by Brandon Webb
Skip.
Now he’s walking through the house, entering a room—
Skip.
Now he’s inside the room, sitting on the earthen floor, legs splayed, his back to the wall. A few feet away, a shape on the floor, too dark to make out. A sleeping child? boy? girl?—another lightning flash illuminates the room—the child’s eyes stare sightless, blood oozing from both ears, blood pooling black on the floor in the strange light—
Finn’s eyes snapped open, his heart racing in the dark.
The massacre.
He was there.
81
Indy sat silent.
“All right,” said Jackson. “Information has come to me,” he paused again, then continued, “that there’s an incident file on this whole thing buried somewhere at SOCOM. I want that file.”
“That will not be easy.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” said Jackson. “Meanwhile please don’t share any of this with anyone.”
“Of course,” said Indy. “Shall I update Commander Angler?”
Jackson hesitated.
He hadn’t yet told the others about his meeting with Finn, and now he realized why. Because they would think he was crazy for even entertaining the idea. More specifically, because Scott would think that. Scott had been so quick to judge the SEAL, right from the start, and that concerned Jackson. He worried that the JAG officer might respond to this news with a knee-jerk conclusion that Chief Finn must be their killer.
Which Jackson was not yet prepared to believe.
Besides, Jackson had his own suspicions, and they pointed in a different direction. A disturbing thought had nagged at him ever since hearing Mac’s first scenario. The one with the “misogynistic bigot.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll talk with Scott.”
Indy nodded and got to her feet. Turned to go.
“Indy? One more thing?”
She turned back.
“Can you also get me whatever you can pull up on Commander Papadakis?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Ah.” She paused. “So, going with hypothetical number one?”
“Just following the leads.”
“Wow,” said Indy. “Okay.” She thought for a moment. “They’re not adding on extra security yet, are they?”
“They are not,” Jackson agreed. “The captain doesn’t believe there’ll be ‘any further episodes.’ ”
“What do you think?”
What he thought was that this was day six, and his crew were in danger.
He rubbed his hand over the close-shaven dome of his head and got to his feet as well. “I think it’s gonna be a long night.”
* * *
—
All that night Jackson patrolled. Walking, watching, listening.
As he walked he thought about Sister Mae and her shell figurines and voodoo accessories, her foul teas and tinctures, her stories of the Chupacabra, the Grunch, and the Rougarou, and how he would run into his momma’s room in the middle of the night, having worked himself into a terror.
He thought about Nikos Papadakis and that confrontation Lieutenant Halsey had described, how rattled she said Lieutenant Shiflin was. Like she was being stalked.
He thought about Chief Finn. Damaged goods.
Mostly he walked, watched, and listened.
At 0600, reveille sounded. Jackson stood stock-still for another minute, craning his ears, dreading the sound of five long whistle blasts on the bosun’s pipe.
Finally he let his breath out, not realizing he’d been holding it.
82
When Finn came to, he heard the Sheriff stir. He knew it was the Sheriff because every time she sorted a new piece of paperwork she spat out a single compound-word obscenity. “Fuckweasels.” “Pencildick.” And so forth. Kennedy would get a kick out of her.
He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d dropped off, or whether the dreams he’d had were really dreams or fragments of actual memories.
Heat lightning. Shattered door. Black pooling blood.
It must have been reveille that woke him. He was not aware of having heard the call, but his internal clock told him it was a few minutes after 0600.
Sure enough, another minute later the Sheriff got up from her chair and headed out. Finn knew precisely where she was going, and why. She’d be at the front of the line when Jittery Abe’s opened at 0630.
Trained rats.
He closed his eyes again and thought back to that pointless raid on that empty compound. That much was memory, he was sure, and not dream. They burst in. No one there. And after that?
He touched his fingertips to his temples.
Radio silence.
When the rumor reached them the next morning Finn went out and shook the bushes, talked quietly with every local contact he had, and he had plenty. But his HUMINT network had gone dark. No one was saying a word. Why?
Exactly who were they afraid of?
At 0635 the Sheriff returned, prompt as an alarm clock.
A few minutes later, Finn’s thoughts were interrupted by the Sheriff’s rusty hacksaw. “You got a visitor, buttwipe.”
Finn opened his eyes but didn’t sit up.
Through the door he heard a deep rich voice. “Can you give us a few minutes alone?”
He heard the Sheriff hesitate, a faint throaty grumble like an ancient car engine about to quit. “Five minutes,” she growled. No obscenities, incredibly, but she didn’t sound happy. “We’ll be right outside.”
Finn heard the scrape and shuffle of the Sheriff moving out with her two MAs in tow. He heard the brig’s outer door clank shut, followed by the thunk of the closing lock. The scrape of a chair being pulled up to his cell.
Finn sat up in the semidarkness. Didn’t turn on his cell light.
