“One of the first responders said they looked like something you’d buy at an occult shop down by the ocean—ornate, and elaborate designs. I should be able to scoop up some images soon, but rest assured they weren’t steak knives.”
Dark leaned over Graysmith, did a quick Google search. “Look at this.”
On-screen was the image of the Ten of Swords. In the foreground, a man is lying facedown on a sandy beach, dressed in a vest and white shirt. A red robe or shroud of some kind is draped over his buttocks, covering his legs. Beneath the man’s head appears to be a small river of blood, the same color as the shroud. In his back: ten long swords, the first stuck in his head, and the rest following a rough path down his spine, past his buttocks, and down along one of his thighs. His head was facing a black horizon. Fingers dead, motionless on the ground.
Dark closed out the window, leaned against the table, and rubbed his temples. “I suppose I should get on a plane now,” he said.
“No,” Graysmith said. “Let Riggins and your girl Brielle work the scene. This is not the death of some hooker in an alley. This is a senator. They’re going to err on the side of obsessive-compulsive when gathering evidence. I’ve also got a lock on Riggins’s phone now, and Brielle’s as well. Plus my usual backdoor sources at Special Circs. Whatever they get, we’ll get.”
Something about that unsettled Dark. Like he’d betrayed his friends, led them right into a compromising security situation. But he pushed the thoughts aside. Wasn’t as if he’d invited Riggins here.
“So what then? Dark asked. “Do we wait around for this guy to deal another card strike again?”
“No,” Graysmith said. “You do what you do best. Put together the clues into a narrative. We have four cards now, six victims, all within a period of five days. The killer chose these cards for a reason. Get inside his mind. This is what you do best.”
“No,” Dark said. “It’s not. I don’t do random. There’s no deduction here, intellect doesn’t apply. He might as well be spinning a roulette wheel and killing people according to the numbers that pop up. No matter how hard I think about it, I’m not going to be able to guess.”
Dark suddenly felt claustrophobic, wondering who he’d let into his house. What had he been thinking? She could have installed anything in his house—a security override, pinhole cameras, anything. He decided to spend the rest of the night scouring his own basement to find out what she’d done. Maybe he’d even have to move. Take just what was essential . . . no. Take nothing. He deserved nothing less for his stupidity.
“Hey,” Graysmith said. “Sit down, take a deep breath. You look like you’re ready to crawl out of your own skin.”
“I just need to think.”
“Let me help put you at ease.”
“What do you mean?”
Dark looked at her. She gave him no obvious tells. She didn’t play with her hair, or purse her lips slightly, or tilt her hips. There was nothing. But just the same Dark knew what she was offering, matter-of-factly, as if she’d suggested giving him an espresso.
Instead, Dark told her: “You’d better go.”
chapter 34
Washington, D.C.
Amazing how so simple a concept—say, a tarot card—could unlock the keys to the media kingdom.
MEET THE TAROT CARD KILLER
He’s already dealt six victims. Will YOU be next?
Knack knew that the whole tarot thing was a gift straight from heaven; with a media-friendly handle like the Tarot Card Killer, his series would finally get the attention it deserved. Even people who wouldn’t know a crystal ball from a basketball knew what a tarot card was. The whole thing was custom-made for the masses.
Even the killer’s name could be boiled down to a tight little market-ready brand: TCK.
Knack was almost beside himself with glee. There was even implied momentum in the name, like a clock ticking (or, TCKing, as it were) down to another murder.
But Knack had no idea that within a few hours of dubbing this psycho “TCK” he’d be on the set of a remote studio in D.C., some tech running a mic wire down his shirt, waiting for Alan Lloyd—yeah, the Alan Lloyd of The Alan Lloyd Report—to start asking questions via satellite. The whole thing had come together with amazing speed.
