Bloodletting (14 page)

Ellie smeared the tears from her cheeks with her palms and looked him in the eyes. He'd forgotten how intelligent she was. The pain of comprehension was etched into her face.

"And now he's dead," she said.

Carver had to turn away. He looked to the street, where a black sedan coasted to a halt against the curb behind theirs. A slender man climbed out of the driver's seat. Black suit and tie, black sunglasses. His hair wasn't necessarily long, but longer than that of any other Special Agent Carver knew. The man smiled in recognition, leaving Carver at a disadvantage as he was sure he'd never seen this man before in his life. Another agent exited the passenger side and it took all of Carver's concentration not to betray his astonishment with even a flinch of his eyebrows.

Closely-cropped silver hair. Four diagonal scars across his forehead.

"Ahh, the golden boy," the driver said, striding up the path to the porch. He offered his hand. "Locke."

Carver shook Locke's uncomfortably hairy hand. "Carver."

Locke bared a wide smile full of teeth, the expression amiable enough, yet somehow condescending.

"Special Agent Hawthorne," Carver said, turning to the other man. "I didn't expect to see you down here. This is Dr. Elliot Archer."

He gestured to Ellie, who by now was standing a half-step behind him, the only trace of her tears the puffiness around her eyes.

"Nice to meet you," she said to both men, shaking their hands in turn.

"If you'll pardon me..." Locke said, brushing between them to enter the house, leaving Carver face-to-face with Hawthorne.

"Would you mind if I borrowed Special Agent Carver for a moment, Dr. Archer?" Hawthorne asked.

Elliot looked at Carver, and then nodded. "Just make sure you return him like you found him."

Hawthorne forced a smile for her benefit.

"Shall we?" Hawthorne said, leading him down the walk to the sedan. Carver followed, and climbed into the passenger seat when Hawthorne opened the door for him. Hawthorne walked around to the driver's seat and joined him in the sweltering car.

"It's about time you told me--" Carver started, but Hawthorne silenced him with a sharp glare.

Hawthorne opened the glove compartment and removed a small black pyramid with a flattened peak. He set it on the dashboard and flipped the power switch on its base. It emitted the crackling sound of static and Carver felt his fillings vibrate.

"Now," Hawthorne said. "What have you learned?"

"We're dealing with at least two distinct serial killers if you factor in Schwartz."

"Surely you knew that much before your flight even left DIA. I'll ask you again, what have you learned?"

"That Schwartz's victims back in Colorado were infected by a retrovirus that selectively replaced certain portions of their chromosomes with animal genes. I suspect the victims here were as well."

Hawthorne's face revealed nothing. Either he already knew as much, which wouldn't have surprised Carver in the slightest as he was certain they must have bugged his cell, or, like Wolfe, he had expected the findings.

"What else?"

"Pictures of the first mummy were fed into facial reconstruction software, generating an image of a woman who could have been Dr. Archer's twin. The man who originally disinterred the bundle is a genetic engineer named Kajika Dodge, who just happened to be Schwartz's former employer. Apparently, Dodge also likes to play with animal genes."

"So what's the connection?"

"I don't know. Yet." Carver scrutinized Hawthorne's expression, only to learn this wasn't a man with whom he wanted to play poker. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing you need to know right now."

"Who do you work for? Who do
I
work for?"

"In good time," Hawthorne said. "For now, you need only understand that there is more transpiring around you than you can see, and even if you could, you have yet to learn enough to truly comprehend."

"If you know what's going on here, then why don't you just tell me? If you expect me to conduct this investigation, then I need to know everything you do. Why would you deliberately withhold potentially critical information?" Carver felt his face begin to flush. "See that house right there? A man is dead inside. Crumpled underneath a desk in a lake of his own blood. If you'd told me everything, then maybe he would still be alive."

Hawthorne's lips drew tight across his teeth and his posture grew rigid.

"I've been where you are now," Hawthorne said. "There's no other way."

"What do you know?"

