Level 26
Page 14
But Dark could do that later. He had to tackle something else first. Something that had been tugging at his mind for a few hours.
He started peeling up masking tape and digging through brown cardboard boxes. Riggins had said he’d packed up the old place on his own; Dark hoped he’d thought to include his laptop somewhere in there. He was a methodical thinker and needed to lay the pieces out in a particular way. The computer helped him do that.
Dark opened the third box, where he found a square object wrapped in blue tissue paper. He pulled away the paper, and the sight made him pause.
A photo of Sibby, before they met, back when she was still a professional dancer. It was the first photo she’d given him, but only after he’d begged. Dark loved to watch her dance. Frankly, he just loved to watch her move across a room.
When she’d finally relented and given him the photo, he’d studied it for hours, trying to figure out what exactly drew him to it. There was no single detail, though, or bodily feature. It was Sibby as a whole. Sibby dancing—the most beautiful sight he’d ever enjoyed.
Dark carefully rewrapped the frame, his fingers shaking a little. He tried not to tear the paper or leave any suggestion that it had been opened. Then he placed it back in the box, letting his fingers graze Sibby’s old ballet shoes, which rested amid the memories of their happy life. He pushed the flaps down and pushed his fingers over the strip of tape until it held firm.
He dug further into a fourth box and found something else—a framed photo of the two of them from the previous summer, just after they’d first started seeing each other. Sibby was wearing a sheer yellow dress. He loved that dress, loved it on her, loved what it did for her body, loved taking it off her body when they returned to her place later that same day…
The same body that was now bruised and cut and abraded and suffering on a hospital bed just a short distance away.
Dark caught himself. He could easily see himself getting lost in these reminders of her. That wouldn’t do her any good.
He needed to get back to the case, if only to distract himself while he waited for Sibby to wake up.
A short while later he found the box that contained everything he needed: Laptop. Wireless printer. Ream of paper. Pens. Dark sat with them, cross-legged, in the middle of the living room, which was illuminated by a single desk lamp. Everything else in the world could fade away for the moment. Now it was just Dark and the evidence.
Dark knew he’d find the answer in Sqweegel’s little “poem.”
chapter 50
Dark transcribed it quickly, increased the font, then printed a copy.
One a day will die.
Two a day will cry.
Three a day will lie.
Four a day will sigh.
Five a day ask why.
Six a day will fry.
Seven a day…“Oh, my.”
Dark crossed a line through
Six a day will fry.
The priests at Hollywood United, obviously. And the kids from Hancock Park that he’d tortured:
Three a day will lie.
Despite the obvious severe trauma to their anal cavities, the three boys had stuck to their story: they were skateboarding, beer pimping. Some guy offered to buy them beer in exchange for some gin. That store didn’t have gin, so they hopped into his car and headed out to another liquor store. And that’s all they remembered—or so they claimed.
Jack Mitchell had pointed out that the nurse at the hospital had found evidence of blood and trauma around their genitals. The boys nervously explained that away as just some stupid drunken antics—slamming their asses down on ketchup packets.
But then one of the boys slipped. Mentioned the guy was wearing a “white suit.”
Mitchell pounced on that. What kind of white suit? What was it made of?
Cloth, the kid said. Three-piece suit. With a vest.
The other two backed him up. Yeah, cloth. With buttons and everything.
Lying.
Just like Sqweegel had said they would.
Three a day will lie…
Now Dark stared at the remainder of the list, trying to puzzle it out. Not so much the individual messages, but the pattern. Was Sqweegel checking things off his list at random, or did he have an order in mind? Did it mean something that he started with six, then halved it?
Had he already carried out some of the other lines? No, that wouldn’t be Sqweegel. Not this time. This time was all about the grand gesture. And the fact that he’d targeted Dark’s house within hours of Riggins’s showing up meant that Sqweegel wanted him to pay attention. Well, I am now, motherfucker. You’ve got my complete attention.
