condescending.

I spin around. “So what? How much blood did you find in Chloe when you pulled her out of the bay? What do you want to bet we’ll find an IV somewhere on her body if we look closely enough. Maybe even inside a body cavity. Whoever killed Chloe took blood from her so he could put it in this girl’s veins.”

It’s just a theory, maybe one of many, but I have to stall them.

Gladys is shaking her head. “But we’d figure this out during an autopsy.”

I bite my lip as I stare down at Chloe’s, or whoever’s, face. It’s still screaming silently. “I know. He knows that. That’s why he doesn’t want it to happen. If it does, it destroys the illusion.” I step back and point to the body. “If it were me, I’d do something to the body. Rig it so that when you moved it, after you got the effect, it would somehow destroy the evidence. If it’s not her body, he doesn’t want us to find that out.”

Gimbal doesn’t even hesitate. Put in simple terms of bombs and booby traps, he gets the point. “Everyone step back.” He raises his radio to his mouth. “Get the bomb squad here stat!” He looks back at me.

I nod. “It might not be a bomb. Something.” I turn to Gladys. “What would you do?”

She’s about to speak but stops at the sound of rushing air. The fake Chloe’s mouth emits a rumbling sound and orange sparks begin to shoot out. Her cheeks glow bright red and thick smoke pours from her lips and nostrils. Instantly, her whole body is engulfed in flames and turns into an inferno. We all leap back as it blazes into a fireball.

I shield my head with my arms and try to avoid the heat. I take Gladys’s hand and pull her away. She’s too stunned to move. The fire spits up into the gray sky, raging twenty feet into the air. A pillar of smoke climbs even higher.

I throw my jacket on the body, only to watch it melt in seconds. Shannon pulls me back as a fire crew rushes from the street with extinguishers and starts spraying.

Gladys snaps out of her shock. “Use the chemical extinguishers and watch for acid burns!”

A fireman nods and runs off to get more equipment. They fight it for several minutes. Despite the foam, the body continues to burn. Her face is a black cinder. A ghastly angel spewing dark smoke and fire. The dried flesh turns to ash and begins to disintegrate in the wind.

The plume is a hellish spire reaching into the sky. Cameramen across the street climb on top of their news vans to film the conflagration.

I look at Gladys and can tell what she’s thinking. There will be some forensic evidence left. Maybe enough to prove there could have been another girl, but not enough to prove this wasn’t Chloe’s body. Even her parents were fooled.

And that’s the point of this cruel illusion.

Uncertainty.

To plant doubt in people’s minds.

The magician never wants you to look into his pocket or up his sleeve. Great illusionists would take axes to their old equipment before they’d give a rival a chance to dig through the trash pile in the alley in back of the theater and steal those secrets for their own.

The Warlock needed to make his deception perfect. If we had absolute proof the girl wasn’t Chloe, he’d just be another charlatan. He wanted us to watch as he destroyed the illusion before our eyes. Even still, something is missing . . .

Grandfather used to call it the long burn. It’s a setup within a setup. It’s how you fool the smartest ones in your audience. It’s the kind of thing you do to destroy just one person. It was how he bested his rivals.

I’m letting myself get too distracted and forgetting the present. I need to focus on the here and now. We’re still in the middle of the Warlock’s show.

Shannon turns from the fire and squints at the buildings around the cemetery. We’re all having the same thought. Someone is watching us. The fire could have been live-triggered.

At the back of the cemetery there’s an ivy-covered fence. Just beyond is a row of warehouses. I’m sure the police cleared the area, but there’s something too convenient about the location. Shannon notices me looking in that direction.

I almost miss the figure at first. Hard to see against the night sky, there’s an outline of someone lying flat on the roof of a building.

I’m about to suggest that we quietly call it in to the local police when Shannon shouts, “You on the roof, freeze!”

I don’t wait to see if they follow orders. I know he’s about to bolt. I take off running to try to reach him before he has a chance to climb down and get away.

Shannon and Gimbal are behind me, far behind me, by the time I make it to the fence.

I thank God for yoga as I slip my body over the top rail and land in a crouch without hurting myself. I should wait for them to catch up, but time is everything.

I slip my Glock from my holster and run to the other side of the building. Footsteps echo from the alley. I can’t tell if they’re running away or running toward me.

T
HE WATCHER WHO
was on the roof can only be a few hundred feet away. On the other side of the building I reach a narrow alley between the warehouse and a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Wild grass and torn-up garbage bags litter the empty lot on the other side.

The sun has set and the alley is lit only by stray streetlights and the dark silver sky, hiding the moon. My knee bangs into a broken crate that slams into a metal Dumpster. I have to keep my eyes on the ground to avoid tripping on the abandoned machinery.

I can’t see anyone moving, but I decide to shout anyway. “Freeze! FBI!”

I’m answered by the sound of wind whipping at tattered newspapers. I step forward, keeping my gun trained on the darkest corners. I know I saw someone on the roof, I just don’t know who. It could be our perp or some kid who wanted to get a better look and was scared off by Shannon’s shout. I proceed carefully, more afraid of shooting an innocent person than for my own safety.

My eyes adjust a little to the shadows. I can’t see where anyone could be hiding. The rusty door on the loading dock looks as if it hasn’t been opened this century. I continue along and hear the sound of Shannon climbing over the fence. The metal makes a rattling sound, followed by a groan as he lands.

He catches his breath and shouts to me, “Anything?”

I keep my eyes trained ahead. “Negative.”

I reach the end of the alley without seeing a thing. At the back end of the warehouse is a fire escape leading to the roof. Gimbal approaches from the other side with his gun leveled at the ground.

The street in front is empty. Rain-filled puddles are still rippling from the drizzle. Across from us are a few more buildings like this one and a trailer park several blocks over that we passed on the way in.

The wail of squad cars grows louder as they try to cordon off the area. I think we’re too late. I holster my gun and look up at the ladder. The rungs are rusty. It’s doubtful they’ll get a print off of it. But I decide not to climb up. I don’t want to chance it. Besides, they might get something from the metal sidings on the top.

Gimbal holsters his gun too. “You sure you saw someone?” he asks us.

Shannon nods.

“I know, I’m positive,” I reply. “I saw the shape and watched it move.”

Gimbal scratches his chin. “Could it have been a bird?”

Shannon and I ignore the question. His eyes scan the ground and come to a stop. Almost invisible in the darkness, it’s little more than a triangle.

Shannon squats, takes a pair of tweezers from his pocket and holds the object up to the street light. Blue cardboard, torn at the edge. He gives me a look. We both recognize it. I use the same brand.