The Belial Stone (The Belial Series) (7 page)

CHAPTER 12

Albany, NY

T
he pastor at Tom’s church had arranged for almost the entire congregation to speak with Jake.  They had all said essentially the same thing: Tom was a good man and he wouldn’t have just left.  The last person he had spoken with was Cleo Banks. 

Cleo had stood in front of Jake clutching a handful of tissues, her striking pale green eyes streaked red from crying.  She struggled to hold back her tears. 

“We met just after he got out.  He was, I guess you could say, haunted.  He didn’t seem to know where he fit, or who he was.  Even then, though, you could see his commitment to make something of himself.  He was – is – a good man, Jake.” She stared into Jake’s eyes, daring him to contradict her.

Jake nodded, deeply touched that Tom had such a woman standing behind him.

His nod seemed to take some of the fight out of her and her shoulders slumped.  She continued in a more wistful tone.  “We met in the choir.  I noticed him right away, but I didn’t think he noticed me.” 

Jake doubted that. A man would have to be blind not to notice Cleo. Cleo was stunning.  Her unusual eyes contrasted exotically with her dark skin, and even with her charcoal grey conservative skirt and lavender sweater, her shapely body was evident.  A man would have to be blind not to notice Cleo. 

“He didn’t even ask me for a date until after he’d walked me home for a week.  He was a  perfect gentleman.  It was as if he was trying to make everything perfect.” Cleo paused, trying to hold back her tears.   “He wouldn’t have just left, Jake.  I know he wouldn’t.”

He spoke with Cleo for a few more minutes about their routine - where they had gone, who they had spoken with.  But then Jake was out of questions. 

Cleo stood up to leave.  “Tom told me about you. He said you were a good man who’d made something of his life, after a childhood of pain.  He was working towards being as good a man one day.”  She grabbed his hand.  “Find him, Jake.  Please find him.”

Jake watched her leave, his thoughts heavy.  He’d hoped that Tom had just run off.  Then he’d just have to track him down, talk some sense into him, and bring him back.  He knew now that wasn’t what had happened.  Tom hadn’t left on his own.   But unfortunately, none of Tom’s friends had been able to offer any clues as to where he might have gone.

Walking out of the church, he debated his next move.  He stared at a beat-up Buick driving slowly down the street, leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake.  That’s what he needed: a clear trail to follow.  He sighed, pulling out his cell.

“Any luck?”  Henry Chandler, Jake’s friend and boss, asked as soon as he answered. 

“No.  No leads, no possibilities.  I’m at a dead end.  Did you guys come up with anything?”

When Jake had explained about Tom going missing, Henry had laid all the resources of the Chandler Group at his feet.   As a global think tank reputed to have the top analysts in multiple fields, Jake was extremely thankful for the help. 

“Not sure.” Henry replied.  “It’s probably a long shot but-”

“Henry, right now a long shot seems to be the only shot I’ve got.”

“Well, I put Danny on the case.”

Jake smiled at the mention of Chandler’s youngest and most brilliant analyst.  He’d joined the group two years ago at the ripe old age of twelve.   Danny Wartowski was an immeasurable genius: his IQ was so high, no standardized tes
t could accurately capture it.

Jake knew that if Danny was the one who came up with the lead, there would be nothing long about it.

“Danny did his usual wizardry and found that New York state has a higher number of parolees going missing than the surrounding states.  Coincidentally, they all seem to go missing in the first week of the month.  It’s been going on for about a year. And none of the missing men have shown back up - not in hospitals, morgues, or anywhere.  They’ve all disappeared.”

Jake didn’t like the sound of that.  “What does Danny think is going on?”

“He wasn’t sure, initially.  He ran more and more data, pulling together the links.  He found that at the beginning of each month, a political group called AFP has been chartering a cargo plane out of New York.  He couldn’t trace where they went.  They’ve been filing false flight plans.”

“Wouldn’t they be able to track the plane through air traffic control?”

“Generally, yes.  But they always leave through one of the bigger hubs, meaning they could fly using visual flight rules and they’d just get lost in all of the air traffic.  You’d need a really diligent controller for them to notice.”

Jake closed his eyes in frustration.  “Great.  What about this group, AFP?  Who are they?”

