Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  Tommy was nose to nose with the older man, spittle flying, his eyes hard with hate. Kam could sense a huge well of anger there that would never be plumbed.

  “Your little accident tonight? That was courtesy of your neighbor, Mr. Gauthier. Yeah. We know how to motivate people. We scared him so bad he gave his big shot life to end yours. Too bad he failed. Now I got to finish the job.”

  Then in one final gesture of his disgust, Tommy drew his arm back to stab the blade into the professor’s neck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  O’Brien could already feel the blade plunge into his neck. He knew it was coming, and he braced for the pain. The young soldier was twice as strong as him – that was no surprise – so there was really nothing he could do. He would feel the warmth running down his shirt, his blood thick around his hands. Then the room would grow darker – and that would be the end. At least Tamara wouldn’t be here to witness his death.

  Then Kam heard a surprising sound – the sharp explosive crack of ceramic shattering above him. His killer tensed. Pottery fragments rained down on Kam’s cheeks and forehead. Then the young man slumped against him, groaning, his wet hair in O’Brien’s eyes.

  When Kam pushed himself up and rolled the dazed soldier aside, he saw Melanie standing beside them. Her eyes were wide in the moonlit room. She had taken one of Tamara’s heaviest sculptured pieces and used it like a club on the crown of the young man’s head.

  “He was going to kill you,” was all she said.

  O’Brien felt for his throat, almost surprised it was still intact. “Tamara’s not going to be happy. That was her favorite piece,” he said.

  They stood over the groaning body of the young American ex-soldier, the boy’s head wet with fresh blood. Kam knew the real world wasn’t like the movies. This boy wouldn’t be down for long, despite the crushing head wound. He would be up shortly, fighting a massive headache, likely a concussion as well. But he would be up and angry. And he obviously wasn’t alone. Someone else had been here first and had taken Tamara. Or worse. Kam knew he had to get out of the cabin fast.

  Melanie looked lost. He told her to run. She seemed reluctant to head into the woods at night. So he dragged her outside and pointed her in the direction of the lakeshore.

  “Stay off the road. Follow the shore and stay low. Find a cabin where someone is home.”

  He went back in and grabbed a grubby pair of deck shoes he had by the entry. He had his waterlogged wallet in his back pocket, but no cell phone, guessing it had gone down with the van. He assumed Tamara’s Civic was in the garage, but he had no idea where the keys were, and he couldn’t risk waiting any longer. The soldier was already starting to lift himself up. He headed outside and took a path he was familiar with that headed North through the birch forest.

  The Rexall’s cabin was about a quarter mile away. A modern two-story. More like a suburban home than a cottage. When he got there, all the lights were out. He guessed it was about eleven. His watch obviously not waterproof as promised. It was frozen at 10:10, the time he hit the water.

  He knocked on Neil Rexall’s bedroom window as quietly as possible, alert for noises in the trees around him. He saw a face, puffy with sleep and booze. Neil was a big drinker, but a great neighbor. He looked slightly annoyed, but curious at the same time. Rexall pointed to the back porch and met him there a few seconds later.

  “What the hell, Kam. Wife kick you out? Can’t say I blame her.”

  “Tamara’s gone.”

  “She left you?”

  “It’s worse than that. But we need to go inside.”

  Rexall led him into the utility room, past a shiny new stainless steel washer and dryer glowing in the moonlight, looking like some kind of alien technology. Rexall was in his skivvies. Kam could smell red wine on his breath, or maybe he was just exuding the stuff from his pores. The Rexalls had a huge wine cellar.

  “I need to use your computer,” said Kam. Rexall led him into the den and pulled out a chair.

  “Help yourself. If you need to stay the night, be my guest. You know where Stephen’s room is. He’s staying at our place in Phoenix right now. And you can tell me about Tamara in the morning.” Then Rexall left, wobbling his way back to bed.

  Kam logged into the Mac notebook. He felt naked without his cell phone. But he did remember one key contact name. Chapertah had his research assistant send the Revelations doc to him. And the name was distinct and short.

  Rupi@harvard.edu.

  He sent a brief message.

  Rupi? This is professor O’Brien. I was there when Chapertah ended his life. We need to talk. How can I reach you?

  She answered almost immediately, which surprised him.

  I don’t think that’s a good idea. Too dangerous.

  My wife has been kidnapped by some ex-military fanatic. I believe it has something to do with Chapertah’s research. I need to find her.

  They will kill you. Everyone who knows anything dies.

  Kam felt a chill. Rupi had made the connection right away between the attack and Chapertah. He answered.

  I don’t care. I owe her.

  You had to be a romantic. OK. First, don’t say where you are. Ever. And I hope you’re not at home. They can track.

  They already have.

  I’m sorry. My next problem is – I can’t be sure you are who you say you are.

  Can we do video chat?

  Then Kam remembered Kaufmann. How far did this group reach? Rupi responded.

  I’m using one of those services that blocks an IP trace. Stealth email. You probably didn’t notice that I didn’t respond on the Harvard email system. I can’t do video and stay secure.

  She was right. Her email reply came from some long numbered email account.

