Blood of Angels (33 page)

I sleep, and from out of the darkness grows another dream. Rebecca and I are back in Florida, and like last time, Jazz is with us. Jazz is running on the beach in her little bathing suit, excited to feel the warm sand on her feet. She and her mother are tanned dark by the sun, and, like her mother's, Jazz's black hair is long and beautiful.

Nothing bad happens. There is no drowning surf, no dangerous undertow. I sit in a beach chair in the sand, the sun glinting so brightly off the water I have to raise my hand to shield my eyes. We're a family. We're happy, and it's beautiful.

“Thomas.”

I breathe deeply, turn my head, and open my eyes. Agent Myers is standing in the doorway. He looks at me, and I know that my enemy is back. “Tell me.”

“He's taken it to another level.”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks like he's finally ready to end this thing.”

WHEN I KILLED WILSON OWENS
, he died according to the strict precepts of law. Records indicate he requested a meal of spaghetti and meatballs, a cheeseburger, grits, blackeyed peas, and a beer. I have it from the warden that the beer was supplied, even though it was against regulations. Owens was provided with the services of a minister, which he refused. He was then restrained and walked to the Brushy Mountain execution chamber, where, because the prison is soon to be torn down, he most likely became the last person executed there.

That night, I walked in my mind down the hallway with Owens to his death. I watched him stretched in the death chair, and I saw him struggling to escape as the doctor inserted an IV into his forearm. I watched as the plastic bottles containing the lethal mixture of chemicals were carefully checked. I saw—my own heart pounding—as the doctor turned on the fatal drip, sending the drugs that would paralyze Bridges's heart and lungs. In my mind, I watched—sitting alone in my office, even though it was 11:35 p.m.—a doctor pronounce Wilson Owens dead.

This is the history I share with Wilson Owens, and it is this history that means I understand the dark irony of the photograph that Bridges now sends to my phone. All of us see that my daughter is naked, blindfolded, and strapped to a chair. And all can see that behind her hangs a large white sheet, eliminating any possible clue to her location. Beside her is a portable camping stove, and on the stove is an open-mouthed beaker. But Charles Bridges is sending his message to me, and I instantly comprehend it. “He's making phosphine,” I whisper.

Myers snaps his head toward me. “What?”

“Phosphine gas. It's produced by overcooking methamphetamine.”

“What about it?”

“It's the same gas used in a death chamber.”

Myers stares at the photograph. “Are you saying…”

“This is an execution. He's creating his own lethal gas, just like a prison. She'll die like a common criminal.” Jazz is faced toward the camera, her face tilted upward, as if she's listening to the darkness in terror. In her protected, little-girl world, the mind of Charles Bridges has not existed. What he is doing is a violation of everything good in the world. It is a stain on the whole earth. “He's using the red phosphorus method of meth production,” I say. My voice is cracking, but I push the words out. “He would normally remove the heat after a couple of hours. But he's not going to remove it from the heat this time. He's just going to let it stay there. Once the mixture reaches the proper temperature, the gas will be released.” I look away. “Death will come almost instantly.”

“How long does the process take?” Myers asks, in a whisper.

“Five to six hours.”

Newton looks up. “There's no way that burner has enough fuel to burn that long. It'll run out of fuel.”

“It doesn't matter. Burning phosphorous becomes exothermic after a couple of hours. After that, it will generate its own heat until it's completely turned to gas.”

“There's no way to know how long ago this picture was taken,” Myers says. “It could have just started. It could already be over.”

I hear crying, but I can't place it; then I realize it's coming from the speaker phone. Myers hasn't muted the microphone, and Kipling is weeping into her headset. “Take it easy, Kipling,” Myers says. “Take it easy.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I just thought we would be able to find him somehow.”

“You did your best, Kipling. Just stay on the line. We can't give up now.”

We sit around the table, bonded by our helplessness. The background behind Jazz—a nondescript white sheet—could be anywhere in the city. There's nowhere to look. There's nothing to do. Newton looks at his watch and quietly says, “It's three o'clock.”

