by Jack Soren
“Nonsense,” Raiden said. “We are alike, you and I. We have our secrets and we know how to keep them. Now, what can I do for you?”
She pulled out one of the limited edition hardcovers of The Monarch’s Reign. It had a bookplate signed by her and an expensive leather binding and cover. Very few of them had sold, but they were Emily’s favorite of all her book’s editions. More importantly, they were also the biggest.
“Ah, how poetic,” Raiden said, eyeing the book. “What are we doing? Listening, following or watching?” Raiden asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Following,” Emily said. “With a twist. I have no idea where this will be when I need to find it, so if you can do it, I need something that I can follow, even if it’s in the next state.”
“Hmm. Long distance. Not so easy. Or cheap,” Raiden said, examining the book. “You’ll have to come back next—” Emily slapped a packet of the bills from the metal case down on the counter.
“I need this in the next hour,” Emily said.
“If you have to, you’ll be able to follow it to Iceland,” Raiden said, running his thumb across the bills.
She sighed and smiled.
“This is for a new book?” Raiden said, sounding excited. “A sequel, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Emily said. She just didn’t know where she’d be writing it—her apartment or prison.
14
Lost Lake, Florida
9:45 A.M. Local Time
JONATHAN’S CAR BOUNCED along the little-used, unpaved road, overgrown branches from the old cypress trees along the side of the road slapping at the windshield as if trying to stop him. He couldn’t blame them. He was about to dump a shot-up van into their midst where it could rot and die.
He checked his rearview mirror and for a minute thought he’d lost Lew and the van, though there really wasn’t anywhere to turn off. But if his car was having trouble with the uneven grade, he had no doubt the van was beating the hell out of his old friend. He couldn’t help but smile at that idea. Though he knew he’d pay for it once they stopped, which would be in about two minutes if he remembered right.
He hadn’t been down this road in over three years. The last time was with Samantha just before she’d gotten sick. Well, she’d always been sick, but this was just before it had started to show. Being a native of the area, Samantha knew all the nooks and crannies of the landscape, and it seemed that Florida had no shortage of nooks and crannies. Especially in the swamp forest region. It was state land, managed by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, but was an area so vast that in all the times he and Samantha had come here he’d never seen a ranger. Or another soul, for that matter.
Jonathan noticed that the temperature had dropped several degrees since they’d started down the road, which added to the feeling that they were now in a totally different world. But that feeling was par for the course when he was with Lew.
The guy was stubborn, and once he got something stuck in his head it rarely came out on its own. Jonathan knew the entire ride back, he was going to hear about Lew wanting to go to New York.
He understood why Lew was adamant about it. Lew Katchbrow had had a hard life. Aside from wanting to belong somewhere, Lew had wanted to make a difference in the world. To find a reason for being on this earth. Jonathan understood that all too well. But the fateful night they’d met in Bogotá had changed everything for both of them. What they did together in the following years was special. It had meant something, and he had to admit, if it wasn’t for Samantha and Natalie, he’d probably still be doing it. And what this psycho in New York was doing to the symbol they’d chosen—Jonathan, really—was almost physically painful for him, so he could just imagine what Lew was feeling.
But in the end, there was Natalie, and nothing mattered now but her.
Finally, the car broke free of the forest’s grasp and was bathed in warm morning sunshine. Jonathan drove a little farther across the sandy rim until he could see their destination below: Lost Lake. He parked and got out of the car, leaning on the side and staring out at the lake while he waited for Lew and the van. It was only a minute or two before Lew came roaring out of the trees. He skidded to a stop and seemed to hunch over the wheel catching his breath. Jonathan suppressed a smile.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lew said, getting out of the van and slamming the door. “Are we dumping the van or just beating it into submission?”
Jonathan knew Lew had more to say, but when he got close enough to see the lake behind Jonathan the frustration fell from his face. A look of awe replaced it and he was quiet while he tried to take in the panorama before him.
“Jesus,” Lew said quietly, emotion in his voice. This place had that effect on people. Jonathan wondered if maybe that wasn’t the real reason he’d brought Lew here. It was one of those places you had to share with someone, but just one person. Jonathan had lost his previous confidant. And now he had another. “Are you sure you want to dump it here?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Jonathan said, tossing a rock over the edge into the lake. “It’s a crater lake. Almost a hundred feet deep.”
Lew whistled. “Let’s get going, then.”
They drove around the rim of the crater, albeit much slower than they had driven through the forest, until they were on a cliff high over the deep end of the lake. Jonathan found a large rock on the edge of the forest and wedged it onto the accelerator while the van was running in neutral. The engine revved like a screaming banshee.
“You want the honors?” Jonathan asked Lew, backing away.
“Why not?” Lew said. He made sure the wheels were straight and then reached in and grabbed the gearshift, leaning his weight out of the van so he wouldn’t go with it. “I christen thee the USS Get Me the Hell Out of Dodge,” Lew said before he slapped the shifter into drive and jumped out of the way.
