Nature of Darkness

by Robert W. Stephens

  McMahon patted Santos on the shoulder as he walked past him. He walked up the front porch and entered the house. He saw Granier in the dining room. He was on the phone, calling for medical and forensics teams.

  McMahon walked down the hallway and stopped at the doorway to the master bedroom. Porter was inside, speaking to Mrs. Vargas.

  Porter saw McMahon looking at them.

  “Excuse me a minute, Mrs. Vargas,” she said.

  Porter left the woman’s side and walked back to the doorway.

  “Does she know?” McMahon asked.

  Porter nodded.

  “How is she taking it?”

  “Hard to tell. She doesn’t seem all that surprised,” Porter said.

  McMahon looked at Porter. She’d tried to wipe her face clean with the sleeve of her jacket, but streaks of blood were still smeared across her cheek.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It’s my fault,” Porter said.

  “What happened?”

  “We heard the first blast and we ran up the back steps. Vargas rushed out and shot Webb. I was too close to Webb and he fell on top of me. Vargas grabbed my gun and hit me in the face with it. Then you came out the backdoor.”

  McMahon knew how much the guilt would eat at her and it would never go away.

  “I’m sorry,” Porter continued.

  Before McMahon could respond, Granier approached them.

  “Let’s go talk to the mother,” Granier said.

  McMahon stood to the side and then he followed Agents Granier and Porter into the master bedroom. Mrs. Vargas didn’t look at them as they walked across the room to her.

  “Mrs. Vargas, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Granier said.

  She didn’t turn to him, but she nodded.

  “Your son just killed an FBI agent. He was ready for us. What did he tell you?” Granier asked.

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “What was the source of his money? We know he didn’t buy that car from his security guard earnings,” Granier said.

  “I asked him, but he wouldn’t say. After that, I figured it was better that I didn’t know.”

  “Has there been anyone here to see your son recently?” McMahon asked.

  “No. We don’t get any visitors,” Mrs. Vargas said.

  “Did your son get any calls from someone you didn’t know?” Granier asked.

  She shook her head.

  “He would just play his video games. Or he would be at work. He didn’t go out. He didn’t talk to no one.”

  “What about his phone? Did he have more than one?” Granier asked.

  “Just the one. That’s all I ever saw. We have a house phone in the kitchen. That’s the one I use.”

  “Did Luis ever take calls on the house phone?” Granier asked.

  “No, never. He always used his cell phone.”

  Granier went to ask his next question, but Mrs. Vargas cut him off.

  “Why did you kill my son? What did he do?”

  “Your son was into something bad. Innocent people don’t just open fire on FBI agents,” Granier said.

  She looked away.

  “I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Granier said, and he motioned to Porter and McMahon to follow him outside the room.

  They walked back into the hallway, but McMahon never took his eyes off of Mrs. Vargas.

  “I want this house torn apart,” Granier said. “Luis Vargas was waiting for us, so we know he must have been Marcus and this new killer’s go-between. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. There’s got to be something here that can lead us to the new guy.”

  Porter nodded and headed down the hallway to the living room.

  McMahon kept looking at Mrs. Vargas. She’d seemed completely ignorant of her son’s actions. He didn’t believe her for one second.

  26

  The Gallery

  Penfield looked at the woman with the long hair. It had been ten years since he’d last seen her. Her hair color was slightly different, but her eyes were the same – hard and determined. She had a way of looking through you when she wanted to. Penfield had lost count of how many criminals he’d personally seen her take down. Angela Darden was not someone to mess with.

  “Hello, Alex,” she said in a voice that was neither warm nor cold.

  Penfield looked around the gallery. It was impressive. Then he noticed the sales assistant by the counter. She was attempting to eavesdrop, despite trying her hardest to not appear so.

  “The woman at the museum said this was your place.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve done right by yourself. I hope you’ve found some peace,” Penfield said.

  “Something tells me you’re about to change that.”

  “That’s not my intention, but you’re right. Perhaps it would be best if we spoke somewhere in private.”

  “Of course. Let’s go back to my office.”

  Angela led Penfield through her gallery and into the back office behind the sales counter. She shut the door behind them.

  Angela nodded toward the door.

  “She’s a good assistant, but she definitely enjoys gossiping. In another ten minutes, every woman on this street will wonder who the tall man with the shaved head is.”

  “Perhaps I should tell her this isn’t a social call.”

  “How did you find me?” Angela asked.

  “Pure luck.”

  “I doubt that. You’re too good to rely on that.”

  “I saw the Georgia O’Keeffe paintings in your aunt’s house. They reminded me of a conversation we had years ago.”

  “The all-night stakeout. I remember.”

  “I assumed if you were going to reinvent yourself, you might as well have gone where you always wanted to visit.”

