"Quincey, it's so good to see you," she said softly.
"It's good to be seen, Libby. At least by you."
As they walked toward the main terminal building, Morris leaned closer and said, "By the way, I spent the last half hour checking out all the people in the immediate area of your gate. I don't have your infallible instincts, but I didn't see anybody who looked like trouble."
"That's good, she said. "I've had enough trouble for a while."
"Did you check a bag?"
"I had to. Some of my gear might raise a few eyebrows if I tried to take it through one of the security checkpoints, and I have no desire to have my name end up on some watch list."
"Or witch list."
"That, too. I just hope my suitcase didn't end up in Omaha, or someplace."
They entered the terminal and followed the signs to the luggage carousels. Neither of them noticed the man, holding an open copy of Forbes magazine, who was seated in a position where he could watch everyone who came out from that set of gates. Once he determined where the man and the woman were heading, Charlie Strom stood up and followed, pulling a phone/walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket.
Strom was a big man, and he walked aggressively, as if there were people determined to get in his way and he was equally determined that they weren't going to succeed. Apart from the walk, the only thing distinctive about him was his hair, which was white on the sides and dark on top. On someone twenty years younger, it might have been a fashion statement, but in Strom's case it was a genetic quirk that showed up in his family every other generation or so. Being conspicuous was a bad thing in his line of work, but some perverse pride kept him from dyeing it a uniform color. Most of the people who learned what he did for a living didn't usually get much time to ponder his appearance, anyway.
Strom held the device to his ear, his big paw covering it to muffle what might come through the earpiece, and pushed the "Talk" button.
"Lee." He made his rough voice as soft as he could.
Another voice, male and a little higher than Strom's, came back almost instantly. "Yeah."
"She's heading toward the baggage claim. And she's got some guy with her."
After a moment, the voice came back. "Cop?"
"Hard to say. He's too well-dressed for CPD. Could be federal, maybe."
"Shit."
"Yeah, I know."
"Well, you weren't gonna burn her in there, anyway. Too many eyes." Another pause. "What you gonna do?"
"If he's a Fed, he won't be alone. He'll have somebody in a car waiting. I'm gonna hang back, see where they go once they pick up her bag. Stay loose, kid."
"Gotcha, Charlie."
"And be ready to move--fast."
There is an elegant, expensive apartment building in Philadelphia's Main Line area. It boasts state-of-the-art security--and, unlike many such places, the boast is justified. This is why Hannah Widmark lives there. It is vital to her that her dwelling space, and its contents, be protected while she is away. When she is at home, of course, no extra protection is necessary.
In contrast to the building's ritzy façade, Hannah's apartment is stark, even Spartan. Her bed is a mattress on the floor. Her desk, which is also where she takes her meals, is a card table, with a folding metal chair behind it. There is no television, radio, or any other form of entertainment to be found there.
Despite the general sparseness, there are two areas of the apartment where money has been spent generously. One is the large steel gun case, with its electronic lock that requires a nine-digit pass code to operate. This impregnable armoire contains firearms and ammunition, laser sights and illegal sound suppressors. It also holds a number of other objects and devices not immediately recognizable as weapons--but they are.
The other place in the apartment where Hannah has spent money is the combination exercise room and dojo. It contains one of the best exercise bikes made, a treadmill that might belong in an NFL locker room, and a Stairmaster. There is also a Bowflex machine and a selection of free weights.
In the middle of the room, hanging from the ceiling by a stout chain, is a full-size punching bag that would not look out of place in a gym where Mike Tyson used to train. Off to one side is a device shaped like the upper half of a man's torso, but made of ballistic-grade black ceramic. At various points on the dummy's chest, neck, and head are recessed lights, which wink on and off at random when the device is turned on. The idea is that someone wearing boxing gloves will try to hit the area marked by a light before it winks off and another one comes on. It operates at four speeds, and this one is set at the highest.
Hannah Widmark has broken three of them.
