Blood of Others (33 page)

Their eyes were lifeless. Those
that still had eyes. Faces frozen with terror. Those that still had faces.

“Must be over a hundred.”

On the desk sat two large laptop
computers. One agent tapped his gloved finger on the space bar. Eugene Vryke
appeared on the enlarged clear screen.

“I’d give anything to see your
expression. But thank you,” Vryke said. “It’s begun now. There’s no turning
back. You, whoever you are, will have your place in history. Please be careful.
Don’t touch anything. The museums will want it. Take a look around. See them.
My dark cathedral of liars, its ceiling is painted with the blood of others. It
was painstaking work, as you will soon see. But my time has come. My search has
ended. I’ve finally found her. The One. We’re together now. Forever.”

The agents were stunned until one
managed to say into a radio: “You better get the investigators in here, now!”

Olivia was pleasantly surprised
when she grabbed her suitcase at the luggage carousel. She heard her name being
paged, then spotted a small sign: OLIVIA GRANT.

It was in the hands of a limo
driver, wearing a black cap, dark glasses, white shirt, tie, dark jacket and
pants.

“I’m Olivia Grant.”

“I’ve been dispatched to take you
some place special, ma’am.”

The driver tipped his hat, took
her bag.

Olivia blushed. “It was Ben. He
sent you? She bit her bottom lip. “He is so sweet. Must be the page, so I
wouldn’t miss you.”

The driver nodded. “Follow me,
please.”

He led Olivia from arrivals to
the chaotic loading zone and a gleaming black car amid a long line of gleaming
black cars. He opened the rear passenger door for Olivia, who in the noise and
hubbub of the traffic did not hear Wyatt shouting her name some fifty yards
away.

Wyatt saw Vryke close the
driver’s door, and he stopped running. He was too far off to make it on foot.
He rushed back to his car, punching 911 into his phone, looking for a marked
unit, security, anyone. His phone beeped; then his tires squealed.

The limousine reflected the
night. Olivia heard the doors automatically lock as it glided from the airport.
She found a bouquet of a dozen white sweetheart roses for her in the back seat,
then read the unsigned card:

Olivia, you’ve always been the
one.

She blushed, remembering her
lovemaking with Ben. This was so romantic. He was sweeping her off of her feet.
She pushed the button lowering the glass partition.

“Excuse me, driver. Can you say
where Ben said to take me?”

“It’s a surprise, ma’am.”

Soft classical music filled the
car. Olivia sunk her head into the plush headrest, smiling.

Wyatt’s knuckles whitened on the
wheel. Horns blared as he battled not to lose the limo. It was fast. A hundred
yards ahead of him, widening the distance. How he wished he had a department
car, lights and screamers. Where were the other units? Turgeon said they had a
line on him. He struggled with indecision. Should he risk stopping to make a
call? He was too far behind to get a make on the car or its plate. His cell
phone was dead.
Shut it off, you might be able to squeeze enough residual
juice for one last ditch 911 call.
His tires screeched when a motorcycle
veered into his lane just as the limo left the freeway.

Olivia was enthralled. It was a
breathtaking ride cutting across the city, passing north through Golden Gate
Park heading toward the Presidio, the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance nearly
two miles ahead.
Maybe we’ll cross it to one of those beautiful restaurants
in Sausalito.
Her heart swelled. This was going to be a night she would
always remember.

Wyatt’s cell phone came to life
beeping, warning his internal battery was low.

“Come on.” He punched the
numbers.

The call went through to the
emergency dispatcher.

“Do you require police, fire
or  --”

His battery beeped.

Wyatt began shouting into his
phone: “Police emergency  --
beep
--  this is Inspector Ben
Wyatt SFPD in --
beep
-- pursuit of a multiple homicide suspect --
beep
-- with a hostage northbound --
beep
-- approach to the
beep, 
beep
-- Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Repeat. You’re breaking up, sir
--”

The limo passed the toll plaza,
proceeding along the bridge, the lights of San Francisco magnificent against
the night. Olivia remembered the last time she was here and the reason.
Blinking back her tears, smelling the roses, aching to see Ben, happy she had
taken a chance, had risked her heart, for now she truly believed she had found
the love she had longed for all of her life. She stroked the fine gold chain
he’d given her.

“Mind if I ask you a personal
question ma’am?” the driver said, as the car neared the first tower.

