Thriller (23 page)

“We’ll help clean the site, of course,” Erika said. “The

Monastery of the Sun and the Moon will look as if nothing ever

happened.”

“You violated the sanction.” Father Chen raised his pistol.

“No. You told us the parking lot wasn’t part of the safe house,”

Saul insisted.

“I said nothing of the sort!”

“Erika asked you! I heard her! This other priest heard your

answer! You said the parking lot wasn’t important!”

“You threatened an operative within a sanctuary!”

“With what? That isn’t dynamite around Erika’s waist.

Those tubes are painted cardboard. We don’t have any

weapons. Maybe we bent the rules, but we definitely didn’t

break them.”

The priest glowered. “Just like when you killed your foster

father.”

Erika nodded. “And now another black-hearted bastard’s been

wiped from the face of the earth.” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

“But my son is still dead. Nothing’s changed. I still hurt. God,

how I hurt.”

Saul held her.

“I want my son back,” Erika whimpered.

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“I know,” Saul told her. “I know.”

“I’ll pray for him,” Father Chen said.

“Pray for us all.”

Deviant Ways
was Chris Mooney’s first thriller. In the novel,

Mooney introduces a secondary character named Malcolm

Fletcher, a mysterious, enigmatic former profiler with strange,

black eyes who’s hiding from the FBI. Another former profiler, Jack Casey, manages to track Fletcher down and convinces him to assist in a disturbing case—a serial killer who

murders families in their sleep and then detonates bombs

just as the police arrive. Fletcher, Casey discovers, knows the

identity of the killer, who happens to be a former patient from

an FBI-sponsored behavioral modification program. By the

end of the thriller, Malcolm Fletcher is once again on the run,

being hunted by his former employer.

When the book was first published, Mooney was surprised

by the number of letters and e-mails he received wanting to

know more about Malcolm Fletcher. What happened to him?

Was he still being chased by the FBI? What other secrets did

Fletcher have? More important, what was Fletcher doing?

Mooney himself didn’t know the answers to these questions.

Fletcher had actually disappeared from Mooney’s imagination, so the author went to work on two stand-alone thrillers:

World Without End
and
Remembering Sarah
. But the e-mails

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from readers didn’t stop, so Mooney started asking himself

those same questions and decided to revisit his popular character. During the process, Mooney discovered he missed

Fletcher and the world he inhabited, so he’s now exploring

the idea of using Fletcher in a potential series.

Here, in
Falling,
Mooney explores his trademark themes

of loss, retribution, and how justice so often depends on one’s

interpretation. He also introduces a new character, a young

woman who has been asked to help set a trap to capture the

dangerous former FBI profiler.

So what has Malcolm Fletcher been up to all these years?

Time to find out.

The airport was busy and hot. Marlena had to walk fast to

keep up.

“The transmitter is very small, less than half the size of a pencil eraser,” Special Agent Owen Lee said. He had the slender

build of a swimmer and talked with a slight lisp. “Your job is to

plant the transmitter and walk away, and then you can enjoy a

few days of R & R here in the Caymans, courtesy of the federal

government.”

“I still don’t understand why you specifically requested me,”

Marlena said. It was a valid question. She was a lab rat. Her expertise was in forensics not surveillance.

“I asked for a confident young woman, someone who could

think on her feet,” Lee said. “She also needed to be exceptionally good-looking and Cuban, because this guy has a thing for

Cuban women. That’s when your name came up.”

“Who’s the subject?”

“Malcolm Fletcher.”

Marlena felt her legs wobble.

Malcolm Fletcher, one of the brightest minds the FBI had ever

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produced, was now one of the FBI’s Most Wanted. Currently he

had a two-million-dollar price tag on his head for the deaths of

at least three federal agents.

And that was just what the federal government was offering.

For years, Marlena had heard rumors of a reward somewhere in

the neighborhood of five million dollars being offered by Jean

Paul Rousseau. His son, Special Agent Stephen Rousseau, had

been part of a failed attempt to apprehend Fletcher. Now Stephen

Rousseau was brain dead and still on a feeding tube.

“Judging by your expression, I take it you know who he is.”

Marlena nodded, swallowed. “Is it true about his eyes?”

“No pigment at all, totally black,” Lee said. “I hear you’ve applied for the open position in Investigative Support.”

“Yes.” Marlena was hoping her lab experience would give her

an edge over the other applicants competing for the coveted

spot inside the Investigative Support Unit, the section of the FBI

that deals exclusively with serial murder.

“Capturing Fletcher and bringing him home to justice—this is

the kind of case that makes careers. I hope you take directions well.”

“You can count on me, sir.”

“Good. Now let’s go buy you a dress. You’re going to a cocktail party.”

Marlena dropped her suitcase into the back of a battered Jeep.

Sitting behind the wheel was a man who could have easily passed

as a body double for the Incredible Hulk. He wore a Yankees

baseball hat and a T-shirt stretched so tight it looked moments

away from splitting. His name was Barry Jacobs, one of the members of Lee’s surveillance team.

Malcolm Fletcher, Lee explained, was a man with very particular tastes. Everything had to be just right. Lee insisted she

model each dress for him.

Each time, Marlena stood in front of him while Lee sat in a

leather chair, telling her to turn around or to the side. Lee didn’t

smile or say much, but she felt his gaze lingering too long over

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the exposed parts of her body. To get past her discomfort, Marlena focused on the store—the rows of expensive shoes and the

glass jewelry cases, the bright smile of the helpful Frenchwoman

who kept bringing her different cocktail dresses. Here she came

again, holding up a tasteful yet revealing black Gucci.

