He’d nearly crossed this murder off his list – too risky. But the fact that the pop star – Justin Green – is vacationing here, in the same hotel where years earlier Allison Tessavian abducted and killed his girlfriend, is too perfect. His father told him that Justin was here; he’d read it in the Post. Killing Justin Green will make his father proud. It will feel good to make his father proud.
Justin Green is extremely famous. Richard knows that when you kill famous people, you get to share their fame, like Mark Chapman, who killed John Lennon, and Andrew Cunanan, who shot Gianni Versace. He pictures the stopwatch in his head. He clicks it once to start it running.
He feels the Smith & Wesson in the right-hand pocket of the hunting jacket that belonged to Saunders. In the other pocket he has an eight-inch kitchen knife – also Saunders’.
A porter steps through the front door of the hotel as he approaches. ‘Good evening, sir.’ He holds the gilt-stenciled door.
Glash looks through the door, sees that there is only a single female clerk at the front desk; no one else. He puts a smile on his face as he stabs the porter – estimated age of thirty-two, weight one seventy-five – under his ribcage. The knife plunges straight into the man’s heart. Glash drags the limp body under a row of ornamental shrubs – twenty-five minutes, twelve seconds.
He checks to see that there is no blood on his jacket. He walks across the polished marble lobby. The clerk looks up. She is young – estimated age of twenty-three – of mixed race and wears a white shirt, black vest and a tie with the hotel’s trademark red and green tartan. ‘Good evening,’ she says.
Glash puts on a smile, as his long arms shoot over the polished counter and grab the young woman – estimated weight of one hundred and twelve pounds.
She tries to scream, but Glash’s powerful hands wrap around her throat. He feels the rattle of air over her vocal cords as he squeezes. Her trachea pops, crunches, and then he snaps her neck. It makes him think of a chicken bone. He now has twenty-four minutes.
He shoves her body back across the counter and lets it drop out of sight. He goes behind and looks at the computer screen. He punches in the name – Justin Green. Twenty-three minutes, two seconds. He identifies his suite, and knows that the pop star will have at least one security guard with him. He also knows that the security guard did not stop Allison the night she kidnapped and then drowned Melanie Coo, and it certainly won’t stop him – twenty-two minutes, thirteen seconds.
Twelve
At mid-morning the heat was oppressive, even in the pine-shaded heights of the Adirondacks. Hobbs felt caked in sweat and dust and he wondered how Houssman was holding up, but the old guy didn’t complain – more importantly he continued to offer important insights as they joined dozens of Homeland Security and FBI agents in the search of Albert’s Mechanicville property.
The three-room cabin had been thoroughly searched five years earlier, and in the interim, local teens and hunters had come and gone, breaking the padlocks installed by Albert’s relatives. Hobbs had taken one look at the interior, seen the used condoms and a stained and disintegrating mattress now home to field mice and moles, and he’d despaired of finding anything useful. After two days with little sleep, little food and too much caffeine, his nerves were frayed and he kept picturing Barrett and Glash’s horrific drawings of her. He hated that she hadn’t confided her feelings about the baby to him. Why couldn’t she have? What did it mean that she hadn’t? Maybe if he’d known, things would have gone differently.
He eyed the growing number of law enforcement personnel, and ticked off at least six different agencies – FBI, Homeland Security, State and Local police, OHSHA, and himself representing the NYPD. If he wasn’t so revved and scared he’d be cracking jokes, probably with Tom Anderson of the FBI – currently under the cabin with a flashlight – about the Homeland Security Agents, like, ‘How many Homeland Security does it take to screw in a light bulb? … A hundred; one to screw it in and ninety-nine to screw it up.’ It was a circus, with more cars pulling in every couple of minutes, and the choice of ringmaster couldn’t have been worse.
‘Maybe you didn’t hear me right,’ Martin Cosway said in a nasal and abrasive Brooklyn twang, as though reading Hobbs’s thoughts.