“Americans for Progress.  They’re a political action group that supports extremely conservative policies and political candidates.  Their members are pretty high profile: U.S. senators, agency heads, law enforcement officials, as well as wealthy citizens.  They’re very powerful, although they tend to keep their activities out of the public eye.  The president of AFP is Jackson Stewart.  But he’s really more of a figurehead.  The real power of AFP lies with Senator Robert Kensington from Montana.”

“Okay, but–”

“Hold on, not done yet.  Danny also found out AFP has been sponsoring the research of a Dr. Arthur Priddle.”

Jake tried to reign in his frustration.  “A medical doctor?”

“That’s just the thing.  He’s not a medical doctor.  He’s an archaeologist.  And he’s also disappeared.  He handed in his notice to the University of Saint Paul yesterday unexpectedly and there’s no trace of where he went.  And here’s where it gets more interesting: Dr. Priddle’s research partner, Dr. Drew Masters, committed suicide yesterday.  Spider senses tingling yet?”

“A little,” Jake admitted.  “So if I’ve got this straight, AFP is arranging for undocumented flights at times that coincide with ex-cons going missing, and is also sponsoring this archaeologist who’s disappeared and whose partner just killed himself.  That right?”

“You got it.”

“So I guess I'm heading to Saint Paul.”

“Actually, Danny thinks you should head to Syracuse.”

Jake frowned.  “Syracuse? What’s the Syracuse connection?”

“Apparently, Dr. Masters sent an email to a criminologist, a Dr. Delaney McPhearson, shortly before he died.  The email was then rescinded, a few hours after Dr. Masters was killed.”

Jake raised an eyebrow.  “And dead guys tend not to do that.  Now my spidey senses are really tingling.”

“Good.”  Jake could hear the smile in Henry’s voice.  “But I think you should get to Dr. McPhearson quickly.”

“Why?”

“She was attacked in her home this morning.  And Jake, it was an unusual attack.

“Unusual? How?”

“Apparently Dr. McPhearson is quite a fighter.  She shot the assailant twice and stabbed him once.  And each time he took a hit, the guy seemed to pop back up like a jack-in-the-box.  Sound familiar?”

Jake went still.  “Yeah.  It does.  And it means I need to find Dr. McPhearson as fast as possible.”

CHAPTER 13

Havre, Montana

W
hen Tom had been in prison, he’d taken an online Introduction to Psychology course. One of the topics they discussed was Lorenz’s concept of learned helplessness: how people believed that there was nothing they could do to help themselves even when opportunities for betterment arose. 

As Tom looked around the enclosure, he thought that prisons and places like this were what Lorenz had been talking about.  The inmates
outnumbered the guards by forty-to-one, but no one had any thoughts of rebellion.  After only a few hours, they had all learned that lesson too well. 

The first day, Tom had been in shock.  He kept thinking he wasn’t really here, that any moment he was going to open his eyes and wake up.  His only awakening had been the realization that whoever set this place up didn’t care who died in the process.  He’d helped carry four abused and emaciated bodies into the pit in just the first two days.  After that, he’d stopped counting.

Last night, although exhausted, he again hadn’t slept.  He kept trying to think of a way to escape.  But there were too many guards, too many guns, and nowhere to run to.  By dawn, he’d reached an uncomfortable truth: the only way he was getting out of here was as a corpse.  His destiny was in that pit outside, with all the others held here. 

And it wasn’t just the place that convinced him of that.  It was the reality of his life.  Who would be looking for him?  Who cared enough about whether he lived or died?  His Gran cared, but she’d been the last of his family.  There were the people from the church.  They probably just thought he skipped town.  Cleo slipped into his mind.  Did she think he’d just left?  He’d finally found the right girl and now it was gone.  She’d write him off.

An image of Jake appeared in his mind and gave him pause.  He’d always hoped he’d see him again, that maybe they could be friends once more.  He thought of the last time he’d seen Jake.  He’d been only eleven.  Jake was leaving for boot camp and had just walked out the door to head to the bus station.  Tom had watched from the porch until Jake turned the corner, feeling like his world was ending with each step Jake took. 

