Hidden Order: A Thriller (30 page)

“As far as I’m concerned the shortest distance between two points really is a straight line. Often the simplest answer is the best.”

“Wait,” she interjected. “Say that again.”

“What? About the simplest answer being the best?”

“No, the other part.”

McGee took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “About the shortest distance between two points being a straight line?”

“That’s
it
,” Ryan admitted with a look of satisfaction.

“What’s
it
?”

“It’s something Tom Cushing, our team leader always said. The shortest distance between two points isn’t a straight line, it’s an
angle
.”

“Meaning?”

“
Meaning
,” said Ryan as she opened the Mustang’s glove box to see if it had a map, “I think I know how we’re going to beat Phil Durkin at his own game.”

B
OSTON

M
ASSACHUSETTS

S
he had lied to him. She had told him her name was Chloe. He knew it wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. Prostitutes lied. Drug addicts lied. Runaways lied. They all lied. He had lied, too. When her instincts kicked in and the fear began to consume her, he told her he wasn’t going to hurt her. She knew he was lying, but at that point there was nothing she could do about it except die.

The doctors had lied, too. They had told him that as long as he continued diligently with the medication, he would be able to keep things under control. And by
things,
they meant his urges, his impulses, that primal part of himself that delighted in power and the taking of life. He saw himself as a lion on the savannah; free to eat whatever he wanted whenever he was hungry. Of course, that’s what the meds were for. They were supposed to curb his “appetite.”

It didn’t mean he stopped killing, though. They brought him out from time to time, sent him hither and yon. One of the doctors asked him once if he expected any explanation as to why he was asked to kill. It was a very frank session, but then again it was a very frank subject. Nevertheless, he merely shrugged in response. He didn’t need an explanation or a justification.
It was all about balance. Without some form of equilibrium, all living things on the savannah, even the lion, would perish from the earth. Taking a kudu or a water buffalo or even a giraffe or elephant from time to time was simply nature’s way of maintaining harmony. He was the lion. It was what lions did.

Tonight, the lion was preparing to kill again. It would be dramatic, as befitted his stature. The young woman he had left in the Charles was because he had been hungry. When a lion is hungry it eats. This is the way of the world. This was the way of his world. For the moment, he was satiated. Having cleansed himself of his need, he could focus on the task at hand.

Another key, another garage, another vehicle, another neighborhood.
Everything was waiting for him, just as before. Locking the garage door behind him, he removed his flashlight and surveyed the van. Upon it was the name of a plumbing company. It had a Boston address and a Boston telephone number as well. It wouldn’t strike anyone as unusual that such a vehicle might be out at night conducting a plumbing repair. Plumbing problems happened and they happened at all hours.

Sliding open the cargo area door, he found coveralls with the name
Mickey
embroidered on the left chest and the company name on the back, worn work boots, a tool belt, a pillow, and a clipboard loaded with invoices and the other accumulated receipts and pieces of paper a person of his assumed identity would amass in the course of doing his job. There were lengths of copper and PVC pipe, blowtorches, cylindrical tanks, a padded moving blanket, various pieces of plumbing equipment including grates, drain snakes, and rods of all sizes, heavy metal buckets with lids, plungers, spare parts, multiple service manuals, old plumbing catalogs, a few cinder blocks, and a small stack of bricks that looked like they might have been reclaimed from a job site. The monotony of it all would bore even the most inquisitive of police officers. For his part, though, he had no intention of dealing with law enforcement. They merely appeared after the fact to admire the lion’s work.

In the back of the van was a large metal “gang box” on casters used for organizing and locking up tools or other pieces of equipment. Removing another key from his pocket, he placed his flashlight between his teeth
and stepped into the van. He walked back to the gang box and tapped its lid with the key. He knew there was a little mouse inside but the mouse was being very quiet.

He tapped again, and then again once more. Fear radiated out from the box like steam from a pile of hot rocks doused with water in a sauna. He felt a chill run through his body. Getting a purchase on the gang box, he shook it violently and then pounded the lid near one of the airholes with his fist. He pressed his ear up against the side and strained to listen.
Was the little mouse cowering?
He certainly hoped so. A mouse should cower in the presence of a lion.

He rested on his haunches for a full five minutes without moving. Then, without warning, he lashed out and gave the appliance a kick. He enjoyed torturing his victim this way. It made him feel powerful and in control, which of course he was. Looking at his watch, he ran though all of the steps on his agenda for the evening. It was going to be a long night, but he was looking forward to it.

Reaching into his backpack, he removed the dinner he had prepared and laid everything out on a piece of newspaper. He turned off his flashlight and allowed himself to be consumed by the darkness. It was not something that frightened him anymore. It had become part of him and he a part of it.

The darkness had been when his grandfather would come for him. The man’s enormous, gnarled hands trafficked in unspeakable terror. On a shelf overlooking his bed, as those hands did what they did, sat a small plastic lion, watching. It never attacked, never pounced and went for the man’s throat, though night after night the boy wordlessly willed it so. No matter how horribly he suffered, or how strenuously he entreated the lion with his eyes, it never moved, it never so much as even twitched.