In the bare living room, Hannah sits cross-legged on the floor, cleaning and oiling the components of a stripped-down firearm, which she has laid out on a sheet of oilcloth. The parts comprise an M-40A3 rifle, the model that has been issued to Marine Corps snipers since 2003. It is not available for sale to the general public.
On the mantle opposite from where Hannah sits is a rare touch of domesticity: next to a small stuffed toy bear with a dirty face, there are two photos in polished wooden frames. One shows a man and woman side by side, arms around each other's waist. The other shows the same man and woman in a group shot with two children--a girl and a boy, who appear to be about six and eight years old, respectively. The woman in the photos bears a striking resemblance to Hannah Widmark, but she differs from the woman sitting on the floor in two significant ways: she does not have the long scar that runs along Hannah's left jaw line, and she is smiling.
The cell phone on the carpet next to Hannah rings. She opens it, glances at the display, then puts it to her ear and says, "Yes?" Pause. "Yes, I'm available." Another, longer pause. "Let's not discuss it on the phone. I'll be there tomorrow, and I'll meet you wherever you like, any public place. And bring a picture of her with you." Pause. "Yes, I understand that she's dead." Hannah's gaze shifts to the framed pictures across the room, and something passes across her hard face so fast it might never have been there at all. "Bring a picture anyway."
Chapter 8
"Annie Levesque, huh?" Detective Pierre "Pete" Premeaux looked across his desk at the two FBI agents and shook his head slowly. "Crazy Annie."
"Is that what people call her?" Colleen O'Donnell asked. "Crazy Annie?"
"Some do." Premeaux picked a Starbucks cup out of the clutter on his desk and drained what was left of the contents. "But not to her face."
Fenton nodded. "We'd heard that the locals are wary of her," he said. "We were wondering why."
Premeaux crumpled the cup, tossed it toward a wastebasket twenty feet away, and missed. "No disrespect intended, Agents, but why do you care?"
"She's beginning to look like a viable suspect in a couple of unsolved homicides," Colleen told him.
Premeaux stared at her. "Those two kids," he said flatly. "Wilson and Dufresne."
"You don't exactly sound surprised," Fenton said.
"No, I guess I'm not," Premeaux said. "The M.O., with the organs removed like that, had 'occultist' written all over it, but there was never evidence to connect any of it with Annie."
"And yet you thought of her," Colleen said. "What prompted you to do that?"
Premeaux tilted his chair back slowly. "There was something... weird... that went down around here, about ten years ago. I was new on the force then, and it wasn't my case, anyway. But everybody was talking about it, cops and civilians both. Made the papers, too--bits of it, anyway."
"We'd heard something about that," Colleen said. "We were hoping you could enlighten us as to the details."
Premeaux looked at her, then at Fenton, then back. "You know, it occurs to me that murder ain't a federal crime."
"You're right, it's not," Fenton said. "Usually."
"But it might be," Colleen said carefully, "if it were part of a larger conspiracy involving similar murders taking place in a variety of locations, and crossing state lines."
The detective's bushy
eyebrows went up, then slowly came back down. "I'd been hearing some stuff about that, lately. Nothing official, you understand, just the grapevine." He shifted his weight and let his chair come level again. "Kids are being killed all over, aren't they? And their organs taken. While still alive."
"Officially, we're not allowed to confirm or deny that," Fenton said. "But, unofficially..." He let his voice trail off.
"If that information were to get into the media, even locally," Colleen said, "it would land us in some seriously deep shit with our boss."
"Yeah, I follow," Premeaux said. "You don't got to worry about that. Not with me." Then he swiveled his chair toward his computer's keyboard. "Let me take a quick look at the file. Don't want to get my facts wrong."
A few minutes later, he turned back to face them. "It was eleven years ago," he said. "I was close."
"Something about kids egging her car, wasn't it?" Colleen said.