“Not at all.”

“You believe in forgiveness,
right?”

Olivia thought it was rather
philosophical. She shrugged. “Yes I do.”

“I mean you sell it at your
shop.”

“Yes, but how did you --”

His voice was familiar. The
scars.

Her heart began beating faster.

The emergency lights of two
bridge security vehicles, a California Highway Patrol cruiser and a Marin
County car, were activated as police marshaled at the Golden Gate’s north end
to halt traffic.

“I’m not going to ask you if you
are truly willing to forgive the sins of a past life, because you’ve already
done it. We’ve shared so much and I can’t afford to hear another lie. So many
others have lied.”

Olivia’s skin prickled. “Who are
you?”

“I am you and you are The One.”

Vryke saw police lights at the
bridge’s north end. Calmly he touched his stun gun and medical case containing
his hypodermic. He checked his rear-view mirrors, touched his brakes, tires
screaming, rubber burning, the big car sailing, horns protesting, Olivia’s
nails digging into the armrest as he swung it 180 degrees, reversing their
direction on the bridge, the engine roaring, the limo now charging south, back
to San Francisco. Police sirens wailing behind him.

Wyatt’s car had sped by the South
Tower to the center-point when he witnessed the limo’s turnaround. He swallowed
hard, double-checking his seatbelt, tightening his grip. No time to think, he
swerved his car to block the limo, rubber liquefying, metal crunching, as the
bigger car clipped Wyatt’s front quarter, airbags deploying, exploding debris,
glass, puncturing its tires, engine fluids spraying, hissing, traffic
squealing, horns, brakes, chaos, the limo and Wyatt’s car coming to a stop some
thirty yards apart, yelping sirens approaching.

Vryke seized Olivia’s wrist. She
struggled, still gripping her roses as he dragged her toward the San Francisco
side of the bridge.

“Please no. Help! Please.”

Wyatt running. His gun drawn.

“San Francisco Police. Release
her!”

“Back off.” Vryke’s powerful arm
locked around Olivia’s neck, pulling her close like a shield, forcing her
toward the east side of the bridge. Traffic screeching, horns blasting. Wyatt
saw the metal flash of a hypodermic needle in Vryke’s hand.

“You’re going with me into
eternity.” Vryke said into Olivia’s ear. Olivia, pleading, sobbing, struggling,
gripping the cold railing. The city lights, the bay winds, the stars.

“God, please. No.”

“Release her now.”

Vryke gripped the needle, raising
his arm, shouting to the heavens as Olivia fought with all of her strength. Her
eyes found Wyatt’s
Ben, oh, God, Ben, save me!
Olivia twisting, Wyatt
feeling the trigger, swallowing, squeezing. Vryke jerking her back, the bullet
passing through Olivia, boring through Vryke’s heart, Olivia collapsing, Wyatt
firing a second, third time at Vryke’s upper chest dropping him. There was the
strong burning smell from the gun and blood everywhere. Instinctively he rolled
Vryke and cuffed him.

“Olivia.”

Wyatt sat on the road cradling
her limp body. Pressing his hand over her wound, not hearing the police radios
crackling, the sirens, ambulances approaching, or seeing the people rushing to
them.

“Olivia.”

He was numb to the TV news
choppers, the reporters, photographers and gathering crowd.

“Olivia.”

Amid the white roses, Wyatt
pulled her to him, the only one who had believed him, loved him, her blood
everywhere, her face, her necklace, his face, and his hands as he rocked her in
his arms.

In the hospital,
Olivia’s eyes fluttered open.
She had drifted in and out of consciousness over the past few days. Wyatt had
remained by her side.

“Ben?”

“It’s all right.”

“What happened?”

“It’s all over and you’re safe.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“My bullet passed through you.
The doctor says you’re going to be sore for a long time, but you’ll be all
right.”

Olivia took in the room,
searching for answers.

“I remember the bridge. A man.”
She put her hand on her face. “He was a person from on-line, he came to my
shop, the airport, the bridge.  Ben, he--”

“He won’t hurt you anymore. He’s
dead.”

“You were there. You saved my
life. Ben, he said he was going to --” She began sobbing.

“It’s all right.” Wyatt comforted
her. “It’s all right. We got him.”

The
San Francisco Star
was
folded in the cushion of the chair next to Olivia.