  “A solid deduction. Besides my partner, you were the only one I really talked to about my love of art. How is my Aunt Lisa?”

  “She seems to be doing fine. She told me your niece is also well. I didn’t see her, though. She was in school when I went to your aunt’s house.”

  Angela nodded.

  “You haven’t aged a bit,” Penfield continued.

  “That’s funny because I was about to say the same thing about you.”

  “You’re being kind. I must say, the name Renee suits you well, but I’m still partial to Angela.”

  “You don’t know how long it’s taken me to make the adjustment. Even now, I still almost introduce myself that way.”

  “Does anyone here know the truth?”

  “No one and I want to keep it that way.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that from me.”

  Angela paused a long moment.

  Then she asked, “Has he escaped? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. He’s still locked up at Central State, but that hasn’t prevented the killings from starting again.”

  “How many so far?”

  “Three that the FBI can confirm. There are probably several others. I wouldn’t be here, though, if it weren’t for Jenna.”

  “Jenna?”

  “Do you remember Doug McMahon?”

  “Of course. He left us to join the FBI.”

  “He’s leading the new task force and his daughter has been taken.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does this have to do with me?”

  “Marcus has given us three days to bring you back. He said Jenna will die if he doesn’t see you.”

  “He can’t possibly know I’m alive,” Angela said.

  “He believes it to be true. I don’t know why, but he does.”

  “If he’s still locked up, then how do you know he’s involved with these new murders?”

  Penfield told Angela about his visits to see Marcus and his knowledge of the crimes, especially knowing the name of the latest victim.

  “Someone in Central State is the go-between,” she gues
sed.

  “They haven’t been able to find anyone, at least they hadn’t the last time I spoke with Doug. Things didn’t end well between us. I was asked to leave the case.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been working as a private investigator the past several years.”

  “You left the force?”

  “I resigned after a case went wrong, about as wrong as it can go.”

  Angela said nothing. She walked over to her desk and sat down.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what Marcus did,” Penfield continued. “It’s like he’s more than one person. At first, I thought it was some psychosis of his, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “If it’s not mental illness, then what is it?”

  Penfield didn’t respond.

  Angela reached into her desk drawer and removed a bag. She opened it and placed a journal on the desk between her and Penfield.

  “So, you did take it. I thought that’s why you went back to work for all of one day,” Penfield continued.

  “Like I said before, you’re too good of a detective to call this meeting the result of a lucky break.”

  “Why did you want the journal?”

  “Marcus took me out of the game before I had a chance to read the translation. I didn’t think his timing was a coincidence. He knew what it contained. He knew it held the truth about him.”

  “How could he when it was written in Aramaic?”

  “Because I think he can read it or someone translated it for him a long time ago, way before the MAI investigation ever got started,” Angela said. “I know what you’re thinking but hear me out. I went to Vatican City recently for the purpose of getting this text translated again. I learned the man who wrote the journal was named David Lombardi. He was a priest in Rome. With the help of another priest named Father Greco, I was able to track down a man in Florence who attended university with David Lombardi. He confirmed that Lombardi fled Rome after a series of murders. I can only conclude that the authorities were closing in on him, at least he probably thought they were. This priest in Florence also said that although Lombardi knew some Aramaic, he doubted that he had the skills to write this journal.”

  “If Lombardi didn’t write it, then who did?” Penfield asked.

  “Father Greco gave me his theory.”

  “Which is?”

  “He thinks David Lombardi was possessed and the thing that had taken control of him wrote the journal.”

  Angela looked away from him and Penfield knew she was worried he’d laugh at her.

  “There was a man I took with me to see Marcus, he said something similar.”

  She turned back to him.

  “What man?”

  “His name is Henry Atwater. He’s helped me with a few cases I’ve done as a private investigator,” Penfield said.

  “What did he say, exactly?” she asked.

  “He said Marcus was possessed.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know, but my openness to the idea is why McMahon threw me off the case. He thinks I’ve lost my way. Sometimes I’m worried that he might be right,” Penfield said.

  “Yet you’re the one who found me, not him.”

  “I care for his daughter and I care for him. I’m not giving up.”

  “No, I don’t think you’d ever be capable of that,” Angela said, and she looked away again.

  During the brief moment of silence between them, Penfield looked at a framed photograph on her desk. It was a photo of her and a boy.

  “Is that your son?” Penfield asked.

  Angela picked up the photograph. She looked at it for a few seconds and then handed Penfield the framed photo.

  “His name’s Charlie, after my brother.”

  “Does he have any idea who you really are?”

  “No. As far as he’s concerned, his mother’s name is Renee Rankin and he’s Charles Rankin, born and raised in Santa Fe.”

  “And his father?” Penfield asked, and he placed the photo back on her desk.

