“About one hour had elapsed from Danforth’s entrance to this exit,” Lynn explained. “This is where it gets funky.”
Nick nodded, but left his gaze on the screen.
“It’s DelaHoya,” Luis whispered into his mike.
The blurred figure stopped, and regarded the retreating Luis.
“Shit!” It was Davey’s panicked voice.
“What?”
“Now DelaHoya’s a blur on the damn monitor.”
“Time for an electronic overhaul.”
The blurred image pointed to Luis.
Nick leaped out of his chair. “Freeze it!”
Lynn reversed the digital images to the freeze frame Nick requested.
“Can you zoom in tighter?” he asked.
“Sure.” She adjusted the digital zoom on the remote until Nick stopped her.
He pointed at the resulting image. “There.”
Her mouth fell open. The zoom had partially removed the frosted cloaking, revealing a indistinct image of a stooped figure whose face and other features were concealed in the bulky folds of a cowled robe.
“That’s what he looks like?” Lynn was breathless.
“The robe conceals him as much as the cloaking. This isn’t much to go on,” Nick replied. “What I’d like to know is how he made the others see DelaHoya?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
He stiffened. We? Why would the DEA be so anxious to chase down an assassin? They had enough fish to fry with all the drugs in the world.
A shiver erupted along his spine. Nick had a sneaking suspicion that Lynn hadn’t informed Rance of her entire reason for wanting Nick’s cooperation, and knowing Lynn’s inexorable passion for commendations, and the way she had clandestinely snatched him from the mall, that could add up to only one thing.
He was in serious trouble.
Chapter 17
His senses vigilant, the Creeper stepped across the threshold of Nick’s apartment, leaving the stormy twilight behind. As he walked through the modest vestibule into the living room, he stopped cold in his tracks. A curious light force emanated from the open bedroom door, and immediately stripped away his bald man aura. He retreated a few steps, and surveyed his appearance. He was now a tall, stooped figure in a brown, loose-fitting robe and cowl.
The assassin chanted in an ancient tongue, his hands folded prayer-like against his chest, and once again started toward the now pulsating glow. A terrible wind emanated from him, howling as it coiled into a tornadic snake in front of the bedroom entryway. The energy field’s glow strengthened into a strobing, white-hot mass, and easily repelled the assassin’s magical cyclone. With the speed and finality of a raging thunderstorm, the protective field discharged a ragged energy bolt into the cyclone. The mini-tornado crackled and sizzled like a bug caught in a backyard zapper, and then vanished with a harmless puff.
Silence.
The potent energy field in the bedroom receded to its subdued, standby glow.
A fierce growl rattled the Creeper’s throat. His spell hadn’t been powerful enough to dispel the magic shielding Bellamy’s bedroom. It was unfathomable! Who possessed greater powers than he did? No one that he was aware of. He was the most powerful mage on earth. His psychic energy would have detected such a magician by now.
He stared at the glow. But, he thought angrily, seeing was believing. There was someone out there with the power to defeat his magic, and gradually a name slipped into his mind. Gabriella. He had known her as a child, but her powers were weak back then. Her magical prowess had apparently grown exponentially over the years.
A bear-like bellow erupted from his massive, scaly throat. The pictures vibrated on the walls, then crashed to the floor in an explosion of glass. Light bulbs fractured in their sockets and sailed outward, shredding lampshades and glass globes. The television imploded in a shower of gold and blue sparks; the refrigerator door burst open, and the bottles, cans, egg carton, dishes and bowls danced along the trembling wire shelves until they spilled off the precipice, and clattered onto the porcelain tile floor.
The bedroom glow intensified slightly, and the Creeper swiftly retreated a step to the middle of the room.
Like Bellamy’s apparent kidnapping, this was another unexplainable and unsettling development. He had come here for answers, not more goddammed questions! This was totally unacceptable.