He’d slowly walked back into the house.  He’d whirled around when the door flew open again.  Jake grabbed him in a giant, crushing hug, and whispered into his ear.  “I’ll miss you, little man.” And then he was gone. 

Tears pooled in Tom’s eyes when he thought of that hug.  Jake had cared.  He knew he did.  But Jake didn’t know he was missing.  He hadn’t even seen him in almost ten years.  And if he did know, why would Jake come looking for him?  He was an ex-gang-banger con.

             
Tom ducked his head down as a guard walked by, spearing his shovel into the dirt as tears slowly made tracks through the dust on his face.  No, he was on his own.  No one would be looking for him.

CHAPTER 14

Syracuse, NY

R
ocky had arranged for Laney to be placed in a safe house until they ran down the man who’d attacked her.  Laney had argued against protective custody, but Rocky had won the argument by pointing out the danger she could be placing other people in by not being in custody. 

Laney leaned back against the headrest in the Cutlass.  She knew she should feel relieved and that the danger had passed.  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over.  That Paul, whoever the hell he was, was going to keep coming. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Detective Frank Miller as he drove.  In his early forties, with dirty blond hair carefully combed to try and hide the beginning of premature balding, he was the picture of confidence, a man in control.  Detective Marcos Sanchez, who was Frank’s physical opposite with an olive complexion, dark hair, and serious demeanor, was behind them in another Cutlass.  Sanchez, though, was cut from the same cloth: unflappable.  But the tingle of fear wouldn’t leave her. 

Frank looked over at her, his blue eyes radiating trust.  His hound-dog face loo
ked friendlier with his smile. “Thought you were asleep.”

Laney tried to smile in return.  “Not yet.  Just resting my eyes.”

She’d met Frank a few times when she'd been out with Rocky.   He seemed a nice guy.  And Rocky swore he and Marcos were great at their jobs.  But she hadn’t seen them load any rocket launchers into the cars and she was now pretty convinced that's what it would take to stop Paul. 

“Don’t worry.  We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She nodded and turned to watch downtown Syracuse pass by.  They moved through Armory Square and into the industrial district, old factories converted into stores or, in many cases, left abandoned. 

After a glance to make sure Marcos was still following, she turned to stare out the window, resting her chin on her hand.  Was this really happening?  It felt like this morning was a dream.  It was too surreal.  People didn’t move that fast.  And they certainly didn’t rebound from gunshots or stabbings that quickly.  How had that man survived?

And his fighting skills.  They were incredible.  Laney had been training since she was a child.  And while most people might look at her petite size and figure she wouldn’t put up much of a fight, they’d be wrong.  Dead wrong.  She knew without a trace of conceit that she was good.  Really good. 

But that man had been toying with her.  And as much as she hated to admit it, that, more than anything, terrified her.  She had trained so hard because she knew what it felt like to be a victim, to be helpless. 

She absentmindedly brushed her hand over the spot where her Uncle David had broken her arm when she was a child.  She had promised herself once she had gotten out of his house that she would never feel that powerless again.  Today, she had come close.  And she didn’t like it.

“It’s right around the corner here,” Frank said as they drove past Fowler High School. 
              She knew the neighborhood.  The zoo was just up the street.  She, Kati, and Max had been there too many times to count.

After turning off Geddes and taking another right, he pulled in the drive of a small house that backed onto the high school.  “Home sweet home.”

Laney looked out the window. “That is one sad little house.” 

Pale grey paint chipped off the siding and a sagging porch ran the length of the front of the house.  The windows all had the blinds pulled down.  She glanced down the block.  Sad as the house was, the rest of the houses on the block were no less depressing. 

Frank grinned.  “They always are.  But it’s safe, and hopefully we’ll only have to keep you here for a little while.  Rocky’ll track down that asshole in no time.   Let’s get inside, okay?”

She nodded and got out of the car, fingering the flash drive in her pocket.  She’d transferred it to her pocket when she’d gotten changed at the station.   This couldn’t all be related to Drew’s file, could it?

Marcos had pulled up in front of the house and stood surveying the neighborhood.  He nodded at Laney before turning to Frank.  “I’m going to check around back.”