Dominating its front page was a
colossal color photo taken by a vacationing Japanese news photographer. It
showed Wyatt’s anguished, bloodied face as he sat on the road of the Golden
Gate Bridge cradling Olivia, while Vryke lay face-down, dead in a pool of his
own blood behind them.

The picture ran under the
headline: GLOBAL SERIAL KILLER SHOT

WITH VICTIM IN BRIDGE HORROR.

The Associated Press had moved it
around the world.

The story of Eugene Vryke
commanded the
Star’s
front and six clear inside pages. The paper put its
entire news department on it. Reed was the lead writer.

The
Star
had the most
compelling information on Vryke; the troubled son of a NASA scientist had
become one of history’s most prolific serial killers in his attempt to bring
the world to its knees. Had he not been detected, Vryke would’ve succeeded in
paralyzing economies and infrastructures on the planet through a sophisticated
computer attack he had spent years devising. A plan he called Revelation 23, a
name suggesting a foretelling beyond Revelation 22, the final chapter of the
Bible.

Vryke had conceived it years ago
by scouring Maryland dumps for discarded computers, software, and programs from
research and development aspects and prototypes of INFERNO and other
ultra-secret government computer defense systems around Fort Meade. Through his
computer shop grapevine, Vryke had discovered that the federal agency whose
duty it was to destroy sensitive, discarded material had sidestepped the
process. That scandal would ignite a furor within the Beltway, leading to an
FBI investigation and congressional hearings.

Vryke’s Revelation 23 had
paralleled, and in most instances exceeded, the ingenuity of some of the U.S.
government’s most costly and vital computer defense systems. His strategy had
involved a highly complex, labyrinthine series of worms and programs with an
array of timers. The first would be activated within forty-eight hours of his
death.

But using Wyatt’s work, an
emergency team of top national security experts from some twenty agencies,
including those at the Livermore Lab and industry, toiled around the clock
disarming R-23, as it came to be known. It was an event that would be spoken of
for years. Had they failed, R-23 would have perverted the principles of INFERNO
by infiltrating and disabling every on-line and networked system in the world,
from telephones, to TV broadcasting, to power grids, to nuclear and satellite
systems: the Y2K nightmare realized a hundredfold. Computer users would have
experienced their systems freezing; every e-mail, every broadcast would have
been hijacked by the recorded murders of Vryke’s victims played in a nonstop
loop on monitors and TV screens in every corner of the planet.

In the wake of worldwide news
reports of the disarming of R-23, Vryke’s computer profile became well known,
enabling police agencies to quickly compare it to unsolved ritualistic murders
of women who were now known to have communicated with him on-line.

Vryke’s confirmed toll:
seventy-five victims. He had recorded each one. Olivia Grant was to be
seventy-six, until an outcast San Francisco detective, gripped by self-doubt,
tracked him down and killed him, the
Star
reported.

A nurse entered the room
indicating it was time for more medication and rest for Olivia.

Wyatt kissed Olivia, then left
for the lounge at the end of the hallway.

He saw Sydowski there, hands in
his pockets, staring at the city.

“How is she?” Sydowski did not
turn from the window.

Wyatt let a long moment pass.
“She’s going to need a long time. But she’ll be okay.”

“I believed I was on the right
track, getting close, doing things my way.”

“You were.”

A family entered, a man, his
wife, their teenaged daughter. The man read the tension in the room. The family
retreated.

“Look, Sydowski. Why did you
come?”

“You know what Vryke was looking
for from the women?”

“Forgiveness.”

“That makes two of us.”

Wyatt didn’t expect this. He said
nothing.

“It was me, Ben. I’d lost touch
with Reggie, then seeing him poking through garbage. It was me. I never checked
on him. Never looked in on him. If anyone failed as back up, it was me. A good
friend pointed this out to me and it took a while to realize she was right. It
was easier for me to put it on you than to accept that I had abandoned him. You
were in that crack house with him. I wasn’t there. Hell, I didn’t know you.”
Sydowski let a few moments pass. “But I think I know you now.” Sydowski turned
to him.

Wyatt said nothing.

Sydowski turned back to the
window. “When I saw Reggie picking through trash he begged me not to tell
anyone. I went to see him the other day to tell him he might have a civil case
for his disability. That’s when he told me something I never knew. That he had
a drinking problem. That he’d been drinking on the job and you knew. That you
were covering for him, trying to get him into the program.”