Lost in thought, the Creeper was caught off-guard by quickly approaching footfalls behind him. He pivoted, and glared at a distinguished, sixtyish, silver-haired man with his smoldering yellow eyes. The intruder wore a brown leather, knee-length coat over a turtleneck sweater and light gray slacks. But it was the Remington shotgun in the man’s hands that attracted most of the Creeper’s attention.
The gunman stopped a few steps away, and leered at the big man in the monk’s robe. “I’m the manager of these apartments, mister. Just what the hell’s goin’ on in here?” he demanded. “The police are on their way, so just stay cool. I don’t want to use this if I don’t have to.”
The Creeper lowered his head to conceal a malevolent grin. Instead of a disaster, the manager’s presence was an opportunity to salvage his quest. He raised a finger on his human hand to his shadowed face. “Shhhh,” he warned. “There’s a prowler in the bedroom. I was walking by, saw the apartment door open, and came in to make sure everything was all right. I saw someone lying on the bedroom floor, and he looked dead to me. There’s another guy inside who’s making so much noise that he hasn’t heard us yet. I didn’t see a gun.”
The manger frowned. “What’s this about a corpse?” he whispered.
“The lamp on the computer desk was broken on the floor beside the body. I think the intruder whacked the guy over the head with it.”
“What should we do? Wait for the police?” the manager asked nervously.
The Creeper shook his cowl slowly back and forth. “If we wait here for the cops, the killer could come rushing out here any second and get the drop on us. We might get hurt.” He paused for effect. “Or I’m afraid, even killed.”
The manger lowered his gun, and surveyed the trashed apartment. His hand was shaking. “He did this?”
“Yeah. Now are you with me or not?”
“You want to rush in . . . there . . . and surprise him?”
“That’s the idea,” the Creeper growled. He picked up a shadeless, wooden spindle lamp. “You go first, and I’ll back you up.”
The manager looked terrified. “Me?”
The Creeper shrugged. “You’ve got the gun, remember?”
A tremulous grin creased his lips. “Right.” Gripping the gun tightly, the manager nodded at his new partner, and leaped forward. Instantly, the guardian energy field intensified to a white hot mass. A gnarled, blue-white tentacle struck the manager faster than a striking cobra, penetrating his chest and, reducing him to ashes in less than a second. His incinerated body mass fell like black snowflakes onto the white tile floor.
The guardian energy force flickered; then, like a candle flame caught in a sudden gust, it was snuffed into darkness.
“Wonderful!” The assassin flipped the light switch before recalling that he had destroyed all the bulbs. He mumbled a few phrases of the ancient language, and a fireball appeared just below the ceiling. Cautiously, the Creeper stepped into the bedroom, the fireball moving with him. The inner force was completely dissipated. It had done its work by stopping an armed intruder. The spell was broken.
On the far side of the room, a sheet hung over the window behind the bed, held in place by strips of yellow police crime tape. The blinds lay in a tangle on the floor. The wall mirror had been removed and propped against the side of the dresser, revealing small craters where an FBI team had earlier dug the bullets from the dry wall. What the hell happened in here? He wondered. It appeared that Bellamy had been attacked, and forced to defend himself. But from whom? Someone in the mirror? Preposterous!
Police sirens whined in the distance. He hurri
ed his search and left the hypotheses until later.
The bed had been shoved against the bathroom entrance. A quick glance told him why. Between the four, bed-leg trails on the dusty floor, a red magical circle had been drawn. It was fading before his eyes, but he was able to identify several of the symbols before they vanished. Magic symbols from the ancient language.
He attempted to stomp the circle, but an invisible force repelled his foot. Wicca! He slammed his foot onto the floor beside it. What was a Wicca spell circle doing in Bellamy’s room? Certainly, the agent was no witch.
Gabriella again!
