"Yeah, right." Fenton was still not enjoying the view.
"The experience which I have related to you was my first with… such matters. It was by no means the last."
Van Dreenan sat and waited. Eventually, Fenton turned his chair back around. Most of the anger was gone from his face now. "The business with this Lekota guy, it that what got you into the Occult Crimes Unit?"
"I applied to join shortly afterwards, yes. Look, Fenton, the members of the Occult Crime Unit are not a bunch of superstitious 'ghostbusters,' although the tabloid newspapers like to use that term. As I told you the day I arrived here, we are experienced, hardheaded police officers. The principal difference between us and the average member of the South African Police Forces is that we try to keep open minds—to let the evidence determine our beliefs, not the other way around."
Fenton came up with the ghost of a wry smile. "Must've required quite an adjustment."
"You can have no idea. I was raised in the Dutch Reformed Church, Fenton, and compared to them, your Christian Right over here are a lot of timid, liberal agnostics. But I reached the point where I had to make a choice—between what I had been taught, and what I had seen." Van Dreenan's big shoulders twitched in a shrug. "I chose the latter."
Fenton nodded slowly. "An open mind, you say."
"That is all that is necessary, I think."
"Let's say I'm willing to try for this open-mindedness we're talking about. That doesn't mean I'm going to just stand by and let you administer vigilante justice to a couple of criminal suspects in this country—if we can even catch the motherfuckers."
Van Dreenan spread his hands. "I never thought you would. Or indeed, should."
"All right, then."
"But that is why we must be ready to move quickly when— if—we receive word of a fifth child murder."
"Hard to move fast when the whole damn country is the target zone."
Van Dreenan rubbed his chin. "Not the whole country, I think. They could have gone anywhere, thanks to your marvelous highway system, but they have chosen to stay in the East."
"Maybe they're just lazy."
"Do you really believe that?"
"No," Fenton said after a moment. "I guess I don't."
"There is a reason why they are staying in this part of the United States. It is probably tied in with the purpose behind these muti murders."
"I thought you said she's doing it to gain magical power."
"Yes, but why here? If all she wanted was the power, she could have—" Van Dreenan's voice caught for a moment, "she could have committed these atrocities in South Africa. But she made a long, expensive journey to an unfamiliar country. There must be a reason. And I'll wager that it is the same reason she and her associate are remaining in the East."
"All right, assume that's the case. I can put out an alert online to all police departments in, say, a twelve-state area. I can request to be notified immediately if a child's body is found, matching the details we have for the other victims."
"Ja, that will help. And once we hear something, we must be able to get to the scene quickly. Can you have a helicopter standing by? On the roof of this building, perhaps?"
"Jesus, do you know how much money that's gonna cost? To have a chopper just sitting there, idle, maybe for days?"
"Do you not think it will be money well spent?"
"Of course I do, but, shit, it's not my money to control. My boss will have to authorize it, and probably clear it with his boss, and budgets are tight these days, especially for anything that doesn't have to do with terrorism."
"This is terrorism of the very worst kind, my friend."
"You know that, and I know that, but my boss doesn't."
"Then you should explain it to him. Ask him to visualize the positive publicity, if the Bureau should succeed in bringing two serial killers, murderers of children, to justice."
Fenton chewed his lower lip. "Yeah, that might get his attention."
"You might further suggest he imagine the intensely negative publicity that would result if it should become known that the FBI had the opportunity to apprehend such vicious criminals, and did not take it."
"If I leaked something like that, my career would be over. I know it, and they know I know it."
"Ja, probably so," Van Dreenan said. "But if I leaked it, my career would not be over."
A slow grin made its way across Fenton's face. He turned his chair and picked up the nearby telephone. "Let me see what I can do."
* * * *
Cecelia Mbwato and Snake Perkins had abducted and murdered four children without any witnesses or interference—either before, during, or after their evil deeds. They had taken great pains to remain unobserved, of course, but they had also had, perhaps literally, the Devil's own luck.
