Whispers of the Dead_A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  To my mother, Mary Joan Kope (Hogan).

  Thank you for the dance.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Crafting a story may be a solo venture, but preparing a book for publication is a well-choreographed group effort. I’ve been blessed to have some great people guiding me through this process, first with Collecting the Dead, and now with Whispers of the Dead. Three key movers and shakers in this endeavor are my editor, Keith Kahla, my assistant editor, Alice Pfeifer, and my brilliant agent, Kimberley Cameron. I couldn’t ask for better.

  There is also an army of unsung heroes behind the scenes, like the proofreaders, copy editors, publicists, and sales reps, not to mention those creative geniuses in the art department at Minotaur who keep coming up with gorgeous covers.

  This book is as much theirs as it is mine, and they have my profound thanks.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my wife, Lea, and my daughters, Mary, Katie, and Abby. They’ve been my biggest fans and longest supporters. And a special thanks to three friends who continue to provide me with an unending stream of insights: Detective Kevin Bowhay, Special Agent Thom LeCompte, and retired homicide detective Marc Ganow.

  Finally, thanks to my unofficial team of first editors, those family and friends who are constantly forced to read my writing and yet still consider me a friend. Thank you Cheryl, Kristin, Stephanie, Altavia, Wendy, JoAnn, and anyone else I may have forgotten.

  PROLOGUE

  Darkness—nearly complete.

  Overwhelmed and surrounded, a single incandescent bulb pushes back defiantly against the stygian black. Its feeble light barely reaches through the emptiness, but what illumination it brings reveals the length of a man secured horizontally to a low bench with leather straps and restraints.

  The man’s panicked eyes dart left and right and his fingers curl and uncurl in jerking fits; nothing else moves, such is the completeness of his bondage.

  The chamber feels cavernous and open, its ceiling and walls lost in the murk. Aside from the light and its immediate surroundings, there’s little discernible in the empty dark, just the man, the bench, an ominous black structure that looms over him … and a whisper-quiet shadow that moves about without word or worry.

  The shadow glides this way and that, checking bindings, tinkering with machinery, tending its business. The smell of blood and fear flavors the air.

  When all is ready, all but one small thing, the shadow pauses to study his victim with unseen eyes. Moving closer, he walks a slow, ritual circle around the binding bench, pausing one last time to check a strap. The victim’s gaze follows every move, his eyes wide with horror. Indistinguishable sounds issue from someplace deep in his throat, no doubt begging, pleading, for mercy.

  The shadow stands still for a long moment, and then, slowly, it moves even closer and a face presses forward from the gloom. For the first time the shadow is recognized as human—all but the eyes; they surrendered their humanity long ago. With deliberation, the shadow opens its mouth and breathes out four whispered words: “Thou shalt not kill.”

  Utter silence follows, and then the shadow smiles. A single metallic click breaks the darkness, instantly followed by the scraping whoosh of steel coming to life. The sound lasts but a moment, the screaming … much longer.

  What was a human bound to a bench becomes a writhing creature, wailing in agony, shrieking in pain, straining against bonds that simply will not give.

  The shadow watches.

  Intolerable seconds pass into a nightmare of minutes and the creature weakens, falling into delirium; his cries soften until all that’s left is a final push of whispered air from spent lungs … and then all is still.

  Thou shalt not kill.

  In the cavernous darkness there remain but two sounds: the steady drip drip drip from the tainted bench, and the quiet, measured breath of the shadow.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Interstate 5, Southbound from Bellingham—September 2, 11:47 A.M.

  The siren wails its lonely dirge.

  It’s a mournful song, rising and falling, and I know every musical pitch of it by heart. The red and blue emergency lights flash in accompaniment, reflecting off signs and windows, but there is no synchronization to this oft-repeated play. The lights and the siren coexist because they must, though they don’t always dance together.

  They are the harbingers—the raven and the lightning; bearers of bad news or bad deeds. Today it’s both.

  Jimmy—that’s my partner, FBI Special Agent James Donovan—weaves the black Ford Expedition expertly through the parting sea of traffic as we make our way south on Interstate 5, past Lake Samish and eventually into the flat farmland of Skagit County. The speedometer reads ninety-seven; I try to ignore it.

  Jimmy is riding the left shoulder now.

  It’s clear as far as the eye can see and traffic is pressing to the right to get out of the way. Motorists stare from their vehicles as we pass, and the draft from the SUV shakes the smaller cars. As we continue south and the drone of the siren begins to fade, the sea of people in our wake share a common emotion: relief.

  The raven has passed them by.

  The lightning didn’t find them.

  Someone else wasn’t so lucky.

  Three hours ago, Burlington PD responded to a residence on Ash Way and found the body of Krystal Ballard on her living room floor, her life drained out on the beige carpet in a series of red stains. The cause of death: stabbing. And not the typical two or three jabs, either. She had been stabbed in the chest eleven times.

  Eleven times!

  Two or three is a kill—eleven is overkill.

