The Immortals

by J. T. Ellison

  When they were twenty yards from the sheds, Taylor saw Max begin to vibrate. “Something here,” Simari said.

  “Yeah, no kidding. Does he have different signs for different kinds of drugs?”

  “No, but he’ll bark when he hits something he knows. He’s great with pot and cocaine.”

  Taylor could smell the acrid scent of acetone, and stopped. “How’s he do with meth?” she asked, just as Max let out a vicious howl.

  “He’s pretty good with that, too,” Simari said, eyebrow raised in a dry salute.

  Thirty-Four

  Max had been right on the money.

  The three sheds in the back of the Johnsons’ property held a sophisticated methamphetamine lab. After a quick glance inside, Taylor pulled back and got the warrant amended, called in the experts from the Narcotics Unit to come and take the lab apart. Meth labs were tricky, dangerous territory for those who didn’t know what they were doing—and not much better for those who did. She glanced into all three sheds carefully. Two held all the tubes and barrels she recognized, all flammable, with box after empty box of pseudoephedrine thrown into the overflowing trash cans. The last shed was equipped as a chemistry lab. For cooking up batches of dosed Ecstasy, perhaps? She put a priority rush on everything.

  Mr. Johnson had said his son was a chemical engineer. He obviously wasn’t too soft in the head if he could still cook meth.

  She went back to the house. The commotion had Mr. Johnson upset—McKenzie was trying to get him calmed down. Taylor caught his eye and signaled for him to come join her.

  A few moments later, they were standing on the porch of the Johnson house.

  “Meth lab in the back,” she said. “Has he given anything more on Barent?”

  “Either he’s a twisted old man and a brilliant liar, or he really does turn the other cheek.”

  “Probably a bit of both. Marcus find anything?”

  “Yeah. You should probably go on up there. I’ll keep Mr. Johnson from getting in the way. We’re going to be late for Ariadne.”

  Two large, white vans were pulling into the driveway. The drug boys were here. Taylor hoped they didn’t all get blown up.

  “Lincoln can handle her for the time being. I’m willing to bet money that this is the source of our tainted drugs. The third shed looks like a chemistry lab. I’ll bet that’s where the Ecstasy came from.”

  “That would be a nice coup, wouldn’t it?” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

  “But why in the world would he turn himself in, knowing we’d come up here and find all this?”

  “Honestly, I think the man is in a bad way. From what his father tells me, he’s had a terrible time since he got back from the war. Apparently, he was the sole survivor of a tank explosion—the tank got hit by a SCUD missile. They were providing cover for his unit and it all went to smash. He mustered out after the war, but he’s never been the same since that event. He went steadily downhill from there. Gulf War syndrome is tricky—they don’t know if it’s caused by something that was in the air over there, a bacterial infection, heavy metals, chemical weapons or what. It can manifest physically or emotionally.

  “If he was simply unstable to start with, the loss of his comrades could be the precipitating event. He’s so far into the vampire world now that I doubt anything could pull him free. He must have had a fit of conscience, knowing he sold the drugs that killed those kids. He could have wanted to be a part of it all. I don’t know. I’ll have to get his VA records pulled and talk to his treatment doctors there to get a full picture.”

  “So where is his tie to our suspects?”

  “That’s what we have to find out. Juri Edvin got his drugs from somewhere.”

  “Possibly Barent? They run in the same crowd, most likely, if they’re both into the vampire scene. It can’t be that expansive here in Nashville.”

  “Probably. You’d be surprised at just how pervasive these countercultures are.”

  “Okay. I’m going to go see what Marcus has, and then we can start heading back into town.”

  She went inside through the kitchen to the foyer. She took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. She could hear Marcus, followed his voice down a long hall to the third bedroom on the right. She turned in and stopped dead.

