The White Iris

by Susanne Matthews

  “I understand she was grabbed in broad daylight in police headquarters. That doesn’t speak well of your security. No wonder the Prophet is one step ahead of you.”

  “As I said, as a respected member of the FBI, Pierce had contacts and knowledge most criminals don’t have, but he didn’t get away. With Jacob’s help, we tracked him down and ended it. While we’d have loved to have taken the man alive, it was basically a case of ‘suicide by cop.’ Among the dead in the raid was the young man who’d planted the bomb in the pub, which I understand is the real reason you wanted to see me today.”

  “Of course,” L.D. said, but he frowned. “One more question before we move on. How is it this Jacob found Pierce when no one else could?”

  Trevor smiled. “I told you, he’s got cult expertise, and he’s a hell of a tracker.” There was no way he’d mention Lilith’s locket and the GPS chip it contained. Let the man think Jacob was some kind of man tracker like Canada’s Terry Grant.

  Trevor could swear L.D. gritted his teeth. The president’s man was used to being top dog, and it must be driving him crazy to know he wasn’t in charge of this. Upsetting him probably wasn’t one of his smarter moves, but Trevor had always disliked politicians and he wasn’t in the mood to grovel today.

  Hamilton returned to the sitting area, his lips pursed. He placed his empty mug on the tray. “Before you explain these plagues, I have another matter to discuss. The president saw you on CNN Monday morning. As you can imagine, he was upset he hadn’t been briefed on this man whom we both consider a threat to national security. He wants to know everything you know about the Prophet or the Harvester, and be specific. I’m not asking about your team now. I want to know about this man. How the hell can he hold a city the size of Boston hostage?”

  Trevor hated the way the man stood there hovering over him, and wished he’d sit down once more. Refusing to be cowed, he stood and paced.

  “The Prophet came to the attention of the Boston Police Department almost two years ago when the body of a young woman”—Trevor shared much of what they knew about the Harvester/Prophet case and New Horizon, leaving out Jacob’s personal connection to the case, and the whereabouts of the children and settlers—“recently, we received information from Dr. Lynette James, Jefferson University’s forensic expert, that thirty-four of the sixty-six people buried on the New Horizon compound were murdered, two of them, a boy and a woman, by cyanide poisoning, and another thirty-two by oleander poisoning, which leads us to believe the Prophet may have been behind those deaths, too.”

  Hamilton sat on the edge of his desk and burst out laughing. “And how do you propose to prove that? Oleander is a common plant. I have some in my home garden. Beauty often hides danger.”

  “I don’t know. I doubt the DA will even want to, but we did find another puzzle. One grave was robbed.”

  “Seriously? Robbed? Those aren’t Egyptian pyramid tombs.” He scoffed, rubbing his left temple.

  “As I said, we exhumed all the bodies, and when Dr. James opened that casket, it was empty. The missing body belongs to Becca Lucius, the wife of the commune’s founder, Thaddeus Lucius.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked, obviously shocked, the muscle tic Trevor had noticed earlier active once more. “The grave markers only contained first names.”

  “We looked up Thaddeus Lucius’s military record. His wife’s name was listed as Becca. It was the only grave bearing that name.”

  L.D. walked back to the window, his back and shoulders tense.

  “I had no idea you were that resourceful. You can identify a body you don’t have, and yet you can’t do the same for the man terrorizing your city,” he commented sarcastically.

  The shot hit right where it was aimed, and Trevor felt the heat rise in his face.

  “Now,” L.D. continued, “tell me about these plagues and the people he mentions in the notes.”

  “The Prophet has threatened ten plagues based on the biblical plagues of Egypt unless we release the people he considers his property: the dead killed in the New Hampshire and Vermont raids, the children sired by his nephew James, the women yet pregnant, and the brethren arrested in the New Hampshire raid.”

  “What harm would there be in releasing the bodies?

  “Are you serious, sir? If we give in on one point, he’ll expect us to cave on them all.”

  “Where are these cadavers? They must be taking up valuable space in the morgue.”

  “Once the ME finished his examination, the dead were cremated and buried in unmarked graves somewhere in the city.”

  L.D.’s face reddened.

  “Did you feel you had the justification to go against their religious beliefs that way?”

  “You mean by cremating them instead of burying them?”

  “I’m sure I read somewhere that the cult has its own burial practices.”

  “They may have, but we acted on good faith. The Prophet doesn’t deserve to get his hands on any of them.”

  “And what of the others?” he asked, moving to the table and pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe there. His hand trembled.

  “The cult members, the children, and the remaining mothers are all in the witness protection program.”

  “You’re wasting valuable tax dollars on criminals?” He spat the words, his fury palpable.

  “They aren’t criminals, just people who were badly used and abused, but it doesn’t matter. You know as well as I do, the president doesn’t believe in paying ransom of any kind to terrorists, foreign or domestic.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s been POTUS’s position on matters like this.”