The tires spun in the sand for a bit, but then the rubber dug in and the shot-up van took off, its engine sounding happy to be doing what it was supposed to do. It picked up speed and launched itself off the edge, sand smoking off the tires in an arc as it flew to its end with a tremendous splash.
They ran to the edge of the cliff to watch it. The van bobbed up and down as the ripples worked their way out and back from the landing zone. It turned on its side and for a moment they were afraid it wouldn’t sink, but then with a glurg, the vehicle filled with water and went down nose first.
As it sank out of view, Jonathan realized he hadn’t done anything like this since, well, since he’d given it all up for Samantha. He wasn’t sorry in the least, but Samantha was gone. Natalie needed him and he needed her, but if he didn’t do something with himself—something that made him feel like this—it wouldn’t be long before Natalie would want nothing to do with her lifeless father.
“I’ll do it,” Jonathan said, continuing to stare at the lake.
“Do what?” Lew asked.
“Go to New York.”
“Yes!” Lew said, putting his arm around his friend and giving him a half hug as they continued to watch the lake ripple. “I knew you—”
“This can’t touch Natalie in the slightest. I mean it,” Jonathan said sternly, waggling a finger at Lew.
“Of course. Of course. Come on, this is Uncle Lew you’re talking to,” Lew said.
Just then something bobbed up from under the surface of the lake. They both leaned in and realized it was the pine coffin from the back of the van. The bullet holes had made it a boat of sorts and it sat pristine on top of the water. Jonathan slowly turned and looked at Lew.
“Let’s pretend we didn’t see that,” Lew said.
“Works for me.”
15
Federal Plaza
New York City
10:00 A.M. Local Time
AS THE ELEVATOR rose up 26 Federal Plaza, Emily closed her eyes and t
ook a deep breath. She was thinking about her errand this morning and what she should do next when the buzz of a cell phone emanated from her bag. She dug for her cell phone—now with Raiden’s alterations inside—but it wasn’t the one buzzing. She flinched when she realized who was calling. She took out the phone the masked man had given her and answered it.
“Do not tell Wagner about the traffic cameras,” the voice said.
The elevator doors opened. Special Agent Wagner stood in front of her.
“I can’t talk right now. I understand. I’ll call you soon,” Emily said. She hung up and put both phones back in her bag. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Wagner said. “Two cell phones?”
“One’s for work and one’s personal,” she said, impressed by her own quick thinking.
“Right,” Wagner said. He had a noncommittal way of saying things, so she wasn’t sure if he believed her or not. “This way.”
Wagner led Emily to his office. Her thoughts were spinning. Without Dan’s traffic camera research she didn’t have anything to give Wagner to gain his trust. Not only that, but the voice on the phone confirmed her suspicions about the briefcase sitting in her oven. She tried to take solace in the idea that at least the case wasn’t a bomb. Or, at least, not only a bomb.
“Thanks for coming in,” Wagner said.
“No problem,” Emily said noticing her book on his desk.
“I read it last night. Just a wonderful piece of work, there,” Wagner said. He wasn’t gushing, just stating an opinion. But she could sense there was something unsaid on his mind.
“But . . .” she said.
“You caught me. I really enjoyed it, but it seemed . . . unfinished. I felt like I was left waiting for the other shoe to drop, if you know what I mean.” She knew exactly what he meant.
“Thanks. Yes, that seems to be the consensus. Apparently it’s what hurt my sales in light of the reviews.”
“But I guess this case will be good for business, now that the media is releasing details about your book in the reports on the murders.”
“I suppose,” Emily said. She wanted to object, but the book signings she had lined up this afternoon agreed with him.
“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure you didn’t have anything to do with them,” Wagner said to ease her mind. All she heard was pretty sure.
“Has he shown up since your book came out? I mean, have any thefts been attributed to him?”
“No,” she said.
“Still watching for him, are you?”
“Now and then,” she said, trying to act aloof.
“Okay, well in light of what I read—in your book and your Interpol jacket—and our stance on you as not being a possible suspect, I really only have a few questions. It would seem that you’re the only world expert on The Monarch. I tried contacting Interpol about him, but they wouldn’t even confirm or deny that he exists.”
My jacket? The masked man wasn’t kidding when he said he’d handle her background. Interpol administrative workers, like Emily, didn’t have case files to their credit. Not real ones, anyway.
“As they would,” Emily said, nodding. She’d run into the same issues when working on the book. Law enforcement agencies hated the idea of a Robin Hood doing their job for them. And the lack of complaints or theft reports made it difficult for them to even justify getting involved. How do you request budget money when stolen works of art are showing up in museums without explanation? The museums were almost as reticent to talk about it; afraid their Good Samaritan would dry up and blow away. The insurance companies were a different story.
“Well, that being the case, we just need you to advise us on the case. You’d be paid, of course. Not much. It is government work, after all, but I can guarantee an extension of your work visa for the foreseeable future. If that’s something you’re interested in.”
“I think I would enjoy that. Thank you,” Emily said, trying her best to act blasé.