“Anything I can get you?” said Jackson. “Loaf of pound cake with a nail file inside? Poster of Rita Hayworth?”
Jackson sounded fatigued. Finn’s guess, he’d been up all night. “What brings you to the dungeon, Master Chief?”
“And here I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Finn waited.
“All right, then,” Jackson said amiably. “I’ll go first. I thought I’d drop by and see how that recon’s going.”
“It’s going.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jackson. Finn saw him glance around at the brig’s sparse interior. “I can see that. Got things nicely under control.”
“How’s the incident file search going?” said Finn.
Jackson grunted.
Finn waited. Jackson seemed to be weighing what to say next.
“I’ve got questions for you, Finn X.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
Finn could guess what some of those questions were. What are you doing getting yourself arrested? Why are they really sending you home? Why are you on this ship at all? What’s your endgame? Why are people dying on my boat, and what do you have to do with it?
“Are you a bad guy, Chief Finn?” said Jackson.
Finn smiled in the dark. “Tell me something,” he said. “Anyone else disappear last night?”
Jackson grunted again. He leaned close to the steel grate and spoke quietly. “Now, why would you be asking a question like that?”
“Because I can count to six.”
Jackson straightened back up and rubbed his eyes.
In the silence Finn parsed the progression of thoughts Jackson would likely be having right now. He’d figure Finn had to know he was under suspicion. Today was August 21, which meant another six days had passed without incident. Which could be confirmation of his guilt: if he was in fact the perpetrator, then it stood to reason there’d be no further homicides as long as he was locked up.
On the other hand.
If Finn was not the perpetrator and the actual guilty party was setting him up for it, then there still wouldn’t be any further homicides as long as he was locked up—because if there were, that would take him off the board as a viable suspect. Which could mean Finn had gotten himself thrown in there intentionally to prevent any more murders from happening.
Either way, as long as he was in the brig the people on the ship were safe.
But were they safe because Finn was outmaneuvering the killer—or because he was the killer?
“The lady or the tiger,” said Finn.
Jackson gave another grunt.
In any case, the ship’s population wouldn’t be safe for long. The captain had no cause to keep the prisoner locked up for more than three calendar days, which meant Chief Finn would be out on the streets again, so to speak, by the end of the following day.
“About that finger,” said Finn.
“Oh yeah,” said Jackson. “About that finger.”
“Not a hate crime. Not a reprisal.”
“How in God’s—?”
Finn could hear the unspoken thought. How in God’s name could you possibly know about Mac’s theories?
After a long beat, the CMC quietly said, “No? What was it, then, Finn X?”
“A start signal.”
More silence. Jackson thinking hard.
“CMC?”
“Still here.”
Finn whispered, “Watch out for Supercop.”
There was the sudden thunk of heavy door bolts being thrown back.
“Time,” crowed the Sheriff.
83
For the rest of that morning and on into the afternoon Jackson continued roaming the passageways and catwalks, nodding and exchanging words with passing crew members as he reviewed his conversations of that morning and the past few days.
Watch out for Supercop. Meaning what, exactly?
They took trophies. Jesus.
And, start signal? Jackson wasn’t familiar with the term but its meaning seemed clear enough. Something like a shot from a starter pistol at the track. Was that a warning? or a threat?
The fact that day six had come and gone gave Jackson little comfort. With Santiago, the killer had already changed his pattern substantially. Who was to say he wouldn’t also change his schedule?
That afternoon he returned to his stateroom to grab a few hours’ sleep so he could walk the passageways again—and especially the exteriors—come the night hours.
He dreamed about his daddy, coming for him that sultry Louisiana night with his switchblade in his pocket and murder in his heart.
At dusk Jackson arose and resumed his circuits, patrolling like a beat cop. Fantail, gun mounts, sponsons, aircraft elevators, anchor room…everywhere that involved direct access to the outside. What was he watching for? Would he know it when he saw it? Pick up the scent of Terrible as it drifted past? He had no answers. All he could do was walk, watch, and listen.
He rolled on through the night.
The moon was one day from full.
August moon, tail end of the Australian winter. In these parts of the world the locals called it “Snow Moon,” “Storm Moon.” “Hunger Moon.” “Wolf Moon.”
All that night, nothing happened.
Finn sat in solitary.
Some six thousand souls snored in their racks or went about their night jobs as above their heads jets shot off into the sky and crashed down to the deck again. The ship hurtled on, shoving aside 5,000 tons of seawater per second as it ate up the miles.
The Wolf Moon watched.
* * *
—
Jackson was out on the flight deck catwalk the next morning when dawn broke, cold and drizzly. He doubted their evildoer would attempt the doing of any further evil during the daylight hours, but he could not be certain of that, so on he walked, through that morning and into the afternoon—when he got word that security would in fact be increasing that night.
The captain had finally agreed to beefing up their detail, with the proviso that it be done as quietly and discreetly as possible.
