Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
“I can’t go back, Dil. Not now.”
“What happened?” he asked quietly. “Jack, you and me. What happened?”
Jack shook his head. He had promised himself twenty years ago that he would never talk about his father’s betrayal with anyone, especially the family. Ma loved him, and Jack wouldn’t hurt her again for the world.
“Dad disowned me,” Jack said, staring straight ahead. “And that’s it.”
“Don’t leave it at that—”
“I realized tonight that twenty years isn’t long enough. I also realized that I shouldn’t have let him sever ties to my family. He thought that if he took away everyone I cared about, I would come back and tell him he was right and thank him for showing me the error of my ways and saving my career.” He grunted. “It’s clear now. I made a new family in the army and I didn’t need—I didn’t think I needed—you or Ma or anyone.”
Jack faced Dillon, jaw tight with restrained emotion. “You’re my brother. I—” He paused. “I want my family back. But I no longer have a father.”
“You don’t—”
“I do mean it, Dillon. He told me never to come home. No more. He no longer exists to me. He disowned me twenty years ago, but he still controlled me all this time. Now I’m free. And if you can’t accept it, that’s you.”
Dillon frowned. “You know this isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is.”
They stared at each other in silence for a long time. Dillon’s phone beeped. He read a text message. “Everyone is at Connor’s place. Come back with me. One night.”
The radio buzzed behind him.
“Kincaid, you’re cleared. The thunderstorms moved northeast.”
Jack stared at the radio. Dillon didn’t say another word. It was on Jack now. Did he want his family back? Could he turn his back again?
Could he live with himself if he did? Would they call him if they needed him, or would they disown him as well?
“5-A-Z-1-1-1-3-4, copy.”
Did he want to turn into Scout? He loved the man, but Scout had nothing outside of their team. No family. No wife. No kids. And while a wife and kids were out of the cards for Jack, he did have a family. Brothers and sisters, and maybe a few nieces and nephews down the road. Could he turn his back on the future?
Did he want to?
He picked up the microphone. “Thanks, but I have a change of plans. I won’t be leaving until oh seven hundred.”
“Roger, oh seven hundred. I’ll have the Cessna ready.”
CHAPTER
SIX
Frank Cardenas was a priest.
Why hadn’t Karin known? She’d had his name and address, but they hadn’t scouted Hidalgo. It was a small Hispanic town, they were white and stood out. It had already been risky going to the bar to get the lay of the land, but she couldn’t send Ethan in there, with or without her. He’d become too unpredictable. It was better when she acted alone, when she was disguised.
She’d had his address, the small house next to the church. She hadn’t known it was a rectory. For all her plans, the way she arranged each murder, stalking the victims, she’d gotten arrogant in her success. Ethan was pushing to finish, though; she could have held him off a couple extra days to do further research. But after finding him naked in the dirt, she realized she didn’t have much time before Ethan’s mind permanently snapped.
She could tell Ethan that Frank Cardenas had moved. Or it was the wrong Frank Cardenas.
She couldn’t kill a priest.
What do you mean you can’t? You can kill anyone. He’s guilty, just like the others.
Father Cardenas locked the church doors at midnight. The night was balmy, the air still. The silence and calmness made her antsy.
He walked toward the rectory and saw her. She couldn’t avoid him now.
“Father?” she said.
He approached, face impassive. But his eyes scanned the area discreetly. Paranoid? “May I help you?”
“I need to make a confession.”
“Reconciliation is an hour before every Mass,” he said. “Tomorrow I open the church at six a.m.”
“I have to leave early in the morning.”
The priest offered to arrive thirty minutes earlier.
“I have to leave at five.” Was that a lie? Not really. They did have to leave early. As soon as they killed two men. . . .
“Dear Lord,” Cardenas mumbled.
Had she heard correctly? Was that a whisper of Heaven in the air? More likely the gloating of Hell.
“Let’s go into the church, child.”
Father Michael used to call her “child” in a warm, endearing voice. Before he’d been murdered.
But she had found him justice. She had punished the wicked. An eye for an eye. That was her calling.
“Thank you.”
He walked alongside her. She was leading him to the slaughter. Her limbs grew heavy. She put her hands in the pocket of her windbreaker, felt the syringe with the mild tranquilizer. Only if necessary. Ethan was waiting at the house, but he’d see them. He’d come here.
They approached the church. She had to buy time. Maybe within the church there would be answers.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.
“I’m visiting a friend.”
“And you’re Catholic.”