Laney trailed Frank to the front door, which didn’t look like it could keep out a seven-year-old.  He unlocked it and Laney followed him in.  By some miracle of modern decoration, the interior managed to be more depressing than the exterior.  The walls, once white, were now a smoky yellow and the one piece of furniture, a plaid red couch, had stuffing spilling from it.  And she was pretty sure something was rustling underneath the back corner.

Laney looked over at Frank with raised eyebrows.

He shrugged.  “Like I said, hopefully we won’t be here for too long.”  He nodded towards the couch where a duffel bag sat.  “Rocky had a female officer gather up some clothes for you.  I’m going to be outside.  Yell if you need anything."

Laney glanced at the bag, shaking it to make sure no guests had decided to go for a ride.  “Did she include my laptop?”

“Yeah, the techs went over it and said there was no blood, so they didn’t need it.”

She nodded.  Good, no blood.  I always hate a laptop with blood on it. 

After getting changed into her own clothes, in a bathroom where she tried not to touch anything, she booted up the laptop in the kitchen.   Placing it on the kitchen table, aka an old card table, she realized this room was relatively clean.  At least nothing seemed to be scurrying about.

The cabinet doors were original, but all still hung upright, and the linoleum counter wasn’t too bad.  The old beat-up card table took up most of the room, and two folding chairs provided the only places to sit.

A flash pulled her eyes back to the laptop.  What the hell?  Her screen was pixilating from the exterior.  It looked as if it was being eaten from the outside in.

“No, no, no.”  She sat and pulled the laptop over to her.  Hitting the power button, she cursed.  Not responding.   She tried an automatic shut down.  No luck.  She flipped it over to pull out the battery.  But it was too late.  The virus had worked its way through the whole system. 

“Shit,” she yelled as her screen went blank except for the cursor, which just blinked at her. 

She sat back in the chair and stared at the screen, stunned.  She’d used this laptop this morning without any problems. 

Her assailant’s face flashed through her mind.  Could he have done this?  She thought back.   She’d heard the scratching at the door, which must have been when he’d entered the house. 
             

But then it had been another few minutes before she’d gone downstairs.  What had he been doing during that time?  Her house was small.  He could have searched the whole place in the time it took her to go downstairs.

Unless
, she thought, as she stared at the computer,
he had something else to take care of first
.   He would have had time to upload the virus. 
But why?

Laney paced the room.  She wanted to scream in frustration.  Why?  That seemed to be her favorite word at the moment.

Why was Drew dead?

Why had she been attacked?

Why had her computer been fried?

Why was her attacker alive?

Why was any of this happening?

Laney picked up her laptop and threw it against the wall.  It crashed to the floor, parts of the casing cracking off.  Damn it, she wanted to hit something.

Frank rushed into the room, gun drawn.  “Laney!

She cringed.  “Oh.  Sorry, Frank.  My computer just tanked and I tossed it across the room.”

Frank snorted with a grin.  “Hell, I've wanted to do that plenty of times.  Just try to keep the destruction to a-”

A yell from outside halted his words.  Frank flew to the front door to look out.  Laney followed him, glancing out the window. 

Marcos was crouched behind the open door of Frank’s car, his gun trained on the man advancing from across the street.  “Stop.  Identify yourself.”

Holy crap.  Her eyes locked on the man striding towards the house.  There were scabs on his face where the shotgun blast had caught him.  But otherwise, Paul looked unharmed.  He definitely didn’t look like he'd been seriously injured this morning. 

Marcos opened fire.  Two bullets tore through Paul’s chest.  He didn’t even slow down.  He reached Marcos and dragged him to his feet.

Frank opened the door.  “Run, Laney,” he yelled before sprinting outside. 

Laney ran for the back door, the sound of gunfire erupting from the front of the house.   She flew out the back with a sense of déjà vu.  Twice in one day, she was escaping down porch stairs. 

She headed for the stone wall at the back of the yard, knowing it split the property from the high school.  Maybe she could lose him in there.

Sprinting past the shed, her entire focus was on getting to the wall.

She yelped as a hand slid around her waist, yanking her back.  Another hand clamped over her mouth.  She was pressed up against a well-muscled chest.  “Don’t say a word.”