by Kay Hooper
“But we’ve agreed this body wasn’t meant to be found.”
DeMarco nodded. “So … he wouldn’t expect to see us here. Any of us. Anyone, for that matter. He had every reason to expect no one would be at this location.”
“Which means neither of us was a target?”
“Not a target he would have expected or planned for. A target of opportunity maybe. We were here, one or both of us are on his hit list, so he took his shot. But if he didn’t expect anyone to find this victim, what’s he doing on the other side of the valley with a high-powered rifle? And why was it more important to him to shoot at one or both of us, giving away his presence, rather than simply waiting and watching in order to gather intel?”
Hollis wasn’t sure what she would have replied to that, so it was a good thing that Quentin and Diana arrived then. Both had guns drawn and were visibly alert and wary.
“We heard the shots,” Quentin said.
DeMarco explained, with a minimum of words, what had happened.
Hollis silently poked one finger through the bullet hole in her jacket.
Characteristically, Quentin’s comment to her was somewhat flippant. “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
“Apparently not.”
Diana was scanning the mountain slopes ringing the valley. “Jesus, it’s a wilderness. Whoever fired those shots could be anywhere. Even if we knew exactly where he was, it’d take us forever to get to that spot.” She paused, then added, “And aren’t we awfully exposed standing here?”
“The shooter’s done for now,” DeMarco said, holstering his weapon.
Diana eyed him. “You read his mind across a valley?”
“No. But he’s done. For now.”
Noting that Quentin was also holstering his gun, Diana followed suit. I’m learning to trust all of them. Or maybe I just trust Quentin. It wasn’t an easy thing for her, trust. It still caught her by surprise when she became aware of feeling it.
Pushing that aside, Diana forced herself to look down once again at the remains of the second victim. Poor thing. What happened to you? Who did this to you?
Unlike Hollis, Diana tended not to see the recently dead. The spirits she saw—most of them what she called guides—were usually messengers of a sort, connecting with her so she could pass on information, so they could show her something she needed to see or in some other way help an uneasy spirit find rest and peace in whatever lay beyond this life.
So she wasn’t worried about being confronted by the spirit of this poor woman. And she was glad about that.
The physical remains were bad enough. Horrible. Her stomach lurched a bit, but the queasy sensation remained a low-grade awareness that she could, if not suppress, at least cope with. For the moment. That, she supposed, was professional progress of a sort. At least she hadn’t disgraced herself by losing her lunch.
Attempting to keep up the professional façade as long as possible, she returned her attention to Hollis and said, “So the shooter was aiming at you? Why were you a target?”
“Beats the hell out of me. But Reese says it could have been either of us.”
“Okay. Why would either of you be a target? I mean, did this guy shoot at two SCU agents specifically? Or one of you specifically?”
“Could be either,” Quentin said. “We’ve made enemies over the years, individually and as a unit. We do try, and mostly succeed, to keep our pictures out of the news, so if you two were recognized as SCU agents I’d be surprised. None of us is wearing an FBI jacket, so that isn’t obvious. We are carrying weapons, though—handguns, and they mark us as likely cops.”
“Yeah,” Hollis said, “but right before you guys got here, we’d pretty much established that the shooter probably wasn’t expecting anybody to be here, because he wouldn’t have expected this victim to be found.”
“You’re assuming the shooter was the murderer,” Diana said.
“I don’t want to assume anything else,” Hollis confessed. “Because we really don’t need some random maniac with a high-powered rifle running around in this mountain wilderness shooting at us while we’re trying to investigate—” She broke off, frowning.
“A less random maniac?” DeMarco murmured.
“You know what I mean. One killer in an area this remote I can just about buy. But not two of them.”
“Unless it’s a tag team,” Quentin offered. “I still say it’s unlikely, but the possibility has to be considered.”
“It’s a possibility I’d rather not think about,” Hollis told him. “Besides, from all I’ve read and heard, that would be seriously unlikely.”
“True. So, what would the killer gain by shooting?”
Diana said, “Maybe he wanted us to know he’s been watching.”
Hollis frowned at her. “But he couldn’t have known we’d be here, that’s the point.”
“Not only here,” Diana told her. She realized she was being stared at and raised her eyebrows at DeMarco. “You think he is—or was—somewhere across the valley, right? And higher up than we are now?”
“Probably. I’m guessing at the trajectory of the shots, but it seems more likely than not.”
“Well, then.”
Quentin shook his head. “Sorry, Diana, but whatever’s so obvious to you, the rest of us seem to be missing.”
“Don’t you guys know where we are?”
“In relation to what? Other than being on the side of one of these mountains, I don’t really—” Quentin frowned suddenly.
Diana was nodding. “If he was across the valley and higher up, then he had a bird’s-eye view of the dump site where the other victim was discovered. We’re not that far away, and the other site faces south, just like this one does. With the shooter across the valley, facing north, he could easily cover both sites. He’s probably been watching all day.”