“Yes, Father. Born and raised.”
“But—?”
She laughed bitterly, but it ended in a sob that she quickly swallowed. “I haven’t been to Mass in over twenty years.”
“Let’s save this for the confessional.”
“It may take awhile.”
“Sleep is overrated. What’s your name?” He walked toward the main doors.
She stared at the side of the church, eyes wide. “Is that the Passion?” Small lights shone behind the narrow stained-glass windows that lined the walls. “They’re beautiful.” She was awestruck, walking slowly along the side of the old church.
The glasswork’s eyes accused her. She imagined Pontius Pilate sentencing her to death. But unlike Jesus, she was guilty.
Don’t feel guilty!
She hadn’t killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Criminals who slipped through the system. Predators who deserved to die for their crimes. Murderers. Rapists. Child molesters. The world was a better place because of Karin.
But a priest? She couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
She had to. If she didn’t, Ethan would, and he’d hurt him first. Make him suffer. She liked that part, but not a priest. Not Father Cardenas.
She could kill Ethan first.
No, she hadn’t finished her training. There were still things she needed to learn. She’d have to speed it up because Ethan wasn’t getting any saner. The guy was combustible.
She could “accidentally” kill Father Cardenas. So he wouldn’t suffer. Whatever he’d done to Ethan in the past, maybe . . .
“They’re old,” Father Cardenas said. “Over two hundred years, except for the weeping women, which was broken by vandals shortly after I came here.”
“It looks the same as the others.”
“The artisan is very talented.”
“Are you from Hidalgo?”
“No.”
“The church sent you here?”
“Yes, but I asked to come.”
“Why?”
“It’s a poor town, but spiritually strong. And it was a good place to come for redemption.”
He looked at her. In the dim, yellowed outdoor lights, he seemed to glow. Like an angel. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
She nodded. She couldn’t speak.
He unlocked the door.
“The confessional is across the way, in the chapel,” he said, letting her step inside first. The lights were on, though dimmed. The church was old, with worn pews, old statues, and a simple altar. To the left was a small alcove where several wooden kneelers faced the statue of the Blessed Virgin on a pedestal. More than half the one hundred and ten candles behind her were lit, their low flames dancing faintly with the stirred air.
She dropped a handful of coins into the donation box, the metallic clink of change thumping when it hit the wood bottom. She took a long match from its holder and lit it from a low flame, stared at it, head bowed as if in prayer.
On the one hand, Frank Cardenas had left Ethan to be tortured and die. On the other, he was a priest and had been forgiven by a higher power. Would killing him be true justice?
Ethan wanted to kill them all. But that was because she had planted the idea in him. It had been her plan from the beginning, Ethan simply embraced it. Wholeheartedly. He couldn’t see anything else. He wouldn’t understand her hesitance because Cardenas was a priest. She could lie. She sometimes did, and usually got away with it.
This time, Ethan would know.
The priest walked toward the chapel on the opposite side of the church.
Dammit, I don’t know what to do!
Father Francis turned on a low light in the confessional, leaving the brunette woman to gather the courage to confess. He’d seen the struggle in her eyes. The fear of giving up the pain, the guilt, and the sin to God. He’d been where she was. He hadn’t gone to confession in the fifteen years he served in the army. Because he knew he couldn’t promise not to commit the same sins again.
He still had a gun, but he never touched it. He kept it in a box in his bedroom, in the closet, high on a shelf. He opened the lid only when he needed to remember, to repent, to beg for mercy and forgiveness. He had nearly put a bullet in his head with that gun.
“What a way for you to call me, Lord,” he mumbled as he closed the curtain of the confessional.
Francis had come to Hidalgo for many reasons, but primary among them was because Jack had settled with his crew here on the Rio Grande, and Francis owed Jack more than his life. He doubted Jack understood the impact he’d had on Francis’s life—and the lives of so many others. And he worried about his old friend, letting the past eat him alive. Jack didn’t see it. Francis didn’t see much else.
He knelt, crossed himself, and said his own prayers, holding the rosary his grandmother had given him on her deathbed. He’d been nine.
“You will be a priest, Frankie. But first you have to walk through purgatory.”
He hadn’t understood back then. He hadn’t wanted to be a priest, and purgatory was for dead people.
Now, he accepted that his grandmother had been a prophet, a personal prophet for him.
Francis heard a voice. The woman—she hadn’t given him her name—might be lost. Maybe she hadn’t paid attention to him when he pointed toward the side chapel.
A door closed.