How he had admired the lion. How he had admired its supernatural reserve and its lack of concern for anything but itself. It didn’t fear the darkness. It didn’t fear the old man and his gnarled hands. It feared nothing and everything feared it. When he committed his first kill, he had made sure the lion was there to savor the moment with him. He wanted
the lion to see that he was no longer afraid. Just as important, he wanted the lion to see that he could strike fear into others.

Sitting back in the van, the killer steadied his breathing, slowed his heart rate, and became one with the darkness. From inside the stainless steel box, he caught a fresh scent of fear, heavy with the inevitability of what the night would bring, and the certainty that there was nothing and no one who could ever stop the lion.

C
ordero had chosen a small Italian restaurant in Boston’s North End, not far from the Paul Revere House and the Old North Church. The neighborhood’s narrow, European-style streets had been washed clean by the rain and might have added to the ambiance if Harvath didn’t have so much on his mind. Even Cordero, who had changed into an attractive outfit for dinner, couldn’t shake him from the mood he had slipped into.

“I heard from Sal,” she said after the waiter had set down their drinks and went to take care of another table. “The FBI came up bust on the prints as well.”

Harvath wasn’t surprised, but he still shook his head. “I feel like we’re missing something.”

“We’re not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because this is what I do for a living,” Cordero replied. “Building a homicide case is like assembling a watch. It takes time. Every single piece is important and has to be put in the right place. They’re very labor-intensive.
In fact, you know what one of the most important qualities is for a homicide investigator?”

“Attention to detail?” he asked.

“Patience
.” Picking up her wineglass, she switched gears. “What did you do before getting into K-and-R?”

She had a knack for asking him questions that required careful answers. “I actually worked for the Secret Service.”

“So you
were
in law enforcement.”

“Not really,” he replied. “I did protective work.”

“Why the change?”

“There were great people there, but I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like being on defense. Too often, it felt like I was just sitting around waiting for something to happen.”

“Kind of like now.”

“Ironic, huh?”

“But that’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? Without some major breakthrough, there’s probably going to be another victim. Maybe even more than one.”

He nodded.

She looked at him. “It bothers me, too.”

“So what do we do about it?”

Cordero took a sip of her wine. “We hope for a major break-through.”

“I’d settle for even a minor breakthrough,” Harvath replied as he picked up his menu.

“Patience is the companion of wisdom.”

“I’ve heard that before. Who said that?”

“St. Augustine.”

Harvath smiled knowingly.

“What?” she asked.

“I had a commanding officer a long time ago who liked to quote St. Augustine. His favorite line was
no eulogy is due to a man who simply does his duty and nothing more
.

“Apparently, it stuck with you.”

Harvath nodded. It was his turn now to switch gears. “Why did you ask me to dinner?”

“I wanted to get you drunk.”

He laughed. “And then what?”

“And then I’m going to pry every secret I can out of you.”

“Well, that’s a relief. For a minute there, I was worried you were going to take advantage of me.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gets taken advantage of.”

“Are you kidding? I’m the softest touch on the planet. Anything having to do with kids or animals—”

“Right,” she said, interrupting him. “For your information, I’m not the kind of person who gets taken advantage of, either.”

“You think I’m kidding?” he asked as he pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. Scrolling through some pictures, he found the one he wanted and showed it to her.

Cordero’s eyes widened. “What kind of horse is that?”

“That’s not a horse,” he laughed. “That’s my dog.”

“What breed?”

“He’s a Russian Ovcharka.”

“A what?” she asked with a grin, trying to pronounce the name, but not doing very well.

“Ovcharka,” Harvath replied, drawing the word out slowly. “They’re also known as Caucasian sheepdogs. The Russian military and the East German border patrol loved these dogs. They’re very fast, very loyal, and let’s just say you wouldn’t want to make one angry.”

“I’ll take your word for it. He’s
huge
. What’s his name?”

“Bullet.”

“You named your dog
Bullet
?”

“He’s named after a pal of mine whose nickname was Bullet Bob.”

“Was?”

“Bob was a counterterrorism operative. He died doing what he loved.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

‘It’s okay.”

“How do you keep a dog that big in D.C.?”

“He doesn’t live with me. I travel too much.”

“Where’s he live, then?”

“With an old girlfriend.”

“You share custody of your dog with an ex? You really are a soft touch,” said Cordero.

“Do you have a picture of your son?”

“I do,” she said, reaching into her purse and removing her phone.

It was taken at the beach on a beautiful sunny day. He was a handsome little boy with a big smile.

“He’s very cute,” Harvath replied. “He looks a lot like you.”

The detective smiled. “He actually looks a lot like his father.”

“Do you mind if I ask how he died?”

Taking the phone back, she looked at her son’s picture for a moment and then placed it in her purse. “No. I don’t mind you asking. He drowned. It was at that same stretch of beach in the photo I just showed you. We used to go there every summer with friends. It was the middle of the day. It was hot, sunny. We were all swimming, having a good time. One moment he was there and the next he was just . . . gone.”