Wake the Devil (3 page)

W
hen they exited the museum, Jack was surprised to see the sky had grown considerably darker than when he went in. It now looked like rain was on the way. Beth had ridden with Pappas, so they took his car to the crime lab. On the ride, she casually brought up the question of his relationship with Janet.

“Janet was my boss before being promoted to ASAC. Obviously, she’s moved up the ladder since then.”

“She didn’t mention you both worked together when we met.”

“That’s odd.”

“That’s what I thought,” Beth said, then after a pause added, “She’s very tan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tan.”

“I’m not following.”

“It’s November in Atlanta, Jack. I suspect technology. Don’t men notice anything?”

Apparently not. Jack turned his palms up in an I-don’t-know gesture.

“So you only knew each other through work?” Beth said.

“Basically.”

“Basically?”

There was quicksand ahead. Jack decided the best way to handle the matter was with the truth.

“There might have been some tension between us, but nothing came of it. She was married at the time. So was I.”

“Well, she’s not married now. At least she’s not wearing a ring.”

Jack thought about this for a moment and told her he hadn’t noticed.

“Um,” Beth said, not sounding convinced, “were you glad to see her?”

“Not glad, not sad,” he said, switching lanes. “I have mixed feelings about being drawn into another case.”

“You could have said no.”

“I could. But more people might die unless this Sandman’s caught. Besides, aren’t you the one who’s been wanting me to get back into police work?”

“And you start listening to me now?”

Jack smiled and said, “I always listen to you, dear.”

They weren’t married yet, but were sounding more and more like a married couple every day. Beth smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Would you like me to back away?” Jack asked.

“No. That’s one reason I love you. You always do the right thing.”

“Only one?”

“There may be others. Try me later.”

Her voice trailed away as she became absorbed in the file on her lap. A few minutes later, she looked up when Jack pulled into a shopping center and parked in front of a bagel shop.

“What are you doing?”

“Wait here,” Jack said, exiting the car.

He was back ten minutes later carrying two large paper bags.

“You didn’t have to buy lunch. Dan and I ate before the museum.”

“Secrets of the trade, my child.”

Beth shook her head. Once they returned to the road, her thoughts turned to the man next to her. He had a dry, if bizarre, sense of humor and could always make her laugh. She’d entered their relationship wholeheartedly, making the commitment to sell her house and move in with him several months earlier. Neither had been disappointed. Jack was solid, reliable, and a wonderful lover. There was a lot to be said for those qualities. So far, their life together had been everything she’d dreamed about. She couldn’t remember being as happy. Working together, she thought, would only cement things
further. Lost in her thoughts, it took a moment to realize they were at the police complex.

They parked under a sign that said “Official Vehicles Only” and went into the lab. Jack carried the food.

Atlanta’s crime lab was state of the art, run by Ben Furman and two assistants. They handled evidence gathered by three thousand cops across the metro area as well as a number of surrounding counties. Though his training was in clinical psychology, after joining the FBI Jack had become fascinated with forensic evidence and had acquired an extensive knowledge that was the envy of experts throughout the profession. Then to the puzzlement of all and at the height of his career, he’d dropped out of sight, left the Bureau, and become a recluse. This hiatus lasted for approximately eight years, until Beth Sturgis entered his life asking for help to catch a murderer.

*

Nelda Latham, wearing a white lab coat, was frowning at a glass slide she was holding up to the light when they came through the door. Officially she was a lieutenant with the Atlanta Police Department, but she hadn’t been in uniform or carried a gun in ten years. Nelda was of average height, was slightly overweight, and had short brown hair, which she had recently begun to color. Her eyes drifted away from the slide and immediately locked on the bags Jack was carrying.

“Bagels,” she said, sniffing the air.

“Naturally,” Jack said.

“And cream cheese?”

Jack held up the second bag.

“With chives?”

“Only a barbarian would show up without them. I also have a walnut and lox spread.”

Nelda pulled her lab coat open and lay down across a long white table, throwing her arms wide. “Take me,” she said. Then, raising her head, she asked Beth, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Beth made a dismissive gesture with her right hand. “He’s yours,” she said, and headed toward a cabinet against the wall where she retrieved several plates, knives, and a handful of paper napkins.

“You think I’m that easy?” Jack said.

“Yes,” both women answered at the same time.

Feigning indignation, Jack turned to Ben Furman for support. Furman looked up from the microscope he’d been peering into and nodded helpfully.

“Hmph,” Jack said, plunking himself onto a high-top stool.

“It’s illegal to bribe the police, you know,” Nelda said, snatching a cinnamon-raisin bagel from the bag Jack was carrying.

“Absolutely,” Beth said.

“You think this will buy you some influence around here?” Ben Furman asked, shoving himself back from the table. He then rolled his chair down the length of the room until he reached them.