Hobbs tried to keep his face neutral as he confronted the man who’d once reported to him on the NYPD as a rookie detective. There had been no love lost on either side. Cosway, a short weasel of a man, was in his early forties, dark hair slicked back with shiny pomade that went out in the Fifties. Cosway knew that Hobbs had everything to do with his not making it through his probationary period. He’d left the force without giving notice with an internal investigation pending and had jumped at a position with the then fledgling Department of Homeland Security. A political animal in a black suit and tie, he’d found fertile soil and clawed his way up. Glued to his side, gulping a bottle of water, was second-in-command, Corbin Zane, red-faced and balding with the build of a high-school linebacker gone soft in the middle.
‘This is a fucking waste of time,’ Cosway said, wiping sweat from his brow.
‘Nothing here,’ Zane echoed, looking for a glimmer of approval in his boss’s eyes. His blue cotton shirt was soaked through with dark half-circles that reached from under his arms almost to his belt.
‘Hard to know if he’s been here,’ Hobbs admitted, angry as hell at the myriad tire tracks that had disturbed the clearing in front of the cabin. If Glash had been here, any trace had been obliterated. It felt like a fucking Easter egg hunt.
Houssman, standing next to Hobbs, seemed oblivious to the dynamic between Hobbs and Cosway. ‘Think paranoid,’ he said. ‘Albert owned this property for over twenty years. He’s up here in this cabin … what’s he doing?’ Houssman scanned the clearing, his eyes skipping over the law enforcement types, who were mostly focused on the area immediately around the building. ‘Damn shame so many people are disturbing the scene.’ He looked up at Cosway. ‘I know you’re in charge, but in my sixty years of being involved with investigations I’ve never seen a potential crime scene compromised so severely. You might want to do something about that. Get it down to just essential personnel.’
Hobbs suppressed a chuckle, as Cosway flushed and Zane choked on his water, doubled over and coughed.
‘I know how to do my job, and I don’t appreciate getting sent on wild goose chases by has-been cops and retired professors,’ Cosway shot back. ‘And if I wanted essential personnel only, you’d be the first to go.’
Houssman ignored him and peered deep into the woods. ‘You won’t find anything in the cabin. Anything there would have been found years ago. Come on, Ed.’
Leaving Cosway behind, Houssman plunged into the woods. ‘What a moron,’ he muttered, examining the shrubs and the ground for signs of recent disturbance.
‘You picked that up fast,’ Hobbs replied. ‘If they put Cosway in charge … shit!’
‘What?’ Houssman asked.
‘Unless he’s had a total personality change since he left the force – and if he hadn’t left on his own he’d have gotten kicked off – it’s not good.’ Hobbs swatted at his neck, his hand came away with a blood-smeared mosquito.
‘Look, someone’s been through here.’ Houssman was holding a snapped branch while peering into a thicket of chokecherry and bramble.
‘You’re right,’ Hobbs said. ‘Question is, was it one of these bozos or Glash?’ And he pushed his way through the underbrush, noting how easily it parted.
Houssman trailed in his wake, letting the dense foliage close behind him. About six feet in the two men found themselves in a circular clearing. ‘Bingo!’ Hobbs said as they stared down at a recently unearthed metal hatch that had been buried under a few inches of loose dirt.
‘Normally, I’d get the crime-scene photographer,’ Houssman said.
‘I hear you,’ Hobbs said, as he bent to examine the small mounds of fresh-dug earth that surrounded a manhole-sized steel hatch. Taking out a pair of vinyl gloves he op
ened the hatch, releasing a musty smell of old books. He unhooked a small Maglite from his belt and shone it down into the opening. ‘Looks like a steel oil tank that got buried and converted into a make-shift bomb shelter … Somebody’s been here.’
He angled back so Houssman could take a look as the powerful beam of light passed over fresh scuff marks in the dust: a bare mattress, an electric lantern, neatly stacked boxes of canned foods and bottled water and a wall of plastic egg crates filled with books and leaflets.
‘I’m going in,’ Hobbs said. ‘Stay out here and let me know if anyone’s coming.’ He produced a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on.
Houssman didn’t argue as Ed lowered himself feet first.
