“Then I’ll finally get what I’ve wanted for fifteen years,” Anthony said. “A shot at justice.”
“Yeah, like a nine millimeter shot,” Mike said.
Both Mike and Lisa knew what kept Anthony awake some nights: a lucid vision of the shadowy figure racing away from the lake. A dream of chasing down the killer. A fantasy of putting a pistol to his head and squeezing the trigger . . .
Lisa touched his arm. “One step at a time, guys. First, we’ve got to figure out who we’re dealing with, and I think this may be the key to it.”
She removed the Bible from her purse and slid it across the table toward Mike.
Mike picked it up. “I was raised Catholic, but I haven’t been to church or read a Bible in ages.” He opened the book, paused on the first page. “Who’s Kelley Marrow? Sounds like someone I used to date.”
“Seriously?” Lisa asked.
“Nah, not really.” Mike flipped through the book. “Someone got happy with the highlighters, huh? They used all the colors of the rainbow in here.”
“We think the highlighted scriptures are clues,” Anthony said. “A message Bob is trying to tell us.”
“A message about what?” Mike said.
“Where we can find this evidence he’s gathered against the organization, I think,” Anthony said. “It could be a shot in the dark, but that’s what we’re assuming, anyway.”
“Could be.” Mike returned to the front page and tapped it with his finger. “But this name’s gotta be in here for a reason, bro.”
“It might only be the name of whoever owned the Bible,” Anthony said.
“Sometimes people plant big clues right out in the open,” Mike said. “Haven’t you seen that in the movies? A big fat clue will be so obvious that people ignore it, ‘cause they figure something so simple can’t mean anything.”
“Kelley Marrow sounds like a fairly ordinary name,” Lisa said.
“I’ll run it through Google, see what pops up.” Pushing away from the table, Mike grabbed a note pad and jotted down the name. “This Kelley chick might be someone we need to have a chat with.”
“Listen, I appreciate your offer, but we didn’t come by to ask you to get involved,” Anthony said. “We only wanted somewhere to lie low for a little while.”
“Don’t insult me, AT,” Mike said. “I’m involved, all right?”
Anthony glanced at Lisa. She shrugged.
“The more the merrier,” she said.
“And you guys can stay here as long as you want,” Mike said. “I’m gonna hop on my PC for a while. You can join me, or catch some shut-eye in the guest room, or hang out here and watch movies.”
Lisa stretched her arms above her, yawned. “I’m so tired I want to cry, but I’m going to start reviewing these marked-up scriptures.”
“I’ll stay out here with you,” Anthony said. “You got a piece, Mike?”
“ ‘Course I do. Who’re you talking to, dude?”
“Keep one on you,” Anthony said. “I don’t think anyone followed us here, but . . .”
“Be prepared.” Mike nodded grimly.
25
The online background report ran close to twenty-five pages. It confirmed what Cutty had already learned about Thorne—address, date of birth, vehicles registered to him, marital status, home phone number—but it also gave him much, much more.
Thorne’s Social Security number. His mailing addresses for the past twenty years. The duration of his military service, pay grades he’d achieved, and where he had been stationed throughout his enlistment. The income he had reported to the IRS over the past seven years and the taxes he had paid. The purchase price of his home, and an assessment of its current value. His credit report and cumulative score from the three reporting bureaus. His estimated net worth.
Also included were details from his marriage certificate three years ago, which contained the name and birth date of his comely bride, the former Lisa Boyd, and their parents’ names, too. The firearms license for which he had been approved, not the least of which were a concealed weapons permit and details of the prodigious number of weapons he had registered.
“This guy is planning to wage war, Valdez,” Cutty said. He put his thick finger on the MDT display. “He’s got fifteen—yes, fifteen—firearms on file. Is he not intending to be a soldier in Satan’s army?”
“Si,” Valdez said. She drove aimlessly around the dark city, as he had yet to give her a destination.
“I wonder where he stores all of this weaponry. I should have searched the rest of the house.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Go back?”
“No. It’s irrelevant. Remember the word—no weapon formed against you shall prosper. With God on our side, it doesn’t matter if Thorne has a thousand guns in his arsenal.”
The report listed every account Thorne held: banking, investments, credit cards, utilities, Internet access, cellular phone providers, insurance. It included account numbers for each respective entry, and passwords, too, when applicable.
Cutty could have taken the information, and, for all practical purposes, become Thorne. In an information-based society, every person could be reduced to a digital dossier, with data
vulnerable to tampering by those who possessed the requisite keys.
Underneath the account list, there was a menu of commands that allowed the user to monitor or freeze a target’s financial assets.
He selected the MONITOR option.
From that moment forward, if Thorne withdrew money from an ATM, or made a purchase with his debit or credit cards, Genesis would record the time, location, and amount of the transaction. It had proven a successful method to trap a mark about ninety-eight percent of the time, and worked because targets had no clue their spending patterns were being observed.