  Overkill speaks of anger or jealousy or revenge; it speaks volumes about the killer. I’ve seen it before, the sudden outflow of emotion at the point of a knife, relentless and punishing, until the wielder gets tired of hearing the soft wet thud of the blade and steps back to stare at the mess he’s wrought.

  It’s almost always a he.

  Knife work takes strength. It’s personal and up close.

  It comes as no surprise that the ex-husband is already in custody—that’s what happens when you drop your cell phone during the commission of a crime. CSI found it on the living room floor halfway under the couch. It’s surprising how often that happens: someone drops a cell phone, a wallet, even court papers.

  “Why, exactly, are we going to a crime that’s already been solved?” I ask Jimmy as we race down the freeway. The baying of the siren and the roar of air rushing past the SUV are giving me a headache; Jimmy just takes it in stride.

  “It’s complicated,” he says after a moment.

  “Really? That’s your best response?”

  He glances at me quickly, annoyed, and then turns his attention back to the road. “I got a call from a friend,” he says. “He’s a detective with the Skag
it County Sheriff’s Office.”

  I wait for more.

  I wait for the friend’s name, or the special circumstances of the case, or the reason the unnamed friend needs a tracker when the body has already been recovered and a suspect is in custody, but there’s nothing but silence from the driver’s seat.

  “And?” I finally blurt when I can take it no longer.

  Jimmy stiffens in his seat, but doesn’t say anything. He can drive ninety-seven miles an hour on a crowded freeway and look like he’s relaxing in a hot tub, but I press him for info and suddenly his spine goes rigid and his knuckles turn white around the steering wheel.

  That’s his tell.

  Now I know something’s up. Jimmy’s not the secretive type, especially when it comes to tracking. Whatever it is, it’s going to be bad, maybe even really bad. I open my mouth to press him further, but before the words come out, Jimmy cuts me off.

  “Leave it be, Steps,” he insists. “I don’t know enough to give you the full brief, all right? I know just enough to piss you off, and I don’t need that right now. We’ll be there in a couple minutes and then we’ll both know a little more.” With that off his chest, he relaxes a little and gives me a forced smile, saying, “Cross my heart.”

  Cross my heart!

  I was wrong; it’s a catastrophe.

  * * *

  The two-story houses are lined up like dominoes on each side of the quiet street, each identical to the one next door and across the road except for paint scheme and the personalized décor spilled out upon the flower beds and yards.

  It’s a neighborhood of twenty-four cookie-cutter houses on twenty-four miniature lots, with twenty-four double-car garages opening onto two alleys, one behind each row of homes.

  The regimented sameness of the neighborhood has its little charms—emphasis on little. It’s the type of neighborhood where barbecue grills are standard, where kids play ball in the street until annoying hours of the night, and where having a car up on blocks in your driveway for more than a day is a stoning offense.

  As soon as we turn onto the street I spot our destination. It’s the tenth cookie-cutter on the right, a charming clone dressed in forest-green with tan trim that looks like it has a hint of olive blended in.

  The yellow police tape is not part of the décor.

  Neither is the mobile command vehicle parked in front, nor the dozen marked and unmarked patrol vehicles scattered along the street and down the back alley, enveloping the crime scene in a dizzying kaleidoscope of flashing lights.

  Jimmy pulls his black FBI-issued Ford Expedition to the curb and puts it in park. A few of the neighbors glance our way briefly, but then the crime scene draws their eyes back. Even though there’s nothing to see, they stand on their lawns and watch the sad green house at the end of the street.

  I start to get out and Jimmy grabs my arm, pulling me back into the SUV. “What’s up?” I say, glancing down at the four fingers and thumb gripping my forearm like a vise.

  “Just … tread softly,” Jimmy says.

  “Tread softly?” I scrutinize Jimmy through half-closed eyes, my head tilted back as I stare down my nose at him. “Now, why do I suddenly have this little itch at the base of my skull? Maybe it’s time to fill in some of those details?”

  Jimmy’s mouth is tight and pushed to the left. His words come in slow, cautious chunks. “Fine. There are two things you need to know. First, this search … it’s not exactly … official.”

  “What’s that mean, not exactly?”

  “We weren’t invited,” Jimmy blurts, “not officially.”

  A smile creeps up my cheek. “We weren’t invited.” I give a little nod and Jimmy’s already shaking his head. He knows what’s coming. “Yes, that’s interesting,” I continue. “So, then, Mr. Protocol, Mr. FBI-to-the-Core, what are we doing here if it’s not official, if we weren’t invited?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I tread more softly when I know the facts,” I say.

  Jimmy turns to face me. “You really can be a pain—” He suddenly stops and points through the windshield. “Here he comes; he can tell you himself.”

  “Wait, what about the second thing? You said there are two things I need to know.”

  Jimmy’s already out the door, but hesitates. For a moment it looks like he’s going to slam the door and pretend he didn’t hear me, but then he sticks his head in the gap and speaks so fast he sounds like an announcer reading the legal disclaimer at the end of a drug commercial: “Hector Pastori is incident commander. He’s inside the command vehicle and doesn’t know we’re here, so be quiet and move quickly.”

