The Skin Collector (45 page)

The officers were screaming at her to do the same.

She looked at him with cold eyes.

He raged, ‘I command you to lie down!’

She was going to get shot. Four muzzles were pointed her way, four fingers were curled around triggers.

With a look of disgust, she lowered herself to the carpet, dropping her purse. Matthew lifted an eyebrow when he noted a gun fall out. He wasn’t sure what disappointed him the most – that she had been carrying a gun
without his permission, or that she’d bought a Glock, an okay weapon, but one that had been made in a foreign country.

Mention the word ‘terrorism’ and many Americans, perhaps most, think of radicalized Islamists targeting the country for its shady self-indulgent values and support of Israel.

Lincoln Rhyme knew, though, that those fringe Muslims were a very small portion of the people who had ideological gripes with the United States and were willing to express those views violently. And most terrorists
were white, Christian card-carrying citizens.

The history of domestic terrorism is long. The Haymarket bombing occurred in Chicago in 1886. The
Los Angeles Times
offices were blown up by union radicals in 1910. San Francisco was rocked by the Preparedness Day bombing, protesting proposed involvement in World War One. And a horse-drawn wagon bomb outside J.P. Morgan bank killed dozens and injured
hundreds in 1920. As the years went by, the political and social divisiveness that motivated these acts and others continued undiminished. In fact, the terrorist movements grew, thanks to the Internet, where like-minded haters could gather and scheme in relative anonymity.

The technology of destruction improved too, allowing people like the Unabomber to terrorize schools and academics and to
evade detection for years, and with relative ease. Timothy McVeigh manufactured a fertilizer bomb that destroyed the federal building in Oklahoma City.

Presently, Rhyme knew there were about two dozen active domestic terror groups being monitored by the FBI and local authorities, ranging from the Army of God (anti-abortion), to Aryan Nations (white, nationalist neo-Nazis), to the Phineas Priesthood
(anti-gay, anti-interracial-marriage, anti-Semitic and anti-taxation, among others), to small one-off, disorganized cells of strident crazies called by police ‘garage bands’.

Authorities also kept a watchful eye on another category of potential terror: private militias, of which there’s at least one in every state of the union, with a total membership of more than fifty thousand.

These groups
were more or less independent but were joined by common views: that the federal government is too intrusive and a threat to individual freedom, lower or no taxes, fundamentalist Christianity, an isolationist stance when it comes to foreign policy, distrust of Wall Street and globalization. While not many militias put it in their bylaws, they also embrace certain de facto policies like racism, nationalism,
anti-immigration, misogyny and anti-Semitism, anti-abortion and anti-LGBT.

A particular problem with the militias is that, by definition, they’re paramilitary groups; they believe fervently in the second amendment (‘
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed
’). Which meant that they were usually
armed to the teeth. Admittedly some militias aren’t terrorist organizations and claim their weapons are only for hunting and self-defense. Others, such as Matthew Stanton’s American Families First Council, obviously felt otherwise.

Why New York City should be a particularly juicy target Rhyme had never figured out (the militias, curiously, pretty much left Washington, DC alone). Maybe it was
the other trappings of the Big Apple that appealed: gays, a large non-Anglo population, home of the liberal media, the headquarters of so many multinational companies. And maybe they felt the Rockettes and
Annie
carried thinly veiled socialist propaganda.

If Rhyme totaled the number of perps he’d been up against over the years, he supposed he’d rank anti-social personality disorder doers first
(that is, psychos) and domestic terrorists second, far more numerous than foreign plotters or organized crime perps.

Like the couple he was about to speak to: Matthew and Harriet Stanton.

Rhyme was now on the tenth floor of the Stantons’ hotel, along with officers of the NYPD Emergency Service operation. ESU had cleared the building and found no other co-conspirators. Rhyme and Sachs hadn’t
expected any. The hotel records indicated that only the Stantons and their son were staying here. Clearly there was one other perp – the deceased Unsub 11-5 – but there was no evidence of anyone else in New York. After Rhyme and Sachs had determined that the Stantons had been involved in the terror attack they and Bo Haumann had put together a tactical op to nail them.

