Dark Prophecy
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
I - the hanged man
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
II - the fool
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
III - three of cups
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
IV - ten of swords
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
V - ten of wands
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
chapter 47
VI - five of pentacles
chapter 48
chapter 49
chapter 50
chapter 51
chapter 52
chapter 53
VII - wheel of fortune
chapter 54
chapter 55
chapter 56
chapter 57
chapter 58
chapter 59
chapter 60
chapter 61
chapter 62
chapter 63
chapter 64
chapter 65
chapter 66
chapter 67
chapter 68
chapter 69
VIII - the devil
chapter 70
chapter 71
chapter 72
chapter 73
chapter 74
IX - the tower
chapter 75
chapter 76
chapter 77
chapter 78
chapter 79
chapter 80
chapter 81
chapter 82
chapter 83
chapter 84
X - death
chapter 85
chapter 86
chapter 87
chapter 88
chapter 89
chapter 90
chapter 91
chapter 92
chapter 93
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE II
Acknowledgements
dark prophecy
about the authors
also by anthony e. zuiker
LEVEL 26: Dark Origins
DUTTON
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First printing, October 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Anthony E. Zuiker
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eISBN : 978-1-101-44434-4
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To my mother, Diana, this one’s for you . . .
It is well-known among law enforcement personnel that murderers can be categorized as belonging to one of twenty-five levels of evil, from the naïve opportunists starting out at Level 1 to the organized, premeditated torture-murderers who inhabit Level 25.
What almost no one knows is that a new category of killer has emerged. And only one man is capable of stopping them.
His targets:
Level 26 killers.
His methods:
Whatever it takes.
His name:
Steve Dark.
PROLOGUE
Rome, Italy
As Steve Dark pulled the latex mask out of the water, it seemed to be laughing at him.
The barren eyeholes stared back, as if in wide-eyed mock surprise. Who, me? Do this? The zipper mouth twisted around the edges to imply a cruel sneer. The rest of the suit hung wet and limp from Dark’s hands, as if it were the skin of a lizard that had long since scampered off to points unknown. The details were familiar; the same zippers, the same stitching. The suit seemed identical to the one the diabolical Sqweegel had worn, only this version was completely black.
Tom Riggins caught up with Dark, put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not him,” he said.
“I know,” Dark said quietly.
“I’m serious. You and I watched that son of a bitch burn. This is just someone fucking around. A copycat. You know that, right?”
Dark nodded. “Let’s get this thing bagged.”
Hours before, there had been instant panic—Special Circs was rushed to Rome, an international task force was formed. Somebody poisoned the Trevi Fountain in Rome, killing dozens of people, and that unknown subject had left something strange floating in the cyanide-laced waters. The scene was right out of Hieronymus Bosch—hundreds of pink bodies, a soul-sickening stench. Scores of ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars were shoehorned in the main road. Worried onlookers clogged every alley and side street.
A Roman polizia van had escorted Dark and his team to a cleared section a few yards away from
the fountain. Uniformed officers lifted the orange crime-scene tape for Dark as he ducked under and then helped clear his way to the famed fountain. The bottom was almost completely empty, except for gold and silver Euro coins and a quarter inch of water—poisoned water, lapping at the bottoms of Dark’s shoes.
Huddled around the drain area were five Roman cops standing broad shoulder to broad shoulder, blocking the view from onlookers. Dark’s escort whistled, and they parted.
When he first saw the black, rubbery mass floating in the water, Dark stopped dead in his tracks. He had to will himself to take several deep breaths before approaching, his mind reeling, his veins suddenly pumping ice water.
In that one horrible moment, Dark was fooled into thinking that maybe, somehow, the Level 26 serial killer had survived. The rational part of Dark’s mind knew that was impossible. Dark had chopped up his body with an axe, and he had watched the spindly parts burn in a crematory oven. Still, seeing the suit, and its mocking countenance, was enough to flip Dark’s mind over to the irrational side.
The team found a lab in Rome. It was a far cry from the one Dark was used to back at Special Circs in Virginia, but the basic tools were there. Dark swabbed the suit for DNA, then ran the sample through. As he waited, Dark sipped bitter, lukewarm coffee and tried to keep his mind focused. But the brain in his skull was like a trapped animal, and it refused to settle down. He kept running through the nightmare events of the past few weeks. He kept seeing flashes of his infant daughter, now in the care of a complete stranger back in the United States. He kept seeing flashes of Sibby, the love of his life, smiling at him. A smile he would ever only see in his dreams.
Finally, the DNA results came in, and they sparked a CODIS hit back in the United States—Las Vegas, in connection with a cold case.
Dark braced himself for everything from a copycat to a reincarnation. Someone who had followed the case, had gotten off on it, and decided to follow in Sqweegel’s footsteps. This was nothing new. The original Zodiac had many admirers who picked up his techniques over the years—taunting the police with letters, killing lovers in isolated locations. The killer had captured the public imagination, and there were those who wanted to take advantage of that.
And now this seemed to be the case with Sqweegel. There had been no serial killer like him in recorded history. Sqweegel, a contortionist madman who kept his body encased in a forensic-proof murder suit, left no traces behind unless he wanted them left behind. He could hide in the smallest of crevices and wait with inhuman patience until his victim was distracted or asleep. Then Sqweegel would crawl out of his hidey-hole and attack with a savagery that belied his size and build. He had been obsessed with punishing humans for perceived sins and saw himself as a cleansing agent on the soul of the world. And he had fixated on Dark—the manhunter who spent years tracking him. To Sqweegel, Dark required the ultimate punishment.