"That you need to find the killer or many more will die."

"You know who it is, don't you?" Carver shook his head in denial, confusion. "Jesus. Why don't you just take him down yourself?"

"Because I can't find him!" Hawthorne snapped.

Carver sat stunned as Hawthorne collected himself, the red of anger draining from his face, the scars standing out like white lightning bolts across the landscape of hell.

"And you think I can," Carver said.

Hawthorne turned away and switched off the electronic scrambler, effectively ending the conversation.

Carver stared at Hawthorne for a moment before opening the door and climbing out. He slammed it behind him for good measure. As he headed back up the walk toward the house, he glanced back over his shoulder, but Hawthorne still hadn't opened his door. He couldn't fathom that Hawthorne knew the identity of the monster he was tracking and refused to share the information. Or was this some sort of game, a trick? He didn't know what to believe. His head ached and his eyes burned with frustration and exhaustion. He didn't know Hawthorne, let alone trust him. What was it Hawthorne had said,
I've been where you are now
? What in the world was that supposed to mean?

He needed to find out who Hawthorne really was, and he needed to do so in a hurry.

IV

Sinagua Ruins

36 Miles Northeast of Flagstaff, Arizona

By the time the medical examiner and the crowds converged on Mondragon's house, they were long gone, leaving the unenviable task of cleaning up and maintaining the crime scene to the Flagstaff PD. Minus one scalpel, of course. They couldn't afford for it to be misplaced or mismanaged, so they had hand-delivered it to the ART at the mass burial site to add to what was now an overwhelming catalog of evidence. The GPR had assisted in locating two more shallowly interred corpses, bringing the grand total to eleven. The forensics crew continued the search, now so far from the tents they were barely visible in the distance. Three more of the bundles had been exposed and opened, producing six more obsidian figurines in addition to the similarly desiccated corpses. All of the miniature statues were the same as those found with the first: a bat and a tapir.

"Any luck with identification?" Carver asked.

"Not yet," Manning said. She looked thoroughly worn out, the initial excitement of putting her skills to the test having long since worn off. Now she faced the daunting task of performing the same tedious tests on nine more bodies, a burden she carried in the bags under her eyes. "I was sure we would have found out who she was by now."

"I haven't had much better luck myself." He held out his phone and showed her the facial reconstruction image. "This hasn't turned up a match in the missing persons database either."

Manning looked from the screen to Ellie, who stood beside Carver, staring wistfully at the filthy bundle. The outer blankets had been unceremoniously cut away to expose the human form, which produced a side view of the folded body reminiscent of a stillborn in the womb.

"If that's the right picture, I think your computer guy needs a vacation."

"I wish that were the case."

Carver looked down into the hole from the lip of the excavation. They were in the third tent in the progression. The mummies from the previous two were already carefully packed and on their way to Phoenix for more formal lab work, where they would await positive identification so they could be released to any remaining family members. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be able to begin assimilating the RFLP DNA profiles and analyzing the chromosomes until tomorrow morning.

Hawthorne, Locke, and Wolfe had already left together, but would be waiting for them in Flagstaff when they were through here. Carver had so many questions for which Manning had been unable to supply answers, more than he even knew how to formulate. He supposed he was lingering in hopes of learning something new, something that would help this whole case start to make some kind of sense. But primarily, he needed some time away from Wolfe, who was beginning to feel more like his chaperone than the partner they had thrust upon him.

"Have you discovered anything else?" Carver asked. "Anything remotely useful?"

Manning shot him a fiery look that made him wish he had phrased his question differently.

"No," she said sharply, and went back to her work.

"Thanks," Carver said. "Would you mind calling me directly if something jumps out at you? Anything at all."

Manning didn't respond. She resumed her task of carefully scooping measured amounts of sand from the halo of dark earth surrounding the bundle into a series of test tubes.

"Okay then..." he said, turning to leave.

"Oh, and tell your friend if he wants those PCR test results, coffee and maybe some breakfast would go a long way toward expediting the process."