  It’s not totally hack proof. But it would slow anyone down, even the Feds, for a few hours or days. I switch mine every day.

  Kam realized he might have an answer to her question. He wrote her.

  I know something about Chapertah that no one else knows. Except his wife. Maybe you do too, if you’ve worked with him long enough.

  I was with Indra for seven years.

  He has a tattoo. I saw it briefly the night he died. He was disheveled and nervous, and I saw a tiny graphic on his upper ankle. His black socks would usually cover it. But he was bare-foot.

  I know what you mean. He rarely revealed it to anyone. He was very shy about those things. What a dear man.

  And I’ll give you the context too because I’m a bit of a science nut. Einstein first came up with this idea in the early 1900’s. He called it the cosmological constant. For a cosmologist, it’s one of the first things you would learn about – now known as Einstein’s’ greatest blunder. It’s usually denoted by the Greek letter lambda. Basically, an upside down V. Simple yet very significant. And a symbol of humility. A perfect match for Indra’s personality. It’s painful just to think about.

  If you’re not who you say you are, you are very good at this. Yes, I know about the tattoo. Here’s my idea. You need to come to Cambridge. When you get here, send me a message. Use the Harvard address though. I won’t ping you back from there. I’m not at the University. I’m not crazy. Then I’ll tell you where to go. Maybe a restaurant or public place. You tell me what you look like and I’ll decide if I want to meet you.

  I’ll be there.

  If your wife was kidnapped, I think I know where she is. But finding her won’t be easy.

  Kam typed back.

  Nothing worthwhile ever is.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I had an image in my mind of Harvard based on a visit I made there once as a student. It had been one of those long sun and beer-soaked holidays I was lucky enough to grab before Police Academy. So I wasn’t sure how reliable the memory was.

  To me, the Harvard campus had always been an icon for the establishment; well-kept lawns and stately brick buildings. But I did get laid that weekend, so my memories still held an undercurrent of warm nostalgia mixed
with something more powerful and primal. It always seemed to me that there were pheromones in the air on campus – an undercurrent to the local heirloom apple blossoms and ever-present book mould.

  Speaking of pheromones, I met Jann Stone at the Boston Airport and we discussed strategy on the drive in. Jann was very professional, no smiles and all business. She wore a dark suit, plain white blouse. Her coolness irritated me, although I suppose twelve months without a phone call didn’t exactly give me the right to a hug or a peck on the cheek.

  She filled me in on the University cases. She had five professors on her list – all dead in the last two weeks at Harvard, Stanford, Berkeley, Georgetown and Columbia – as well as a retired professor formerly from the University of Boston who, along with his wife, had gone missing from his remote cabin up in Canada.

  Stone had her files on her high-security Black phone, and she was scrolling through her notes.

  “We found Kaufmann. He was mutilated and tortured, so we think he had something that somebody wanted badly. Have no idea what that might be. You know about the others. Then there’s this situation up in Canada. A retired History Prof named O’Brien. And get this – he witnessed the suicide two days ago of Chapertah. The Toronto Police questioned O’Brien. Then on his way home, he was involved in a collision, both vehicles ended up at the bottom of the lake. They dragged the lake. No body. And his wife is missing too.”

  “Any suspects?” I asked.

  Before Jann could answer we found the Physics Building and a student gave us directions to Chapertah’s office. After wandering the halls in search of a front office, I found a lab assistant who informed me that Rupi’s office was in the Jefferson Laboratory and gave us directions.

  “The RCM police at the crime scene found prints and the body of a local girl who was picked up at a nearby bar by an American stranger. Witnesses at the bar say the guy she left with was tall and blond and had an accent.”

  “Did they know what kind?”

  “Southern states. No one had seen him before, but they all said he had a distinctive drawl. We checked the prints this morning. They belong to a Thomas or Tommy Archer McDane. Born in Tennessee. We have his prints because he served with the U.S. Army in Afghanistan. Basic training at Fort Bragg. Honorable discharge.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “The last location we have for him was twenty months ago. Tuckahoe County was repossessing a home for back taxes, and the owner refused to move. So the local militias showed up to lend support. Standard militia PR stunt. We didn’t get involved for obvious reasons, but the FBI took a lot of photos, and we ID’d most of the participants. One of those attending, and visibly armed, was McDane. See the militia connection again?”

  “Where does he live?”

  “No record. But Tuckahoe is within shooting distance of Parkhurst. And there’s something else. The U.S. Army has a very sophisticated combat simulation program called Janus, used for training. McDane was one of the developers on that program. He worked on Janus for over a year when he came back from the sandbox. So he’s a computer programmer too. “

  “So you think he’s working with the computer group at Parkhurst?”

  “Ex-military. Southern. Militia supporter. Marksman. Computer geek. Active in the Parkhurst area. You tell me.”

  “You must have a record of McDane crossing the border into Canada then.”

  “No. And that’s . . . troubling. Because it means we have a leaky border despite all the money poured into security.”

  “So you’ve got an extradition order for McDane from the Canadian authorities . . . “

  Jann looked up for the first time from the small colored screen in her hand. “Yeah. We’ve issued a BOLO. He’s obviously dangerous, but we have no known address.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got enough to get a search warrant though. At Parkhurst.”