Maybe this was an acolyte, trying to follow in his master’s creepy footsteps.
But after Dark and his Special Circs team returned to the U.S., there were no more incidents. No forensic-proof suits left behind, no puzzles, no taunts. No unsolved murders that came even close to Sqweegel’s MO.
No more bodies.
No threats.
Nothing even close to the horrors that Sqweegel had perpetrated.
Until . . .
five years later
I
the hanged man
To watch Steve Dark’s personal tarot card reading,
please log in to Level26.com and
enter the code: hanged.
THE HANGED MAN
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
About five minutes into the torture session, Martin Green realized he was going to die.
Green’s body was hanging upside down—one end of a rope tied tight around his right ankle, the other end secured to a light fixture in the ceiling of his own basement. At least, he presumed it was a light fixture. He had his basement finished a few years ago, and there was nothing else up there to secure a rope. And since his assailant had knotted a dirty, oily rag across his eyes, he had no way of visually confirming this.
A light fixture would be good. Maybe his weight would be too much. Maybe he’d snap free. Maybe then he could figure out how to get out of this insane predicament.
At first Green thought it was just a home invasion. Admittedly, he was an ideal target. Single guy, living in a large house. All they had to do was pick up his pattern, then strike. Friends told him he should think about security, considering who Green was and what he did. Green had shrugged it off. He was a behind-the-scenes guy. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the country didn’t even know he existed, and even those who did know him had no real understanding of his work. Why would he need a security team? Now that need was abundantly clear.
Green had read enough to know what to do in this situation:
Give the invader what he wants.
“The safe’s in my bedroom,” Green said. “Behind the Chagall. I can give you the combin—”
A rough hand forced open his jaws, shoved a rag in his mouth. A leather belt cut across Green’s cheeks. Little hairs were ripped from the back of his neck as the belt was buckled, then fastened tight. Too tight.
Goddamn it, Green tried to yell. I can’t give you what you want if I can’t talk.
All that came out of his mouth was an angry muffle.
As he snorted mucus and cold sweat up his nose, Green realized that maybe whoever was down here with him didn’t want the combination to his safe, or even the fake Chagall that hung in front of it. So what the hell did he want?
Then he heard the snip-snip-snipping of scissors—his pant legs being shorn from his body.
And then felt the first cut from the razor, up along the inside of Green’s naked thigh, a hot river of blood trickling down to his crotch.
Not more than thirty minutes ago, Green had been savoring his last sip of single malt, slapping the American Express Black on the bar top, fishing around in his pocket for the valet stub. Green was proud of himself for pulling the plug now. He had a morning think-tank session in D.C., and he would be opening his eyes at an obscene hour to catch a plane. Better to cut it short now, clock in a few hours of good rest.
The valet pulled up with the Bentley. Green eased himself behind the wheel and gunned it down the street, feeling a pleasant alcoholic blur. Not too much, not too little, either. Just right.
By the time he pulled up to the driveway of his $3.5 million, eight-bedroom house, Green was feeling adequately sleepy. Which was good. He liked having his days unfold just right—the perfect blend of exercise, work, play, food, and drink. Tonight, Green was looking forward to sliding into his thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and enjoying the pleasant sensation of his mind simply clicking off. Not passing out from exhaustion or booze. Not staying awake because he was too wired from the day’s events, either.
Then Green opened his front door and flicked the light switch . . . and nothing happened. He cursed, then flicked the switch again and again. Still nothing. The power was out. Green took a few steps into his vestibule then froze. Even in the dim light, he could see that someone had yanked open drawers, knocked paintings off the walls, pushed furniture aside.
Green was instantly queasy. Someone—some stranger—had been inside his house.
He fought the urge to turn around and flee the premises immediately. He couldn’t be a chickenshit about this—he had to see what had happened, what these sons of bitches had stolen from him.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Just last year Green had installed a wildly expensive security system to prevent just this sort of thing.
He walked over to the wall-mounted security panel. The unit appeared dead—even though it had a dedicated power line. Had the backup battery had been disabled, or malfunctioned? He pressed ENGAGE. Nothing.
Okay, you idiot. Get out.
Get out now.
Then Green heard a noise, coming from h
is kitchen—something like a cabinet door snicking shut. There was only one thing worse than being burglarized, Green realized. And that was coming home in the middle of a burglary.
Green quickly fished the cell phone out of his jacket pocket and pressed nine with his thumb, taking slow, careful steps back toward the front door when . . .
He froze.
His muscles felt as if they wanted to snap free from his tendons. His joints locked in place. Green opened his mouth to scream, but couldn’t. Even if he were able to make his vocal cords work, his nearest neighbor would be too far away to hear. His eyesight blurred. The entire house seemed to tilt on its axis. Part of his mind screamed Stop it! Stop it already! but the thought stayed frozen in his mind, no louder than a whisper.
Green felt himself being pulled to the ground, dragged across the floor toward the cellar door. The world went upside down.
And then he woke up, hanging from his basement ceiling.
Again, he must have passed out. The last thing he remembered . . . the scissors?
His leg.
Oh God, his leg.
What worried him most was the fact that he couldn’t feel his legs. Either of them. Not the rope cutting into his right ankle, not the fabric of his pants. Nothing.
Something tugged at the belt on his face. The wet rag popped out of his mouth. Green choked for a second, gathered up double lungfuls of oxygen, then screamed. The sound blasting out of his mouth wasn’t so much meant to communicate as it was to sonically assault his torturer. With his limbs bound, what else could he do?