Dark Revelations (2 page)
Authors: Duane Swierczynski,Anthony E. Zuiker
The security detail is used to men (sometimes women) showing up in this condition, looking for handouts or a smoke or a bathroom, but this homeless man merely smiles, revealing rotted, pulpy gums and meth-ravaged teeth, holding up the box like a moron, wordlessly gesturing for the guard to take it.
Just like I told him to.
The expression on the guard’s face practically screams:
BOMB
Everybody scrambles.
The new administration building has state-of-the-art antiterrorism gear—you don’t go dropping $437 million on a new police facility without dedicating a fat chunk of that money to security, not in this post-9/11 world where government buildings, and public servants, are prime targets.
Through the plate-glass windows I watch as the homeless man and his box are forcefully and quickly separated.
I sit on the bench and sip a cup of slightly bitter shade-grown coffee.
At long last, it begins.
I can do many things.
Things you couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Powers, skills, and abilities beyond the human ken.
However, I cannot see through walls.
Still, I know exactly what is happening inside police HQ right this very second.
By now, the suspected B-O-M-B would have been brought to an outside facility for examination using the latest equipment. X-rays. Chemical tests. Each test costing the residents of Los Angeles a stunning amount of money.
The old protocol used to be simple: Blow it up first, sift the remains later.
But not now, in these heightened times.
If only they would open the box, all would be explained. But I knew they wouldn’t open the box, because they feared a bomb might be inside.
And truth be told, they are right. I did send a bomb.
Only it’s not in the box.
Now the homeless man would be brought to an interrogation room with two deputy chiefs of the Counter-Terrorism and Special Operations Bureau.
I checked the rosters and knew exactly who would be in that room with the foul-smelling homeless man.
Men with checkered pasts.
And the homeless man wouldn’t say a word. He’d be semi-coherent, at best.
Wouldn’t ask for a lawyer, nor respond to direct questioning.
Wouldn’t dare.
Just like I trained him.
[To enter the Labyrinth, please go to
Level26.com
and enter the code: boom]
Level26.com
and enter the code: boom]
chapter 2
DARK
W
hen Steve Dark arrived at the chaotic scene at LAPD HQ a burly row of uniforms yelled and tried to push him back—no access, no nothing,
don’t care who you’re with, don’t care what you say
. Dark calmly removed the cell phone from his jeans pocket, pressed a button, then showed the screen to the nearest cop.
hen Steve Dark arrived at the chaotic scene at LAPD HQ a burly row of uniforms yelled and tried to push him back—no access, no nothing,
don’t care who you’re with, don’t care what you say
. Dark calmly removed the cell phone from his jeans pocket, pressed a button, then showed the screen to the nearest cop.
“Oh, okay,” one of them mumbled, then parted to let him through. “Guys, he’s okay. Let him in.”
Dark still had his get-into-any-crime-scene-free pass, courtesy of Lisa Graysmith. The digital image on his phone allowed him passage into pretty much any law enforcement perimeter in the world. It was a universal COOPERATE WITH ME OR ELSE badge, with clearances at the highest level. Dark had received it in an instant, but he knew it could just as easily be taken away.
He was led to the interrogation room, which had been rocked by the explosion. The blast, Dark could see, was brutal yet short-range: meant to kill those in close proximity, but not cause structural damage to the building. The rooms were too small, too well insulated. The blast would have nowhere to go but through them all. Dark thought about the flesh ripped from bone, the pulpy fragments of what used to be a human life splattered over the walls of the interrogation room.
“What happened?”
An LAPD crime scene investigator glanced at Dark’s badge, then explained that the two detectives were in the same room with the suspect—a homeless man who’d carried in a suspicious package.
“Turns out the package wasn’t the worry,” the CSI said. “The guy was a living bomb. We’re trying to pull enough together to figure out what type.”
“Where’s the other package?” Dark asked.
“Over in the forensics lab. Ask for Josh—”
“Banner? Yeah, I know him. Thanks.”
Dark had heard about the blast while making breakfast for his daughter. He immediately put on his headphones and tuned in to the police band for the details: A homeless man had shown up at LAPD headquarters with a package thought to be a bomb. But instead of the package exploding, the
man
did—killing two seasoned deputy chiefs and injuring six. Within minutes Dark was handing off his daughter to his mother-in-law and climbing into his Mustang, hell-bent for downtown.
man
did—killing two seasoned deputy chiefs and injuring six. Within minutes Dark was handing off his daughter to his mother-in-law and climbing into his Mustang, hell-bent for downtown.