He walked out. The church was empty, he sensed it before he searched and realized no one was inside. Just him.
Francis glanced up at the crucifix behind the altar. “And you, Lord.”
He hoped the woman found what she needed, but feared her demons were too great to battle alone. The encounter was odd enough that Francis walked through his church, checked the tabernacle, the altar, the sacristy. Everything looked in order.
“Francis,” he muttered to himself, “why are you so apprehensive?” It was the woman, he decided, the odd woman who wanted to confess, then left without forgiveness. Usually, those returning to the church for redemption had committed what they felt was an unpardonable sin, and had some sort of brush with death where they began to search their souls.
“I don’t know what she did, Father, but please have mercy on her.”
He put the woman from his mind, putting the lost sheep in God’s hands.
On his way out of the church, Francis walked past the prayer candles. None were lit. The sight should have enraged him—why would she blow them out? But instead, he felt a deep, deep sadness. And fear.
Ethan slapped her. Again. Three times. Tears of rage stained his face. Karin had betrayed him.
She pushed back at him. “Don’t
ever
hit me!”
He grabbed her hair, pulled her to him. He didn’t see the woman who’d saved him. Instead, he saw fangs and horns and laughing eyes. She wanted to hurt him.
“You changed the plans! You were supposed to bring him around to the house. We had it planned!” He was a grown man, but he sounded like a petulant brat. He shook her to prove he was a man. Inside, he was hollow. He watched from above. Was that him?
Kill her.
No. No no! Ethan needed her. His heart raced. He was going to die, his heart was going to run away without him. He turned his head, saw the beating organ running on legs down the street. Was that his heart? He blinked. Nothing. There was nothing. It was the middle of the night, there was nothing. Dark, empty, black.
“You didn’t tell me he was a priest,” she said.
What was she talking about? “I don’t understand.”
She pulled away from him, took two steps back. “Dammit, Ethan! I can’t kill a priest. I can’t. I can’t.”
“But he hurt me.”
His voice was a whisper; he didn’t know he had spoken.
She put her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe he is one of the few who is sorry.”
Ethan’s laugh sounded like the growl of a lunatic hyena, a combination of psychotic glee and rage. It stopped as suddenly as it began. That wasn’t him laughing, was it? Yes.
No.
He didn’t exist anymore. Did he?
“You know what they did to me.”
She caressed his face. He didn’t feel her hand, but then she skimmed her nails down his neck.
“I can’t kill a priest.”
“What if he’s sticking it into little boys? Could you kill him then?”
“That’s different.”
“How do you know he’s not?”
“If you take him out, I’m done.”
“You can’t be done. That’s not how it works.”
Don’t leave me. Don’t desert me. They’ll hurt me again.
He was shaking uncontrollably. “We agreed,” he whined.
“This was my plan in the first place!” she shouted. “The whole thing! I gave it to you, you’d never have done anything but complain and try to kill yourself!”
He didn’t need the reminder. She always told him the same thing.
I saved you. You’re mine. You’re mine and we’ll find vengeance. You deserve it. Everything will be fine when they’re dead. Everything will be perfect.
“I know.” His voice was a squeak.
“I always have a backup plan. We’ll do Bartleton now.”
“We have to do both.”
“No.”
“You’re the one who hates changing plans midstream.”
“I learned something while staking out the bar earlier,” she said.
“What?”
“Bartleton is a drinker. He’ll be out of it, at least enough to slow his reaction time.” She glanced at her watch. “We don’t have much time. He’ll be walking home from the bar any minute, and we need to get into place.”
It felt to Ethan like she was manipulating him. He was confused and panicking. He needed to kill the priest. If they changed the plan, nothing would be right again. It felt out of order. Something was missing. An itch he couldn’t scratch.
Karin watched the psycho closely as he dug his fingernails deep into his palms. He was so close to the edge, but she couldn’t lose him now. He had to finish teaching her. When she’d used Ethan’s techniques on Perry, she’d failed. She couldn’t afford to fail when it mattered. She
wouldn’t.
She needed more practice. She’d use Bartleton. They didn’t have many more on the list.
While Ethan was thinking, she remained silent. She would not kill Frank Cardenas. When she looked in his eyes, she didn’t see a predator. She didn’t see a killer. She saw redemption.
Fool. He’s a good liar. They’re all liars.
Not him, not the priest.
“There’s always hope, child.”
She bit back a cry. It was as if Father Michael had whispered in her ear.
“I want to die,” Ethan whimpered.
“I know.”