  The room was draped in black-and-red velvet, with photographs of wide, gaping mouths, fangs dripping with blood, throats thrown open in a scream, every few inches. The effect was startling. She felt like she was about to be bitten, eaten, from every corner. A huge canopied tester bed—probably brass once, but painted black—with black sheets and pillows, stood in the center of the maelstrom of mouths. She risked a quick glance under the canopy—yes, more mouths there.

  The room smelled like old things, rotting blood and moldy leaves, overlaid with some sort of sickly sweet incense. Taylor breathed through her mouth, looking around.

  Marcus was sitting at a desk that was covered in a shaggy black fur throw, the computer on and running.

  “This is…interesting,” she said, chills running up and down her spine. “It stinks in here.”

  “No kidding. I feel like I need a shower, and I haven’t touched anything but the keyboard. I’ve got the creeps sitting in here. We should just take the computer with us—it’s loaded with information. Looks like Barry is a first-class drug dealer. He keeps transactional analyses of what’s working and what isn’t, listings of buyers and resellers. And lots of vampire shit.”

  “Did you see any familiar names on that list?”

  “Yep. Juri Edvin’s on there. So’s Susan Norwood, though they both go by their nicknames, Thorn and Ember.”

  “Bingo,” Taylor said. “That should be enough to rearrest Susan Norwood, right?”

  “We’ll have to prove that Susan Norwood and Ember are one and the same, but yeah, there’s enough here to send her away for a long time.”

  “Excellent. That’s easy enough—the Edvins only know her as Ember. They should be able to ID her with no problem. Is Barent making all of his own drugs, or is he buying, too? It would be nice to give the Specialized Investigative Unit a cut of this.”

  “I can’t tell that. This is just what he’s selling and to whom. I’ve already called Gerald Sayers—they’re waiting for us. He wanted in.”

  “Great. This is right up his alley. Okay, grab the computer. Do we need to amend the warrant to include anything else?”

  “No. I’ve already called Tim Davis, asked him to ride on up here and do a search. He can bag and tag anything else that we need. I think we need to get back and get to work on this. We’re awfully close.”

  He flashed her a grin, looking younger than his years, and she felt herself grinning back. A good morning, all in all.

  Thirty-Five

  Quantico

  November 2

  Baldwin hated fighting with Taylor.

  Having to tell her about Fitz over the phone was a catastrophe. He should have called Sam first, had her there. He’d heard the cracks form in Taylor’s otherwise rock-hard shell, and it made his heart break. She was the strongest woman he knew, the bravest. And the most foolhardy when her dander was up. He hoped like hell he’d gotten through to her, that she would actually listen to him and stay in Nashville. She’d promised, but he wasn’t convinced. Knowing her friend was out there in need may prove too hard for her to hold back on.

  He needed to get this hearing over with and get back to her before she did something stupid.

  He checked his watch. They were due to reconvene in twenty minutes. He needed to get a move on.

  Reever was waiting for him when he arrived.

  “What took you so long? I thought you weren’t going to show.”

  “There’s some role reversal for you, Reever. That’s how I felt yesterday.”

  “Touché.”

  “Listen, how much longer do you think this is going to go on?”

  “Depends, Doc. How much more do you have to tell them?”

  Baldw
in looked at his friend. How much more indeed. He could just sacrifice himself, fall on his sword, give them everything right now and walk away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d considered leaving the Bureau.

  But with the Pretender on the loose, he needed the full force of the FBI behind him. No, he needed to continue to tread delicately, not giving them anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. He still didn’t know what they had hanging over him, though he was starting to get an inkling. And if he was right, he was in more serious trouble than even the disciplinary board realized.

  “Baldwin, time to go in. You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  They got settled at the table. Tucker entered the room like a judge; Baldwin waited for the cry of “All rise.” Instead, Tucker actually flashed him a smile, which disconcerted Baldwin to no end. It wasn’t friendly, that was for sure.

  Tucker made sure his minions were ready, then looked down his long nose at Baldwin.

  “You may continue where we left off yesterday, Dr. Baldwin.”

  “All right. We executed the search warrant at dawn. We had such hope that we would find Kaylie Fields alive.”