Jackson had no problem with that. No problem at all. Maybe he’d even get in a few hours of sleep himself tonight.
At 2200 hours, as darkness settled in over the flight deck and catwalks, the extra security detail began moving into place.
At 2300 hours, the incessant rain gave way to a dense, cold fog. The Wolf Moon took its place above the ocean’s horizon, pale and blood-hungry.
At midnight, Finn was released from custody.
84
When he emerged from the brig Finn noticed three things straight off.
First, as he headed back to his quarters to change and retrieve his knife he became aware of darted looks in his direction. He thought back to his first day on board, how when he walked the narrow passageways people would stand aside out of respect. Now they shrank from him as he passed.
People had to be making the same connection as Eagleberg had, and drawing the same conclusions. After all, the “suicides” started happening right after Finn came on board. And he’d gone off like a Claymore mine on those dudes in the gym. What was to say he wouldn’t go off on others?
What was to say he hadn’t gone off on Santiago?
The second thing he noticed was that they’d put increased security in place throughout the periphery of the ship, every spot with direct access to the open air.
Third, he’d picked up a tail.
A warrant officer, hefty guy. Finn had seen the face, didn’t know the name. When he came back out after changing and began his stalk, the WO had been replaced by another. No doubt there was a third in the wings. Tag-teaming it. An eyes-on scout rotation from Supercop.
This did not surprise him, but it did complicate things. Finn was on the hunt again. And putting surveillance on him was like belling a cat. Proceed with these well-meaning goons hovering in his wake, and it would almost certainly spook his quarry. He could easily shake them—but if he did, they would just redouble their efforts, which would make the bell jingle even louder.
He chose the middle path: keep his watchers on as long a leash as possible without seeming like he was doing so. Not ideal. But what was?
At 0100 he was making a pass on the mess deck when he saw Jackson coming his way. The two men stopped for a moment and eyed each other.
“Extra detail out tonight,” said Finn.
Jackson looked back at him with no expression. “Can’t have too much security, Chief Finn.”
“Exit points.”
“Seemed like the smart play.”
Finn saw the logic of it. Rule 1: always keep an open exit. Or, if you’re a serial killer: always do your killing as close as possible to where you can dump the body.
Thinking tactically. Not strategically.
“If it were me,” he said, “I’d do the opposite now. Go deep.”
“Deep?”
“Freezers. Machine rooms. Nukes. Deep.”
Jackson gave him a long look, as if trying to penetrate that blank face and see inside his head. Was Finn there to give assistance to Jackson’s vigil? Or was he the reason for the vigil? The CMC gave one slow, uncertain nod and rolled on.
Finn stood in place for a moment. Freezers. Machine rooms. Nukes. Fifty acres of interior. A good deal more territory than the periphery. Exponentially more. Impossible for twenty men to cover adequately, let alone one man.
Jackson was placing his bets on the tactical logic. Stick to the periphery.
Finn headed below.
85
Lieutenant James Bennett was up on the flight deck, unloading his turboprop Greyhound. At least that was his excuse. Really he just wanted to be up there in the quiet of the night, in the open air. Sammy used to spend time up there after everyone else was gone, just watching the stars, t
hinking. No stars out tonight, though. Nothing but fog, stilled planes, and loneliness.
Ever since Sammy went missing, Bennett had been little more than a hollowed-out shell. The news that his friend had taken his own life shattered his world. Sammy had always been the stable one of their relationship. James was prone to drama; he was the first to admit it. Sammy was a rock.
But…murder? And a serial murderer? That had freaked him right out. Try as he might (and he had! oh, he had!) he could not shake the sense that he was next on the psychopath’s list.
Bennett glanced around. He was completely alone. Flight ops had been canceled and only a handful of aircrew and pilots were up top. Somehow the rest had already gone in ahead of him.
The fog caught the full moon’s illumination and scattered it over the flight deck, diffusing the light in such a way that despite the brightness, visibility was little more than a few meters.
He checked the chocks on his Greyhound one more time, then began crossing the deck to the catwalk.
The fog seemed to muffle the sounds of his footsteps.
After he’d gone about ten yards he stopped, craning to listen into the murk.
Heard nothing but his own ragged breathing.
He walked another eight or ten yards, then stopped again. Now there was no mistaking it.
Footsteps.
Not his.
A bubble of panic rose up and burst open, and he broke into a run, bolting the last ten meters to the edge and scrambling down the short ladder to the catwalk, his unseen pursuer’s footsteps practically in his ears.
Miscounting the steps, he lost his footing and toppled headlong.
Slammed against the catwalk railing.
Felt his collarbone snap.
He let out a scream—in pain but even more in terror—and felt two strong hands snatch hold of him and set him upright. He shut his eyes to avoid looking at his captor.
“Bennett!”
He opened his eyes.
Master Chief Jackson stared at him like he’d lost his mind.