Three o'clock. So no matter when this picture was taken, Jazz will be dead by eight.
I stand and step away from the table, stumbling on the chair. I fall forward, dropping to a knee. Myers reaches out to help, but I wave him off. “I'm OK,” I lie. “I just need to be alone.”

Summer has relented for a time, and it's almost brisk in Sarandokos's backyard. The temperature peaked today at about seventy-five, and great smothering clouds of gray sit immobile in the sky.
She won't feel any pain,
I think.
She'll just breathe in one last time, hating the smell of the room she's in, and the terror and nightmare will be over.
I walk out into the yard, looking at the green, manicured lawn. A rock garden has flowers interspersed through it, but they're summer annuals, and their season is ending. I stand outside a long time. My mind doesn't race to think of any last-minute move to save my daughter because I have ceased to believe that such a move exists. Charles Bridges has applied his warped mind to the destruction of my world. Unrestricted by morality or law, fueled by hate, he accomplished his task.

Since every second that passes brings home my daughter's death, I feel myself detaching from time completely. I can't bear to watch a minute or a second. I numb myself. At some point, I find myself sitting in an outdoor chair. I may have been there fifteen minutes. It may have been an hour.

The sun begins to lower past me, and I become aware that the afternoon is soon ending. I rise and look at my watch. It's 6:35.
It's probably over.
I walk back inside the house and go to the table. Myers and Newton are still sitting there, turning the problem over in their minds. But in another hour, even they will have to admit defeat. They will pack up their equipment and get on with their lives. The futile, grisly search for Jasmine's body will be the task of others.

“Hey,” Myers says, seeing me come in the room.

Newton rubs his temples. “What I don't get is how we never triangulated the call. I mean, the signal on Thomas's phone was strong. The connection never wavered. There's a ninety-four percent chance of triangulation to within nine hundred feet on any call with this setup, and he called more than once.
Nobody
is that lucky.”

Myers pushes back in his seat. “So you've said, ten times in the last hour.”

I pull out a chair and fall into it.
Triangulation.
I picture the process in my mind: the signal from Bridges's phone hitting three towers fractions of a second apart, the difference in time equating to only one possible location for the source.
Triangulation.
A thought is pushing through the fog of fatigue, and I can't quite grasp it.
Triangulation. Three towers.
I look at Newton. “You said it takes
three
towers.”

He looks at me, exhaustion etched on his face. “Yeah. But everywhere in Nashville is in reach of three.” He points at his monitor. “I'm seeing five from where we sit.”

“And when this thing works, you have a circumference of nine hundred feet, right?”

“Right.”

I look over at Myers. “What if the other phone is
inside
that radius?”

Myers looks up cautiously. “What?”

“It's a nine-hundred-foot range. So if his phone is somewhere inside that radius, it would be impossible to triangulate. His phone would be indistinguishable from your phone.”

Myers looks at Newton. “Is that right?”

Newton's eyes are wide as he works through the statement. “I don't know. Hell, it never even occurred to me.”

“What about it, Kipling?” Myers barks. “You getting this?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice answers. “I need just a—”

“Come on, Kipling! Is Dennehy right on this thing?” There's a long, agonizing pause. “
Talk
to me, Kipling.”

“I believe Mr. Dennehy is correct, sir. But to be certain to work, the other phone would have to be very close. Within yards.”

“Move your asses!” Myers shouts, coming to his feet. “Get the cops outside searching the area. Every house. Break down a door if you have to. Nine hundred feet; that can't be more than a couple of blocks. Move!”

I hit the front door in a dead run. A cop outside starts toward me to find out what's going on, and I wave him off. “Get everybody in these houses out into the street.” The cop gives me a confused look, which Myers settles with a barked command: “Hit the siren, officer. Search every house, door to door. Every room, I don't care what the objection. Start next door and move outward, one door at a time. And get some help over here!”

