by Erik Carter
Dale ran in. His eyes squinted at the sudden darkness. A Steve McQueen movie was on the screen. The room was packed. Blue Eyes was nowhere to be seen. Dale looked over the crowd, most of whom were turned to look at him after his loud, chaotic entrance. So many people. Blue Eyes could have slipped in anywhere. A man. Another man. A woman. He’d have to check row by row. He stopped walking and looked down the row nearest him.
There was a small flash of light at the other end of the auditorium. Dale looked up. The exit door at the back of the theater was shutting. Dale ran toward it, his boots squeaking on the sticky floor.
Out into the shopping plaza again. A group of people, walking left, walking right, crossing in front of him. He looked through the group, desperation seizing him. All these people. And Mr. Blue Eyes was nowhere to be seen.
He’d lost him.
Chapter 23
Adam put the phone’s receiver back in its cradle. He stepped over to the desk, sat down, pulled out a drawer, and took out a pad of paper and a pen. He began to write.
Actiones secundum fidei. There are times when certain people
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Alicia approached the room from the hall. She stopped in the doorway, looked at him without speaking, interlaced her fingers.
Adam shielded the paper on which he was writing.
Alicia’s eyes flicked to the paper and back to him. “Adam, what are you doing?”
“Work. I need to focus, honey. Please.”
Alicia stared at him for a moment. There were small bags beneath her eyes. Tears forming. Her crow’s feet. “You’re scaring me, Adam.”
She walked away.
Adam looked at the doorway for a moment after she left. He wanted to care more than he did that she was upset. Nine years of marriage. She deserved to have him care. But he cared very little. What mattered was his mission. Her emotions were a burden, and he was quite concerned with how curious she was getting. Alicia was tenacious. He couldn’t have her finding out things.
He returned to his writing, speaking aloud as he continued. “Actiones secundum fidei. There are times when certain people must come forward with the truth.”
Chapter 24
The morning air was crisp. Owen drove through an expanse of trees. Pines. Towering over the road. It was impossible for him to not think back to the facility. It had been deep in the pines too. Because of its mission, the facility had been a good and decent place. A godly place. And his actions there, in that sense, were also godly and good. But it was a dark place too. Not only the building itself—cold, open-air, crumbling—but what happened there. Owen remembered the things he had done. He remembered the screaming. The frightened men. And he felt shame.
Then he reminded himself that it was all in service to God. It was the beginning of the mission. And he felt peace.
The sun was out. It was going to be a nice day. It had been so gloomy and chilly that it was nice seeing the blue sky poking through the trees as he continued up the road, climbing in elevation. Ahead, there were gaps in the trees. He was almost to the neighborhood. It was one of those classy communities plotted in a bit of wilderness. A peaceful, natural oasis in a large city. He watched the numbers on the mailboxes until he found the one he was looking for, the one from the phone book. 874 Theodore Lane. The home of one of Portland’s two Andrew Rileys.
He turned the car’s heater on. Low, just to cut the edge off the chill. He was still getting used to the car, a second rental car that he’d picked up after crashing the first one into Nathan Cook. He’d paid for both in cash.
He noticed a vehicle parked on a nearby cross-street. It was parked almost too casually. And someone was sitting behind the wheel. Like there had been in the blue Granada parked near Nathan Cook’s house last night.
Another cop.
They were ahead of him now, already waiting on him. When Owen had discovered the cop at Nathan Cook’s last night, that made sense to him. After all, he had attacked multiple Nathan Cooks before arriving at that house. But he had yet to attack any Andrew Rileys. And yet there was a cop. Watching the house. That could mean only one thing: they had the list. They’d figured out the Five Wisemen connection.
He couldn’t stop moving now. He had to be as nonchalant as possible, so he was only going to be able to give the house a quick glance as it rolled by. It was two-story with an angled, A-frame style roof. It was built on a slope with the first floor—which was painted white—jutting into the hillside such that the stone pathway leading to the house climbed the slope to a door on the second floor. This floor was covered in dark, horizontally placed boards. Huge, rectangular windows lined the walls, some of them angled open from the top. The house was very geometric, very modern.
He kept driving, and he kept his eyes forward, didn’t dare turn to look at the cop. Now that they were onto him, he was going to have to be even more careful.
And a lot more creative.
Chapter 25
Dale sat at the picnic table in the small patch of grass in the center of the Sleepy Slumber Inn parking lot. The table was in the shade of one of the trees, and the sunlight that poked through the branches felt good on the back of his faded red T-shirt. He liked that the sun was playing nice finally. It had been cruel and relentless in Phoenix, and since he arrived in Portland, it had been hiding in the clouds and making everything gray and miserable.
On the table were a variety of books that he’d gotten from both the Portland library and a really cool bookstore he’d found called Powell’s. Dale wasn’t a big city person by nature, but it was always extremely helpful to have the research opportunities available in larger-sized locations—universities, libraries, museums, bookstores. Some of the books he’d gotten were open, some with notepaper sticking out of them. There was a notepad dead center on the table with a variety of scribbled notes—notes about Jesus, notes about Josephus, and centered in the paper, in large letters and circled, was the word Titus.