To think that just a few days ago, Dark had been free of this. The pain of what had happened to his foster family would never go away, but it had been a long time since he’d tried to put himself inside a maniac’s mind. It simply hadn’t made sense anymore. His family was gone, and no amount of Special Circs profiling or empathetic reasoning would bring them back.
And now he was back. Trying to worm his way into a sick little fuck’s mind, once again. It was like breaking a leg, badly, then breaking it again just to remind yourself that you know how to do it.
The trick to this was seeing the world through his beady little eyes.
Eyes…
Wait.
Dark pulled out his cell, speed-dialed Riggins.
“What is it? Everything okay?”
“The video server from my house—did you pull it?”
Dark knew the small server had a built-in monitor that could display what was on the hard drive in his pocket. He’d nearly forgotten about it with everything that had happened today.
“If you say that again in English, I might be able to answer you.”
“Surveillance cameras in my house,” Dark explained. “One in each room. They’re all wired up to a little white box in the top of the front closet. Did you pack it?”
“If it had a wire attached to it, I packed it.”
“Where?”
“Maybe one of the boxes full of shit with wires attached to it? I’m sorry, Dark. I packed fast. Listen, let me come over there and help—”
Dark pressed END and started ripping through the remaining boxes.
chapter 51
New York City / West River Drive
Thursday / 11 P.M. EST
Sqweegel handed the cab driver the money, told him to keep the change. The dirty yellow Crown Vic peeled away a moment later, leaving its passenger standing on the last sidewalk on the western edge of Manhattan. The driver had been listening to filthy garbage on the radio. If Sqweegel hadn’t had other plans, the driver would have paid for his indiscretion. Maybe strap him down somewhere and drill some holes in his ears, freeing them to hear divine sounds. Divine silence.
No time for that now, though. The horses were waiting. And his hunter, still spinning his wheels on the other coast, would be lost without another message soon.
Out over the Hudson, lights twinkled on the Jersey side. Sqweegel liked turning his back on the ziggurats of New York City. So many worshipped them, so blindly. They were useful to Sqweegel only in that they gave him countless places to hide. If he wanted to, he could disappear in the concrete slabs of Manhattan for ten, twenty years, without anyone knowing where he’d gone. And all the while, he’d be watching. Like an angel.
Tonight, though, wasn’t a night for hiding.
Sqweegel stepped off the sidewalk and made his way down a dirt path. He was decked out like a soldier home on leave from Afghanistan, one weekend only—combat boots, camouflage pants, flak jacket, hoodie, black cap, sunglasses. A little U.S. Army, a little Brooklyn. No one would give him a second glance.
Nor would they wonder about the rectangular white cardboard box tucked under his arm. Flowers for Mom, or maybe a sweetheart. A dozen fresh-cut roses to say I hope you haven’t been screwing somebody else while I was getting my ass shot off in the Hindu Kush.
At the end of the path
was a wooden fence topped with barbed wire. On the front was an etched wooden sign, the grooves painted a faded gold:
MOUNTED POLICE NYPD
A little bit of rustic class in an island of glass, plastic, and shiny metal. Sqweegel admired that, despite himself. People did try so hard to rise above themselves sometimes.
He slid the flower box under the last rung of the wooden fence, pushing it all the way to the other side. Then he peeled off his flak jacket and draped it over the barbed wire. Quickly, he scaled the fence, cleared the wire, and pulled his jacket free as he touched down on the other side. It was a movement so fluid and so fast, anyone watching—not that anyone was watching—would rub his eyes and insist on a playback, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
Sqweegel ran his fingers under the tape holding the box flaps together. No need for the pretense now. He was inside.
The lid came off, and inside was a long hand cannon. Ammo. And a plastic bag full of carrots.
All three came from Brooklyn, just like the box. The box, from a florist on Court Street. The carrots, from a corner market on Smith. And the gun? From a small-time arms dealer in Red Hook he’d found online. No more than an hour’s worth of shopping.