His anger flared, but he managed to control it. There wasn’t time to loose his cool. The sirens were too close. He rummaged through the walk-in closet, but found nothing helpful. He searched the rest of the room, but all he discovered was that Bellamy was a lousy housekeeper. The Creeper picked-up an empty glass on the nightstand, and sniffed it. The scotch scent revolted him. Bellamy was heavy into the booze, all right. He replaced it, and casually glanced at the telephone’s caller ID display. It revealed an unidentified phone number, and he immediately recognized the area code.
“Damn Wicca’s!” he screamed. The word roared through the apartment like an unholy tidal wave.
The sirens ceased below in the parking lot, and he saw the flashing red and blue lights coloring the stormy night. It was time to split.
Tenants spilled into the halls, and those on the fourth floor noticed the light coming from Nick’s open door. They shouted their observations down to the police, and foolishly headed for Nick’s apartment. A nosy widow crept inside, and screamed at the mess. She fainted, and others crowded around her
A uniformed police detective strode out of Nick’s bedroom and confronted the crowd. He raised his arms for silence. “Folks, I’m afraid there’s been a murder here,” the detective announced. “Please stay clear of the crime scene until my back-up team arrives.”
Dozens of questions were shouted at the detective, as he rushed past them and headed for the elevator. He punched the elevator button for DOWN, and then again raised his hand for silence. They reluctantly quieted.
“I can’t release any information at this time,” he replied firmly, as the elevator doors parted. The doors slid together, and the assassin breathed a sigh of relief. This had been one of the most trying days of his life, but he had managed to keep his cool.
He withdrew a satellite phone from a deep pocket, and dialed Ling’s private number in Colombia. It rang twice before she answered.
“How is our guest’s - treatment – coming along?” he demanded brusquely.
“On schedule,” Ling replied in a high, singsong oriental pitch.
“Good. Things are crazy here. If I need you, be prepared to abandon our little project where she’ll never be found.”
“I’m good at burying things,” she purred playfully with a roll of her tongue.
“Be serious, dammit! I might need your power,” he growled impatiently. “Wicca’s have gotten themselves involved in our business.”
Ling hissed. “I’ll be ready.” She added softly, “I miss you.”
He severed the connection, and replaced the phone in his pocket. The elevator stopped on the ground floor, and four cops suddenly confronted him.
“Who are you?” the sergeant inquired tersely.
“Lieutenant Baker,” the Creeper lied. “Homicide. I’m new here. I just moved in from Philly.”
The sergeant nodded. “What’s the situation?”
The Creeper, now Lieutenant Baker, glanced up. “One dead. Looks to be the manager. The apartment was ransacked, but there’s no sign of the killer. I got here too late.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Just how did you beat us to the scene?”
“I was in the vicinity, and heard the alert. Now excuse me, sergeant; I have to report in,” the Creeper said sarcastically.
The sergeant backed off ,and motioned his men into the elevator. By the time they reached Nick’s apartment, the Creeper was two blocks away, cruising the dimly lit back streets to the Interstate 66 connector that would take him into Virginia. If his intuition about the DEA nabbing Bellamy was on target, he knew where to begin his search. Their nearest safe house was carefully hidden outside rural Manassas Park. Thanks to his inside government sources, he knew the location of each one worldwide.
The Creeper recalled the area code displayed on Bellamy’s caller ID. It was as familiar to him as his own name. The caller had to have been Jane Sandlin, or one of her Wicca friends. They were getting too close to the truth about Mortal Eclipse, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. They had to be stopped, even if it meant moving up his murderous timetable a few months.
If the details of that ghastly project were ever released to the public, it would be the most disastrous, public relations nightmare in the history of the United States.
Chapter 18
That word we echoed in Nick’s brain, sending bad vibes fluttering through his body. Lynn wasn’t one to share the credit for any high profile case. Now that his hangover was gone, his mental faculties were returning, among them analysis. He knew her gestures, voice inflections and beguiling mannerisms when she was playing the spider inviting to an unsuspecting fly into her parlor. He had studied of them in college when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.
