Twisted (42 page)

“Damn,” he muttered as blood began oozing from the resulting lacerations.

“Luke?” Lillian realized for the first time what had happened, and she pivoted around, her face white with distress.

“It’s okay, Mother. They’re just superficial.” Instinctively, he calmed her, at the same time scanning the deep slices in his palm to see if any fragments of china had broken off and were lodged in his hand.

“What can I do?” Sloane asked quietly, walking over, and desperately trying not to lose it at the sense of déjà vu that came over her as she stared at his lacerated palm.

“Just get me a few napkins and some water,” he requested. “The cuts are clean. No pieces of glass. A little direct pressure should stop the bleeding. I’ll go to the men’s room and take care of it. Then I’ll construct a makeshift bandage and we can forget the whole incident.”

Sloane hurried over to the table, grabbed a few napkins and a glass of water, and brought them over to Luke. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you still bleeding?” Lillian asked anxiously.

“Nope.” Luke lied through his teeth as the blood soaked through the first napkin. “It’s slowing down.”

“Wash it with soap and water anyway.” Lillian fumbled through her purse, and handed Luke a compact first-aid kit, complete with a bandage and a tube of Neosporin. “Then use the Neosporin and bandage it up.”

“Consider it done.”

While Luke went off to tend to his hand, Elliot took over, wheeling Lillian over to talk to Jimmy O’Donnelly. She and Jimmy were in the middle of round two of their heated debate, when Luke rejoined them.

“Thank God.” Elliot rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “I was afraid your mother and Detective O’Donnelly were about to come to blows.” A quick glance at Luke’s neatly bandaged hand. “How’s it doing?”

“Good as new,” Luke assured him. “I’ll take over from here.”

“Great. Because my vibrating BlackBerry is telling me that I need to go to my office.”

“Feel free. Everything here is under control.”

Elliot made his way across the room, stopping near the entrance, where Sloane and Derek were involved in what was clearly a heated, and not amicable, conversation. “I’m dashing upstairs to my office for a quick check-in on our progress,” he told them, waving his BlackBerry in the air. “If Deborah, my grad student, is holding up, I think I’ll pack a doggie bag—including a whopping slice of your strawberry cheesecake—and go home to get some sleep. I’ve got the predawn shift. I want to be wide awake during my watch.”

“Our follow-up meeting’s coming up,” Sloane remembered aloud.

“Don’t remind me. I’m under enough pressure. My entire life has become watching that damn screen, praying for something useful to appear.”

“You’re doing everything you can,” Derek assured him. “We all are. Something will break.” He cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I do have one mandate I need to reiterate and to stress. I know how psyched you are about applying your program to solve these crimes, but it’s crucial that—”

“Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t have shot off my big mouth,” Elliot finished for him. “You’re right, and I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“Enough said,” Derek replied. “Fortunately, you were pretty vague, and at least we’re among friends.”

“I appreciate your letting me off the hook.” Elliot gave a self-deprecating grimace. “But from now on, mum’s the word.” His glance flickered from one of them to the other. “Now go ahead and resume your argument. If you don’t hear from me, it means there’s nothing to tell. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

Four hours later, Elliot had polished off his doggie bag and was sound asleep, when there was a knock at the door of his apartment.

Half out of it, he shrugged into a robe and went to see what was up. As always, he peered through the keyhole, then opened the door with a groggy, puzzled expression.

“Did I forget something?” he asked, seeing his name typed on the large Tyvek envelope his visitor was carrying.

“Just to press the delete key.” Shutting the door behind him, he reached into the envelope with one gloved hand, and extracted a large combat knife. “But not to worry,” he said, madness glistening in his eyes. “I’ll take care of that for you.”

DATE:
30 April

TIME:
0600 hours

This drive never ceases to take my breath away.

The Kittatinny Mountains are exquisite in springtime. Lush, green, towering over the ground below. Gripping the steering wheel, I stare out the window, marveling at the countryside, and the sunrise over the mountains. I downshift, urging my car to climb the steepest incline—the mountain upon which, concealed by a thick cluster of trees, New Olympus stands.