Hobbs landed with a dull thud; he could just stand upright in the center of the oblong metal room, which sloped down on the sides. The interior had the feel of an end-of-the-world hideout, complete with an unused chemical toilet, oxygen tanks, and a rebreather mask. Some of the reading material had spilled on to the floor. Its disarray was a wrong note in the otherwise meticulously tidy space. He looked through the book titles, mostly microbiology and genetics. There were also several cloth-bound notebooks. He opened one and saw pages of tiny handwriting interspersed with careful illustrations and hand-charted graphs.
‘What is it?’ Houssman asked, as he tried to follow Ed’s movements.
‘I’ve got a sick feeling.’
‘Yes,’ Houssman said. ‘Whatever it was that Glash needed, he’s been here, got it and left.’
‘Check this out.’ Hobbs handed up the notebook to Houssman.
‘Interesting,’ he said, flipping pages.
‘Do you understand it?’ Hobbs asked.
‘It’s a Bioforward laboratory journal. Most companies would frown on a researcher removing them.’
‘There’s dozens of them down here,’ Hobbs replied.
‘I imagine they’re all there, except the one that Glash took.’
‘That’s what I’m thinking,’ Hobbs said, taking a final sweep of the interior with the light.
As he climbed out, Houssman was trying to decipher the careful handwriting and complex equations. ‘Albert worked for Bioforward,’ he said slowly. ‘He was specifically involved in trying to develop next-generation antibiotics that could handle multiple resistant strains of bacteria.’
‘I don’t like how that sounds.’
‘No. It won’t be good. Albert would have had years to work on perfecting super bacteria that no drugs could stop.’
‘Bacteria are living things,’ Hobbs remarked. ‘Albert has been locked up for over five years. You don’t think he kept live strains down there?’
Houssman peered down the hatch. ‘Not likely. Bacteria need food … or you have to freeze them.’
‘So what then? What was Glash looking for, an instruction manual?’
‘Possibly, although we’d better be careful about jumping to conclusions.’
‘But if it’s a how-to, then maybe we’ve got some time. Maybe …’
‘Maybe she’s got some time,’ Houssman said.
Hobbs shook his head. ‘Cosway’s a menace. I didn’t tell you why I wanted his ass kicked off the force.’ Still wearing gloves, he closed the hatch. ‘It was a domestic dispute that turned ugly. The crack-head boyfriend has his girlfriend and their two kids hostage. I’d tracked down his mother and she was on the way to try and negotiate. It seemed like we’d be able to bring things to a good solution. We had an open line; the kid was more scared than angry and knew he’d made a series of stupid mistakes. The SWAT team was in place, just in case. When his mother got there I went down to brief her. Cosway must have been waiting for me to leave. The minute my back was turned, he gave the order to storm the apartment. The kid panicked, he shot his girlfriend and then took himself out. The children saw the whole thing. I was with his mother …’ Hobbs let out a slow breath. ‘In the investigation Cosway didn’t back down. He lied, and got caught at it. Said I’d ordered the SWAT team to take action. When that didn’t work, he started spouting a load of crap about not negotiating with kidnappers.’ A sudden revving of engines shut out the hum of the heat bugs. Hobbs’s head whipped around. ‘What’s going on?’
They retraced their steps back to the cabin as several vehicles roared to life. Sirens blared.
Hobbs ran toward Cosway and Zane’s Town Car, which was kicking up dust as it headed toward the road, a blue light pulsing on its dash. He planted himself directly in front of the vehicle. They slammed to a stop, nearly hitting him.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Hobbs shouted, as Cosway lowered the window.
‘Fucking waste of time!’ Cosway yelled back. ‘Our boy’s killed again. It’s all over the fucking news!’
Hobbs’s gut twisted; he braced for the worst. ‘Who?’
‘Justin fucking Green! Two hours from here! Glash wasn’t here at all. While you’ve been blowing smoke up our asses Glash just killed four more people. He’s making us look like morons. Now get out of the fucking way! And when this is over, Hobbs, I’m going to see to it personally that you take the fall for this. Move!’ he shrieked, as Zane put the car in gear.
If Hobbs hadn’t jumped out of the way he had no doubt that they’d have run him over. ‘Shit!’ he shouted, watching them roar off in the dust. His heart pounded; he’d never felt more desperate. Four more people; one was Justin Green, who the hell were the other three? He watched the dust cloud rise from the growing caravan of six black Homeland Security vehicles, an unmarked FBI sedan and four state cruisers.