The gun was loaded in under a minute, each of the silver bullets fed into the chambers one at a time, click click click click click.
Sqweegel continued down the path, following a bend to the main stables. The thick smell of horse shit and wet straw assaulted him. This was where the mounted police kept their horses. Their riders may now be kicking back with beer and pizza in Brooklyn, Queens, Jersey, or Long Island, but their noble steeds never left the island. They were forever on duty, on this tiny scrap of nature Manhattan had saved for itself.
Anyone could take a tour of the stables and visit the horses. Sqweegel had, nearly a year before. He’d taken careful notes.
Now he slid the notepad out of his back pocket and began to check the names. Each horse had a nickname. The names on Sqweegel’s list, however, were special:
Dalia
Runner
Coach
Beemer
Sampson
First up: Dalia.
A whore’s name, Sqweegel thought.
chapter 52
West Hollywood
8:02 P.M. PST
Nothing but white screen, with the occasional flash of dark around the fringes and pixilated distortion.
This was the footage taken in their master bedroom the night before.
What the hell?
Dark fast-forwarded for about ten minutes, then closed the window and clicked on the living room file. The footage shot here, by contrast, was intact. Crystal clear.
The lighting wasn’t ideal, but you could see exactly what was going on—just like Sqweegel wanted. He wanted Dark to see how easy it was to break into their house, creep through the room, literally under the noses of Max and Henry, then strip at the foot of the stairs before ascending. Making his way to Sibby…
I’m in your house, Dark. Do you realize how easy this is? You, with all of your experience and training?
Did you promise Sibby you’d keep her safe, no matter what?
Didn’t I teach your foster family anything about home security?
The time signature at the start of the break-in matched exactly with the time Dark had peeled away in his Yukon, on his way to meet with Riggins in that diner on the Santa Monica Pier.
Son of a bitch had probably been holed up outside, hidden in some dank little crevice, waiting for Dark to leave.
And then he made his way into their home and right into their bedroom, easy as walking up a flight of stairs.
It looked easy, of course, with Dark’s laptop playing it back in fast-forward. Watching it in real time was maddening, Sqweegel’s inhuman body oozing across the floor at such an incredibly slow speed. Such controlled, measured movements were almost imperceptible to Dark—you had to keep staring to make sure Sqweegel was, in fact, moving.
All while he’d been nursing his cold coffee, listening to Riggins go on about budgets, about his ex-wife, about his life.
Sqweegel, making his way up to where Sibby lay sleeping, completely unaware…
Which was why the white screen was infuriating. It made no sense. Every other camera in the house worked fine that night—except for the bedroom?
What line was it? Dark wondered. Which line in the goddamned poem was about Sibby? Not “one a day will die,” because she was left alive. Untouched, in fact—she’d said so herself. Two a day will cry? Something about Sibby and the baby? Oh, Jesus fuck, did he do something to the baby?
Dark double-clicked on the REWIND button. Maybe this camera had been faulty for a few days, and somehow he hadn’t noticed. But this was unlikely. It was a looped system; any faulty feeds would result in the main server alerting him through a series of quick, annoying beeps.
Something else was going on here.
On-screen the white suddenly cut out, and the image returned. Dark clicked PLAY.
There he was. Next to their dresser, placing something on its polished top. Some little device, and then—
White screen.
The little freak had jammed the signal somehow. He didn’t want Dark seeing what happened next.
Or did he? Dark’s thumb hovered over the click bar on the touch pad for a moment, then pressed down and began to fast-forward. Minutes on the time counter ticked by, and suddenly the white was gone and the footage resumed.
Oh, God.
Oh, God, no.
chapter 53
New York City
The horses weren’t happy.
There was an intruder in their stalls, and he made them nervous. He looked different. Smelled different. Acted different. Didn’t act human at all. Annoyed, the beasts neighed and stomped around in their stalls. Some were nervous and pissed in gushes.
