He gestured to Ellie, who by now was standing a half-step behind him, the only trace of her tears the puffiness around her eyes.
"Nice to meet you," she said to both men, shaking their hands in turn.
"If you'll pardon me..." Locke said, brushing between them to enter the house, leaving Carver face-to-face with Hawthorne.
"Would you mind if I borrowed Special Agent Carver for a moment, Dr. Archer?" Hawthorne asked.
Elliot looked at Carver, and then nodded. "Just make sure you return him like you found him."
Hawthorne forced a smile for her benefit.
"Shall we?" Hawthorne said, leading him down the walk to the sedan. Carver followed, and climbed into the passenger seat when Hawthorne opened the door for him. Hawthorne walked around to the driver's seat and joined him in the sweltering car.
"It's about time you told me--" Carver started, but Hawthorne silenced him with a sharp glare.
Hawthorne opened the glove compartment and removed a small black pyramid with a flattened peak. He set it on the dashboard and flipped the power switch on its base. It emitted the crackling sound of static and Carver felt his fillings vibrate.
"Now," Hawthorne said. "What have you learned?"
"We're dealing with at least two distinct serial killers if you factor in Schwartz."
"Surely you knew that much before your flight even left DIA. I'll ask you again, what have you learned?"
"That Schwartz's victims back in Colorado were infected by a retrovirus that selectively replaced certain portions of their chromosomes with animal genes. I suspect the victims here were as well."
Hawthorne's face revealed nothing. Either he already knew as much, which wouldn't have surprised Carver in the slightest as he was certain they must have bugged his cell, or, like Wolfe, he had expected the findings.
"What else?"
"Pictures of the first mummy were fed into facial reconstruction software, generating an image of a woman who could have been Dr. Archer's twin. The man who originally disinterred the bundle is a genetic engineer named Kajika Dodge, who just happened to be Schwartz's former employer. Apparently, Dodge also likes to play with animal genes."
"So what's the connection?"
"I don't know. Yet." Carver scrutinized Hawthorne's expression, only to learn this wasn't a man with whom he wanted to play poker. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing you need to know right now."
"Who do you work for? Who do I work for?"
"In good time," Hawthorne said. "For now, you need only understand that there is more transpiring around you than you can see, and even if you could, you have yet to learn enough to truly comprehend."
"If you know what's going on here, then why don't you just tell me? If you expect me to conduct this investigation, then I need to know everything you do. Why would you deliberately withhold potentially critical information?" Carver felt his face begin to flush. "See that house right there? A man is dead inside. Crumpled underneath a desk in a lake of his own blood. If you'd told me everything, then maybe he would still be alive."
Hawthorne's lips drew tight across his teeth and his posture grew rigid.
"I've been where you are now," Hawthorne said. "There's no other way."
"What do you know?"
"That you need to find the killer or many more will die."
"You know who it is, don't you?" Carver shook his head in denial, confusion. "Jesus. Why don't you just take him down yourself?"
"Because I can't find him!" Hawthorne snapped.
Carver sat stunned as Hawthorne collected himself, the red of anger draining from his face, the scars standing out like white lightning bolts across the landscape of hell.
"And you think I can," Carver said.
Hawthorne turned away and switched off the electronic scrambler, effectively ending the conversation.
Carver stared at Hawthorne for a moment before opening the door and climbing out. He slammed it behind him for good measure. As he headed back up the walk toward the house, he glanced back over his shoulder, but Hawthorne still hadn't opened his door. He couldn't fathom that Hawthorne knew the identity of the monster he was tracking and refused to share the information. Or was this some sort of game, a trick? He didn't know what to believe. His head ached and his eyes burned with frustration and exhaustion. He didn't know Hawthorne, let alone trust him. What was it Hawthorne had said, I've been where you are now? What in the world was that supposed to mean?
He needed to find out who Hawthorne really was, and he needed to do so in a hurry.
IV
Sinagua Ruins
36 Miles Northeast of Flagstaff, Arizona
By the time the medical examiner and the crowds converged on Mondragon's house, they were long gone, leaving the unenviable task of cleaning up and maintaining the crime scene to the Flagstaff PD. Minus one scalpel, of course. They couldn't afford for it to be misplaced or mismanaged, so they had hand-delivered it to the ART at the mass burial site to add to what was now an overwhelming catalog of evidence. The GPR had assisted in locating two more shallowly interred corpses, bringing the grand total to eleven. The forensics crew continued the search, now so far from the tents they were barely visible in the distance. Three more of the bundles had been exposed and opened, producing six more obsidian figurines in addition to the similarly desiccated corpses. All of the miniature statues were the same as those found with the first: a bat and a tapir.
"Any luck with identification?" Carver asked.
"Not yet," Manning said. She looked thoroughly worn out, the initial excitement of putting her skills to the test having long since worn off. Now she faced the daunting task of performing the same tedious tests on nine more bodies, a burden she carried in the bags under her eyes. "I was sure we would have found out who she was by now."
"I haven't had much better luck myself." He held out his phone and showed her the facial reconstruction image. "This hasn't turned up a match in the missing persons database either."