Dale was hunched over the materials, elbows on his thighs. He leaned back and stretched, rubbed his eyes. He saw Spiro crossing the parking lot, heading toward him.
“Found anything?” she said as she approached. She wasn’t wearing a skirt this time. Instead she had on a black pantsuit. The vest had buttons down the center with a red, long-sleeve turtleneck underneath. The pants were flared, but Dale appreciated that she wasn’t wearing the type that went all the way to the ground and flared so wide they consumed the woman’s entire shoe. Dale thought those looked silly. Plus, he figured they had to get dirty really easily.
“I had thought before that I was onto something with the Jesus/Josephus connection, with Josephus being one of the most important historical accounts of Christianity,” Dale said. “But with Titus, now we’re going into Roman territory, which ties us in with the Latin phrase.”
“So who was Titus?”
Dale pulled the notebook closer to him and looked down at it. “A Roman emperor. I knew about him already, but really only by name. He was the second in the Flavian Dynasty, itself only the second dynasty of Roman emperors after the initial Julio-Claudian Dynasty.”
Spiro leaned against the tree. “My eyes are glazing over already.”
“He ruled for barely over two years. It was under his rule that the Coliseum was completed. Also Mount Vesuvius erupted during those two years. Of course that was a natural disaster, so he had no control over that.” Dale arched an eyebrow. “... or did he?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“And you can’t register sarcasm.”
Spiro made a goofy face. It wasn’t exactly a nice expression, but every other reaction she’d given him thus far had been a frown. It was even borderline playful. Dale wondered if she was feeling alright.
“So, a connection to Christianity?” Spiro said. “I know some of the emperors persecuted Christians.”
“His more important connections to Christianity happened before he was emperor. So prior to becoming emperors, Titus and hi
s father Vespasian were Roman military leaders. Our friend Josephus was himself a leader of the Jewish rebellion, and he surrendered to Vespasian. He told Vespasian that Jewish prophecies said he, Vespasian, would become the Emperor of Rome. So Vespasian naturally took a liking to him and made him a slave and interpreter. A couple years later, Vespasian did indeed become emperor, and he gave Josephus his freedom and the family name. He became Flavius Josephus.”
Spiro pulled some wayward hair behind her ear. “Okay so there’s a connection between Josephus and Titus’ dad. Seems a long shot to connect that with Titus himself.”
“I’m not done yet. The war where Josephus was captured was the First Jewish-Roman War. Remember, Titus was also a military leader like his dad. So when Vespasian was declared emperor a few years into the war, Titus was in charge of ending the Jewish rebellion. Titus was the one who captured Jerusalem and destroyed the Second Temple. And Josephus, as the Flavian’s historian whose emphasis was on the first century and the First Jewish-Roman War, not only recorded Titus’ military exploits but also served as his translator.”
“So Josephus defected from the Jews to the Romans, became the historian for the imperial family, and then wrote Jewish history?”
“Correct. And his works have always been an important source of information for understanding early Christianity.”
“And what’s the timeline of all this?”
“The First Jewish-Roman War lasted from the year 66 to the year 73. Josephus was captured in 67. Vespasian became emperor in 69, and Titus became emperor after his father died in 79.”
“You said Josephus’ works are important for understanding early Christianity. Those dates you just gave are decades into the first millennium and, so, decades after the time of Jesus.”
“I said early Christianity. Not the beginning of Christianity.”
“Okay, then why would our second victim be holding a picture of Jesus?”
“To represent Christianity, I would think.”
“But our other two victims gave specific names. Josephus, Titus. Seems to me that our first victim was holding the picture to give us a specific name as well: Jesus.”
Dale put the notebook on the table and leaned back again. He looked up at the branches. “You might be right. Which leaves me at a loss considering the time difference.”
They were quiet for a moment. The breeze blew through the pine needles.
“I heard back from the field office,” Spiro said. “There are no Andrew Rileys in the surrounding areas, only the two in Portland. One lives in a poor area, one in a high-end neighborhood.”
Dale stood up. “I’ll get PPB to send more men to both. If the potential victim is anything like the others, he’ll be at the nice neighborhood. I’ll go there. You go to the other.”
“Fine.”
“Let’s grab a bite to eat and then get rolling. There’s a sandwich shop down the street. My treat.”
“Your treat?” Spiro said like a popular girl being asked to prom by a nerd. “I already told you I wasn’t interested in anything from you, Agent Conley.”
An instant tension headache came to Dale’s forehead. “Oh for God’s sake. It was a nice gesture.”
Spiro frowned and took a step closer to him. “How’s this for a gesture? You try anything on me again, and I’ll shove my fist so far up your ass I’ll be speaking for you in sign language.”
“First of all, I’m not into that, Spiro, but thanks for offering. Second, I wasn’t trying anything. Third, you don’t scare me. You can try to pull my penis off again, but otherwise you’re a hundred-ten-pound woman who works in an office. I have seventy pounds on you, fight training, and years of law enforcement experience. You know, at first I thought maybe you were standoffish because you were guarded, protecting yourself. But I’m starting to realize that you’re just mean. You’re an asshole.” Dale walked past her. “Come on. You can buy your own damn sandwich.”