"Yeah, and not just hers. These four junior high assholes decide it'd be fun to throw eggs at a bunch of parked cars. So, one Friday night, a little after dark, they stop at Price Chopper, buy four cartons of eggs, and head for the K-Mart, which is close by. The place is still open, there's quite a few cars parked in the lot, and so these morons let fly. All four cartons worth. Then they take off, most likely giggling like schoolgirls."
"Being an asshole comes easy at that age," Fenton said. "Adult level of testosterone meets kid-level judgment."
"Yeah, tell me about it," Premeaux said. "Lots of us do stupid shit at that age, but most of us don't deserve to die like those kids did."
"So, what happened, exactly?" Colleen asked.
"Well, as you probably figured out already, one of those cars that got egged was Annie's, that old Caddie she was driving back then. The responding officer took down the license numbers of the cars with egg on 'em, in case the owners wanted to press charges, later."
"Pressing charges assumes the perps are in custody," Fenton said. "If I can use the word 'perp' to refer to kiddy shit like this."
"Oh, they were in custody quick enough," Premeaux said. "One of them was ID'd by a neighbor, who was driving into the lot just as the kids were tear-assing out. She reported what she'd seen, once she heard about what had happened. The kid was brought in for questioning. I wasn't there, but I imagine they had a confession out of him in five minutes, and the names of the other kids in five more. Kids that age, they don't usually stand up too well to pressure."
Fenton smiled, a little. "Not exactly hardened criminals, huh?"
"Never been in trouble before, any of them. So, you can imagine how it went for them."
"Um, I'm guessing community service and a stern talking-to from the judge," Colleen said.
"Yeah, pretty much," Premeaux said. "I think their parents had to pay for a bunch of car washes, and those kids were probably grounded until they were, like, thirty." He stopped, and the levity was gone from his voice when he went on, "Or they would've been, if they'd lived that long."
"So how does Annie Levesque tie into this?" Colleen asked. "I mean, apart from the fact that her car was one of those that got egged."
"Here's where it starts to get weird," Premeaux said. "As part of their punishment, each kid was ordered by the judge to write a letter of apology to every one of the car owners involved. Me, I might've said one letter per person, and all four kids sign it. But the judge wanted to make it tough, I guess. So, each of those kids wrote a letter to Annie Levesque saying how sorry he was, just like they wrote to seventeen other people. Now, I figure the other seventeen read the letters, tossed 'em, and that was that. But the ones sent to Annie all came back, marked Return to Sender."
"Wrong address?" Fenton asked.
"Nope, it was her mailing address, all right, same one she's used for years and years. Now, some of this stuff I'm gonna tell you wasn't in the report, but it's things I heard at the time, from other cops, okay?"
Fenton shrugged. "Sure, fine."
"You'd assume that the post office had sent the letters back unopened. But when the kids, or their parents, opened the envelopes, there were a couple of things different. One was that each kid's signature had been cut off from the bottom of the letter."
"Oh, dear," Colleen said. Premeaux looked a question at her, but she shook her head.
"The other difference was something that had been added. Each envelope contained a white feather."
Fenton shifted in his chair, which drew Premeaux's attention. "That mean something to you?"
"Nothing important," Fenton said, but his face suggested otherwise. "It's just that a white feather is used as the symbol of a curse in some schools of voudoun."
The detective peered at him. "That right? And how'd you get to know about stuff like that?"
"I told you we work in Behavioral Science," Fenton said. "Some of the crimes we investigate have occult... aspects to them."
"Yeah, I bet they do," Premeaux said, then looked at Colleen. "And how about you, Agent O'Donnell? What was so interesting about the signatures being cut from the letters?"
"In order to curse someone in black magic, whether voudoun or some other tradition, you usually need something from the intended victim. Hair, nail clippings, clothing. Or a signature."
Premeaux nodded slowly. "Working for that Behavioral Science Unit must be even more interesting than I'd have thought."
"It has its moments," Colleen said. "So, what happened to the four kids?"