Manning looked from the screen to Ellie, who stood beside Carver, staring wistfully at the filthy bundle. The outer blankets had been unceremoniously cut away to expose the human form, which produced a side view of the folded body reminiscent of a stillborn in the womb.
"If that's the right picture, I think your computer guy needs a vacation."
"I wish that were the case."
Carver looked down into the hole from the lip of the excavation. They were in the third tent in the progression. The mummies from the previous two were already carefully packed and on their way to Phoenix for more formal lab work, where they would await positive identification so they could be released to any remaining family members. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be able to begin assimilating the RFLP DNA profiles and analyzing the chromosomes until tomorrow morning.
Hawthorne, Locke, and Wolfe had already left together, but would be waiting for them in Flagstaff when they were through here. Carver had so many questions for which Manning had been unable to supply answers, more than he even knew how to formulate. He supposed he was lingering in hopes of learning something new, something that would help this whole case start to make some kind of sense. But primarily, he needed some time away from Wolfe, who was beginning to feel more like his chaperone than the partner they had thrust upon him.
"Have you discovered anything else?" Carver asked. "Anything remotely useful?"
Manning shot him a fiery look that made him wish he had phrased his question differently.
"No," she said sharply, and went back to her work.
"Thanks," Carver said. "Would you mind calling me directly if something jumps out at you? Anything at all."
Manning didn't respond. She resumed her task of carefully scooping measured amounts of sand from the halo of dark earth surrounding the bundle into a series of test tubes.
"Okay then..." he said, turning to leave.
"Oh, and tell your friend if he wants those PCR test results, coffee and maybe some breakfast
would go a long way toward expediting the process."
"Which friend?"
"The one with the scars."
Carver froze. "What kind of test did you say?"
"PCR." She scoffed. "You guys really need to work on your communication. Polymerase Chain Reaction? You know, DNA testing? Maybe you can figure out why he thinks it's important to test a murder victim for viruses. Other than to waste my time, of course."
"When did he ask you to perform this test?"
"Earlier this morning. Not long after you left."
That was before Marshall had told him about the girls and their chromosomes.
"Thank you," Carver managed to mumble, grabbing Ellie by the hand and leading her out of the tent.
The wind had diminished to some degree with the coming of twilight, which had crept up on them while they had been in the tent. Behind them, the sun slithered into the sand, turning gold to crimson, sand to blood.
"What now?" Ellie asked, her voice rousing him from his thoughts. Until that moment, he hadn't realized he was still holding her hand. Despite how comfortable and familiar it felt, he released it and walked around to the rear of the canvas structure.
"I need to make a phone call, but after that we'll find you someplace to stay for the night. Someplace safe."
"You aren't going to leave me, are you?"
"Not for a second," he said, meeting her stare until guilt forced him to look away.
He found his personal cell phone and called Jack.
"Hello?" the familiar voice answered.
"Do you have anything for me yet?"
"And hello to you too, Paxton."
"Sorry, Jack. Time's running away from me here. What do you know?"
"I know my prostate's the size of a baseball and my spine's made of rusty hinges."
"Jack."
"Okay, okay. I understand," Jack said. There was an abrupt silence as though the connection had been terminated, and then the call resumed. Carver thought he heard the sounds of driving, the thrum of tires and the purring of an engine.
"I called your home number, didn't I?"
"I had it forwarded to my cell. Some of these inquiries I'm making on your behalf are the kind that need to be made in person."
"Nothing traceable?"
"Chalk it up to paranoia. You'd think we were CIA not FBI." Jack chuckled. "So do you want what I have or not?"
"I'm all ears."
"So I still haven't determined exactly who Hawthorne is affiliated with, but I'm close. I just need a little more time. I did, however, come into possession of some very interesting photos. Did that picture I sent you of my boat a while back come through on your phone?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I guess I know how to work this thing after all. I'll send you what I have now." Jack paused. The phone made a clattering sound and Carver heard a muffled curse. "There. Now, just to forewarn you, these aren't the kind of pictures you'll want to frame and hang on your wall."
"Hang on a sec," Carver said, pulling the phone from his ear to examine the images. The pictures were obviously taken at night with a flash, the subject whitened in contrast to the darkness of the surroundings. It took him a moment to realize the person was lying on dirt. It was a man, his hairline crusted with blood, a streak of it smeared over his right eye and temple. Vacuous eyes stared at Carver through the small screen, reddened by the flash. The man's beard was thick and wild, covering the entirety of his lower face to the cheekbones, rising to points beside his nostrils. Lips curled to a snarl, frozen by death, his gritted teeth were black with blood. The front right incisor was broken, the canines just a little too long and sharp, lending the impression of something less than human, feral. There was another picture from farther away, showing the whole body, though in less detail. Wolverine boots, the laces untied; filthy jeans crusted with dark fluid; a flannel shirt shredded by bullets. The man's chest was a mosaic of blood, chunks of bone, and ground meat. The third photograph was of a different man entirely, this one slightly younger, sprawled prone on black rocks. Only the side of his face was visible. He reminded Carver of the man who had arrived with Hawthorne, only the face he now studied was gaunt, the lines of the zygoma and mandible more pronounced. The lone visible eye stared blankly into space, the iris reflecting the flash with gold as a deer's might.