  The door slams.

  Hector Pastori!

  I sit and stare out the windshield as a twitch starts in my left eye and works its way to the right. It was smart of Jimmy not to tell me; if he had, I’d be back at Hangar 7 right now watching a movie in the break room.

  There’s nothing wrong with Hector that a weeklong colonoscopy wouldn’t cure. He suffers from chronic envy, the constipated kind that you just can’t get rid of. We first met years ago on a search-and-rescue mission in Mount Rainer National Park that was getting national media attention. He’s a good man-tracker, I’ll give him that, and up until the point when I arrived he was enjoying all the attention.

  Our relationship since has been, well, strained.

  It’s not my fault if I made him look stupid.

  The higher Hector rises through the ranks and the more authority he has, the more he seems to focus in on me whenever our paths cross, which, thankfully, isn’t often.

  I watch Jimmy cross around to the front passenger side, where he leans against the fender. A man wearing a crisp white shirt, burgundy tie, dark gray slacks, and black shoes sloppy from the rain is crossing the lawn in our direction. On his belt is a gold detective’s badge, but the brown paper shopping bag he carries by the handle is not department-issued.

  As he draws near he glances nervously over his right shoulder at the command vehicle, and I realize he’s part of the unofficial noninvitation. Intrigued, I step quickly from the SUV and join Jimmy at the fender just as the detective comes up and extends a welcoming hand.

  “Nice to see you, Kevin,” Jimmy says, taking the hand and shaking firmly.

  “Thanks for coming,” the detective replies. “It means a lot.”

  Jimmy throws a thumb in my direction. “Kevin, this is Operations Specialist Magnus Craig. He’s our lead tracker.”

  “Magnus,” Kevin says, repeating the name so he won’t forget it. It’s a good memory trick, especially for a detective. “Thanks for coming,” he says, thrusting his hand out.

  “Call me Steps,” I say, taking his hand.

  “Steps?” He gives me a quizzical look.

  I shrug. “It’s a long story.”

  “This is an old friend of mine, Detective Kevin Mueller,” Jimmy explains. “He’s been with the Skagit County Sheriff’s Office probably longer than he cares to remember. We used to be on the same softball team.”

  “Softball? When were you on a softball team?”

  “During a different life,” Jimmy replies dryly. He scowls up at the ugly, weeping sky a moment before turning his eyes back to the crime scene. “Why don’t you tell us why we’re here, Kevin?”

  He does.

  It’s the same old script: love betrayed, money pilfered, and murder most heinous, just retold a different way—and Kevin doesn’t spare the details. As it turns out, the suspect, Archie Everard, is a high school friend of his and, according to him, incapable of harming a soul, despite his six-foot-six linebacker build.

  “He’s a gentle giant,” Kevin says, wearing out an already overused cliché.

  I’ve heard it all before, the same sentiment, the same conviction, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s to never underestimate the dark shadow that lies upon every human heart. Sometimes it’s small and buried deep, other times it’s all-consuming.

  Every so-called gentle
giant is just one beanstalk away from becoming a raging titan.

  Archie Everard has every reason to be a raging titan. Four years ago he married Krystal Moon Beam—yeah, her parents were hippies—and for the first year he thought life couldn’t get any better.

  Then Krystal convinced him to sell a forty-acre blueberry field for a hefty sum. Archie had other fields, two hundred and thirty-five acres’ worth, so the loss of the smaller parcel wasn’t a big blow to his farming operation, but it was land that had been in the family for eight decades. The sale came with a lot of personal guilt on Archie’s part.

  It wasn’t long before the money started to disappear from the happy couple’s investment fund in five-thousand- and ten-thousand-dollar chunks. By the time Archie discovered the loss, $655,000 had been siphoned off. When he confronted Krystal about the withdrawals she didn’t even blink.

  “She broke his heart,” Kevin says. “Told Archie she wanted a divorce, which he gave her, with a verbal agreement that she return half the money. She didn’t, of course. She moved here”—he lifts his chin at the house—“and then six months later she marries this guy from Seattle named John Ballard.”

  “Ballard?” Jimmy chews the name. “Where’s he?”

  “According to the neighbor, he spent last night at his condo in Seattle, something about an early audition today.”

  “Audition?”

  “He’s an actor,” Kevin replies.

  “So he’s unemployed,” I say.

  Kevin laughs; it’s short, but from the belly. It’s a good laugh, the kind that puts a smile on your face. “Yeah,” the detective says, “I think that qualifies as unemployed. He used to deal blackjack at the casino, but that didn’t last long. We asked Seattle PD to do the death notification a couple hours ago. Last I heard, one of their support officers was driving him up here.” He glances at his watch. “They should be here anytime now.”

  “How can we help, Kevin?” Jimmy asks. “Archie’s already under arrest. I’ve got to think they have more than just the cell phone.”