“Why don’t you kill me?”
Because you’re a lousy teacher!
“I love you, Ethan.”
His face softened. “What do we do now?”
“Bartleton.”
“I can hurt him.”
“Yes. But you need to let me do it this time. Show me, Ethan. Teach me right this time.”
“I promise.”
She didn’t know if he would or wouldn’t. His psychosis was a minefield. She had to tiptoe carefully.
But she’d saved the priest. Maybe it would buy her time.
Ethan smiled unpleasantly.
“This will be fun, right?”
“Right.”
Fun.
This wasn’t fun anymore, it was work. She shivered as they walked in the shadows away from the church, toward Lawrence Bartleton’s house.
Karin did not look back.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Loud knocking startled Megan from a deep sleep. For a split second, she opened her eyes and forgot she was at her loft. Mouse jumped from her lap with an irritated
meow
and papers and photographs slid to the floor. The privacy blinds in her fourth-floor loft apartment were only half drawn; dawn crept through Sacramento to the east. She’d fallen asleep in her living room for the second night in a row.
The pounding resumed and she walked to her door, looking through the peephole and seeing the young attorney who lived across the hall. He worked in Matt’s office and had been the one who told Matt about the new lofts when Megan moved to the city four years ago.
She opened the door. “Jesse.”
He was dressed for work. “Sorry to wake you up, Agent Elliott, but I have an early court hearing and this came for you yesterday. I signed for it.”
He handed her an overnight envelope. It was so light Megan wondered if anything was inside. She moved it right to left. Something small and thin shifted to the side. The label came from a shipping company out of Reno, Nevada. She didn’t think she knew anyone in Reno, at least no one well enough that they would have her home address.
“Thanks, Jesse. I needed to get up anyway.”
“I didn’t want to leave it on the doorstep in case it was valuable. They
claim
this is a secure building.” He shook his head. There had been two robberies in the past year.
“I appreciate it, Jesse. And don’t call me Agent Elliott. I told you that.”
“Can’t help it,” he answered, sheepishly. “Gotta go. Bye.”
She closed the door and yawned widely. She started coffee, fed Mouse, who made his hunger loudly known, then picked up the envelope again. Reno . . . She glanced at the return address, squinted to read the small handwritten letters. Sacramento. 4800 Broadway.
Her heart raced and she dropped the envelope on the counter.
Broadway . . . the morgue.
There was no reason the morgue would send her a package at her residence. None. She hardly knew anyone at the morgue. Phineas Ward, the supervisor, was a mere acquaintance. He obviously knew Matt, though . . . would Matt have given him her home address? Never. He was as security conscious as she was. And why would it have been shipped from Nevada? It made no sense.
She ran to her bedroom and opened her emergency Evidence Response Team kit. She extracted two plastic gloves from a box and slid them on, and put a simple cloth and elastic mask over her nose and mouth—worthless in a gas attack, but she could avoid breathing in any fine particles, like anthrax. She closed her door, locking Mouse inside so he didn’t inadvertently contaminate potential evidence or get hurt.
At her small kitchen table, she picked up the envelope and examined it more carefully. It didn’t appear that there was anything bigger than a business card inside, but she wasn’t taking chances. The anthrax scares after 9/11—while she’d still been an agent out of D.C.—had her expecting the worst. She felt like a fool. But better a fool than dead.
Holding her breath, she carefully opened the cardboard envelope with her Swiss Army knife.
Almost immediately she ascertained that there was no biological contaminant. In fact, the envelope was empty.
No . . . there was a small weight at the bottom.
She took a sheet of paper from her notepad and carefully tapped the contents of the envelope onto the paper.
A small metal plate fell out.
An identification tag. The stamped metal landed upside down and backward, but she could read the name nonetheless.
PRICE, GEORGE L.
Less than thirty hours after Jack Kincaid left Hidalgo he returned to the small private airfield outside the city limits. He regularly used the unmanned strip for his operations. He didn’t have his own plane, but Scout had been the pilot for so long that Jack didn’t think he’d ever need one. He had a nest egg stashed away for his retirement—and in this line of work, he had only a few good years left before age defeated him. When he was ready, he had a friend who’d sell him a nice little Skyhawk at a good price.
The idea of retiring came more often now—ever since Lucy’s kidnapping and rescue and Patrick’s near death. He had a plan to set up a private soldier training facility. He didn’t know much else except for being a soldier, but he saw a need, especially to protect missionaries and other do-gooders who thought they could change the world. Too many were dying. Jack couldn’t protect them all, but he could train up a force to do it.