When Marlena stepped out wearing the Gucci, Lee’s expression brought to mind a recent rape case she had worked on—a

handsome, Ivy-educated young man who drugged women with

Rohypnol and videotaped what he did with them. The way the

young man smiled as he unbuckled his belt was a lot like the way

Lee was smiling right now.

While Lee paid for the dress and shoes, Marlena excused herself and went outside. Jacobs was leaning against the store wall,

smoking a cigarette.

“Can I bum one of those?”

Jacobs handed her a cigarette, then lit it for her. “You nervous

about tonight?” he asked.

“Should I be?”

“No. I’ll be at the yacht club, but you won’t see me. Lee and

the other two agents on our team, they’ll be monitoring everything from the operations house about five or so miles down the

road. That’s where we’ve been staying. Lee’s got you booked in

a nice hotel.”

Having male and female agents sharing the same quarters was

now against regulations; too many female agents had complained

about lewd behavior and sexual harassment. And after the creepy

way Lee had looked her over, Marlena felt relieved to be staying

someplace else.

“Fletcher has never attacked anyone in public before. As long

as you don’t go anywhere alone with him, you’ll be fine.” Jacobs

stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll go get the Jeep. Tell Lee it’s going

to be a few minutes. I had to park in a garage.”

Two doors down, Marlena spotted a revolving display holding rows of bright, colorful postcards of the Caymans. The postcards immediately brought to mind her mother. Ruthie Sanchez

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took the postcards family and friends had sent her over the years

and taped them up on the wall inside her janitor’s closet. She’d

loved her postcards with their scenic views.

Marlena picked out two postcards she thought her mother

would have enjoyed. As she paid for them, along with a pack of

cigarettes, she tried hard to push away the memory of her mother

trapped on the fifty-sixth floor of the World Trade Center’s north

tower, the fire and horrifying screams growing louder and closer

as her mother stared at the shattered window leading out to a blue

sky thick with smoke, her only way out.

Owen Lee insisted on conducting the briefing inside her hotel

room. He handed her a folder and excused himself to talk with

Jacobs in the hallway. Marlena read the file on the balcony overlooking a crowded beach.

The report was mostly about Fletcher’s movements on the island over the past week. Twice he had been spotted talking to

Jonathan Prince, a lawyer who owned a private bank on the island. According to an unnamed informant, Fletcher was supposed to meet Prince at tonight’s cocktail party to pick up his new

identity, complete with passport and credit cards.

Here were four surveillance photos. The first was of Jonathan

Prince standing outside a pair of glass doors. He was an older

man, with a shaved head and a nose shaped like a beak. The last

three photographs were of Fletcher. In each, the former FBI profiler wore stylish clothing and different types of sunglasses. Marlena was wondering about the strange, black eyes hidden behind

the dark lenses when Lee stepped onto the balcony and handed

her a Prada handbag.

“A Rolex watch and a pair of diamond stud earrings are in

there to help you look the part,” Lee said. “The transmitters are

inside the small, zipped pouch.”

Mounted on a rectangular piece of plastic were six transmitters, each one a different color to match whatever fabric color

the target might be wearing.

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Lee pulled up a chair and sat down. “The top part is made with

this Velcro-like substance that attaches itself to any fabric. You

barely have to apply any pressure. Go ahead and try it.”

Marlena peeled off the white disk, reached around Lee’s back

and brushed her finger against the collar of his shirt, marveling

at the way it so easily stuck to the fabric. The transmitter was so

small you could barely see it.

“Good technique,” Lee said, and smiled.

Marlena smelled the mint-scented mouthwash on his breath.

His red hair was damp and neatly combed. She hoped to God he

hadn’t spruced himself up for her.

“You mind if I smoke?” Marlena asked.

“Not as long as you share,” Lee said.

Marlena went into the bedroom and came back with her cigarettes. She lit one, then handed the pack and matches to Lee.

“I read over the report.” She casually moved her chair to give her

some distance. “There was no mention as to where Fletcher is

staying on the island.”

“That’s because we don’t know. Fletcher’s highly educated

with surveillance techniques, so we can’t use our normal methods. Plus, he tends to move around only at night, which presents

its own set of problems. Now, tell me what you’ve heard about

him.”

“Mainly that he’s brilliant.”

“Without a doubt. When he worked for Investigative Support,

he had the highest clearance rate on serial murder. Unfortunately, Fletcher crossed a line. Instead of bringing these monsters

in, he acted as their judge, jury and executioner. When the bureau found out what he was doing, they sent three agents to

Fletcher’s home to handle the matter discreetly. One agent is

brain dead and hooked up to a feeding tube. The other two

agents…we still don’t have any idea what happened to them.

Fletcher’s been on the run ever since.”

“How did you find him?”

“The informant mentioned in the report is a secretary at

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Prince’s firm. For years, we’ve believed Fletcher used the Caymans to shift around his money and change identities. Now we

know it’s true. She supplied us with the aliases Fletcher’s been

using, his bank accounts, you name it.”

Lee lit his cigarette, tossed the match off the balcony.

“Fletcher’s scheduled to meet Prince at ten. The cocktail party

will be crowded, everyone holding drinks, trying not to bump

into one another. You’re going to walk behind Fletcher, touch the

back of his arm and say, ‘Excuse me’—you know, pretend to

bump into him. Go for a casual approach, it always works best.”

“And if Fletcher approaches me?”

“Then you talk to him. Be yourself, flirt with him, touch his

arm or shoulder like you’re interested, and then find a way to

put the transmitter on him—and once you do, don’t disengage

right away. That will look suspicious. Talk to him for a few minutes, and then find a way to excuse yourself. We’ll take it from

there.”

“Why did the secretary give up Fletcher?”

“She’s planning on leaving her husband, and two million buys

her a new life and a whole lot of distance. Now, to answer your