On a moonlit night near Cranston, Rhode Island, their luck ran out.
* * * *
"Jesus Christ, Tommy, this is starting to remind me of high school," Marcie said. The dirt road was reasonably wide, but still overhung by trees. The only illumination came from the car's headlights and the full moon that peeked between the branches as they drove.
"Not my fault your fuckin' roomie decided not to go home this weekend," Tommy Hambledon said. He proceeded slowly, looking for a good spot—something private but not too spooky. "We could've gone to my room, you know, like we did last time."
She made a snorting sound. "I am not going to walk past those assholes in your suite when I'm leaving. Uh-uh." She made her voice deeper and husky. "Hey baby, how about sloppy seconds? Show you what a real man can do."
"I took care of that, just like I told you. I made it real clear to Mitch that I was gonna kick his ass from here to Providence, he ever talked to you like that again. He knows I'll do it, too."
The sign they had just passed read "County Reservoir, 1/4 Mile."
"Fine. So now him and the other two jerks can just give me those shit-ass grins as I walk past. I don't think so."
"Okay, okay. Hey, this looks like a nice spot, huh? Real quiet, moon shining on the water and stuff. Kinda romantic, dontcha think?" He brought the car to a slow stop and turned off the engine.
Marcie gave serious consideration to just calling the whole thing off and making Tommy drive them back to campus. There was a movie showing at the Student Union that she'd wanted to see when it first came out, or maybe she and Tommy could go to the Rathskeller, have a few beers, and dance instead. But then she thought about the way Tommy's big cock felt inside her, and the things he could do with his tongue…
"Turn on the radio, not too loud," she said. "I always liked that, in high school."
* * * *
Snake Perkins didn't see the pothole in this crappy dirt road until it was too late, and the Lincoln jolted a little as its big, soft springs compensated for the sudden dip. Cecelia Mbwato shifted position, which caused the knives and other metal implements in her bag to rub against each other audibly.
She bit back the acid comment she was going to make about Snake's driving. Their association was almost done, and there was no sense in provoking the white fool unnecessarily. Instead, she asked, "You are sure there is water up here?"
"Sure is," Snake said. "A whole damn reservoir full of it— least, there was this afternoon, and I don't figure they drained it since then. Nice and quiet, too. Nobody hardly comes up here at all, far as I can tell."
"All is very well, then," she said. It was the closest thing to a compliment she had ever paid him.
Snake went back to listening to Jerry Jeff Walker in concert, a show that he alone could hear. He was quietly relieved that his job was almost over. After four deaths, soon to be five, even he was starting to get sick of the constant smell of blood in his nostrils.
* * * *
Marcie Tucker had removed her skirt and the thong she wore underneath it. She lay sideways on the front seat, her head and shoulders against the passenger door, one arm braced on the dash and the other clutching the seat back, her legs
spread wide and Tommy's head between them.
He was taking his time, teasing her the way she liked, licking fast then slowly, up and down, then side to side, the tip of his tongue making circles and zigzags and figure eights, and Marcie was building toward one hell of an orgasm when from between her half-closed eyelids she saw the headlights.
"Tommy!" she whispered urgently.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Car!"
"Oh, fuck goddammit shit!"
He squirmed up past the steering wheel and looked out through the windshield. The other car had come to a stop on the opposite side of the reservoir, maybe 300 feet away. It was parked at an angle, so its headlights did not shine directly toward them.
"Cops, do you think?" Marcie asked.
"I dunno. If it is, he hasn't got his red lights going."
"How the hell did he get up here? He didn't pass us!"
"There's another road up, from the Cranston side. Must've come up that way."
"And how do you know about that?" she asked archly. "Brought a lot of girls up here, did you?"
"A bunch of us guys used to swim in the reservoir during the summers, all right? Jeez!"
Marcie looked over at the headlights again. "Why's he just stopped there?"