I’ve made this trip hundreds of times over dozens of months. But this time is different. This time, Gaia and I are finally returning home for good.

My epic journey is almost complete. Like Odysseus before me, I will live on through the stories told about my glorious battles with the forces of evil. By the time the viperous
FBI
and their lesser messengers, the
NYPD
, find the shrine I created and left behind, Gaia, Artemis, the lesser goddesses, and I will be transported to Mount Olympus.

I’d let nothing and no one interfere with that.

Which is why I feel so fortunate that I discovered the new serpent that Python sent down to thwart me. I put an end to his poisonous scheme. Despite his cleverness, Python has failed. His messenger has died, knowing he’d lost, and knowing that virtue had prevailed. Like Python himself, the serpent he’d sent had been evil. And evil had to be eliminated.

And so it was.

I must keep a constant watch over Gaia. I won’t tell her about Artemis—not yet. I’ll let that be a surprise. Today, I’ll awaken her only to acquaint her with her room, and to show her the panoramic view of the heavens that’s hers to savor—first by day, then by night.

It’s imperative that I infuse her with peace and joy so that her soul will soar with a sense of rightness when the moment comes for her to slip tranquilly from this world into eternity.

Once she’s settled in, everything will be in place.

And we’ll have only to wait for Artemis to join us.

FBI
New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza, New York City

7:45 A.M.

Derek got the call from Bob Erwin just as he was sitting down to go over his notes and drink his third cup of morning coffee.

He heard only the basics. They were enough. He felt as if he’d been flattened by a steamroller. Slowly, he lowered his cup to the desk, where his coffee sat, forgotten, turning from hot to lukewarm to cold, as Bob provided the details, filling him in on the when, where, and how—which clearly added up to the who.

Derek already knew the why.

“The Crime Scene Unit is already there collecting evidence,” Bob concluded. “They didn’t know the homicide was part of a federal investigation until they found my card on his desk, and called me. Sorry about that.”

“Not important. I don’t stand on ceremony. Just contact them and tell them I don’t want the M.E.’s office to move the body until I get there.”

“Already done. No one’s been inside the apartment except the responding officers, the EMTs, the detectives from the Ninth Precinct, and Crime Scene, who’ve now sealed the place off. They all know you’re the case agent in charge. No one else is going into the apartment until you get there.”

“Good.” Derek was whipping out a pen and pad. “What’s the address and the apartment number?” He scribbled it down. “I’m on my way.”

“Derek?” Bob inserted quickly. “How do you want to handle this with Sloane? Obviously, she hasn’t been notified. I thought you might want to be the one to—”

“I’ll tell her.” Derek rubbed a palm across his face, thinking about Sloane. Yes, she was tough. Tough and strong. Nonetheless, this was going to be one of those life-altering moments she’d never forget, the kind that would change her forever. Derek had been in that place, and he knew. He also knew it sucked.

“She’s home,” he told Bob. “Probably preparing for the meeting that’s now not going to happen. I don’t want to deliver news like this over the phone. I’ll drive straight there from the crime scene.”

“The meeting—right. I almost forgot. I’ll contact Bill and Larry to cancel. Besides, they need to know about this development anyway.”

“Yeah.” Derek was on his feet, ready to go. The Unsub was unraveling. Every minute that passed gave him more time to kill again. It also increased the risk that Sloane would find out what had happened from someone else.

That spawned another thought.

“What about the John Jay faculty?” Derek asked Bob. “Do they know?”

“Not yet. Only the grad student who called it in.”

“Keep it that way until I’ve talked to Sloane.”

“I’ll give you as much time as I can. Call me as soon as you’ve broken the news. And, Derek, tell Sloane I—”

“I will.” Derek placed the phone back in its cradle. As he grabbed his case file and his jacket, he asked himself the age-old questions about life and death that had no answers. Taking a gulp of cold coffee, he headed off.

“Hey.” Jeff stopped him, and Derek turned, waiting while his partner walked over.

“What’s up? You look like shit,” Jeff stated, studying Derek’s ashen complexion.