  “Like I said twice before, Alex, you’re a good detective. You already know who his father is. Charlie looks just like him. Marcus and I were together only once, but I hadn’t been with anyone else. I knew it was his child. That’s why I faked my death and ran away. I didn’t want Charlie to be known as the son of Marcus Carter. I couldn’t do that to him.”

  “Did Charlie come with you to Rome?” Penfield asked.

  “No, he stayed with a friend. It was like a mini vacation for him.”

  “That night at Fort Monroe on the fishing pier, what happened after that?”

  “I’d bought a beat-up car from a friend of a friend. I never registered it under the name Angela Darden. After I left that dock, I walked a few blocks to where I’d left the other car. I climbed inside and drove away. It took me about a week to get here because I made a few stops in between. Once I arrived, I rented a tiny apartment and got a job working here at the gallery. Six months later, Charlie was born.”

  “How did you end up owning this place?” Penfield asked.

  “It turned out that I was pretty good at selling. I knew how to talk about the art and tourists seemed to like me. Eventually, the owner decided she wanted to retire. She offered to sell this gallery to me, but I didn’t have the money. We worked out a payment plan. Every month I give her a portion of the sales.”

  “Sounds like you’ve made a good life for yourself.”

  “We have. Charlie is thriving. He gets straight A’s in school and he’s also involved in sports. He plays them all – baseball, basketball, soccer.”

  Angela paused.

  Then she continued, “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “No, no one.”

  “I assume you’ll be on the phone to McMahon the moment you leave my gallery.”

  “I won’t if you ask me not to,” Penfield said.

  “You know what kind of man Marcus turned out to be. Jenna is already gone. My coming back won’t change that. He may say I’m still alive, but he’s almost certainly guessing. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “You may be right about Jenna, but I can’t let my mind go there. I have to believe there’s still a chance to save her.”

  “Alex Penfield, the man who never gives up.”

  “It’s what my father told me. He said the man who quits is not really a man at all.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help. Not this time. My days as an investigator are over,” Angela said.

  “Says the woman who just flew to Rome to hunt down the identity of a killer from decades ago.”

  “A lot of good it did me. I answered some questions but left with new ones, ones that make even less sense.”

  Penfield looked at the journal on the desk. Then he turned back to her.

  “You’ve had that book for ten years. Why did you wait this long to go to the Vatican?”

  Angela said nothing.

  “Something happened,” Penfield continued. “Something that freaked you out, at least enough to make you get on a plane and fly thousands of miles away. You knew Marcus was coming back. How?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I saw Marcus in a dream. He was in my son’s room and he tried to kill him. So, you can see why I want to stay as far away from him as possible.”

  “I understand,” Penfield said, and he reached into his pocket.

  He removed a business card, which he placed on her desk.

  “It was good seeing you again, despite the circumstances. My return flight is scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Hopefully you’ll change your mind and I’ll see you at the airport.”

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t be there.”

  Penfield looked at the framed photo of Angela and her son.

  “Congratulations on your son. I’m very happy for you. You deserve nothing but the best.”

  “Thank you.”

&nbs
p; Penfield nodded. Then he turned and walked toward the exit.

  27

  Nightmares

  McMahon stood on the side of the street and watched as the medical team lifted Agent Webb’s body into the back of the ambulance. He knew he needed to call Webb’s wife. It was technically Granier’s job as the new leader of the team, but Webb had worked for McMahon since coming to Quantico. McMahon also wanted to offer his condolences.

  McMahon turned and walked back toward the house where Granier was seated on the front porch. McMahon could tell the pain in Granier’s chest had increased from the grimaced look on his face.

  Porter came out the door and stopped on the front porch beside Granier. She held up a plastic bag in a gloved hand.

  “Oxy. Hundreds of pills. We found them under a loose floorboard in his bedroom,” Porter said.

  McMahon walked up to her and looked at the pills.

  “It could explain how he got the cash for the BMW,” Porter continued.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Granier said. “Vargas was the guy. He knew why we were coming to Central State and it wasn’t to bust some security guard for illegally selling pain killers.”

  “With all due respect, we didn’t make our motives known to anyone but Dr. Mata,” Porter said.

  “Yes, but each time you only saw Marcus Carter. Hell, wasn’t Luis Vargas one of the guards that pulled Marcus off of McMahon’s friend? The Oxy just makes Vargas the perfect guy for Marcus Carter.”

  “How so?” Porter asked.

  “Because whoever is working with Marcus knew we might eventually find Vargas,” McMahon answered for Granier.

  “They also knew we’d find those pills in his bedroom and that would create nothing but doubt for us, which is exactly what it’s doing to you right now. Vargas is the one and there’s something in that house that will lead us to Marcus’ partner,” Granier said.

  Porter hesitated. Then she turned and walked back into the house.

  Granier turned to McMahon.

  “Have you checked the car yet?”