The officer stares a second, then moves to his car. A moment later, the air is filled with the searing whine of his siren. Myers is pounding on the front door to the left, and a cop is hammering away on the door to the right. I run past him, mentally calculating:
nine hundred feet. The lots are large, so that's a circle of only five or six possibilities.
Cops are spreading out to the houses nearby, but I grind to a halt.
A house for sale, around the corner.
I sprint down the side fence of Sarandokos's house, running alongside the backyard. At the end of Sarandokos's property, I scale a fence and drop down in the property that backs to it. The house I was staring at from the sunroom is before me. I pull the .45 out of my belt without breaking stride. The yard is a little overgrown, and there's no furniture on the large patio.
This is it. There's no one living here.
I jog up to the patio, slowing down to figure out the best way inside. There are heavy wooden blinds on each window, obscuring the interior.
Fuck it. Blow off the lock.
I empty two rounds into the back door lock, and it explodes with impact, the .45 cutting a swath through the metal and wood. The door swings open. I take a step toward it and stop cold.
If it's already over, the room she's in is my death, too.
I shake my head and plunge into the house.

The back door leads into a breakfast room that widens out into an open floor plan. The light is dim, and I can't see very far across the house. I sprint through the kitchen, calling out. “Jazz! Are you in here? It's Daddy!”

No one answers. I sniff the air but smell nothing except the musty air of a closed-up house.
He could have sealed the door with towels. It would make the death chamber more efficient.
I move through the main floor, opening door after door. Finally, I stand in the entry foyer. Steps lead both up and down. “Jazz!” Nothing. I head upward, taking the steps three at a time.
Fuck, there's a lot of rooms.
Door after door opens, each revealing nothing but a cold, empty space. I work my way down a hallway until I reach the last door. I turn the handle, and it doesn't move.
Locked.
I sniff the air; nothing. I look down at the floor; the hall is carpeted, and there's no visible room between the bottom of the door and the floor. I take a set and kick the lock with everything I have. The doorjamb cracks but holds together; I kick again, and the door swings open.

I walk in, turning left and right wildly. “Goddamn it! There's nothing here!” I run to the window to see if there are any police working the street yet. I look down at the street.
The van.

The steps downstairs are a blur. I lose my feet halfway down, falling the last half. The gun clatters to the ground but doesn't fire. I pick it up—I've twisted my ankle, but I ignore it—and run to the front door. It's locked with twin deadbolts. I step to the side and fire off three bullets into the locks. The knob now hangs uselessly from the door, and I yank open the door. I sprint down the driveway to the panel van. There are no windows in the storage compartment. “Jazz! Can you hear me?” I bang on the side of the van, but there's no response. I get to the back, find the rear door locked, and realize I have one bullet left for the lock. If I use it on the door and Bridges is inside, I have nothing left. I press the barrel against the lock and squeeze the trigger. I pull open the door. Light floods the cargo compartment. Simultaneously, a horrible, acrid smell floods outward, covering me. There, at the far end, is Jazz. She's still alive, thrashing her head back and forth in terror.

“Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!”

“It's me, baby! It's Daddy!” I leap into the cargo hold, pick up Jazz and her chair in one motion, and pull her out of the van. The chair topples over onto the street, but I don't stop to help her yet; instead, I rush back to the van and slam the door shut.

“Daddy? Is it you, Daddy?”

I crawl over to her and put my arms around her. “It's me, baby. It's Daddy.”

“I'm scared, Daddy. I'm so scared.” She's coughing, trying to get the horrible smell out of her lungs.

“It's OK, baby. I'm here, now.” I pull off the blindfold. Her eyes are red and swollen. “I'm here, baby. I'm here.”

She looks at me a second, then bursts into tears. I rip off my shirt and wrap her in it. When she's covered, I hold her gently, letting the sweet, safe air around us saturate her lungs. I hear voices and look up; Myers and a cop are running toward us. I close my eyes.
I found her. Thank God, I found her.