"What's wrong with his eye?" Ellie asked, leaning over his shoulder.
"Hell if I know," Carver said, bringing the phone back to his ear. "What am I looking at here, Jack?"
"The first two pictures are of Edgar Ross, the infamous cannibal. Those definitely aren't the photos you would have seen on the news or in the paper. The second is Charles Grady."
"Both serial killers brought down by Hawthorne," Carver said. "The second, Grady, looks a lot like the Special Agent Hawthorne had with him today. Locke. What do you know about him?"
"He worked the Grady case, but outside of that, not a whole lot."
"And this guy I've been partnered with, Wolfe?"
"I've seen his name in conjunction with several high-profile cases, but I've been out of the loop too long now. Give me more time and I'll get you the real story on all three."
"Thanks, Jack. You know how much I appreciate your help."
"Well, I hope those pictures are of some use. I tell you what, those things made me uncomfortable, and that's really saying something. Look at them. Those guys were real monsters, Paxton. Killed just over thirty people between them. You be careful, son. Okay?"
"You know me."
"And that's why it had to be said." Jack paused as though weighing his words. "Just keep your head down, all right?"
"I'll check in soon," Carver said, and ended the call.
He perused the pictures again, a cold fist squeezing his spine. A generator grumbled to life on the other side of the tent, giving life to high-wattage halogens in reflective boxes mounted on yellow tripods around the site, readying themselves to hold back the steady advance of night from the east.
The spectral howl of a coyote drifted across the fading desert.
Carver couldn't help but imagine the disembodied sound coming from the mouth of Edgar Ross.
V
Verde River Reservation
Arizona
Kajika Dodge sat on his front porch, feet up on the railing, watching the scarlet sun set between his dusty boots. He drained the last of the Coors from the brown bottle and set it on the chopping block. He exhaled slowly, the hissing soundtrack of the fiery orb sinking into the sand.
The story had broken on the evening news, but thankfully, there had been no mention of his name or involvement. He didn't need to draw more attention to himself than he already had. Even now, rumors of government agents showing up on his doorstep circulated on the wind. Though he had spent the better part of his life on this reservation, he was an outsider in their midst, the physical manifestation of everything they distrusted and feared. The money, the outside world, the unknown. He carried the stink of unfulfilled promises and blatant lies. Bad enough he had stayed after his father's passing, but worse, he had brought the enforcers of a blind and uncaring government onto their sacred land. They could never forgive him for either, despite his generous donations to the community, which were perceived to be akin to Judas adding silver coins to a collection plate.
Soon enough, his mother would die, and with her any obligation he might feel. Her Parkinson's had progressed to the point that she trembled all the time, her constant agitation growing worse with each passing day. There had been a time when implanting a Deep Brain Stimulator would have helped slow the course of the disease, but her suspicion and resentment of the Anglo doctors and their unsympathetic hospitals had superseded even her will to fight for her life. And now he could only watch her die.
He tried the bottle again, but only dropped a gob of bitter foam onto his tongue.
His thoughts turned to Tobin. What exactly had happened in such a short time? A quick search of the internet had yielded more informati
on on his old friend than he could stomach. Four little girls slaughtered. Innocent children abducted and confined for days on end, abused, bled to death, and then butchered. The mental image made him physically ill. That wasn't the Tobin he knew, if he had ever really known him at all. Tobin had gone after the younger girls for sure, but they had all been of legal age at the time. Of course, with the World Wide Web, a man could live an entirely separate life, indulging his depravities and sinking deeper and deeper into a mire of perversion he might not otherwise have encountered. The 'net was a digital Sodom and Gomorrah where the most unnatural fantasies could be stoked to a roaring blaze in dark corners that even the omniscient eye of God could never penetrate.
No, that wasn't the Tobin Schwartz he had known.
And the man who had killed Tobin had been standing on this very porch scant hours ago, asking questions about long-buried bodies found by the friend of a serial killer. Kajika didn't believe in coincidence. That's what troubled him the most.
He had dealt with the Feds before. Issues raised by Greenpeace here and there regarding the business practices and ethics of bioengineering livestock, as an expert source for various genetic queries, but never as a person of interest. He was an amoeba on a microscope slide. Not just under the FBI's eye, but others as well.
Headlights bounced down the dirt road, the one on the right blinking with the ruts. Rising before they even stopped in front of his house as he knew they would, he ducked back inside and returned with the rest of the cold six-pack. The men climbed out of the primer-gray truck, the wheel wells rusted into intricate lattices, and waited at the edge of his property in traditional Navajo custom, indistinguishable shadows from this distance.
"Well," Kajika called. "Come on up. Let's get this over with."
Three men made their way up to the porch, stepping into the light cast through the blinds from the living room window. They each wore cowboy hats. Two removed them as a sign of respect. He recognized each immediately.
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