But always, someone was watching, someone was recording.
If Thorne somehow managed to slip their virtual net, however, Cutty would execute a freeze. An account freeze was a riskier tactic, because the mark would quickly realize something was amiss and go on alert. But without funds, no one could run for long.
The last section of the report offered information on Thorne’s known associates, a basic table containing names and addresses of about a dozen family, friends, and business colleagues. In the event that other, more precise tracking methods failed, Cutty could turn to the associates index, and start digging.
His cell phone vibrated. The incoming number belonged to division headquarters. Probably the dispatcher calling.
“Cutty speaking.”
A gravelly voice rumbled: “This is the Director.”
Cutty straightened so fast in the seat that the keyboard flipped out of his lap.
Valdez glanced away from the road. “Is okay?”
Cutty covered the handset. “It’s the Director.”
Her lips formed a startled “o,” and she dropped her speed, as if concerned the Director would remotely take note of her speedy driving and rebuke her—which wasn’t all that far-fetched, as all fleet vehicles were linked to a central computer.
Cutty cleared his throat. “Uh, how are you, sir?”
“If I’m calling you at this hour, obviously I am not well,” the Director said. “You lost your primary target.”
He should have known they would find out about the Judas. They knew everything. The Director, in particular, had a reputation as a man who rarely slept, who constantly scanned Genesis in search of updates on the dozens of division missions in progress throughout the world at any given time. A whippet of a man in his late-sixties, with close-cropped steel-gray hair, hawk-like eyes, and a pointed chin, he’d once been a legendary Army master sniper, and had in fact recruited Cutty into the organization, trained him, and drawn him up through the ranks.
Their teacher-student relationship hadn’t afforded Cutty any special privileges. The Director actually seemed to drive him harder than he did the other servants, was quick with a lacerating rebuke, and downright parsimonious with
his praise.
He often reminded Cutty of Father.
“I did indeed lose the target, sir, and I apologize for not yet sharing that information with my dispatcher,” Cutty said. “I’ve been engaged with a secondary target that I have reason to believe is significant.”
“The primary target is off the grid. We’ve lost it, due in part to your botched efforts at containment.”
Cutty pulled in a tight breath, silently suffered the tongue-lashing.
“But that target is no longer relevant,” the Director said. “You are correct. Your secondary target is indeed more significant.”
Cutty released a pent-up breath. “Praise God.”
“Mr. Anthony Thorne poses an urgent threat,” the Director said. A target’s name was rarely invoked, certainly not during phone calls, though they communicated over encrypted lines. The Director’s break with protocol suggested the gravity of the situation.
“I’ve been studying a background report on Thorne,” Cutty said. “He’s a Marine.”
“I know that,” the Director said. “That’s not why he’s a threat.”
“It isn’t?”
“The Prophet himself summoned me to speak of Thorne. He awakened from a most disturbing dream of the man, this very night. What do you say of that?”
Cutty couldn’t say anything. The Prophet had dreamt of Thorne? In Cutty’s eight years of service in the division, the Blessed One had never expressed a personal interest in one of his missions.
“Your silence speaks volumes,” the Director said.
Cutty swallowed. “What message did the Prophet receive in his dream?”
“That’s not for you to know. Suffice to say, it was most troubling.”
Although the Director declined to supply more information, Cutty’s vivid imagination offered only one possible answer: assassination. The Judas was more than a mere betrayer, and Thorne was much more than an intriguing accomplice. The two men, and whatever other co-conspirators they had engaged, were scheming to murder The Prophet.
It was such an unthinkable idea that he dared not speak it aloud.
“Eliminate Thorne, his wife, and anyone who stands in your path,” the Director said. “This must be done most expeditiously. The Prophet is eagerly awaiting a report of the successful completion of your mission.”
Cutty was trembling. To be charged with a mission in which the Prophet had a deeply-vested interest . . . this was the opportunity of a career.
“It will be done,” Cutty said.
“The one who performs this divine service will be blessed beyond measure,” the Director said. “Those were The Prophet’s words. Consider the blessings in store for you, the desires of your heart, and they will be granted.”
Cutty looked at Valdez, and his pulse quickened. The desires of his heart, indeed.
“I’ll expect your report of completion by oh-nine hundred hours—today,” the Director said, and terminated the connection.
“What did Director say?” Valdez asked.
“The Prophet—yes, the Prophet himself—is demanding that we eliminate Thorne and his wife,” Cutty said. He read his watch. “And we’ve got less than eight hours to do it.”
26
Anthony and Lisa had begun to work through the highlighted passages in the Bible. He had brought his laptop inside to the kitchen table, and as she read each citation aloud, he typed it into a text document, also noting the color in which each verse had been highlighted.
Lisa’s theory was that once they’d transcribed all of the scriptures, they could review them as a whole and search for patterns, perhaps in the color coding or the order in which they’d been marked, and maybe a coherent narrative of some kind would emerge. He tended to agree with her idea. In light of what they knew thus far, it was the only theory that made any sense.