The hotel manager had arranged
for the elevators to bypass the tenth floor and had moved his staff elsewhere while the police evacuated the floor’s legitimate guests. Then woman ESU officers donned cleaning jackets, tossed their MP-7s into laundry carts and hung around the elevator until the family showed up.

Surprise …

Not a shot fired.

The Bomb Squad had cleared the room – no booby traps; in fact not much of anything left.
The terrorists had traveled light. Sachs was presently running the scene there.

Lincoln Rhyme was now scrolling through his iPad, reading reports sent to him over the past half hour from the FBI based in St Louis, the closest field office to the Southern Illinois home of the Stantons and the AFFC. The group had been on the Bureau’s and the Illinois State Police’s radar – members were suspected
in attacks on gays and minorities and of other hate crimes but nothing could ever be proven. Mostly, it was felt, they were bluster.

Surprise.

The authorities in the Midwest had already arrested three others within the AFFC for possession of explosives and machine guns without federal licenses. And the search there continued.

No longer in her crime scene coveralls, Amelia Sachs joined him.

‘Anything left behind?’ He looked at the milk crate she carried. It was filled with a half-dozen paper and plastic bags.

‘Not much. Lot of bottled water.’

Rhyme grunted a laugh. ‘Let’s see if our friends’ll be willing to have a tête-à-tête.’ A nod toward a linen room, where the Stantons were being held until the FBI showed up; the feds were taking point on this one.

They walked and wheeled into
the room, where the prisoners sat handcuffed and shackled. The parents and son – their only child, Rhyme had learned – gazed back with a hesitant resolution. They were flanked by three NYPD officers.

If the Stantons were curious as to how Rhyme had figured out they were the associates of the unsub and that this was their hotel, they didn’t express any desire to learn the answer. And that answer
was almost embarrassingly mundane, involving no subtle analysis of the evidence whatsoever. Unsub 11-5’s backpack, recovered beside his body near the water main pipe, contained a notebook called
The Modification
, a detailed list of steps in the plot to get poison into the New York drinking water. Inside that was a slip of paper with the address of the hotel. They knew the Stantons were staying
there; Harriet had told Sachs this fact. So the couple and the unsub knew each other. The ‘attack’ at the hospital wasn’t that at all. The unsub had probably gone there to visit his ailing colleague, Matthew Stanton, in the hospital’s cardiac care ward.

On reflection, there
were
clues they’d discovered that might have led to the conclusion that the Stantons were connected. For instance, the writing
on the bag at the Belvedere holding the implants said
No. 3
, suggesting that the attack on Braden Alexander was the third one. But if the assault on Harriet Stanton had been legitimate, the bag notation would have read
No. 4
.

Similarly, they’d found trace evidence of Harriet’s cosmetics in places where the unsub had been. Yes, he’d grabbed her in the hospital and there might have been some transfer
of the substance, but it would have been minimal. More likely he’d picked the trace up by spending time in her company. Also, Rhyme recalled the back and forth of the bootied footprints at the crime scenes; that suggested that an accomplice had brought the lights and batteries in after the tattoo killings. A check with the hotel here revealed that the Stantons had been accompanied by their
son, Josh, a young, muscular man who could easily have carted the heavy equipment in after his cousin had finished his lethal inking.

But sometimes fate short-circuits.

A slip of damn paper with an address – found in the perp’s possession.

‘You know your rights?’ Sachs asked.

The officer behind Harriet Stanton nodded.

His long face pale and with a matte texture, Matthew Stanton said, ‘We
don’t recognize any rights. The government has no authority to grant us anything.’

‘Then,’ Rhyme countered, ‘you won’t have any problem talking to us.’ He thought this logic was impeccable. ‘The only thing we need at this point is the ID of your colleague. The one with the poison.’

Harriet’s face brightened. ‘So he got away.’

Rhyme and Sachs shared a glance. ‘Got away?’ Rhyme asked.

‘No, he
didn’t escape,’ Sachs told the Stantons. ‘But he didn’t have any ID on him and his fingerprints came back negative. We’re hoping you’ll cooperate and—’

Her smile vanished. ‘But then you arrested him?’