“Excellent,” Wagner said. “I’ll need you to fill out some papers to make it official, but we can do that later. In the meantime, I’d like to get your impressions of what you’ve seen on the news, so far. Also, any recommendations you have would be welcome.”
Is this really happening? She’d thought she was a murder suspect just a few minutes ago, and now here she was ostensibly on the team trying to find the murderer. What a difference a day makes.
“I do have one recommendation off the top,” she said.
“Excellent. What is it?”
“Schedule a press conference. The media is running the show right now, no offense. You need to take control back.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but we just don’t have anything—”
“Let me talk at the press conference. As you said, I’m the only expert. In a day or two, everyone will know that. Which means if I say something associated with The Monarch, they’re going to listen. Or, at least, consider what I have to say.”
“Interesting idea. What would you say?”
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“The killer isn’t using The Monarch’s symbol as a way to get attention. He’s not a copycat looking to cash in on an existing fan base.”
“He’s not?” Wagner said, leaning forward. She had all of his focus now.
“No. The killer is The Monarch.”
EMILY RETCHED INTO the toilet in the Federal Plaza main floor ladies’ room until there was nothing left in her. She took several pulls of toilet paper to wipe her face, and then put down the lid and sat.
What have I done?
But she hadn’t done it yet. On Monday at the press conference she was going to do it. She was going to betray the one person in the world that meant the most to her. She knew logically that it made no sense to feel the way she did about someone she not only hadn’t met, but had never even seen, but knowing it didn’t seem to make a difference.
The masked man had promised that this cooperation would result in her finding out who The Monarch really was. To find him, she had to betray him. Emily pressed the moist tissue to her mouth as more retching threatened to consume her.
When it passed, she bent over and looked under the stall to be sure she was alone. Satisfied, she took out the cell phone and dialed.
“It’s done,” Emily said.
“Excellent!” The exhaustion was gone from the masked man’s voice again. He was exuberant and confident again. “When?”
“Monday at noon. Just like you asked.” The contempt was plain in her voice.
“I know how difficult this was for you. But you’ll learn there is little that I value higher or reward as significantly as loyalty. And remember the endgame,” he said. “Your father would be proud.”
“All right, I did something for you, now it’s your turn,” Emily said, surprised at her moxie. She was surprising herself a lot lately. Something in her had changed—reawakened. She fought to avoid admiring the change, afraid of being even more beholden to this stranger.
“I believe you were paid, Miss Burrows.”
“Not payment, exactly. As hard as this is for me, I know the results will far outweigh the sacrifice. And to show my appreciation, I actually have something for you. A gift. But I need two things from you first.”
“Two things. Perhaps you should tell me what they are before they double again,” he said. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he was joking.
“I need a name.”
“All in good time. After Monday’s press conference, we’ll have more than his name.”
“Not his name. Your name.”
Silence drew out on the line. She knew he was evaluating. Reasoning how dangerous she could really be.
“Nathan,” he said. That was all. A first name. It was enough. Emily felt good that she’d pulled him out of hi
s comfort zone, made him give up something he didn’t want to. But they were only halfway. “And the second thing?”
“I want to meet you. In person. Tonight.”
“Impossible,” Nathan said with no hesitation. The speed at which he answered told her this was not negotiable. At least, not yet.
“As I said, I have something for you. A gift. But I’ll only give it to you in person,” she said. She knew she had more pull than the average person after seeing his book collection. But it was no guarantee. If he continued to refuse, there was a line even she couldn’t cross, but if the idea of a gift from her intrigued him—
“What kind of gift?”
Emily smiled.
A FEW HOURS later, Wagner and Evans sat across from each other in Wagner’s office eating lunch; Evans with a greasy hamburger and fries, Wagner nibbling at a turkey wrap.
“Forgiveness? I don’t get it,” Evans said around a mouthful of burger after Wagner told him the real meaning of the symbol that looked like a butterfly.
“Burrows thinks it has to do with the whole Robin Hood ethic of The Monarch. You know, he doesn’t want to exact revenge, he wants to educate. Show people the error of their ways. Like that,” Wagner said.
“Whatever,” Evans said, shaking his head as he fired a few more fries into his mouth. “You really going to let her talk at the press conference? Whole thing seems pretty hinky to me.”
“I’m still not convinced she’s telling us everything, but letting her confirm the killer is The Monarch from the book seems like a win-win for us. We get to take some control away from the media and the killer gets comfortable thinking he’s fooled us. Maybe so comfortable he makes a mistake.”
“Unless it really is the dude from the book,” Evans said. He noisily slurped soda up a yellow striped straw. It wasn’t something Wagner hadn’t already considered.
“I think that’s pretty unlikely. Not impossible, but we’re stymied here. I think it’s an acceptable risk,” Wagner said. The Monarch from the book wanted to teach, not punish. Wagner didn’t see any way he would pop up after five years of inactivity in the guise of an executioner. Especially not using the same forgiveness symbol. Not to mention they had no evidence to suggest the first two victims were in need of punishment, in any stretch of the imagination.