New York City
FBI Director Micah Hughes stared rather sourly at a famous painting of nymphs frolicking, barely conscious of other visitors to the museum wandering in and out of this room. He was more aware of the uniformed guard who strolled through in seemingly casual but exquisitely precise intervals of eight and a half minutes and even more aware of strategically placed cameras.
The museum knew all the tricks required to guard its treasures.
“Relax, Micah. Anyone would think you were planning to rob the place.”
Hughes didn’t relax. He also didn’t turn his head, and he kept his voice low. “You usually pick less-public meeting spots. And I don’t like the idea of turning up on a security tape talking to you. No offense.”
“None taken. You don’t have to worry about any type of recording. That part of the system is undergoing routine maintenance for the next half hour.”
“And I’m supposed to… trust that information is accurate?” He’d nearly said “take your word for it,” but had managed to stop himself just in time.
“I would, if I were you.” The very distinctive voice was pleasant.
But when Hughes stole a quick glance at his companion, he noted that the half smile on that handsome face was more dangerous than it was reassuring and that those regular features gave nothing else away. The man was tall, slender but broad-shouldered and athletic, and could have been any age between fifty and sixty-five. Whatever his age, his vitality was obvious, and there clung to him an ineffable air of power.
One of the movers and shakers of the world, Hughes knew. He also knew that few people would have recognized the man’s name, and fewer still his face. He had been very successful at keeping a low public profile for a very long time.
Hughes concentrated on what he needed to say. “Look, I’ve done everything you asked of me.”
“Yes, you have. Thank you.”
“And I’ve done everything you asked of me because I believed it was in the best interests of the Bureau and this country to rein in Noah Bishop and his unit of mavericks and misfits.” It was a clear and concise statement, and Hughes was proud of
it. He’d been practicing it in his head for weeks.
He had not acted out of malice. He had not acted out of jealousy or resentment. He had not acted out of greed. And he most certainly had not acted out of fear. That was what he wanted to make absolutely clear to the other man.
“Nothing has changed, Micah. Bishop is still a danger. His unit is still a danger.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Not anymore.”
“Why? Because they managed to stop Samuel, killing him in the process?”
“They didn’t kill him.”
“Someone else may have held the knife, but they most certainly destroyed him. And you know it.”
“I don’t know what happened in the Compound, and neither do you. I have Bishop’s report, backed up by his team and by the local chief of police, that Samuel was stabbed to death by one of his followers.* No other witness has stepped forward to dispute what happened. I also have boxes of evidence that Samuel was responsible for more murders than I want to think about, including that of the daughter of a United States senator.”
“Micah—”
“Whatever you want to say about it, however you choose to view it, Bishop and his team stopped a serial killer. One of many they’ve stopped. That is beyond dispute.”
The other man was silent for a moment, then said, “So he’s finally won you over, I see.”
Hughes paused as the guard strolled through the room several feet away from the two men, then said evenly, “I don’t like Bishop. I believe he’s arrogant and ruthless, that he has a tendency to play by his own rules rather than the rule of law, and I profoundly distrust these… paranormal abilities claimed by him and by his agents.”
“But he’s successful. And that’s enough for you.”
“He gets results. Positive results. He catches, cages, or otherwise destroys killers who are, without any doubt, a menace to public safety. He does it without fanfare, keeping himself and his people out of the media as much as possible, and he does it without making the Bureau look bad, to the public or to other law enforcement agencies. If anything, the work of his unit has improved the image of the FBI in recent years. And we needed it.”
“I see,” the other man repeated. “You’ve taken the time to read all the files in more detail.”
Hughes could feel himself beginning to sweat. “I didn’t want to let my dislike color my judgment. So, yes, I’ve gone back over the entire history of the SCU. Studied Bishop’s record and those of the agents in his unit.”
“You were impressed.”
“They’re an impressive group of people. Mavericks, yes. Misfits, certainly. Most if not all of them have seriously traumatic events in their pasts that should, at the very least, have rendered them unsuitable and even unfit for law-enforcement work.”
“That alone should tell you—”
“All passed the standard Bureau psychological evaluation and have passed all follow-up evaluations. Whatever happened to them, they’ve coped extraordinarily well with the trauma. In addition to that, Bishop has set as a requirement for his team regular physical evaluations, from medical to strength and endurance. Those people are tested at every level, far beyond Bureau standards or requirements. As a group they’re some of the most healthy and fit agents in the Bureau.” Hughes hesitated, then added, “They’re even assessed by a group of researchers I had no idea worked within the Bureau. Paranormal researchers.”
The other man let out a short, derisive laugh.
Hughes refused to allow himself to sound defensive when he said, “I’m told that particular group has been a part of the Bureau since the middle of the last century, during the Cold War, when it seems every major power was conducting legitimate research into the paranormal.”
“Governments fund crackpot research all the time, Micah, and we both know it. But ours didn’t get far with its remote-viewing experiments, did it?”
Hughes was more than a little surprised at that, though wondered why he was. In a know-your-enemies sense, his companion had quite probably looked into the history of paranormal research. He was, after all, a careful, thorough man.
