The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  “Am I under arrest?” she asked.

  “No. You’re a witness. Please—”

  ”Let go of me,” she snarled, pulling her arm away from him. “Are you familiar with Freedom of the Press? I want my phone back.”

  “That won’t happen, ma’am,” he said with a shake of his head. “They’re going to use it to track down his cellular phone. If ... what are you doing?”

  She had her tape recorder in her hand. “I’m taping this.”

  “Ma’am—” He reached out for the recorder and she snatched it out of his reach.

  “And what?” she said. “Is the FBI capable of tracking this guy down using his cellular telephone?”

  “If it’s on, yes. We can track a phone to within one hundred yards if it’s on.”

  “Do they have to be calling?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s what’s happening now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  He seemed to take a deep breath. “Agent Roger Kandling.”

  “Why didn’t you confiscate my phone for this after the first call?”

  Kandling blinked, his eyes a deep blue, almost gray. “No comment.”

  “Somebody screwed up?” she said.

  “No comment.”

  She turned off the tape recorder. “Off the record.”

  He eyed the tape recorder, reached out for it. She handed it to him. He confirmed that it was off, and said, “Matt Gray fucked up. He should have locked you in a box and waited for the next call and had everybody ready to track it. We would have been able to cordon off the area and this whole mess would be over.”

  “Why do you think he screwed up?”

  “Because he won’t listen to anybody else. He’s got his undies in a bunch about this troubleshooter from DHS, who frankly is about three steps ahead of everybody else.”

  Her attention sharpened. She took her tape recorder back. “Tell me about this troubleshooter.”

  “His name is Derek Stillwater. He’s ex-Army Special Forces, an expert on biological and chemical weapons.”

  She blinked. “The Chimera guy?”

  “Yes. He’s the one.”

  “I thought he was under investi—”

  ”The Bureau is investigating him. The Attorney General has warned Secretary Johnston that Stillwater should not be actively working. Frankly, most of us think he went off the edge a long time ago.”

  “Yet he’s here,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. And he was here at the University when this happened.”

  She inhaled sharply. “There were rumors that he may have known more about the attack at U.S. Immuno, that he might actually have been an inside man.”

  “No comment.”

  “It is true, is it not, that Derek Stillwater was once a friend and team member with the terrorist behind the attack on the White House, on U.S. Immunological Research?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That is correct.”

  “Derek Stillwater is under investigation by the FBI for the torture/murder of a Russian citizen. Is that correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “How did Derek Stillwater allegedly torture and kill this Russian citizen? It was a woman, correct?”

  “He suffocated her using plastic bags,” Kandling said.

  “Why is this man running around loose?”

  “That’s a good question, ma’am. A very good question.”

  She stared at him. “Do you think Derek Stillwater might have some inside information regarding The Serpent?”

  Kandling swallowed hard. “Ma’am, I wouldn’t be surprised if Derek Stillwater was The Serpent.”

  27

  12:52 p.m.

  AGENT ROGER KANDLING WATCHED Mary Linzey hurry away. When she had disappeared from sight, Kandling whipped out his cell phone and placed a call.

  “Gray here.”

  “Sir, it’s Kandling.”

  “Did she buy it?”

  “All the way, sir. She’s working on the assumption that Derek Stillwater may actually be The Serpent. If she doesn’t swallow that, she at least is suspicious of his involvement here.”

  “Good,” Gray said, his voice sounding muffled and nasal. “Good job, Kandling. Anything else?”

  “Just a suggestion, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Alert the local police that Stillwater is a ‘person of interest,’ and should be detained.”

  Over the phone Matt Gray laughed low and soft. “I like that. Yes. Good job. I don’t want to spread my resources out any more, but get the local cops on it. Good. Take care of it. And Roger?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “We never had this conversation.”

  This gave Kandling pause. Was he being hung out to dry by the SAC? “Yes sir,” he said. “Understood.”