He landed and decided to poke fun at Scout. He called his cell phone, half expecting Scout to pick up, though he’d probably have a hangover. He tended to drink heavily after a mission because Jack forbade drinking on assignment.
Scout’s voice mail picked up.
“Leave a message if it’s important.”
Jack grinned.
Scout.
“Buddy, it’s Jack. I’m having a bit of a problem with the Caravan. Don’t know what happened, can you call me back?”
He hung up, then remembered that Scout had plans with his girlfriend and her two sons. Good. Jack liked Rina, she was good for Scout. Maybe he would finally cut back on the drinking and take some personal responsibility. Since Padre had retired from soldiering, on the job Jack trusted no one more than Scout. But personally, Scout didn’t care much about anything except hitting the bar.
Jack took his truck to his favorite diner just outside Hidalgo on the interstate. It served up a real breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast—cheap. Nothing fancy, but everything tasted great. Jack could cook, but he didn’t care to. He kept it simple and functional when he was home; out on assignment, meals weren’t his responsibility.
It was eleven when he hit town and drove past Scout’s house on his way to talk to Padre at the church. A police car was stopped in front of Scout’s place. The chief of police himself was getting out of the driver’s seat as Jack passed. That couldn’t be good.
Jack pulled his truck over and jumped out. Scout’s drinking was usually under control, but sometimes . . . he’d gotten into a fight last year. Had to pay restitution and do a bit of community service. Swore to Jack it wouldn’t happen again. And then of course that bar fight with Perez’s deputy . . .
As Jack approached, he took in everything around him. Art Perez. Rina, standing across the street with her boys and a couple other folks. They all looked worried. Another police car turned the corner. And Padre was standing on the porch, pale, but looking more like the warrior from yesterday than the man of God he was today.
“Kincaid, stop—” Art began.
Jack walked past him. “Padre—”
“Don’t.” His eyes were sharp. “Scout’s dead.”
The truth sunk in instantly. Jack had no denial. He’d seen dead men before. Friends. Men he took orders from, and men who took orders from him. He’d seen women and children raped and murdered. No denial, but that didn’t stop the hot anger from flooding through him, or the raw pain that filled him.
“How?”
“Jack.” Art followed him up to the small porch. They were three large men; it was crowded.
Jack didn’t look at him.
Padre said, “He was murdered.”
Surprise lit Jack’s face. “Murdered. At the bar?”
Padre shook his head, glanced through the window.
Jack stepped inside as Art exclaimed, “You can’t! This is a crime scene.”
Jack ignored him, but didn’t touch anything. The foul, familiar scent of death—blood, urine, feces—sat heavy in the hot, thick air. He walked through the bungalow—living room on one side, two small bedrooms down a short hall to the right with a bathroom between them. The sunroom Scout had built himself a couple years back where he spent most of his free time watching sports was in the back of the house, behind the kitchen and dining room.
Scout lay prone on his kitchen floor, eyes open, dried blood pooled around his head and the back of his knees. Instantly, Jack knew that Scout had been hamstrung—he’d seen it before, in another country, another life.
Flies had already found the body—it was ninety degrees at noon. Scout was naked, but he’d soiled himself. The smell was worse in here.
A chair was on its side. Cut duct tape still attached to the armrests. Blood on the chair and on the terra-cotta tile floor. Jack had helped Scout put in the tile when he bought the place years ago.
“Jack.” Padre spoke quietly.
“Who?”
“We don’t know. But—”
Jack turned. “What do you know about this?”
“Come to the rectory with me.”
Jack shook his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath through his mouth. “Tell me.”
Art Perez spoke. He could be a boisterous, uncouth bastard, and he and Jack had had it out more than once; this morning, however, he seemed to understand that professionalism went a long way.
“Rina’s sons came over this morning because Lawrence had offered to take them into Brownsville for a special Toros game. He was supposed to pick them up at ten, but didn’t show and Rina told the boys to go over and wake him up.” Perez frowned. “She’s torn up about it. Juan found the body.”
The body.
Scout was a body now.
“Juan called me,” Padre said. “I came right away, called Art, then Rina. Jack—”
Jack didn’t have anything to say. Scout had been murdered. The method was vicious, cruel. How had he been surprised? Why was he naked? Had he been with a woman? Had a
woman
done this to him? Scout wouldn’t let himself get conned, but he was known to turn his head toward a pretty face. Why, dammit? Why had Scout been killed? Jack mentally reviewed their most recent assignments. He didn’t know of anyone or any organization who would do this . . . like this. It looked both personal and like an execution. Had Scout known his killer?