  Northern Virginia

  June 17, 2004

  Baldwin

  Harold Arlen came to the door outrigged in a terry cloth robe over short blue-striped pajamas, moose hide slippers and a glass of orange juice. Every piece coordinated, he looked like any other suburban guy who’d been startled out of his morning routine.

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded.

  The Fairfax County detective held up a sheaf of papers. “We have a warrant to search the premises. Please stand back, Mr. Arlen.”

  “Search? For what? I haven’t done anything. What the hell is this about?”

  “There’ve been a number of little girls gone missing over the past few weeks, and—”

  Arlen’s mouth fell open. “You think I’m the Clockwork Killer? Are you daft, man? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  The air crackled, the situation’s intensity ratcheting up. Baldwin and Charlotte stayed back. This was the Fairfax Homicide boys’ show. Goldman was there, overseeing his detectives as they served the warrant. Arlen’s probation officer was there, too. When they pushed into the house, moving Arlen out of the way, his PO grabbed him and held him aside. That didn’t help his temper at all—his fury and indignation continued to explode. He met Baldwin’s eye like he knew who was behind this, and Baldwin felt the implicit threat. He just smiled. They were going to wrap this up today. Maybe, just maybe, little Kaylie would be found before it was too late.

  A deep rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Baldwin couldn’t see very far. They were sandwiched in the cloister of houses, but the weather forecast called for severe storms today. Just what they needed—rain to hamper the search efforts.

  Baldwin saw the curtains twitch across the street at the Kilmeades’ house. The door opened a few seconds later. Mr. Kilmeade came out onto the porch, fully dressed despite the early hour, the scowl on his face evident from a distance. He started down the stairs, intent. Baldwin broke away from the group to head him off. He met him at the bottom of the drive. Kilmeade had built up a head of steam, Baldwin actually had to put out an arm to stop him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t go over there.”

  “What’s happening? Is Harry being arrested?”

  “They’re executing a search warrant. Arlen broke his parole when he had contact with your daughter. They have to look at every angle in this case, and Arlen fits.”

  Kilmeade was shaking in fury. “That’s a lot of preconceived bull. I told you, Harry wouldn’t hurt a child. It’s not in his nature. And how dare you use my dead child in this case? What is she, just a means to an end? She’s not alive to defend herself, to explain. How dare you?”

  “I’m sorry this upsets you, Mr. Kilmeade. But right now, we need to stay back and let the police do their job. Why don’t we go back into your house and have a cup of coffee?”

  Kilmeade shook his head. “No. You’re not welcome in my home. You’ve used me and my family to further your sordid goals. I’m going back in and calling a lawyer. You don’t have the right to come in and railroad Harry just because he fits your idea of what a killer should look like.”

  “Mr. Kilmeade,” Baldwin started, but the man ripped his arm away and stormed back into his house. Great. Just what they needed, more lawyers involved.

  Baldwin went back across the street. Charlotte met him at the door, a huge grin on her face.

  “What is it? Did you find Kaylie?”

  “No, we didn’t. But he’s got kiddie porn galore on his computer. It was open—we must have interrupted his morning constitutional. More than just dabbling, it looks like he might be trafficking, as well. And there’s pictures of all of our victims too, including Kaylie, and several other girls we don’t recognize.”

  “Then we’ve got him!” Baldwin had to resist sweeping Charlotte into a hug. He settled for squeezing her hand. This was fantastic news.

  “But there’s no sign of Kaylie, or where he might be holding her?”

  “No. This is going to take a while. They’ve Mirandized Arlen. Goldman is having him transported back to Fairfax County for interrogation.”

  “Has he lawyered up?”

  “Not yet, though his PO is going insane. He insists he’s innocent. Arlen says he has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Don’t they all. Kilmeade, from across the street? He’s pretty fired up, said he was going to call a lawyer on Arlen’s behalf. So be prepared. Homicide is taking care of the families, right? Do we need to be along for that?”