  “Soon as you’re done, get your ass back over here.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They clicked off and Kandling took a second to think through his approach. Gray was playing games with Stillwater and with inter-department turf feuds. That was fine by him. He had no love of the Department of Homeland Security. The Bureau was still the top anti-terror cops, as far as he was concerned.

  But he saw no reason why he should be “taking the fifth” during the eventual congressional investigation. He wanted his neck kept out of that potentially ugly noose.

  It was a classic CYA procedure, and he took a moment to figure out exactly how to cover his ass for when this thing blew wide open. When he figured it out, he dialed the Detroit FBI office and set things in motion.

  28

  12:56 p.m.

  JILL AND MICHAEL CHURCH pulled up in front of Rebecca Harrington’s Ferndale house. Jill sighed, “Thank God.”

  “What?”

  Jill looked at her son. “The Ferndale police aren’t here. I was afraid—”

  ”Mom? What’s going on?”

  She frowned. “I can’t talk now, Michael. Please stay right here. I have to go in that house.”

  “Mom—”

  ”Stay!” she said, climbing out of the car. She hurried up the steps to the front door. She paused, looking around. Michael was slumped behind the wheel, glaring at her. Lord, what a mess!, she thought.

  The front door was unlocked. She opened it and stepped in. Derek had said Rebecca Harrington was upstairs. But it was bad procedure to not secure the house, so she did a quick recon of the main floor and slipped into the basement to make sure she had the house to herself. Then she went to the second floor and found the body of Rebecca Harrington. She studied the scene for a moment. Rebecca Harrington had not died easily. And it had been a horrible way to die, she thought, suffocating like that. The woman’s eyes were wide open, the whites speckled with pinpoints of blood. Her face, strained in agony, rigid in death, also had red spots, called petechiae.

  “Who did this to you?” she murmured.

  She scanned the room, wondering if Derek had found anything here and taken it with him. He was a menace and she was getting angry with him. There was a way to do these things. A proper, procedural way to handle cases.

  A tiny, quiet voice in the back of her mind said: his only priority is stopping the next attack. That’s all.

  “Mom?”

  She spun, letting out a gasp. “Michael! What are you doing here? I told you—”

  He stood in the doorway, staring past her at Rebecca Harrington.

  She rushed over and spun him around. Her tone was gentle. “Go back to the car. I have to call the Ferndale Police. Please, Michael.”

  “She’s ... dead.”

  “Yes. Go on, Michael. Please. Wait for me. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He seemed to float as he left. She pressed her palms to her forehead. Then she took out her phone and got hold of the Ferndale P.D. She also called the office and asked for a crime scene specialist be sent to supervise the local police. Then she went back to talk to Michael.

  He was leaning a
gainst his car. She gave him a hug and was surprised when he hugged her back. He said, “Who would do something like that?”

  “A very bad man, Michael. Probably The Serpent.”

  “Did ... did he torture her? She suffocated, right?”

  Jill doubted if there was an innocent sixteen-year-old in the country, what with all the exposure to the world on TV, movies and the Internet. Still, seeing a murder victim was traumatic, not just the first time, but hopefully every time. It wasn’t something one wanted to get accustomed to.

  Keeping her voice level, she said, “The police are going to question you now. They’re going to give both of us a hard time about why you went in there and why I let you.” She paused. “They’re going to give me a lot of ... oh hell, Michael, they’re going to give me a lot of shit about even having you along. It’s going to make me look like some sort of amateur. They’re going to separate us, or try to. I might be able to control that because you’re a minor, but if they do, either way, you have to tell the truth. Understand? You have to tell them exactly what you did and why. Don’t lie. Tell the truth.”

  “Am ... am I going to be arrested?”

  She smiled. “No, Michael. But it might be unpleasant. But you’re smart and you’re level-headed. Don’t be cute or tricky or be a smart-ass. This isn’t the time for that. Answer clearly and to the point. Only answer what they ask. Don’t volunteer information and don’t add to what they ask for. Don’t clarify unless they ask for a clarification. Understand? Just tell them what they want.”