Perez said, “You need to leave. My men will process the scene, collect evidence, and remove the body.”
Hidalgo had its unfair share of murders—Perez had investigated enough of them—but this was wholly different from a drug hit or a barroom brawl. Not something Art Perez could handle. Hell, he could barely handle being chief of police on a good day.
“Call the Rangers,” Jack said before he thought about tact and diplomacy. “This isn’t a random act of violence.”
Perez reddened. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Kincaid.”
“Jack—” Padre began, and Jack put up his hand.
Jack would find Scout’s killer. He would call in every favor, every chit, spend every dime he had to do it.
“I will find out who killed Scout,” he said, his words clipped to stifle the emotion.
“Stay out of my way, Kincaid. You’re already pushing it. Don’t think I won’t lock you up. Just give me a reason. One fucking reason to put you behind bars.”
Jack stepped forward and said in a low voice, “I’ll be watching, Perez. Don’t fuck this up.”
Jack looked back at Scout’s body. Rage and sadness battled and his teeth clenched.
“Rest in peace, friend.”
When I find who did this to you, they won’t walk away.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Wednesday morning, less than two hours after she had opened the overnight envelope, Megan sat in SAC Bob Richardson’s office with two other agents, Detective John Black, and the speaker phone. Richardson had contacted Assistant Special Agent in Charge Hans Vigo at Quantico. Hans had been a friend and mentor to Megan since he’d recruited her into the FBI while guest lecturing at Georgetown, where she’d been studying law. Hans was a profiler, though he had declined a post in the prestigious Behavioral Science Unit. He was often sent out into the field to consult, and Megan had immediately thought of him when Price’s dog tag fell from the express envelope. This murder had taken on a whole new importance.
She’d finished briefing Hans about the case as she knew it, with the only known connection among the three victims being their time in the army. “Bob has made a request with the DOD to pull their military records, but you know how slow they are. By the time we get them, if at all, more people could die.”
“Will die,” Hans said. “Three dead in two months. The first victim was on February 11. The second on April 2. Price early on April 13.”
“They’re escalating,” Richardson said.
“Possibly, but more likely they have a plan. They are exceptionally well-organized for sadistic killers.”
“Sadistic? Is there a sexual component in the murders? There was no evidence of that at any of the crime scenes.” Megan pulled out her reports, worried that she had missed something important.
“Sadistic doesn’t necessarily mean sexual gratification, though the killers likely received sexual gratification either in the planning of the murders or after the fact. The actual murders were methodical, well-planned, but at the same time reckless.”
“Non sequitur, Dr. Vigo,” Richardson interjected.
“Bear with me, Bob. Let’s look at the actual murders. Two people come together to kill a specific target—their victims are not random, they were selected because of who they are or what they represent. Victimology in this case is critical: if they were killed because of something they did or didn’t do, it’ll be much easier to identify potential suspects, particularly if all three victims were involved in the same event. If they were killed because of what they represent—the military, or the army specifically—it will be more difficult. In the latter case, you’d probably be looking for a soldier or former soldier who felt he had been treated unfairly by the military or his unit. Possibly suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and reliving a horrific event, accompanied by some sort of psychosis that leads him to believe killing other soldiers will relieve his anxiety. But I don’t see this type of killer as working with a partner or going through the elaborate ritual.”
Megan leaned forward. “So you think the killers knew the victims personally?”
For a moment, Hans didn’t say anything. “Possibly, or at least knew
of
them if they had never met them before. They were singled out specifically, and that’s why I want you to meet me in Austin.”
“Austin, Texas?” Megan asked.
“There’s far more going on here than the reports indicated. I need to talk to those who knew Duane Johnson. He’s the first known victim, and the killers waited nearly two full months before killing again, which makes me think they were waiting for something.”
“Like what?”
“Could be for the second victim—Perry—to be in a position where they could get to him, or because they wanted to see what the police would do, or because they feared they’d screwed up somehow.”
Megan took notes while shaking her head. “I can’t go to Austin, I have to get Price’s body back, work with the CID on the evidence and autopsy—”
Richardson interrupted. “They’re not going to give you a thing, Megan. And we have a far more important situation here.”
Hans said over the speaker, “I agree. How did the killers know you were on the Price case, Megan?”