Wyatt was looking at a landscape
of a mountain range on the far wall.

“He told me it started in
Homicide,” Sydowski said. “It was getting bad so he requested to get detailed
to narcotics. Never told anyone. Not even me, his partner. Thought I’d see him
as weak.”

Sydowski shook his head, rubbing
his hands over his face.

“He told me he saw nothing the
day he got shot. Couldn’t see a damn thing from his angle, but that he’d heard
a kid. He wasn’t sure if he’d been drinking that morning. He panicked when the
doctors first said he might never walk again. Got scared about his pension, the
job, Fran, the kids. So he blamed you. Yet you never gave him up. You never
said a word about Reggie’s drinking. You backed him up, and still do,” Sydowski
turned. “Jesus, Ben. I was wrong. So goddamned wrong. I apologize.”

Wyatt said nothing. There was so
much he wanted to say, wanted to vomit right back at him. Let him know the
price he had paid. But he was overcome. With exhaustion, posttraumatic stress.
Enduring what he and Olivia had endured. Life was too short for vendettas. He
looked away.

“Olivia’s going to need time,”
Wyatt said. “So will I.”

Sydowski had no rights here. No
say in the matter.

“Sure, Ben. I understand.”
Sydowski patted his shoulder and left.

Reed was the only reporter with
access to Wyatt, who gave him the full account of Olivia being his girlfriend;
how Vryke had locked onto her and how he had locked onto Vryke. At one stage,
Wyatt told him he couldn’t have tracked Vryke without Reed’s information.

“Like you said, Tom, it was the
key.”

In the weeks after Vryke’s story
broke, the
Star
suspended Brader for harassing Molly Wilson.

Around that time, the
Star
revoked Reed’s suspension, giving him, instead, a three-week paid vacation. He
used it to stay home and reconnect with his family. He also picked up on his
crime novel. Reed and Ann went out to dinners and movies. He dropped by her
stores. They began talking about a second honeymoon and future plans when he
got a job offer from the
New York Times.
The job was in New York.
National crime features.

“Take your time to think it over,
Tom,” the editor said.

Reed was doing just that when a
few days later, Violet Stewart, a senior editor at the
Star
caught wind
of the
Times
pitch and called Reed with a heartfelt and fair proposal.
She would give Reed an additional three weeks of paid vacation to think it all
over. The
Star
was then willing to negotiate with him against whatever
the
Times,
or any other news organization, offered him.

“We’d like to keep you, Tom.”

When Reed first met Ann in
college she told him how she had dreamed of owning a children’s clothing store
in Manhattan. Maybe this was an opportunity for both of them. He turned to her
for advice.

“What do you think of these offers?”

“What about my offer, Tom? Nobody
can match it,” she said as they buckled their seatbelts in the first class
section of a 747 bound for Hawaii.

“Stay home and write novels?”

“Yes. The stores are doing just
fine.”

Reed looked at Zach, playing with
his newest computer game. He was doing much better since they had gotten rid of
the mice and switched his office and Zach’s bedroom.

“I don’t know, Ann. What do you
think about expanding your empire to New York?”

“Are you serious? I
love
New
York. You’re seriously considering the
Times?”

“I think
we
should
seriously consider everything.”

“Glad you see it that way.”

“But we’ve got lots of time to
think,” Reed said as the jet lifted off, pushing them into their seats. “For
now, let’s have fun.”

A few days after Vryke’s death, a
lawyer arrived at the San Francisco medical examiner’s office in the Hall of
Justice. She was there to claim Vryke’s body and ensure interment in Florida. A
plot had been purchased in a small cemetery in Brevard County not far from Cape
Canaveral, the Kennedy Space Center, and the beaches where he had played as a
boy.

The modest granite headstone
would have Vryke’s name, date of birth, and death, over a few lines of
inscription:

Revelation 24

It was Vryke’s monumental
cyber-attack program that would eclipse R-23, for it was designed to adapt to
technology under development. Not a soul knew of it, for it was lying dormant,
its timer set for July 20, 2004, the thirty-fifth anniversary of the lunar
landing, the day Vryke would be resurrected to give meaning to the final words
on his headstone:

AND THE WORLD SHALL KNOW HIS
NAME.