  He nodded, a short head bob.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asked. “That was ... that was pretty bad up there.”

  He swallowed hard. “The Serpent did that?”

  “Probably.”

  “What does he want?”

  She sighed. “He’s making ransom demands. Maybe it’s about money.”

  “But her...”

  She thought for a moment. “Michael, if I tell you this, then you’re going to have to tell the Ferndale cops when they ask you. This way, if I don’t tell you, then you can just say you don’t know. They may ask you a dozen different ways why she was killed and all you can say in all honesty is, ‘I don’t know. I think it has something to do with The Serpent.’ It’s better for you. It’s better for me. It’s better for the case. Understand? I can tell them what I need to tell them because I’m an agent. I can decide what they are qualified to hear. But you need to tell them the truth. So I’m not going to tell you.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she raised her hand. “I’m not going to tell you now, Michael. But when we’re done with the police, I will tell you. I’ll tell you as much as I can. All right?”

  He stared at her.

  She held out her hand. “Deal?”

  His expression was hard to read. A complicated range of emotions flitted across his face. Then he shook her hand. “Deal,” he said.

  29

  1:03 p.m.

  DEREK FELT LIKE HE had wasted enough time. Despite his trepidation, he had to enter William Harrington’s house. He climbed out of Jill’s car and proceeded up the driveway, jumping when his cell phone buzzed. Relieved to have an excuse to wait, he clicked it on. It was Jill Church.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Did you find Rebecca Harrington?”

  “Yes, Stillwater. I did. And by the way, punching Matt Gray was just about the stupidest thing you could have done.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve done a lot of other stupid things. Why are you calling?”

  “Because I have a question I want you to answer.”

  Harrington’s driveway was shaded by mature trees—oak, birch, maple and poplar—their leaves beginning the fall color tour. If Harrington’s trees were any indication, it was going to be a good year for it. They were a good sixty percent changed, blazing yellows, reds, and oranges. Derek scanned the street, noticing a blue car that looked like a cop cruiser turning the corner.

  “Are you tracing this call?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Huh,” he said, eyes on the police car. “Are you lying to me?”

  “What’s going on, Stillwater?”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Irina Khournikova.”

  Derek’s blood ran cold. “That’s not a question. That’s a name.”

  “A Russian national that you reputed to have tortured to death. By suffocation. And now we’ve got somebody else here suffocated to death.”

  “Get your facts straight. Irina Khournikova is alive and well and working in Moscow, last we heard. She’s a Russian anti-terrorism expert. What’s your question, Agent Church?”

  The Birmingham Police cruiser slowed down as it approached. Derek smiled and waved. Hey, he tried to project. Just some guy coming home for lunch. Hi officers! How are you today?

  “Stillwater--”

  He sighed. The cruiser stopped and two cops climbed out. The closest one said, “Sir, is there a problem?” He was tall, broad-shouldered, looking trim and fit in his uniform. Probably in his thirties, he had sandy brown hair, clear brown eyes and a square jaw. One hand was on his gun.

  “No, no problem,” Derek said. He didn’t like the hand on the gun. The other cop came around the cruiser, keeping Derek in view. They had their procedure down. They didn’t bunch together. They both came at him at angles, able to cover each other and keep an eye on Derek. They had no reason for this, Derek thought. Somebody had sicced the cops on him. Had it been Gray? Or Jill?

  “Honey,” Derek said into the phone, voice sweet, almost saccharine. “There are a couple police officers here. Did you call them?”

  “Cute,” Jill said. “No, Stillwater. I didn’t. What do they want?”

  He clipped the phone to his belt without shutting it off and turned to the cops. “Is there a problem officers?”

  “We’d like to see some ID,” the second cop said. He was older than his partner, maybe around fifty. Balding, he had clear blue eyes, a jowly red face and a thick mustache. He wasn’t as fit as his younger partner, but he still looked strong and tough, despite the paunch. It was that kind of “strong fat” look that some big men had.