Megan had been thinking about that since she opened the package. “I don’t know. Maybe one or both of them were observing us Monday morning at the crime scene? Our office gets a lot of attention, especially after the O’Brien case last year. I did that interview—” She frowned at Richardson. She hadn’t wanted to talk to the press, but her boss felt that having her on prime-time news would help with public relations. “They could have picked up on my position on the Violent Crimes Squad.”
“Why you and not the SPD detective? Or the media?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
“I don’t know.”
“Great. If you don’t know, how does that help?”
“It could be nothing—the killer taunting police—and because the FBI is considered the higher law enforcement agency—no offense, Detective Black—the killers would want to taunt the FBI. But they had your home address, Meg.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“I think it’s a good idea to get out of town,” Richardson said. He used the intercom to ask his assistant to book a flight ASAP for Megan to Texas.
“I’m not running away.”
“I’m not suggesting you do. Dr. Vigo wants your help and the FBI has already determined this is a serial murder investigation. We have the authority to go in if we need to. And you can’t do anything here that SPD can’t do—I have confidence that Detective Black will keep us informed if anything important arises.”
“Absolutely,” Black said. “And,” he added, “the information you bring back from Austin and Vegas can help us here because we have next to nothing after losing the evidence to CID.”
“Is this connected to Price being AWOL?” Megan asked the group. “Price was living on the streets; how did the killers know him? Know where to find him?”
“Aw, that’s the million-dollar question.” Hans said. “If you can figure that out, I think you’ll have a much greater chance of capturing them. They have inside information—suggesting that they personally know these men or have access to their records.”
“But CID didn’t know where Price was until he was dead and we flagged his record.”
“Which narrows their information source exponentially. We have to learn everything we can about Duane Johnson and Dennis Perry. One or both of them could have known where Price was.”
“Agent Vigo,” Black interjected, “you said that the crimes were both methodical and reckless. Can you expand on that?”
“Sorry, I got sidetracked. Methodical in that they were well planned. They waited for their victim, hamstrung him to prevent escape, restrained him, and tortured him with needles for an indeterminate length of time, but probably between one and five hours. Then they executed him.”
“It sounds more like playtime,” Megan said. “Pulling wings off butterflies.”
“Excuse me?” Richardson said.
“You’re right on the money.” Hans was proud. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yeah, they were playing. Torturing the victim as much to make him suffer as to derive satisfaction and pleasure from being in control of another’s pain.”
“And then they get tired and shoot him in the head. Quick and efficient, when there’s nothing quick or efficient about human torture.”
Hans said, “I think the dynamic between these two killers is critical. Which is the dominant personality? Which one decided the targets and how to take them out? Who pulled the trigger?”
“Metaphorically?” Black asked.
“Literally. Whoever pulled the trigger is the dominant killer. He may be the person torturing the victims, or both could be involved, but whoever uses the gun is in charge.”
“Essentially, playtime is over. Pick up their toys and go home.”
“Right.”
“Is there always a dominant killer in a partnership like this?” Black asked.
“In my experience,” Hans said. “Two dominant personalities would not last long together. One would kill the other, or they would go their separate ways. Someone has to make the rules, someone has to follow orders. This is a partnership in that the submissive partner does what the dominant partner wants. If the weaker of the two acts out, the dominant will slap him down.”
The intercom buzzed. “SAC Richardson, I have Agent Elliott on a ten-twenty flight to Texas.”
Megan glanced at her watch. “That’s barely an hour.”
“You’d better get going.”
Hans said, “I’m taking a military transport, I’ll meet you there. Be careful, Megan. I really don’t like the idea that the killers have your home address.”
“Neither do I.” Megan stood, then asked Hans before he disconnected, “What are the chances we can find them before another man dies?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Jack didn’t particularly want Padre tagging along, but it wasn’t like he’d tell the priest to back off. Scout had been his friend as well, and seeing him dead and naked would stay with Jack for the rest of his life. Scout had been family, closer than blood.
He asked Padre, “You okay?”
“Been better. Watch your back with Perez.”
“Fuck Perez and the jackass he rode in on. Dammit, Padre, you know Perez can’t handle this.”
Jack slowed his truck as he neared the rectory. “You want off here?”
“No.”
Jack hadn’t expected Padre to bail, and he pressed the accelerator. Driving too fast, he halted in front of El Gato, the bar on the city/county border where Scout had been last night.
Jack jumped out of the truck and his friend followed. Padre wanted to talk, but he couldn’t talk now. Not about Perez, not about anything. He focused on finding out what happened the night before, when Scout left, who he left with, and who he may have had a confrontation with.