“The remote-viewing experiments were less than successful,” Hughes admitted. “But other experiments have shown more promise. And I’m told that Bishop’s unit has produced a staggering amount of raw data from the field as well as in the lab, enough to keep the researchers busy for decades.”
“My tax dollars at work.”
Hughes ignored the scorn. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it and, as I said, I profoundly mistrust the very concept of psychic abilities, much less psychic abilities used as investigative tools. But Bishop has indisputably made it work; his success rate is in the ninetieth percentile. And his unit functions as a team better than any other unit in the Bureau.”
“Which is enough for you.”
“I’m the Director of the FBI. The successes and failures of my agents reflect well—or badly—on my judgment. And in my judgment, the Special Crimes Unit must be considered an unqualified success.”
“Micah—”
“All these months, and I’ve got nothing—absolutely nothing—I can use even to reprimand Bishop, let alone bust him.”
The other man took a step so that he faced Hughes more squarely and said, “You’re taking heat, aren’t you? You’ve been warned to back off.”
Shit.
“Senator LeMott.” It clearly was not a guess.
“I told you he was a powerful man. But it isn’t only him. From all I can gather, Bishop made a deliberate effort even before he formed his unit to cultivate the sort of connections he could call on for support. People inside and outside the Bureau, in the government and in the private sector. Very important, very influential people. And they appear to support him without reservation.”
After a pause, the other man said, “I could ruin you, Micah.”
Hughes refused to flinch or look away. “Yes, you could. But it wouldn’t change anything, not for you. Because I can virtually guarantee you that any successor of mine would also support Bishop and the SCU. Unless and until he does something unacceptable to the FBI, he will not be interfered with. Not by us.”
For a long, long moment, Hughes wasn’t sure what would break the stalemate. And then, completely expressionless, the other man turned and walked away.
Hughes watched him go. Watched the guard stroll through the room, casual and anything but. Then he turned in a different direction and made his way out of the museum, keeping his expression neutral, slightly preoccupied. When he was outside, he walked half a block to where his car and driver waited and got in.
Only then did he relax. Just a bit. The driver, without asking, started the car and pulled out of the space.
Hughes drew in a breath and let it out slowly, wondering, not for the first time, if he had chosen the wrong line of work. He reached for his cell phone and punched in a number from memory. It was answered on the first ring.
“Bishop.”
“We need to talk,” Micah Hughes said. “Now.”
* Blood Sins
Three
Serenade, Tennessee
DOGS,” SHERIFF DUNCAN OFFERED. “Not ‘til tomorrow, of course, but at first light. With people getting lost in these mountains as often as they do, we have nearly a dozen canine search-and-rescue teams in the area, and they have a very high success rate. They can track just about anything or anyone. The SOB must have left a trail from those bodies to wherever he was perched out there today. And since the rain’s holding off, dogs should be able to pick up on it.”
Chief Deputy Scanlon added, “Three of the teams have handlers trained by law enforcement and they’re licensed to carry, so they wouldn’t be going out there unarmed.”
“He won’t be hanging around,” Quentin pointed out, “so what would be the use? I’m betting he policed the area and gathered up his spent shells, as well as any other evidence that showed he was there. This guy is a pro, and a pro isn’t going to leave evidence for u
s to find.”
“Defeatist.” Shaking his head, DeMarco added, “Not that I don’t agree with you. Waste of manpower. He’s long gone, at least from that spot.”
Quentin nodded. “I’m also betting that if we wanted to waste manpower and go looking, we’d find an old deer blind or something of the sort, a place he could have spent the day in relative comfort.”
Probably almost as comfortable as they were now, Quentin reflected. Because they weren’t all that comfortable. The “conference room” of the Pageant County Sheriff’s Department was barely large enough to house a table that just about seated the six of them—if you didn’t mind keeping your elbows tucked in and could bear office chairs so old that with the slightest movement of their occupants they shrieked instead of creaked.
Scanlon leaned against the doorjamb; the room couldn’t fit another deputy.
There was one small and lonely window, its dusty blinds closing out the night that had come with the suddenness typical for springtime in the mountains. There were two tall filing cabinets crammed into one corner. Two shorter ones near the door provided a reasonably clear surface for a chuckling coffeemaker, a motley collection of mugs—most imprinted with high school or college team emblems or rude or arguably witty slogans—and the disposable conveniences of paper sugar packets, powdered “creamer,” and plastic stirrers.
Not that anyone at the table had moved toward coffee that would likely, Quentin thought, taste like something drained off an engine.
Shoved up against the walls in another corner was an old slate-topped desk, which took up way too much space and was used, apparently, only to provide a surface for an ancient printer, a tall and leaning stack of yellowed file folders, two disconnected keyboards, and a shiny new multiline office phone.
The phone wasn’t plugged in.
Quentin was sure he had worked in more depressing rooms, but he could not at the moment call any of them to mind.
Sheriff Duncan had already apologized for the deficiencies of the old building and this cramped room, even suggesting that they could probably commandeer the dining room of the bed-and-breakfast he had recommended for the duration of their stay.