"Which friend?"

"The one with the scars."

Carver froze. "What kind of test did you say?"

"PCR." She scoffed. "You guys really need to work on your communication. Polymerase Chain Reaction? You know, DNA testing? Maybe you can figure out why he thinks it's important to test a murder victim for viruses. Other than to waste my time, of course."

"When did he ask you to perform this test?"

"Earlier this morning. Not long after you left."

That was before Marshall had told him about the girls and their chromosomes.

"Thank you," Carver managed to mumble, grabbing Ellie by the hand and leading her out of the tent.

The wind had diminished to some degree with the coming of twilight, which had crept up on them while they had been in the tent. Behind them, the sun slithered into the sand, turning gold to crimson, sand to blood.

"What now?" Ellie asked, her voice rousing him from his thoughts. Until that moment, he hadn't realized he was still holding her hand. Despite how comfortable and familiar it felt, he released it and walked around to the rear of the canvas structure.

"I need to make a phone call, but after that we'll find you someplace to stay for the night. Someplace safe."

"You aren't going to leave me, are you?"

"Not for a second," he said, meeting her stare until guilt forced him to look away.

He found his personal cell phone and called Jack.

"Hello?" the familiar voice answered.

"Do you have anything for me yet?"

"And hello to you too, Paxton."

"Sorry, Jack. Time's running away from me here. What do you know?"

"I know my prostate's the size of a baseball and my spine's made of rusty hinges."

"Jack."

"Okay, okay. I understand," Jack said. There was an abrupt silence as though the connection had been terminated, and then the call resumed. Carver thought he heard the sounds of driving, the thrum of tires and the purring of an engine.

"I called your home number, didn't I?"

"I had it forwarded to my cell. Some of these inquiries I'm making on your behalf are the kind that need to be made in person."

"Nothing traceable?"

"Chalk it up to paranoia. You'd think we were CIA not FBI." Jack chuckled. "So do you want what I have or not?"

"I'm all ears."

"So I still haven't determined exactly who Hawthorne is affiliated with, but I'm close. I just need a little more time. I did, however, come into possession of some very interesting photos. Did that picture I sent you of my boat a while back come through on your phone?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I guess I know how to work this thing after all. I'll send you what I have now." Jack paused. The phone made a clattering sound and Carver heard a muffled curse. "There. Now, just to forewarn you, these aren't the kind of pictures you'll want to frame and hang on your wall."

"Hang on a sec," Carver said, pulling the phone from his ear to examine the images. The pictures were obviously taken at night with a flash, the subject whitened in contrast to the darkness of the surroundings. It took him a moment to realize the person was lying on dirt. It was a man, his hairline crusted with blood, a streak of it smeared over his right eye and temple. Vacuous eyes stared at Carver through the small screen, reddened by the flash. The man's beard was thick and wild, covering the entirety of his lower face to the cheekbones, rising to points beside his nostrils. Lips curled to a snarl, frozen by death, his gritted teeth were black with blood. The front right incisor was broken, the canines just a little too long and sharp, lending the impression of something less than human, feral. There was another picture from farther away, showing the whole body, though in less detail. Wolverine boots, the laces untied; filthy jeans crusted with dark fluid; a flannel shirt shredded by bullets. The man's chest was a mosaic of blood, chunks of bone, and ground meat. The third photograph was of a different man entirely, this one slightly younger, sprawled prone on black rocks. Only the side of his face was visible. He reminded Carver of the man who had arrived with Hawthorne, only the face he now studied was gaunt, the lines of the zygoma and mandible more pronounced. The lone visible eye stared blankly into space, the iris reflecting the flash with gold as a deer's might.

"What's wrong with his eye?" Ellie asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Hell if I know," Carver said, bringing the phone back to his ear. "What am I looking at here, Jack?"

"The first two pictures are of Edgar Ross, the infamous cannibal. Those definitely aren't the photos you would have seen on the news or in the paper. The second is Charles Grady."