“Of course not,” Beth said, handing him a plate.

“Actually we were expecting you,” Nelda said. “Chief Ritson called to let us know you were on the way. I understand we’ve got the Sandman again.”

“You’re familiar with him?” Jack asked.

“Six years ago, he took out a gas station with a bomb trying to kill an informant in the witness protection program. The bomb was set off from the pawn broker next door and configured to blow outward. It left the shop intact.”

“Did he get the informant?” Beth asked.

“No, but the car he was working on did when the lift collapsed. The man’s clever as hell and ruthless beyond belief. I’ve been dying for another crack at him. We busted our butts on that case and came up with nothing.”

“Tell me about the ruthless part,” Beth said.

“The gentleman who owned the pawn shop had this fancy security system you activate with a thumbprint. After the explosion, Teddy Larson went next door to see if maybe he had seen or heard anything. He found the guy unconscious in a closet, minus his thumb.”

A shudder went up Beth’s spine. She put her bagel back down.

*

Rachel Lawrence stared out the window at the rain. She was sitting in her living room drinking straight gin. Will Landry was next to her, feeling awkward and ill at ease as the tears rolled down her face. Normally the most resolute of people, unshakable Rachel was coming
apart. She knew it. The bottle was about half full. He watched her take another swallow. Will didn’t think getting drunk was a half bad idea. He only wished he could find a way to comfort her. It was Will, not Rachel, who had called George’s parents to break the news of his death.

Thirty-four-year-old Rachel was tall and slender. Her features were pleasant but unremarkable with a nose that was a little too pointed, and a mouth that was not full enough. Her brown hair came just to her shoulders. As a rule, she wore only a little makeup. According to her mother, her eyes were her best feature, blue and shining with intelligence. At the moment, they were swollen and puffy from all the crying.

A former army doctor with shrapnel in both legs, Willis Landry still walked with a limp from an RPG that had hit his vehicle during Desert Storm II. He was forty-five now, tall, gaunt, gray-haired, and thought he had witnessed all the misery one human being had a right to see years earlier. He also took it on himself to notify the staff and their remaining partner, Stuart Patterson, of the tragedy. Everyone was devastated. Patterson, the practice’s manager, said he’d cover for them as long as necessary.

A uniformed cop was there when Will had arrived. He stepped into the kitchen to give them some space. Will assumed his presence was related to what they’d seen in the parking lot several weeks earlier. Periodically, the cop would get up and go through the house checking the doors and windows.

Rachel took another drink.

“Maybe you should go easy on that stuff,” Will said, putting an arm around her shoulders.

Rachel looked at him through bloodshot eyes, then leaned back and put her head on his shoulder. More tears rolled down her face.

“What am I gonna do?” she asked.

The words were not directed to him, but up at the ceiling.

Will held her tighter. Everything he could think of sounded like a Hallmark card. He finally just spoke from his heart.

“Live, survive, heal. Go on. That’s what George would want. I’m here. We all are.”

Rachel put her glass back down and turned her head, first one way and then the other. She felt like she was getting thinner, disappearing. Not in her wildest dreams did she think anything could hurt this badly.

Rachel buried her face in Will’s shoulder.

*

Wesley Simms was surprised to see how much Atlanta had grown in the last six years. According to the electronic population sign across from Piedmont Hospital, the city was now well over two million people with another four million in the surrounding countries. The streets, however, weren’t teeming with pedestrians like New York or Chicago. In fact, only he and a few others were out that afternoon. The rain had passed, but it looked like more was on the way. People were probably at the malls, which seemed to stay perpetually busy from the time they opened to when security started throwing shoppers out late into the night. As a city, Atlanta was beautiful and clean, but definitely not a walking town. Twice, people had stopped to ask if he needed a ride. They appeared mildly surprised when he told them he was just getting some exercise.

Wesley, a solid man of about five foot eleven, was in his late thirties and had taken care to dress casually in good quality clothes. Nothing fancy, just upper-class items designed to fit the neighborhood he was wandering through. His charcoal gray pants and plum V-neck sweater were understated. Beneath the sweater was a knit long-sleeve white shirt.

Three days earlier, he had dropped by the ASPCA and adopted the dog who was now walking beside him. Nothing special about it. Just a small, reddish-brown mutt of indeterminate parentage. The ASPCA people had even given him a leash and box of dog biscuits. The dog seemed pleased to be outside. No one gave them a second glance, which was exactly what he wanted. Deep in conversation on his cellphone, Wesley turned onto the next street.

Have you examined the house yet?

I’m just about to.

Keep your eyes alert for cops, son. They might have the place staked out already.

I know that. I’ll be careful.

Two minutes later, Wesley and his four-legged companion came abreast of a two-story brick home with a neatly maintained lawn. He was in no particular hurry and described it to his mentor in some detail down to the dormant Bermuda grass, trees, and foundation plantings.