  “No, we’re good there. They’ve got it covered. We can keep focused on helping find Kaylie.”

  Baldwin nodded. “Okay. I want to do a walk-through of the house, get a feel for things, and I want to be there when they do the interrogation. There’s still something we’re missing.”

  “I figured as much. Goldman said he’d give you a ride whenever you’re ready. It’s going to take a bit to get Arlen processed anyway. I’ll stick around here, if that’s okay with you. I want to see what else they might find.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll see you back in Quantico, then.”

  Thirty-Six

  Nashville

  12:00 p.m.

  The mood on the ride back to the CJC was triumphant. Taylor called Commander Huston and told her about the morning’s events, got a nice attagirl that left her feeling good. They were getting close, getting very, very close.

  Lincoln met them at the door to Homicide, his grin ear to ear. Even the space between his two front teeth looked cheerful. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Got it,” he said.

  “Got what?” Taylor said, discarding her leather jacket behind the door to her office.

  “The IP address of the video uploads. I cross-referenced the IP addresses the video-sharing sites gave me and got a match to one here in Nashville. Right now, I’m looking for the actual place where the movie was uploaded. It came from Davidson County, that much I know. I’m waiting on BellSouth to give me an exact location.”

  “Oh, that’s great news. How long, do you think?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Fantastic work, Lincoln. Really.”

  “I’m also collating some reports for you from the autopsies. Hang tight, I’ll be there in five minutes. Sam wants you to drop by her office this afternoon when you have a chance. She has something to show you.”

  “Gotcha, thanks. We’ve got too much stuff to cover to handle it in my office. Move everything into the conference room.”

  She felt good, that high that comes when a case is about to break free. They were forty-eight hours in and had almost all the pieces together. Good old-fashioned police work, not mind reading and other bunk.

  Ariadne stepped into the Homicide offices, the patrol escort at her elbow looking nervous. Ariadne seemed to have that effect on men, Taylor noticed.
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  Taylor nodded to her, thanked the patrol, who wiped his hand surreptitiously on his blues and backed into the corridor.

  “I’m sorry we’re so late. Why don’t we go in my office,” Taylor said.

  “All right,” Ariadne responded.

  Taylor led the woman in, then shut the door behind her.

  “You’re looking very pleased this morning,” Ariadne said.

  “It’s been a productive day so far. Listen. I have what we call a six-pack of photos that I want you to look at. You tell me if any of the men in the pictures match the one you saw at Subversion Halloween night, okay?”

  “Certainly. Anything I can do to help.”

  Taylor laid the hard sheet of paper on her desk, facing Ariadne. Six sets of eyes glared up from a white background. Ariadne sat forward, running her finger along the pictures, absorbing.

  She finally sat back. “I’m sorry. No one in those pictures is the boy I saw.”

  Taylor shook her head slightly. “Look again.” She couldn’t lead the woman, but Juri Edvin was the second from the right, top row. If she was telling the truth at all, surely she’d recognize him.

  “I’m sorry,” Ariadne said. “The boy we’re discussing isn’t in these photos.”

  Taylor felt the wind go out of her. She pulled the sheet with the females on it, handed it over.

  “What about this?” she asked.

  Ariadne was quick this time. “That’s her. Bottom right. She’s the one I saw at Subversion, the one that slapped the boy.”

  A little relief bled into Taylor’s system. At least they had a positive confirmation on Susan Norwood.

  “Okay. Would you be willing to sit down with a sketch artist to help us draw up something with the boy and the other girl that you saw?”

  “There’s really no need for that, Lieutenant.” She reached into a capacious velvet bag and pulled out a roll of parchment. “I’ve drawn them for you.”

  She unrolled the paper, the stiff vellum crackling. It was a scene from a bar, happy faces, laughing and jumping in the background. Taylor could almost hear the music that made them sway to and fro. In the center were a boy and a girl. The girl was tall, willowy, the boy ramrod straight. They looked like they were wearing masks.