"Maybe it's a couple, came up here for the same reason we did, before we got so rudely interrupted." He started to slide his hand up her bare thigh.
"Stop it!" The sudden appearance of the other car, along with the fear of imminent arrest, had been like a bucket of cold water thrown on Marcie's libido. "If they came up here to fool around, then why keep the lights on?"
"Beats the shit out of me," Tommy said, irritation creeping into his voice. "Look, why don't we just—"
"Somebody just walked in front of the lights. See? And now another one. There's two people over there, Tommy. What the hell are they doing, this time of night?"
"Maybe they want to get busy outside, instead of in their car. Who cares? Speaking of getting busy—"
"In the wet grass? It rained most of the day."
With an effort, Tommy managed to sound patient as he said, "Could be they brought a blanket, or something. Marcie, come on. Forget about those—"
Then the awful screaming started from across the reservoir. Tommy Hambledon didn't know it yet, but it was a sound that was going to haunt his nightmares for a long time to come.
* * * *
"Nine-one-one operator. How may I assist you?"
"Uh, I—I need the police, I guess."
"And what is the nature of your emergency, sir?"
"I guess, uh, I don't know exactly."
"I will need more information if I am going to dispatch someone to your location, sir."
"Cranston Reservoir. Send 'em to the Cranston Reservoir. The uh, west side, yeah, the west side of Cranston Reservoir."
"I need to know why you require police assistance at this time, sir."
"Somebody was, I mean there was like screaming, it just went on and on. Sounded like a kid, maybe, but we couldn't be sure. Oh, God, please, just send the cops, will you?"
"You are reporting screams from the west side of Cranston Reservoir? Is that correct, sir?"
"Yeah, yeah, how many times do I have to fuckin' say it? Some kid was screaming, not like he was fooling around, like kids do, I mean, it was like he was dying, or something. Or she, I dunno, I couldn't tell. And then it just, like stopped, as if he had, oh Jesus, God. And there was a car over there, we saw two people get out of this big car, and then the screaming started and for Christ's sake, will you just fuckin' send somebody? Please?"
"I am dispatching a unit to your location now, sir."
* * * *
Van Dreenan looked at Fenton's haggard face and said, "You should go and get some sleep, my friend. It's late."
Fenton waved away the suggestion. "I grabbed a couple of hours this afternoon. Besides, if this is gonna go down, it'll be at night, just like all the others."
Van Dreenan nodded slowly. "Yes, I expect you are right."
"How about you? You could go back to your hotel, catch a few z's. I'll call you if anything breaks."
"Thank you, but no. I find that I do not sleep much anymore."
Ten minutes later, Fenton was amusing himself, and possibly even Van Dreenan, by telling a very involved and highly obscene joke.
"So now they're all standing there, right? Dad, Mom, the two kids, Grandma, and the family dog. Naked, panting, dripping with sweat and two or three other fluids, besides. And the talent agent says, 'That's quite an act you've got there. What do you folks call yourselves?' And the father says—"
Then the phone rang.
Fenton grabbed it on the first ring. "Yeah?"
He spent the next minute or so listening intently, occasionally making notes on a legal pad.
"How far a drive is it from the field office to the scene, for somebody using lights and a siren? Yeah? Okay, have a car meet us at the Providence airport, the chopper pad. I want it gassed up, and somebody behind the wheel who knows the way to the crime scene and can get us there fast, okay? Appreciate it."
As soon as the line was clear, Fenton tapped in a three-digit number.
"This is Fenton. Get the chopper warmed up. Destination is the main landing pad at the Providence, Rhode Island airport, whatever its name is. They can't have more than one, a dinky state like that. I wanna be there ten minutes ago. Right, thanks."
Van Dreenan was already on his feet. "I take it something has happened."