“I feel like shit.” Briefly, Derek filled Jeff in. “I’m heading over to the crime scene now, and then to Sloane’s.”

“Anything I can do?” Jeff asked.

“Actually, yeah. Can you contact
ERT
for me? I need them at the crime scene
ASAP
.” Derek’s mind was racing, figuring out the fastest way to get his answers. And alerting the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team was definitely step one. Since the NYPD’s Crime Scene Unit had gone in first, the New York field office’s
ERT
would work with them to expedite things. Then they’d take all the bagged evidence, bar-code it, and chopper it straight to the lab at Quantico for immediate processing.

Jeff gave a tight nod. “You do what you have to. I’ll call
ERT
now. I’ll also tell Tony what’s going on. He’ll pitch in to coordinate things at this end. Between the
FBI
, the
NYPD
, and the locals who are involved in the hunt, this
SOB
doesn’t stand a chance. We’ll find him.”

“Yeah. I just hope we do it before his kill list gets any longer.”

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

11:25 A.M.

Sloane refilled the hounds’ bowls with fresh water. Then she made sure that all three of her “babies” were comfy and settled on the sofa with their blankets and toys. She’d like nothing better than to curl up with them, go to sleep, and skip the whole damned meeting.

There’d been no new developments. If there had been, Elliot would have called. The
FBI
and
NYPD
would have done the same. So that meant this “follow-up” meeting was going to add up to a big zero.

In the meantime, she hadn’t slept in two nights. Between the ongoing emotional battle with Derek since the night of Lillian’s party, and the uneasy feeling that something was wrong, she’d tossed and turned both nights. She felt lousy. Nothing with Derek was resolved. And the uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away.

With a weary sigh, she looped her tote bag onto her shoulder, plucked her car keys off the kitchen counter, and left the house.

She locked the front door, turned around to head to the driveway—and promptly collided with Derek.

He caught her arm, which had automatically snapped into elbow-strike mode. “Back off, killer. It’s just me.”

“God, Derek, don’t sneak up on me like that. You know my training, and my instincts. I could have broken your nose.” Her muscles relaxed, and she raked a hand through her hair. “What are you doing here, anyway? Denny is right across the street, doing his job. The hounds are in constant attack mode, ready to tear out the throats of anyone who comes near me. I don’t need an escort to Manhattan. And I don’t want to charge into round three—or is it four?—of our argument over what an ass you made of yourself at Lillian’s party.”

“I’m not here for either of the above. The meeting’s been postponed.”

“Why?” Sloane demanded.

Derek drew a slow breath. “Can we go inside and talk? I’m limited on time, and I don’t want to have this conversation outside.”

Sloane took one look at his expression, heard the somber note in his voice, and her chest tightened. Whatever was going on, it was about to explain the uneasy feeling she’d been living with. She didn’t ask questions. She just turned around and unlocked the front door, pushing it open.

The hounds, who’d already been dozing on the sofa, leaped up, rushing out to greet Sloane as if she’d been gone for a week rather than for three minutes. Then they spied Derek, and raced over to jump all over him, demanding attention.

He squatted down, scratching their ears absently and waiting until they’d calmed down enough for him to do what he had to do. Then he rose, urging Sloane into the living room, and gently tugging on her hand until she was seated beside him on the sofa.

“What is it?” Sloane demanded, her body rigid as she faced him. “Whatever it is, it’s bad. Derek, tell me.”

He didn’t mince words. It wouldn’t soften the impact, and it would only prolong her agony.

“It’s Elliot. He didn’t show up at John Jay yesterday—not for his office hours, not for his shift monitoring the AI system, not even a phone call to check on its status. His grad students tried to reach him on his cell, but their calls went straight to voice mail. By dawn this morning, Deborah was worried enough to call the cops.”

The color had already drained from Sloane’s face. “And?”

“And I got a call from Bob Erwin. The Ninth Precinct in the East Village found Elliot in his apartment.”

“Found him.” Sloane knew what that meant. “Was he beaten? Stabbed? Worse?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said quietly.