She would have no qualms about eliminating him after he had outlasted his usefulness to her, dropping his body in some South American jungle, and pinning the blame for his disappearance on the Creeper. Nice and tidy. Just the way she had always rewarded her allies. It made him wonder what Lynn would’ve done to Laura in that scenario, her purported best friend, down the road if the Creeper hadn’t murdered her. Stay focused here, he told himself. Don’t succumb to these mental distractions.
Nick glanced away from the monitor toward the thirty-eight lying within reach on the table. Since he had arrived unarmed, it was his only chance for escape. But first, he had to somehow remove the Creeper disk from the DVD player without Lynn knowing it. Much easier said than done.
Once he had the disk, he could hold Lynn as a temporary hostage until he was off the grounds. It seemed to be the only game in town, and he, too, would have no reservations about executing it. She was no friend of his.
“Well?” Lynn had been staring at him. Through him.
Nick smiled and tugged at his collar. Had she read his concern? “Well what?”
“Is this your guy?”
Of course it was. Nick instinctively knew it at first glance. It wasn’t a very professional or scientific method of identifying criminals, he realized, but for some reason he was on the same wavelength with the Creeper. After all, he was the only person anywhere who suspected this professional killer’s existence for years without hard evidence. He just somehow knew.
“Could be, but without further evidence, it would only be a guess at this point,” he replied evasively. He didn’t want Lynn to know she had nailed his guy. Plus, his answer was partially true. He would have to obtain security tapes from around the world, and check them for the frosty anomaly. If it was on them, he’d have his long-sought evidence. The premise of a follow-up investigation would give him the opportunity to leave here – wherever here was - and show Rance the video. That would certainly validate his investigative time and expenditures for the past three years and convince the Orion Sector Director to order Baker and her DEA team off his case.
Lynn laughed, and recklessly tossed her long red hair over her shoulders with a flick of her head. She bent over the table, exposing most of her ample breasts.
She pursed her lips. “We’re partners on this, Nick, but I get the impression that you don’t trust me on this.”
“Look, I just have to be certain before I put my ass on the line again. You can understand that, can’t you?” Nick asked, hoping she’d be reasonable for once.
“You know this is the killer, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, we have to place this g
uy at one other murder scene. If we can do that, then I’ll . . .”
She straightened abruptly. “I’ve just done that, Nick,” she replied coldly, her charm gone. She pressed a button in the stainless steel wall, and the central monitor flashed to life again. Nick followed her motions and identified the DVD player controls.
Pressing another button, a drawer appeared from the wall inches from Lynn, and she lifted a thick folder from it.
“Here is a duplicate of your Orion Sector file,” Lynn said.
“What!” Nick exploded. “That’s supposed to classified top secret.”
“Oh well, so much for security.” She seemed pleased by his uneasy reaction. “Now douse your hothead for a minute, and watch the screen.”
He reluctantly turned away, wondering how in the world Lynn got her hands on a copy of his file. Rance might have agreed to intra-agency cooperation on this particular case, but would he agree to share Orion Sector’s top-secret information with anyone but the president? Nick thought he knew Rance, but now he wasn’t so sure. Another enigma.
A black and white security tape was displayed on the large monitor.
“According to your report on November 26, 1992, you noted that Senator Ely Richardson was murdered in his hotel room the night before he was to give the keynote address at a physicians convention in San Francisco. You suggest that this was not a simple murder, but an assassination. You also wrote that the MO was similar to other murders around the world, blah, blah, blah, blah. Remember?”
He nodded guardedly.
“Here’s the hotel security tape for that day. Watch.”
Nick’s face flushed warm. He had never thought to ask if the hotel had a security camera set-up. From the tape playing in front of his eyes, they obviously had one. Lynn was a still at the top of her game, seemingly one step ahead of him.
Six surveillance camera scenes were displayed on the tape in four-second intervals: the hotel lobby from two overhead angles; the ground-floor stairwell door; the front desk; the gift shop; and, the restaurant and piano bar entrance.
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