The circus had already started without him. All of the major networks had a steady rotation of tarot experts and clueless callers, all of them offering their opinions and interpretations, and trying to guess the killer’s next move. Knack even heard some Vegas book-makers were offering odds on the next card to be referenced. The killings had captured the public imagination, and everybody wanted in on the action. Some were terrified by the very idea that a freaky killer was picking off people at random, all over the eastern seaboard. Others couldn’t wait for the next grisly report.
And the mania had all started with Knack’s Slab posts. Even better: Knack already had a main character in Steve Dark, legendary manhunter. That was the missing piece. If he could somehow get to Dark, get his cooperation, nobody would be able to touch him on this.
“Ready?” asked some pretty network assistant.
“Yeah,” Knack said, trying to breathe slowly and take a moment to celebrate. He’d done it. He owned this story.
“You’re on in three ...”
Now that Knack thought about it, this wasn’t just a story. This was a Goddamned book. A career-making book.
“Two ...”
God bless you, TCK. Wherever you are.
“One . . .”
Alan Lloyd wore a look of dire concern. “Mr. Knack, many people are worried that this so-called Tarot Card Killer could suddenly show up on their front doorstep. Is that likely? Should people be afraid?”
Knack had to play this one right. You don’t want to sound like an alarmist, but you also don’t want to cut the legs out from under your own story. Keeping people in a mild state of unease was the goal. If they were uneasy, they’d want to watch and read more until they felt a little better about themselves. Every new victim was a relief because . . . well, the killer hadn’t killed you.
“Alan,” Knack said, “that’s a very good question. What has law enforcement alarmed is that they truly can’t figure out TCK’s pattern. He could literally strike anyone, anywhere, anytime.”
Crap, Knack thought. Too much, too much. Plus he’d used the word “alarm.” Damnit. He began to sweat a little.
Alan Lloyd, however, was loving it. “So what should people do? Stay indoors and avoid all human contact? That seems a little unreasonable, don’t you think?”
“Of course not, Alan,” Knack said. “You’re more likely to win the Powerball lottery than find yourself in the TCK’s crosshairs. But people should know that this killer is uniquely brazen. He took down an FBI agent, Alan . . . consider that for a moment, the FBI . . . for his second kill. The second one we know about, anyway.”
Lloyd nodded gravely, then opened up the show to viewer calls. First was Linda from Westwood, California.
“Yes, Linda, you’re on.”
“I would like to know if Mr. Knack thinks the Tarot Card Killer is worse than the Son of Sam or the Zodiac.”
“Too early to tell, Linda,” Knack said. “Comparatively, though, the Zodiac was a bit of a coward, picking on couples in remote locations, hiding behind letters. The TCK is not afraid to take the fight to the enemy.”
Knack cringed a little when the words came out of his mouth; he just equated law enforcement with the “enemy.” Word choice, you stupid bastard, word choice . . .
“Scott from Austin. Fire away.”
“Why is this loony using tarot cards? Is he just trying to be spooky?”
Knack shook his head. “Scott, this goes beyond spookiness. I’m not an expert, of course, but from what I’ve seen at these crime scenes, the TCK is trying to re-create actual scenes from these cards. To what end? We have no idea. And I don’t think we’ll know, sadly, until he turns over the next card.”
“Drew from Champaig
n-Urbana, Illinois. Do you have a question for Mr. Knack?”
“Yeah,” a timid voice said. “You said not to be afraid, but the thing that scares me the most is how random it is. Could I be the next victim?”
“That’s a great question,” Knack said. “I wish I could tell you what the TCK is thinking. But none of us can. Not even the FBI.”
chapter 35
West Hollywood, California
After Graysmith departed, Dark headed out, too. He brought nothing but his keys, wallet. He picked up his cell phone and looked at it for a moment before throwing it back down onto his kitchen counter. Dark didn’t want to hear from anyone. That would mean he’d miss Sibby’s nightly call—again—but he couldn’t just sit here, either. Sibby would understand. She was a tough little kid, just like he’d been. Besides, he’d make it up to her. Maybe he’d pay a surprise visit tomorrow. Just drive up the PCH to Santa Barbara and spend a couple of hours with her, playing on the floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he did that.