  “Sure,” Derek said. He reached for his back pocket. Both cops tensed. “Hey, easy now. I’m just getting my identification.” He moved slowly and deliberately. “My name is Derek Stillwater. I’m an agent with the Department of Homeland Security. I’m here—”

  As soon as he said his name the younger cop pulled his gun. “Hands out. Hands out where I can see them. Get down on your knees, hands on your head.”

  “I can’t get down on my knees,” Derek said, which was true. His knee throbbed and wouldn’t bend that much. “Look—”

  The second cop moved very fast for his size. He moved in toward Derek’s right. “Get down! Do it—”

  Derek was all too aware of the first cop and his gun. He tried to protest, but the bigger cop moved in, a tonfa swinging. The baton struck on the side of Derek’s bad leg. With a scream he collapsed to the ground, hands pressed to his knee. Then the cops flipped him over on his back and secured his wrists with flexi-cuffs. A quick pat-down came up with his gun, his ID, the electric lock pick, and the cell phone. The younger cop said into the phone, “Hello? Who’s this?” He listened, then said, “That may be, ma’am, but we have to take him in. He’ll be at the Birmingham Police Department.” He clicked off. Then the two cops dragged Derek to his feet and before he could protest, flung him into the back of the squad car.

  The older cop went through Jill’s vehicle, collected Derek’s bags and put them in the trunk of the squad car. As soon as they had secured Jill’s car, they drove away.

  30

  1:07 p.m.

  MATT GRAY, NOW WEARING an FBI windbreaker over his shirt and tie to cover up the blood, was in the mobile command center discussing events with his superior in Washington, D.C. A slim, blonde female agent was on a phone at the other end of the RV. She suddenly sat up and ca
lled out, “Lab’s got this guy’s number. They’re tracking now.”

  “Sir,” Gray said. “Things are breaking here. I’ll ... yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He clicked off and spun. He jabbed his finger at another agent, a wiry Latino with soulful dark eyes and curly black hair. “Are you in contact with the Nighthawks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get them scrambling.”

  Agent Cortez settled into a radio command post and began to talk to the group of fixed-wing and helicopter air support that patrolled the area. Ever since 9/11, the FBI had increased their air coverage, especially in high-risk areas and borders. Detroit not only had the busiest international border in the country at the Ambassador Bridge to Windsor, Ontario, nearby Dearborn had the largest Shiite Muslim population outside of the middle east. The Detroit FBI had a large group of technical support to draw on.

  The female blonde, Sugarman, said, “Cell tracking...” Her eyes widened. She turned to Gray. “He’s here, sir.”

  “Here? What the hell are you—”

  Sugarman said, “They’ve tracked his cellular signal to within one hundred yards of this area, sir. The Scott Building.”

  Gray’s jaw clenched. “In the crowd!”

  Agent Cortez, talking to the planes and helicopters, ordered, “Triangulate in this area. I repeat, triangulate to the Wayne State University campus and the Scott Building. Yes, right here!”

  Gray was leaning out the door and shouting to his liaison officer. “The Serpent’s in the crowd. Get everybody mobilized. We’re triangulating the phone now! Now, understand! Nobody leaves the area! Nobody! Shut this area down!”

  The agent was screaming into his cell phone, dashing toward the communication post for the Detroit Police Department liaison. The DPD had more manpower present than the FBI did.

  “We’ve got him!” Gray snapped, thinking that he’d be working in Washington, D.C. by the end of the year if they nailed this guy this fast. “We’ve got him!”

  31

  1:11 p.m.

  JILL WAS FRANTICALLY TRYING to decide how to respond to the fact that Derek had been arrested in Birmingham when the local police showed up. She figured Derek would just have to sit tight until she got her own mess straightened out. The detective who approached her from the Ferndale Police Department studied Jill’s identification closely before turning to frown at Michael. “Who’s this?”