In the past half-hour, they had transcribed about a dozen passages from the books of Genesis through Deuteronomy. Such as:
Genesis 1:1-2, in green: In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
Genesis 34:1-2, in yellow: And Dinah the daughter of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob, went out to see the daughters of the land. And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite, prince of the country, saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her.
Exodus 23:20, in blue: Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.
Numbers 20:11, in lavender: And Moses lifted up his hand, and with his rod he smote the rock twice: and the water came out abundantly, and the congregation drank, and their beasts also.
Deuteronomy 32:35, in orange: To me belongeth vengeance and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.
And on it went. They had over a hundred more left to review. It would take hours to cover them—and he could only guess how much longer it would take them to decode the overall meaning.
“Good Lord,” Lisa said. She set down the book and rubbed her eyes, which had begun to show faint red veins. “And when I was a kid, I thought Sunday school was brain-numbing.”
“Let’s take a break.” He pushed away from the table. “Want more coffee?”
“No, thanks. I already have the caffeine shakes. Look.”
She held up her hand, palm facing parallel to the table. It trembled slightly.
He refreshed his own cup. “Well, so much for grabbing some shut-eye anytime soon.”
She laughed bitterly and picked up the Bible again, riffled through the pages.
“I’m really not feeling Bob right now,” she said. “Why couldn’t he send you an e-mail with everything you need to know? He could’ve set up a free account for you under a fake name and no one would have been the wiser.”
“He said they monitor the Internet, though.”
“Right. Never mind me, I’m not thinking straight.”
“We’ll get through this.” He sat beside her, glanced at his watch. It wasn’t yet two am, but he felt as though he’d been awake for two days straight. He sipped his coffee.
She yawned into her hand. “Question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you think of all this focus on the Good Book?”
“Meaning?”
“Do the scriptures inspire any ideas, any reflection? Or would it make no difference if we were copying passages from The Cat in the Hat?”
“I love Dr. Seuss. All his stories rhyme.”
She gave him her please-be-serious look: eyes narrowed, lips curled.
“Okay, honestly, I haven’t thought much about it,” he said. “At the moment, it’s just work to me. I hope it leads us to answers about my dad’s murder. That’s all I care about right now.”
“Revenge,” she said.
“Justice.”
“ ‘To me belongeth vengeance.’ We read that verse in Deuteronomy.”
“A book that was written what, thousands of years ago? It’s not relevant to my situation, my life.”
“Do you think any part of the Bible is relevant to your life?”
“Ah, I know where this is going. Yes, I never go to church with you, I don’t read the Bible, I don’t pray, and all that bothers you. But it’s not my thing, Lisa.”
“Not until you’re in your hour of need.”
“I was in my hour of need fifteen years ago, and God was nowhere to be found.”
“You can’t blame God for that, Tony,” she said softly.
“So if I can’t blame God for what happened, why should I depend on God to give me justice? Face it, God doesn’t give a damn, Lisa—certainly not about me and my family.” He pointed at the Bible, finger shaking. “That book? It’s full of fanciful stories and wishful thinking.”
“A lot of people would disagree with you on that, includi
ng me.”
“To each his own. Until someone’s walked in my shoes they have no right to tell me how I should think or feel. I saw my dad murdered . . . he bled to death in my arms. Am I supposed to take comfort from some old book written by dead men? Is that going to make it all better, make me put on a happy face?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice so hushed she was nearly inaudible. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Tears had welled up in his eyes. He wiped them away, almost angrily, but that didn’t stop the flow. A thick sob was building at the base of his throat, waiting to explode out of him.
He excused himself to the bathroom. At the sink, he washed his face with cold water. He bowed his head and pulled in several deep, quavering breaths.
Don’t cry, man.
Gripping the edge of the porcelain vanity with white-knuckled fingers, he stared at himself in the oval-shaped mirror. His eyes were red, glassy. He told himself no murderer had even been brought to justice by a victim’s tears. That Mom, Danielle, and even he had cried often in the days and weeks after the murder—and those collective rivers of tears had changed nothing.
Self-control. Iron will. Guns. Power. Those were the tools that would deliver real justice. Not some old book. Not God. Not tears.
Toughen up, Marine.
The wave of grief receded. He snatched a tissue out of a box, blotted his eyes again, and left the bathroom.
Mike met him in the hallway. “Hey, AT. Everything okay?”
“Fine as can be,” Anthony said, and went back to the kitchen.
Lisa looked up from the Bible, eyes redder than before, and probably not solely from fatigue. She offered a conciliatory smile.
“It’s cool,” he said. “Let’s move on.”
His cell phone rang.
27
He read the Caller ID display. “The number’s blocked.”
“Don’t answer it,” Lisa said.
“If it’s them, maybe I can find out something that’ll help us,” Anthony said.
“Go for it, dude,” Mike said. Reluctantly, Lisa nodded.
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