Is there anything you can use, boy-o?

Yes, sir. The front has a large bay window. I can see two people inside sitting on a couch, and, uh oh—

Uh oh, what?

There’s a cop with them. He just came to the front door and lit a cigarette. You were right.

Give him a friendly wave and continue walking. Not fast, not slow. Same steady pace.

Not a problem.

What about the surroundings? Any opportunities there?

Across the street is a small buffer of trees. Beyond that is a church which should work just fine. It’s high enough so the trees won’t be a factor when I take the shots.

Excellent, I’m proud of you, my boy.

Wesley smiled, disconnected, and continued up the street. He turned at the next corner and headed for the church. His sniper rifle was in a case in the trunk of his car on the next block. He spared a quick glance at the cop who was still on the front steps smoking. Filthy habit. The idea of putting smoke in his lungs made him cringe. As soon as they were out of sight, he unclipped the dog’s leash, removed his collar, then took two biscuits from the box and placed them on the ground. The dog began eating.

“The best of luck to you, my friend,” he said, patting the dog’s side.

The dog didn’t look up as he walked away.

B
eth borrowed Nelda’s desk and continued studying the Sandman files. What she was reading about the killer and the various techniques he employed to take out his victims concerned her. She was anxious for Jack to see it. The Sandman was unquestionably intelligent, as Nelda had said, and planned his jobs down to the last detail. That was obvious immediately. Police forces on three continents hadn’t come close to nabbing him. In each instance, he’d outwitted them. Not a small feat considering the talent arrayed against him. He seemed to be a phantom who could vanish at will, leaving no trace of himself. Even the most stringent precautions taken by the German police a few months earlier had come to nothing. Posing as a carpet layer working in the captain’s office, the Sandman had simply waltzed through their security and killed two men in their own police station. A video camera showed him on the way out, only this time he was dressed as a cop. Astounding.

Across the room, Jack was looking over Ben Furman’s shoulder as he examined the evidence Beth had brought back from the missing FBI agent’s house. No one had heard from Gabe Alonso in more than fifty hours. That didn’t bode well. Shortly after they arrived, Dan Pappas and Todd Milner entered the lab. Everyone was praying Furman could work some magic with what Beth had found.

It was obvious Milner was upset about Alonso. Very upset. Beth felt for him.

As a rule, cops and the FBI didn’t get along. Now that Jack was back with the Bureau again, she’d be sleeping with one of them.
Wonderful. Jack could just as well have gone to work with the APD as she’d been suggesting for the past few months.

“A house divided,” she muttered to herself.

Milner started to pace. Out of nervousness, she thought. Earlier, he told them he’d worked with Gabe Alonso for three years. To make matters worse, the man was married and his wife was four months pregnant.

Jack said, “You mentioned something about a congressional aide being killed earlier. Is there anything concrete connecting the Sandman to that?”

“Not definitively,” Milner said. “Homeland Security went over their facial recognition software at all three airports in the New York area. They even checked the Westchester airport. Three possible candidates emerged, but no solid matches. Not a surprise where the Sandman is concerned. The Germans and Israelis believe he uses plastic surgery to alter his appearance, even to the extent of adding and removing implants.”

“I’ve got a couple of gray fibers here,” Furman announced, “some dirt, and . . . three red hairs.”

“Human?” Jack asked.

“Can’t say yet.”

“Can you put them on the screen?”

A moment later, a high-definition image appeared on the overhead computer monitor.

Pappas asked, “Do we know what color the Sandman’s hair is?”

“Depends on the day and his victim,” Milner said.

“Any residue on them?” Jack said.

“Nothing,” Furman answered. “Best guess . . . they’re animal. Not sure if I can pin down the type without more.”

“Did Alonso own a pet?” Jack asked Milner.

“I’d have to check with his wife and I’ve been holding off on doing that.”

“Let’s not wait,” Jack said.

Milner shook his head and moved off to a corner of the room to make the call.

Jack turned to Pappas. “Where are the witnesses now?”

“At Rachel Lawrence’s house. You want me to check on them?”

Jack nodded and continued to stare at the computer screen.

*

The officer guarding Rachel and Will answered before the first ring had died away. He put the call on speaker phone.

“Dixon, this is Pappas. How are things there?”

“Everything’s good, Sergeant. Quiet as a tomb.”

Pappas wished he’d picked another phrase. “What are the witnesses up to?”

“Not much. They’re in the living room.” Dixon lowered his voice. “The wife’s been drinking pretty heavily. Can’t blame her. Dr. Landry’s sitting with her. He seems like a decent sort to me.”

“Any visitors? Deliveries? People stopping by?”

“Nothing. Like I said, everything’s cool.”

“Good,” Pappas said. “Keep on your toes.”

“The only person who’s been by was some guy out walking his dog a little while ago.”