Shh, now, Sqweegel wanted to tell them. I’m not here for you. I’m here for Dalia.
And there she is.
The metal sign tacked to the front of the stall explained her story:
DALIA WAS DONATED BY MRS. DAHL ON BEHALF OF HER FALLEN HUSBAND, A MEMBER OF THE FDNY, ON 9/11/01
Sqweegel’s bony hand pushed up the metal latch. He crept inside the stall, moving slowly, calm enough to put Dalia at ease. Nothing that moved this slowly could be a threat, right? She was half asleep anyway. Sqweegel came face-to-face with the brown paint horse, who was ten hands high. Her glistening black eyes blinked methodically.
He reached inside the bag, pulled out a carrot. A nice succulent carrot, Dalia? It’s all yours.
Dalia sniffed it once, then took a quick bite. The remainder fell out of Sqweegel’s hand and landed on the dirty bed of hay below. Sqweegel bent over to pick it up, but the horse spooked. Reared back. Bucked. Sqweegel froze and remained that way until the horse calmed down again. A few more minutes passed before Sqweegel slowly raised a hand, inching closer. Finally the horse allowed her visitor to pet her warm head. Sqweegel leaned in close and whispered, “It’s not you, girl. No, it’s never the children. It’s your mother. Always the mother.”
Sqweegel raised the gun, jabbed the silencer between two ribs on the horse’s side, then squeezed the trigger once. No need for remorse; he had explained himself to the horse.
Dalia’s legs immediately buckled. One leg, followed by another, and then the final two as she went down, snapping a hoof along the way, the weight too great to bear.
The horse tried to breathe, but a lung was already collapsed and her heart was failing. There wasn’t even time to make a sound. Her dark eyes grew heavy. The hay beneath her body was soaked with blood. She had no idea what was going on, why her body wasn’t working properly. The only comfort, Sqweegel thought, was that it wouldn’t be long now.
Sqweegel waited, then reached out and closed the horse’s eyelids. Even through the latex fingers of his glove he could feel the fading warmth of the animal. Soon, silence would overtake its exhausted body.
Four more to go.
Now it was time for Runner.
chapter 54
Dark stared at the image of Sqweegel, leaning over the sleeping body of his pregnant wife. Part of him knew it was just an image on an LCD screen. But the other part of his brain, the animal brain, was overwhelmed with the need to reach through the computer and seize the intruder and rip him apart, muscle by muscle, joint by joint, bone by bone.
All he could do was watch the soundless horrors unfold.
First he unzips the top of his head, revealing a strange patch of white with a yellow spot on it—making it look, strangely, like a fried egg. But then Sqweegel removes it, revealing it to be a small washcloth.
And now he’s pushing it onto Sibby’s face.
She snaps awake for a moment, arms flailing, but only for a moment. The chemical on the rag—most likely chloroform—is fast acting, and Sibby is unconscious in seconds.
She is all Sqweegel’s now.
Dark knew she hadn’t woken up and didn’t remember any of the attack, but he found himself begging her image on the screen to please wake up. Don’t let him do this to you. Please.
Sqweegel pulls back the summer-weight top sheet. Gently pushes on the backs of her knees to spread her legs. With one gloved hand, he inches his fingers underneath the waistline of her panties. He suddenly stops; then he hops on the bed.
Dark didn’t have words to describe quite what he did with his body then. He pulled something from within his suit.
The screen went blank again….
Dark screamed from the bottom of his soul as the white screen continued for several long, excruciating minutes. He was desperate to know what was happening in those moments, but he also couldn’t bear to imagine. Even though some parts of him could, in gross, vivid detail. Dark had studied the Sqweegel case file for three years before he’d quit Special Circs, and the freak’s perversity knew no bounds. Human bodies were playthings to him, nothing more, and he delighted in bending and prodding and ripping and biting every available part and orifice.