‘Idiots,’ George Houssman said, as he bent on stiff knees to retrieve something from the ground where Cosway and Zane had been parked. ‘Not been here at all. Look at this.’ It was Barrett’s card.
Hobbs took the card, and hastily reassured himself that she was OK and that she’d deliberately left a clue. That was followed by the crushing realization that Glash was hours away. And he’d killed four more … who were the other three?
‘You can’t think about her,’ Houssman said, trying to calm Hobbs’s mounting panic. ‘We have to assume she’s OK, and even if God forbid she’s not … we can’t get distracted. Justin Green would be the last one accounted for,’ he said cryptically, as FBI agent Tom Anderson joined them.
‘It’s a nightmare,’ the seasoned veteran with his balding circle of graying blond hair commented. He took a look at Barrett’s card, and immediately understood its significance. ‘So what else did you find? More importantly, where do you think he’s headed next?’
Houssman stared in the direction of the fading sirens and the thick trail of dust rising through the woods. ‘He’s completed murders for Jane Saunders and Allison Tessavian. So it stands to reason that now he’ll try to put in motion Clarence Albert’s catastrophic vision.’
‘The drawings in his notebook,’ Ed Hobbs said, his mouth dry. ‘It’s what he’s been planning. We should have pushed Albert harder.’
‘It wouldn’t have worked,’ Houssman replied. ‘He was shutting down. But I think whatever Glash took he’ll need time and someplace where he won’t be disturbed.’
‘Any suggestions where?’ Tom asked.
‘It won’t be chosen at random.’
Hobbs’s cell rang. It was Atwell, the cryptolography expert who’d begun work on Albert’s manifesto. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘It’s encrypted and it has a shifting alphanumeric key. It’s crackable, but the code randomly changes every five to ten symbols. How fast do you need it?’
‘Now,’ Hobbs said. ‘Actually, ten minutes ago.’
‘I hear you. The little I’ve deciphered has a weird biblical twang. Something about Egypt.’
‘Plague,’ Houssman said. ‘Of course … That’s what the shelter was for. Albert was planning to release a resistant strain. Oh, dear God … that’s what he meant: “ashes, ashes, we’ll all fall down”.’
Thirteen
Barrett woke from a fitful sleep to the steady hum of the van’s engine,
and the hard pulse of the tires moving fast. She was exhausted, her fingers were numb and her shoulder throbbed. She ran her tongue over cracked lips and glimpsed daylight through the blue plastic that Glash had again thrown over her and Carla. He’d fed them granola bars and would periodically give them sips of bottled water. He repeatedly reminded them of how little it mattered if they lived or died. But if that were true, Barrett wondered, why hadn’t he gone ahead and killed them? It seemed a chore for him to be dragging them around. So he obviously had some purpose for them.
She looked toward Carla, who was curled in a fetal position, her head a couple of feet from Barrett’s, her mouth duct-taped, both of her eyes blackened with fresh bruises that spread down her face. Barrett watched for the rise of her chest to know that she was still breathing. Earlier this morning Barrett had felt sure that Glash was going to shoot her. He’d pistol-whipped Carla, who’d screamed as he’d forced them to witness yet another act of carnage. Worse, he’d seemed to offer them a choice, as if they were his accomplices and not his hostages.
He’d returned to the van with a handsome young man, dressed in his underwear, bound and gagged. He’d told Carla, ‘You pick. Him or you.’ It had taken Barrett a few seconds to understand who this latest victim was … Justin Green. How Glash could have managed to kidnap the pop star she had no idea, and it filled her with fresh terror. If he could get to someone like Green, who probably had security guards, how would anyone be able to stop him?
Carla had refused to answer Glash, and he’d beaten her. She’d finally managed to sob the word, ‘Him.’
And that’s when Glash proceeded to drown the teen idol in a large plastic bucket of water in the back of the van.
The poor man’s athletic body had thrashed and kicked, his head held under by Glash’s meaty hands. Water had splashed out, soaking them all; that’s when Carla had screamed.
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