Without turning around, Jack asked, “What kind of dog?”

Pappas checked to see if Dixon heard the question.

“I don’t know, Sarge. Some kind of mixed breed, I guess. They kept going.”

“Color?” Jack asked.

There was a pause on the line as the officer thought about this. “Kind of red, I think. Didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Tell me what’s across the street from the house,” Jack said.

“A tree buffer,” Dixon said. “About seventy-five to a hundred feet deep. I can see right through it. There’s no one there.”

“Great,” Pappas said. “Make sure the curtains stay closed and keep them away from the windows.”

“And what’s on the other side of the buffer?” Jack asked.

“Bunch of houses and a church,” Dixon said.

Beth’s head came up. “A church?”

“Right.”

“In London, the Sandman fired from a church roof to make a hit on a Serbian mobster. It was a twelve hundred yard shot.”

Jack stared at her for a second, then told Pappas to scramble the SWAT team.

*

Through the Leica scope on his rifle, Wesley watched the cop speaking on his cellphone. The rifle’s front stock was resting on a bean bag he’d purchased at a toy store that morning. Most churches were empty at that time of the day. Some had day care, community, or school programs, assuming the congregation was large enough and wealthy enough to support them, but the sanctuaries were generally deserted.

He felt rather bad about killing the priest. Poor timing on the old man’s part, walking in on him. But unexpected problems periodically came up. The key was to be flexible and adapt. Sunday services were two days away and he doubted anyone would discover the body hidden in a side chapel before then. By that time, he’d be gone. South America was a long plane ride away, and he’d always wanted to see Rio de Janeiro. The scenic photos of the city fascinated him.

His thoughts turned to the last time he’d been in church as a participant. It had to have been at least twenty-five years ago, and that was back in his native Ireland. Maybe more. For a moment, Wesley wondered if it was bad luck to kill a priest, then shrugged it off and resumed his vigil.

The rain had started again, just a light mist, but it meant he would have to factor it along with the wind, angle of deflection, and amount of drop on the bullets. His beloved spotting scope read the distance at 992 yards. Difficult, but doable.

After the phone conversation, the cop went back inside to shoo the wife and friend away from the window. It was probably his supervisor calling. Also not unexpected. Sitting alongside the rifle was Wesley’s cellphone.

Do we have a problem, boy-o?

Not really. The cop closed the drapes and moved them out of the room. They’re in the kitchen now.

Abort the mission?

No, sir. I can still see inside. The wife and friend are having coffee. And here comes our erstwhile officer. The other two will freeze when I take him out.

Body armor?

Definitely. But that won’t stop a .50-caliber round. I don’t need to kill the man, just drop him.

Good thinking. Go to it, boy.

Wesley would have preferred being in a prone position. Unfortunately, the belfry’s retaining wall prevented that. Didn’t matter. He could make the shot just as well standing and using the wall for support. The rifle was a .50-caliber Barrett that fired three-and-a-half-inch bullets. It weighed thirty pounds and was accurate to two thousand yards. Checking the branches below and the direction the clouds were moving, he estimated the wind at no more than ten miles per hour. He began to slow his breathing, willing his heart rhythm to follow. Three shots. One for the cop. Two for the witnesses. Tap, tap, tap. No more. Finger resting lightly on the trigger, he waited. The cop was moving in and out of the scope’s field of view. Breathing slower still, he pressed his cheek against the rifle stock so much it became a part of him. He could feel the wonderful cold seeping into his skin.

Ahh, here’s our cop again.
Wesley’s finger slowly tightened on the trigger.

A flash of blue lights caught the corner of his nonsighting eye, pulling him away from the targets. Moving along Peachtree Road at high speed were three black SUVs. He listened. No sirens. They were on a silent approach. Very odd. He nudged the cellphone closer.

Problem here, Father. Law enforcement is closing in from the south. Estimate two minutes to arrival.

The Mentor let out a long sigh.

Safety first, son. There’ll be other chances. We still have a little over six days.

I can still take one out.

A complete mission or nothing. That’s our money-back guarantee. Let’s get you out of there.

*

Later, the two cops who knocked on the rectory door would remember the priest as an elderly, medium-sized gentleman. Obligingly, he opened the sanctuary and let them take a look around, then showed them the door leading up to the belfry stairs. The men were thorough and professional and apologized for disturbing him.

“Is there a problem, officers? We don’t have many crimes here at St. Bernadette.”

The taller of the two laughed and said, “Nothing to do with you, Father. We’re looking for a sniper.”

“Dear God,” the priest said, struggling to keep the shock off his face. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He’s not getting away with it, Father. Remember to keep your doors locked and call us if you see any strangers in the neighborhood.”

“Rest assured, I will. You good men stay safe.”

How could they have known so quickly? Let’s get you out of here.