This was no ordinary terrorist incident.
Ordinary terrorists don’t leave mysterious packages behind.
Steve Dark used to be a cop.
The best of the best, working for the most elite manhunting unit in the FBI—Special Circumstances Division. He’d worked for Agent Tom Riggins, the man who’d carved Special Circs out of the Justice Department’s ViCAP—Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—during the mid-1980s. For years, Riggins and Dark and their colleagues hunted the worst monsters to ever scuttle across the face of the earth. And Dark was usually leading the hunt.
Until one of the monsters struck back in the worst way imaginable. Dark had been raised by a loving foster family here in California. His new parents, Victor and Laura, thought they would never be able to conceive. They adopted Steve. Then soon after, Laura got pregnant. Twin boys. Still, they treated Steve no differently than his younger siblings.
Years later, a forensic-proof killer who came to be known as Sqweegel butchered Dark’s foster family in the most brutal way Riggins had ever seen. Dark left Special Circs and crawled into seclusion. He only came out when Riggins forced him to—and together, in a grueling cross-country chase, they caught the maniac responsible.
But at a terrible cost. During their final confrontation, Dark had lost his true love, his bedrock of sanity—his wife, Sibby.
Now Dark was hunting the monsters on his own and trying to raise his five-year-old daughter, Sibby—named for her mother. Dark hunted killers without a badge, without Riggins, without the support of the FBI, without any official sanction whatsoever.
In its place, Dark had the clandestine support of a silent patron with ultradeep pockets and forensic gear that would be the envy of any law enforcement division in the world.
This support allowed Dark to walk into any crime scene and do what he was born to do:
Catch the monster.
One elevator ride and three turns later down a clean, bright antiseptic hallway, Dark found Josh Banner’s lab.
“What do you have, Banner?”
“Well, we ran every explosives test and we . . .”
Banner froze midsentence then spun around on his stool, a confused look on his face.
“Huh? Steve? What the heck are you doing here? You’re not back with Special Circs are you? Because if you are . . . Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know, do I?”
Dark and Banner shared a peculiar history. Five years ago, Banner had helped Dark track down Sqweegel. Banner joined Special Circs soon after, and worked with Dark for four years until circumstances put them on opposite sides of a case. Even though Dark had officially cleared his name, he could tell that Banner was still wary. And since that case, Banner had panicked and jumped back to his old job in the forensics unit of the LAPD.
“No, I’m not with Special Circs,” Dark said. “So what was in the package?”
“Can I . . . uh . . . I mean, am I
allowed
to speak to you?” Banner asked, glancing around nervously at the other techs in the room.
allowed
to speak to you?” Banner asked, glancing around nervously at the other techs in the room.
Dark showed him the badge on his phone. “Yeah, you can.”
“All righty then,” Banner said, clearly relieved there were no ethical dilemmas to navigate. Dark showed him the badge; Banner would show him the evidence. “Well, there were no explosives in the box. The terrorism guys did every possible test on it, and then I did a few more. Not even a microbe of anything that could go boom. So we cut it open and found something really weird.”
Banner led Dark over to the main desk positioned in the middle of the room. On the surface were three objects:
A handwritten note.
An alarm clock.
And a drawing on a piece of paper ripped from an artist’s sketch pad.
“Ta-da,” Banner said. “And yeah, none of it makes any sense.”
“Let’s start with the note,” Dark said.
“Well, the message was written in allegedly analysis-proof plain block letters,” Banner explained. “We’ve got a handwriting expert working on it. Strangely enough, the note was on LAPD stationery—straight from the chief of police’s office. And it was not a threat letter. Not an obvious threat letter, anyway.”
Dark leaned over for a closer look. Written on the note was a riddle:
A WOMAN SHOOTS HER HUSBAND. THEN SHE HOLDS HIM UNDER WATER FOR OVER 5 MINUTES. FINALLY, SHE HANGS HIM. BUT 5 MINUTES L ATER THEY BOTH GO OUT AND ENJOY A WONDERFUL DINNER TOGETHER . HOW CAN THIS BE?LABYRINTH
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