  Jann stopped and chewed her lip. “I think you’re right, Greg. But what happens after that?”

  “Let’s talk to this researcher first before we make plans for starting another civil war.”

  Sitting at a teakwood carrel, in the back corner of the main floor, sat a woman in her early twenties. She had an olive complexion. I assumed it was our researcher.

  I stood over her until she turned from her laptop.

  “You’re here about Rupi?” she asked.

  I leaned forward. “I need to ask you some questions. Maybe this is not the best place . . .”

  She interrupted me. “I’m not who you think I am. I know all brown people look the same to you – but I’m not Rupi. Rupi has disappeared.”

  Jann pushed me aside. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No. That’s the point of hiding. If I knew where she was, you could torture me for the information. I have no idea and I am not a stupid person.”

  I stared down at her. Typically I can intimidate anyone under 250 pounds quite easily. She was staring me down and probably weighed less than a hundred. I liked her for that. So I removed torture from my list of interrogation possibilities.

  “How can we get in touch with her then?” I asked.

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  I looked at Jann and sighed. This woman was so small I could easily pick her up and throw her across my back one-handed. But there was a suspicious librarian eyeing me from the front, who I knew would be happy to vouch for police brutality, so I tried to calm her down instead. I showed her my ID.

  “This is special agent Stone of the FBI and I’m Greg Hyde from Washington D.C. Homicide. We’re here to help Ms. Gupta. Not torture anyone. She asked us to contact her. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Unconvincing,” she replied. Then, as if her mind were made up in that instant, she stood up, excused herself, and then ran down the length of the room and out the door into the hallway. I had no choice but to follow her, but I didn’t think chasing her would do much good. She was young and in excellent condition, thin as a sapling. I was winded from the walk from the parking lot.

  As I expected, by the time I reached the exit doors, there was no sign of her. Jann was way ahead of me in seconds, but even she was left behind.

  When I reached the parking zone I could see Jann was walking back from the grassed commons area, looking frustrated. She was probably thinking the same thing I was. Why kill professors? Or research assistants?

  The Soldiers of Patmos were beginning to irritate me. Someone needed to check these mountain people out. Right now, I’d love to volunteer.

  Jann and I walked back to my rental car. She wasn’t saying much. I still had a feeling she knew a lot more than she was letting on. Just the fact that she made time to fly out to Cambridge was telling. She would never make time for something if she didn’t think it was key to an investigation – and she obviously wasn’t here for my sake.

  “I thought she wanted to talk to us,” was all I said, starting the car.

  Jann buckled up her seat belt. “She’s linked to half a dozen suspicious deaths, detective. She deserves to be a little skittish.” She looked at me, waiting for the lights to go on. Whenever she called me detective, she was pissed.

  “Indra was a world-class scientist, respected world-wide. Absolutely no reason to kill himself,” she said. “And we have a witness who says he suddenly just threw himself off an eight-floor balcony for no reason. After receiving instructions by phone.”

  “That was a helluva call. What else do you know that you’re not sharing?"

  “Sharing? You know better than that, Hyde. The FBI has no obligation to give you anything. Besides, what have you got for me? You seem like you’re just along for the ride.”

  “Well, fuck you, Stone. I just asked for some help. I bent over backwards for you on that serial killer case we worked on. And I didn’t get back a thing.”

  She gave me a stony glare. “I’d say you got something out of it.”

  I turned to her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I hit the gas and peeled out of the park
ing lot like a teenaged drunk driver. The closest I could come to a mature reaction. The hard turn threw her against me, and she anxiously pushed herself away.

  “It wasn’t exactly date rape,” I added.

  “Well, at least you’re consistent, Hyde. Once a pig, always a pig.”

  That hurt. But before I had a chance to answer, as I stopped for the traffic at the campus exit, a young woman ran up and tapped on the passenger door window. “Open up, quick. I’m Rupi,” was all she said. Jann flipped the safety locks, and the young woman jumped into the back seat as we merged into the traffic on St. Clair.

  Saved by the bell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rupi Gupta was hunkered down in the back seat of our rental, her dark eyes riveted to the rear view mirror.

  “We’re not being followed, Ms. Gupta. You’re safe,” offered Jann.

  “Hah. Tell that to Professor Nates. She was murdered right in her living room by those fanatics.”

  “How do you know about Nates?” I asked.

  “It’s all over Facebook. And nobody believes that nonsense about some guy killing her while he was blacked out on drugs. Except the police, of course.”

  Jann looked at me like she had won a point in some contest she was scoring. Then she turned to our passenger. “Rupi. I’m following up on your email . . .”

  “My anonymous email,” she corrected.

  “We felt you were in danger, so we bent the rules a bit.”

  “Thank you,” she said sarcastically. “I am in danger. Everyone involved with this stupid project of Indra’s is in danger. Or dead. Or missing.” Then she sat up and tapped me on the shoulder. “Turn left here. Follow this road for about three miles. I’ll tell you when to turn again.”