‘I thought you knew. He’s dead. He was killed by the stream of water after he drilled the hole. Because the pressure was never shut off.’

Absolute silence descended. It was shattered only a few
seconds later when Harriet Stanton began to scream uncontrollably.

‘It’s over,’ Pam Willoughby said, practically leaping into Seth McGuinn’s arms.

He was at the front door of her apartment building in Brooklyn Heights. He stumbled back, laughing. They kissed long. The sky finally was clear and the incisive sunlight, ruddy from the afternoon angle, poured onto the façade of the building. The temperature, though, was even colder than in the past few
days, when sleet pelted from the gray sky.

They stepped inside the hallway and then walked into her apartment on the first floor, to the right. Even a glance at the basement stairs, at the bottom of which Seth had nearly been killed, didn’t dampen her joy.

She was buoyant. Her shoulders were no longer knots, her belly no longer tight as a spring. The ordeal was over. She could return home, at
last, without worries that that terrible man who’d attacked Seth would come back. According to Lincoln Rhyme’s message, the unsub was dead and his colleagues had been arrested.

Pam had noted immediately that Amelia wasn’t the one delivering the news.

Fine with her. She was still angry and wasn’t sure she could ever wholly forgive Amelia for trying to break up her relationship with her soul mate.

In the living room Seth pulled off his jacket and they dropped onto the couch. He cradled her head and pulled her close.

‘You want anything?’ she asked. ‘Coffee? I’ve got some champagne or, I don’t know, bubbly wine. I’ve had it for a year. It’s probably still good.’

‘Sure, coffee, tea. Anything warm.’ But before she rose Seth took her by the arm and studied her carefully, looking her over with
a face of both relief and concern. ‘You all right?’

‘I am. How about
you
? You’re the one who was going to get a tattoo from that crazy guy.’

Seth shrugged.

She could see he was troubled. She couldn’t imagine what it had been like to be pinned down like that, knowing you were about to be killed. And killed so painfully. The news reported that the poisons the killer had used were picked because
of their agonizing symptoms. At least he didn’t seem to blame her for the attack any longer. She’d been cut deeply to see him pulling away afterward. Walking away from her, not looking back … that was almost more than she could stand.

But he’d forgiven her. That was all in the past.

Pam walked into the kitchen and put water on to boil, readied the drip coffee-maker.

He called, ‘And what exactly
did
happen? You talk to Lincoln?’

‘Oh.’ She stepped into the doorway. Her face was grave and she brushed her static-clinging hair from her face, twined it into a rope and let it fall on her back. ‘It was terrible. That guy? Who attacked you? He wasn’t a psycho at all. He’d come here to poison the water supply in New York.’

‘Shit!
That
was it? I heard something about water.’

‘One of those militia
groups, like my mother was in.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Lincoln thought that the killer was obsessed with the Bone Collector. But, get this, it wasn’t that at all; he was interested in the attack my mother planned here years ago. He was trying to figure out how Lincoln and Amelia would conduct an investigation. Oh, he wasn’t very happy he missed that. Lincoln, I mean. He gets pretty mad when
he makes mistakes.’

The kettle whistled and Pam ducked back into the kitchen and poured the boiling water into the cone. The crisp sound was comforting. She fixed his the way he liked it – two sugars and one dash of half-and-half. She drank hers black.

Pam brought the cups out and sat beside him. Their knees touched.

Seth asked, ‘Who were they exactly?’

She tried to recall. ‘They were with,
what was it called? The American Family Council. Something like that. Doesn’t sound like a militia.’ Pam laughed. ‘Maybe they had a public relations team work on their image.’

Seth smiled. ‘You ever hear of them when you and your mom were hiding out in Larchwood?’

‘Don’t think so. Lincoln said the people doing this were from Southern Illinois. It wasn’t far away from where my mother and I were.
And I remember my mother and stepfather would meet with people from the other militias sometimes but I never paid any attention. I hated them all. Hated them so much.’ Her voice faded.