The Hernandez family owned El Gato. Cece worked six days a week; her brothers Pablo and Carlos worked nights. They reluctantly shut down on Sunday as a nod to their devout mother, who had given her children the seed money to open the bar from the insurance settlement after her husband died on a construction job.
Cece’s eyes were rimmed red as she poured a draft for two men at the bar. “Señor Jack, Father,” she said when they came in. “What happened?”
“I need to talk to Pablo.” Jack didn’t care for Carlos, the youngest and laziest of the three siblings. He’d brought drugs into the bar and Jack quickly put an end to that. Still, he was wily and sly enough to keep dealing, just more carefully. Jack preferred to deal with Pablo. Though Pablo didn’t speak English, Jack was fluent in Spanish.
“Upstairs. He doesn’t know anything.”
Jack walked to the back of the bar and through a door that led to the apartment where Pablo lived.
It was noon and Pablo was sleeping. Jack didn’t fault him—the bar owner worked until two every night, but Jack had little patience for anyone today.
“Pablo.” In fluent Spanish, Jack said, “Wake up. Time to get up.”
Pablo moaned. Jack saw him reaching under his pillow. He had a hold on his wrist before Pablo could draw the gun.
The paunchy man rolled over and glared at Jack through eyes framed by overgrown brows and a face stubbed with a day’s growth of beard. “You should have said you were Señor Jack.”
“Scout’s dead. I need answers.”
Honest surprise lit Pablo’s face, telling Jack he didn’t know anything about it. He released the barkeep’s arm and stepped back.
“Señor Scout? How?”
“Someone broke into his house and killed him.” Jack didn’t go into details. “I need to know everyone who was in the bar last night. Regulars and strangers.
Everyone.
”
Pablo sat up, the sheet sliding away revealing thick legs and dirty boxers and a stained undershirt. He scratched his thick head of hair and said, “I can make a list.”
“Good.” He searched the room for paper and pen, not caring what fell to the floor.
Padre added,
“Mucho gracias.”
Jack wasn’t in the mood for diplomacy. He knew enough about criminal investigations to know that if they didn’t catch a whiff of Scout’s killer soon, he would disappear. The more time that passed, the harder it would be to solve the case. And frankly, no one gave a shit about the poor citizens of Hidalgo, Texas. Jack knew Chief Art Dipshit wouldn’t call in the Rangers. He’d rather keep his jurisdiction intact than ask for help, even when he desperately needed it.
Pablo rose and shuffled to the living area where he found a torn envelope that had once held a utility bill, and started writing names. “All the regulars,” he said, “except Sam and Juan, and Juan Cristopher, Jorge’s son. They caught a job in Brownsville, could take two weeks.” He thought, wrote down a bunch of names. Xavier, Bella, Miguel. “Miguel. He only comes if Bella comes, and with the kids getting in trouble, she’s steering clear of my place. But that lousy husband of hers took the boys camping and she had a free night.”
It was common knowledge, except to Bella’s husband, that Miguel and Bella were having an affair. At this point, Jack didn’t care about their infidelity.
“Anyone else?”
“Tuesday night, mid-month. Slow time. Wait until May first, we’ll be packed for a week.”
“Strangers?”
“We always get a few here and there. You know, we got a good location, right off the highway, people going down to Reynosa, coming back up.”
“How many?”
“Last night—college boys. UTSA, from their I.D.’s. I carded them. Fucking gringos, paid in pesos and laughed. What am I going to do with pesos?” Pablo waved his hands above his head.
Probably coming back from a long weekend of whoring in Reynoso. Idiots. But if they were drunk enough, they might have thought it sport to murder someone. Thrill kill.
“How many? Were they drunk?”
“Three, and they didn’t drink more than two or three
cervezas
each. But I think they had a little”—he sniffed loudly—“happy powder.”
Carlos.
Jack knew it like he knew his own name. Bastard. “What time did they leave?”
“Midnight.” He motioned side to side with his hand. More or less.
“What about Scout?”
“Just before closing. I make sure he don’t drive, just like I promised you, Señor Jack. No driving if he has more than two. But he walked here, and he walked home. I think he left alone. I didn’t see any of your other men.”
Lucky stayed in Reynoso with his girlfriend, and Mike lived in Brownsville with his wife and daughter. His other regulars didn’t live nearby, flying or driving down when an assignment piqued their interest—or the money was good enough. He had someone he could call in San Antonio to follow up on the college kids.