"You take it right." Fenton was quickly stowing items in his briefcase, including case files, his laptop, and two clips of 9 mm ammunition for his Glock. "Cranston, Rhode Island," he said tersely. "Some kids from URI were up at the reservoir, gettin' it on in a parked car. Then our perps came along, oblivious, and did their last victim, like a hundred yards away. Kids heard the screams and called nine-one-one."
Fenton looked at his watch. "We're less than an hour behind them. Let's roll."
Van Dreenan had a briefcase of his own that he had taken to carrying around with him lately, although he had never opened it in Fenton's presence. He quickly grabbed the handle and his voice was tight with excitement as he said, "Ready when you are, baas."
Chapter 25
"Can't go too fast up here," Special Agent Spencer said. He had a broad Down East accent that made him sound like he should be selling "clam chowdah" on TV. "Too damn many potholes. The county doesn't exactly spend a mint keeping these access roads in shape."
"Just do the best you can, man," Fenton said. "Nobody's interested in having us getting a punctured oil pan." He peered through the windshield, trying to see ahead, past the reach of the headlights. "Looks like we're almost there, anyway."
"Ayuh. Couple of minutes, max."
The road soon began to level off; shortly afterward, they could see moonlight on water.
"This is it," Spencer said.
Van Dreenan had sat silently in the back seat during the urgent drive from Providence. Now he leaned forward and placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "I want to thank you for getting us here so quickly, Agent Spencer. If you ever decide to leave law enforcement, I believe you might easily find employment in Hollywood, as a car handler."
Seeing the quizzical expression on Spencer's face, Fenton said, "I think he means 'stunt driver.'"
"Oh, right. Hey, it was kind of fun. I don't get to use the flashing light and siren much. It was cool, watching everybody get out of the way."
"You know we're taking the car, right?"
"Sure, no sweat. I'll get a ride back with one of the other guys."
Spencer brought the car to a stop amidst half a dozen other official vehicles—state, local, and unmarked federal. They all had their lights flashing, which turned the crime scene into something that looked like a fundamentalist's notion of Hell.
Fenton and Van Dreenan got out of the car and followed Spencer to the ranking FBI man on the scene, who turned out to be a woman.
Special Agent Rita Garber was a taller-than-average blonde with short hair, a dark suit, and a hard-looking face. Van Dreenan thought the hardness might be temporary, caused by what she had been dealing with for the last hour. He wondered what she looked like when she relaxed, assuming she ever did.
Spencer performed introductions. Agent Garber looked at Van Dreenan longer than she needed to, clearly curious about what a South African cop was doing at the crime scene.
"You didn't say anything on the phone about leaving the body of the vic in place," she said to Fenton, "so I let the local law send her to the morgue. Coroner'll do the autopsy tonight or tomorrow—I can find out when and where, if you guys want to be there."
"That won't be necessary, but thanks," Fenton said. He looked over at the patch of ground that was cordoned off by the yellow tape. "Is forensics done with the scene?"
"Done and gone," Agent Garber said. "Theirs and ours, both."
Fenton looked at Van Dreenan, then without a word the two of them went over to the bare patch of earth, lifted the crime scene tape, and ducked under it.
It didn't take them long to observe the essentials: the four tent stakes driven deep into the ground, the torn-up earth around it, the footprints in the muddy soil. The blood had long since soaked into the earth, but each man would have sworn on a Bible that he could still smell the thick, coppery odor.
They had seen it all before. Four other times, to be exact— either in photos, or up close and personal.
Van Dreenan had produced a small but powerful flashlight and was shining it around the immediate area. Suddenly, the moving beam of light stopped. "Fenton."
Van Dreenan's light was focusing on the array of footprints in the soft earth. There were many around the crime scene, made by the police, the coroner's people, the forensics techs, and God knows who else. But one set of footprints stood out clearly from all the others.
The feet that had made them were bare.
They walked quickly back to Agent Garber. "Pictures?" Fenton asked.
"Over here," she said. They followed her to one of the unmarked cars. A laptop computer was open on the hood, a thin, balding man wearing FBI creds hunched over it, typing.
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