"A few days later, they took sick. Real sick. All four of them. Terrible pain in their bellies. Parents probably thought appendicitis, and there were calls to 911, followed by some fast trips to the hospital, where the docs did every damn test they could think of. And they came up with zip. Zilch. Nada."
"The poor kids," Fenton said. "Hell, the poor parents."
"And to make things worse, none of the painkillers they tried at the hospital did any good. Hell, they were even giving those kids the drugs they use with terminal cancer patients. No effect at all. Two days later, the kids died." Premeaux glanced at his computer screen. "No, sorry, one lasted for three. Cause of death as listed as--"
"Let me guess," Fenton said quietly. "Either stroke, cardiac arrest, or they went into shock."
There was silence in the room, until Premeaux said, "And just how the fuck did you know that?"
"I didn't, but it wasn't hard to guess. I know more than I ever wanted to about death by torture," Fenton told him. "And, if there's no significant blood loss or damage to a major organ, most torture victims go out one of those three ways. It's the body's way of reacting to pain it can't stand anymore. For the lucky ones, it happens sooner, rather than later."
"I hope you won't take offense, Agent Fenton, if I tell you that's information I hope never to have to think about again."
"I don't blame you at all," Fenton said. "So, what killed those poor kids?"
"Two went into shock, one had a stroke, and the last one's heart just gave out."
The room was quiet again. Then Colleen O'Donnell said, "You know what we're going to have to do, don't you?"
"Pay a call on Annie Levesque," Premeaux said.
"And sooner," Fenton said, "rather than later."
Libby Chastain's suitcase was a big, battered square of Samsonite that had gone out of style when Ronald Reagan was president.
"Every time I travel with you," Morris said, "I keep hoping you've invested in some new luggage. The fashion these days is for soft bags, you know. Absorbs the bumps better."
"There's stuff in here that shouldn't be absorbing any bumps, at all," Libby said. "As you have reason to know."
"Smartass remark hereby withdrawn," he said, grabbing the thing off the baggage carousel. As they started toward the exit marked "Ground Transportation," Morris said, "You know, I've never asked why it doesn't offend your feminist principles for me to carry this beast for you."
"I look at it as exploiting the oppressor," she said, with a sweet smile.
Outside, as they wait
ed their turn for a taxi, Libby asked, "So, where are we going to meet your friend, Harry?"
"There's a pub near his office where he likes to hang out. He said he'd be there most of today. At least, that what I think he said. When I called him, the connection was full of static, and then the line went dead entirely. Technology tends to flake out fast then Harry's using it. He said once that his magical aura, or something, is what does it."
Libby nodded pensively. "Yes, in his magical tradition, I can see how that would be a problem. Wizards of his type carry a lot of energy around them."
"Yeah they're not gentle souls, like you Wiccans."
"Ha!" Libby said, as a taxi pulled up in front of them. "Bring the bag, slave."
"That didn't sound very gentle."
Charlie was walking fast as he pressed the "send" button on the walkie-talkie. "Lee."
"Yo."
"They're in line for a cab. Pull up to the exit just behind the taxi stand. You know the one I mean?"
"Be there in three, big man."
It was more like two minutes later when the stolen Oldsmobile they were using pulled up to the curb in front of Charlie, who wasted no time scrambling into the passenger's seat.
"They're next in line for a cab. See them--the woman with the green top and the tall guy in the suit?"
"Yeah, I got 'em now." Lee was younger than Charlie, and skinnier. His hair was swept back in a pompadour that Elvis might have envied. He had on the Wayfarer sunglasses that he wore day and night, indoors and out. "I see what you mean about that guy," Lee said. "He's not local law, not with those threads."
"And if he was a Fed, he'd have a car, and another Fed to drive it."
"So what do we do, man?"
"Follow, wait for a good chance, then burn 'em."
"The guy, too?"
"He gets in the way, he gets in the way. Tough luck. You're not getting soft on me, are you?"
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