Now Dark just needed to drive, undisturbed.
He climbed into his Mustang and blasted down Wilshire, past the two- and three-story shops and restaurants and bars of Santa Monica, all the way to the end of the road, where Eugene Morahan’s white Art Deco statue of the city’s namesake saint stood, surrounded by gnarled trees and a patch of grass shaped like a heart. On sheer impulse, Dark turned left on Ocean and raced past the Santa Monica pier. Bad move. Too many memories on that pier. As he zoomed by, he glanced down, half-expecting to see Riggins there, staring back up at him, hurt look on his face.
Dark thought about hopping on the 405 South all the way across the border to Ensenada. Buy a cheap bottle of something that would help him turn off his mind and sit on the beach and lose himself in the night—
Then he saw her, walking up the block from Neilson Way.
Couldn’t be . . .
The same way she moved her hips. The hair, cut just like always. The curve of her back.
Dark’s foot slammed into the brake pedal, causing his Mustang to fishtail a little. He jumped out of the car, temporarily losing sight of her. Where had she gone? Up the street? He jogged in that direction, looking for his dead wife’s long, black hair.
No. It wasn’t Sibby. The rational part of Steve Dark knew that. She’d been gone five years, and though the memory of her was still alive in his mind, he knew her body was resting in Hollywood Cemetery. Dark had held their daughter and watched them lower her into the earth. It was like watching a group of strangers bury his own heart.
But this random woman on the street seemed so much like her. He couldn’t help himself. He had to look at her, just to put the irrational part of himself at ease.
Dark’s sneakers slapped the pavement frantically. Cool ocean air blasted across the back of his neck, freezing the sweat that had suddenly beaded there. The woman, this Not Sibby, couldn’t have disappeared so fast. There was nowhere for her to go, to hide. And why would she hide? After a few moments Dark found himself in front of St. Clement’s Church—a modest building off the main drag. Its doors were still open; the last Sunday Mass had wrapped up a short while ago.
Maybe Not Sibby ran in here.
A young priest was still inside, picking up the stray hymnals and wilted flyers from the seats of the pews. Dark looked around, from the modest altar and wooden cross back to the small confessionals. Nobody else was here.
“Can I help you?” the priest asked.
Dark was about to ask if a woman had stepped inside the church, but realized how insane that would sound. Especially if the priest was to ask if the woman was his wife, or a relative.
No, Father, total stranger. But she reminded me of my dead wife, so I thought I’d chase her through the streets of Santa Monica just to make sure that she, in fact, was not my dead wife.
“Sorry,” Dark said. “I just wanted a moment of quiet. Is that okay? Or are you closing up?”
The priest smiled warmly. “Not for a little while. Knock yourself out.”
Dark shuffled into the nearest pew, lowered the kneeler with the top of a sneaker, hit his knees. Being in churches reminded him of his foster parents. As long you pray to God, everything will be okay, his foster father had once explained. Of course, that was before he’d stood over the dead bodies of his entire family. Dark believed his foster father had been praying in his final moments, hands bound behind his back, utterly helpless. Not praying for himself, though. Praying for the souls of his family. Including Dark.
He interlocked his fingers, made a tight ball with his hands, lowered his forehead to his knuckles.
Dark tried to recite the Our Father, but for some reason he couldn’t bring the words to mind. Which was ridiculous. He’d grown up with those words practically tattooed on the inside of his skull. But now Dark could only recall fragments.
Our Father
Thy Will
Deliver Us
You leave a city for a long enough period of time, your mind puts your map of the place in deep storage. Was that the same with prayer? If you stop saying the words, does your mind file it all away? Dark couldn’t remember the last time he prayed. He remembered many drunken nights cursing God. Maybe God had responded by wiping the words clean from his mind.
Enough of this. Dark stood up.
“Are you okay, my friend?” the priest asked, slightly stunned by his movement.
No, Father. God’s erased part of my mind. Maybe that’s his idea of mercy.