Chapter 26
It was a disgusting place. It smelled of cigarettes and years of human desperation.
Owen sat on his rear at the end of the hallway, his back against the wall, one leg kicked in out front of him, the other propped up. His head was slouched over. He felt disgusting. Dirtied. Sullied by his surroundings. He wore his bum ensemble again: the old trench coat, ratty pants, and his baseball cap. He’d visited a liquor store and purchased a bottle in a brown paper sack, which completed the look. He had been extra attentive to his costume and how he monitored the apartment—since he knew the cops were hidden somewhere, watching.
He was monitoring apartment number three. It was at the opposite end of the hall, two doors up from the entrance. The home of the second of the two Andrew Rileys in town. He had gotten a good look at the home of the first Andrew Riley earlier and was confident that the real Andrew Riley lived there and not this terrible place. But he had to make certain. His mission wouldn’t allow him to leave any stone unturned.
He’d been like this for an hour. The building was locked from the outside, but he’d easily gained access by following someone in. Then he found the correct apartment and positioned himself at the end of the hall. And waited. He wondered if he was going to have to wait all day; he wondered how safe he was. There was some sort of solace in the fact that he was a lot safer in the hallway than he would have been had he tried to monitor the apartment from the outside. When he had found the building, he had seen a ratty park teeming with vagrants across the street. Portland was loaded with homeless, and like being in this hallway, sheer proximity to those people made Owen feel dirtied.
Someone came through the front door, and Owen casually lifted his eyes to see, still maintaining his hunched-over, drunken look. It was a fat man. He wore an oversized, stained T-shirt, a pair of track pants, and sneakers that must’ve been white when they were new but were now a crude shade of tan. Under the man’s arm was a paper sack of groceries, and he waddled into the hall. Owen said a little prayer that this was Andrew Riley because he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer in the filthy building.
Owen’s prayer was answered. The fat man stopped at the door to apartment three, shoved his hands into the pocket of his track pants, and stuck his key in the lock.
Owen took out his picture of the Five Wisemen. He compared the gross man before him to Andrew Riley. Not even close. He had been correct earlier in the day. That nice house in the trees had been where he would find the real Andrew Riley.
The fat man entered the apartment and shut the door behind him.
Owen stood up, walked down the hallway, and left the building. It was starting to cloud over, and it wasn’t as bright as it had been. It was as though the sun didn’t even want to shine on this part of town. He stopped on the stoop and took out the phone book page. He crossed off the second Riley, Andrew then put it back in his pocket. He looked to the other side of Sampson Street.
There was the park he had seen earlier. The grass was in need of mowing, and the trees looked desperate to escape had their roots not been holding them down. Portland was a beautiful, green city, but at a spot like this, even the greenery looked out of place. People slept on the benches. A suspicious-looking group was huddled in a corner in the back. And one bum sat on the ground against a tree, hunched over much like Owen had just been in the apartment building hallway.
An idea came to Owen.
He crossed the street and walked up to the bum who was leaning against the tree. “ Hey man. You want to make some money?”
The bum looked away from him. “Piss off. Freak.”
Owen thought for sure that the offer of money would tantalize a homeless person. Then he realized why the bum reacted so viciously, why he called him a “freak.” The bum thought Owen was propositioning him. Owen felt sick. The whole situation made him sick. The disgusting park, the disgusting apartment building across the street. Everything about this was revolting.
Instead of immediately telling the bum that he’d misconstrued Owen’s intentions, Owen went
straight to the big guns and took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. He waved it. The bum’s eyes lit up.
Owen pointed across the street. “You see that apartment building over there?”
Chapter 27
Dale sat in the passenger seat of Detective Cooper’s Granada. They’d been parked in the same spot for over an hour. It was an upscale neighborhood in the woods on the periphery of town. There was the damp smell of forest. Massive pine trees climbed into the sky. The sun had disappeared into the trees, and it was starting to get dark. The house they were watching belonged to one of the two Andrew Rileys. It was angular and modern. Frank Lloyd Wright-esque. They’d knocked on the door earlier, but no one had answered.
“What have you been able to find out about the guy?” Dale said.
“Not much. We weren’t able to get a hold of him all day. He’s an author, so I guess he can make his own schedule. Neighbors say he comes and goes at real weird hours. They never know when to expect him.”
“If he’s the same guy our killer is looking for, then the killer’s probably going through the same thought process. Hell, he could be watching the house just like we are.”
“With all the guys I got posted out in the trees watching every side of the house, if he does try something, it’ll be easy enough to catch him. I can’t help but feel like I’m using Riley as bait.”
“You did what you could. If you couldn’t find him, you couldn’t find him. And what about the other Riley?”
“On Sampson Street? We got a hold of him. About an hour ago. Got officers staked all over the neighborhood. Got your partner over there too. I hope your gal doesn’t take any crap because those guys over there are a little rowdy, and they aren’t used to working with a woman.”
Dale grinned. “Don’t worry. Spiro can handle herself.”