“Yes, Father,” Dark said, then left the church.
chapter 36
Santa Monica, California
Dark wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking the streets of Santa Monica. He’d wandered out of the city limits and was somewhere near Venice Beach now. Skateboarders and beach cruisers milled around him. At times he had the creeping sensation that someone was watching him, but Dark chalked it up to paranoia. First he sees a woman he thinks is his dead wife. Then he thinks unknown agents are observing his every move. Hell, maybe he was being followed. Graysmith could have put a tail on him from the very beginning.
The wind grew stronger, fiercer. The palm fronds at the tops of the trees swayed violently. Dark finished the last of his smoke, then flicked the butt away into the sand. Sibby would have yelled at him for that. She would have also ribbed him about leaving his car in an illegal zone. Then again, why should he worry? If Graysmith could sneak him into any crime scene in the world, Dark was sure she could fix a parking ticket and have his Mustang pulled out of the impound lot.
Maybe if he kept looking, he’d run into that Sibby lookalike. If he didn’t, Dark knew he would sit up all night, wondering. Wondering how someone could look and move just like Sibby, only not be Sibby. Maybe this was more of God’s work, too.
An obese homeless man who smelled uncomfortably like antiseptic and vomit hit Dark up for money near the ocean walk. Dark reached into his pocket and realized that in his haste, he’d left his wallet in the car. He pulled out a ten and five singles; Dark gave the man the larger bill and kept the singles for himself. The bum mumbled thanks, half-stunned at his good fortune, shuffling away.
Down to five bucks. Dark thought he should probably start walking back, see if his car was still around. If not, it would be a long hike back to West Hollywood.
And that’s when he saw it—the tarot card shop. PSYCHIC DELIC, the large painted sign over the doors read.
Dark looked up at the sign and couldn’t help but smile. Clearly, he was going about this all wrong. If he wanted to catch the Tarot Card Killer, he needed a tarot card reading, right?
He remembered this place. Sibby once tried to drag him inside, just for fun. Dark passed.
Come on . . . it’ll be fun.
No, no. Not for me.
Please . . .
I don’t believe in that shit. No.
But now Dark looked up at the sign and wondered—what if he had gone in with Sibby that time five years ago? Would he have been able to see any of the ho
rrors coming? Could he have changed both of their fates for . . . what, five bucks?
No. This was ridiculous. Dark knew he should head back to his car, get himself home. Bad enough he missed his daughter’s nightly phone call. He needed to go home, prepare for tomorrow’s lecture, try to get his life back in order. Dark was good at knowing what he should do.
Of course, he didn’t always do it.
The proprietor of the shop sat at a circular reading table. She was younger than he expected. No moles, no tattoos, no wrinkled skin, no stiff black hairs poking from her chin. In her mid-forties, majestic, and deep in her demeanor. Her skin was a smooth brown, her eyes calm, youthful and friendly. She contact-juggled four glass balls in her hand, spinning them round and round and round . . .
Dark was about to turn on his heel and bolt when she spoke up.
“Steve Dark,” she said.
“How do you know my name, lady?”
The woman smiled.
“Read about you in the papers. You catch him yet? TCK. The Tarot Card Killer.”
“You do read the papers.”
“It’s my job to know a little something about everyone. I’m Hilda.” She showed him a chair near a small table. “Have a seat.”
As Dark lowered himself into the chair, Hilda began to shuffle the tarot cards, her fingers like snakes working the deck. Dark, meanwhile, scanned the surprisingly spacious shop. There were lamp stands, lit candles. A glass counter where you could buy occult ornaments, incense, jewelry, herbal treatments. Statuettes of Buddha and Jesus. A painted scene from Alice in Wonderland. The moment you stepped through Madame Hilda’s dimly lit threshold, you were no longer in sunny, funky Venice Beach. You were in a timeless pocket of magic, where anything could happen. At least, that was the point of the decor, he supposed.
“This is all bullshit, right?” Dark asked.
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