  “You sound like you don’t agree.”

  L.D. smiled, and Trevor wished he could see his eyes. The dark glasses gave the man an unfair advantage.

  “I’m a businessman. Negotiating is part and parcel of what I do, but I know better than to argue with the man who appointed me. Bones and sacks of ashes and the lives of a few who’ve turned up their noses at our nation and its values would be a cheap price to pay for the safety and security of so many. And, of course, as their uncle, the Prophet does have the legal right to apply for custody of the children—but that’s only my opinion,” he said smugly, as if his opinion was the only one that counted. “We need to learn to fight the battles we can win, and cede victory when we can’t. Because of our current non-negotiation policy, we have thirteen dead in two plagues. How many more innocent lives will be taken before you stop this? Do you have any idea how far he’ll go?”

  “To be honest with you, sir, I hope the Prophet goes all the way to hell and takes his accursed enforcers with him. The man is insane. He believes he’s bringing his Creator’s sick sense of justice and socialism to the world, but he’s just another racist, supremacist, misogynist bastard blaming women for all of the world’s problems. The man obviously has mommy issues. His new Harvester, as my team calls the person doing the dirty work, the one he hired to replace Pierce, is a fool. We think he made a mistake with the concentration of sarin in the food, and slitting the throats was a knee-jerk response to the fact that the girls got sick, passed out, but didn’t die. And that’s not the only mistake he made. He left all kinds of evidence in the sorority house, including the knife Pierce used previously, footprints, fingerprints, DNA—we even have addresses. Boston PD has three separate places under surveillance. The man placed three orders for the Chinese food to get what he needed to poison the girls and had it delivered. We matched his voice on tape since the restaurant records its takeout orders. We’re watching the houses now.”

  “And isn’t there another plague expected soon?” L.D.’s flush deepened.

  “Yes. Today or tomorrow, but if he steps out of any one of those three places, we’ve got him. I’m waiting on search warrants. Once we have them, we’re going in, and we’ll take him down. It’s just a matter of time before we bring down his boss, too.”

  “Good, good. And what about this FBI directive you sent out to be on wat
ch for missing or stolen pathogens? White Iris Pharmaceuticals got one of the notices.”

  “We’re just hedging our bets. In the past, he’s used scopolamine and most recently sarin. If he decides to steal something else, we want to be prepared. So far, there haven’t been any thefts reported.”

  L.D. rose and rubbed his forehead as if the headache he’d been nursing had intensified, but his color was back to normal. He held out his hand. “Well done, Agent Clark,” he said, all sign of his previous fury gone. “I’m sorry it took so long for us to get together. I have to end our discussion now, since I’m expected shortly at the White House. Know that all the resources of this office are available to you. Should you decide to negotiate with the Prophet, I will support you 100 percent. Before I forget, please accept my condolences on the death of Dr. Elizabeth Swift. I understand you were close at one time.”

  How the hell would he know about him and Julie?

  “Yes,” he answered, fighting to keep his composure. “We were engaged to be married a couple of years ago, but it didn’t work out.”

  “I see. My sympathies. Her death is a great blow for the CDC. Keep me and the president apprised of your progress,” L.D. said, before stepping over to his desk. He pressed a button.

  The secretary who’d delivered the coffee entered the room. “Anne, would you escort Agent Clark back downstairs and get a car to take him to the airport? I’ll need my limo in ten minutes.”

  “Of course, sir.” She turned and smiled. “This way, Agent Clark.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dismissed, Trevor followed the secretary out of the office and walked down the hallway once more.

  “She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?” he said, indicating the painting of Iris Hamilton. “That must’ve been painted when she was in her early twenties.”

  “It was,” Anne answered. “She died of cancer, one of the reasons Mr. Hamilton devotes so much money to cancer research.”

  She stopped at a desk he hadn’t noticed before and picked up the phone.

  “Yes, Mr. Hamilton needs the limo in ten minutes. Can you arrange for another car to take Agent Clark to the airport? ... Thank you.” She hung up. “Henry, Mr. Hamilton’s personal assistant, will meet you when you get off the elevator.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trevor stepped over to the elevator and pressed the button. The doors slid open as if it had been waiting for him. It probably was. Ms. Efficiency must’ve called it up when her boss buzzed her.

  The elevator stopped smoothly and the doors parted. A man in a navy suit that looked to be at least as expensive as Tony’s waited for him. Obviously L.D. Hamilton ran a tight ship.

  “This way, sir. I’ve got the town car waiting. I hope you have a pleasant trip back to Boston.”

  The man’s phone rang. “Yes, sir. How may I help you?” he asked, answering quickly. He led Trevor toward the main doors and ushered him outside.

  Trevor watched the play of emotions across the man’s face and shrugged. This guy looked like he’d walk over hot coals if the boss asked him to. L.D. Hamilton was probably a great employer and a wonderful humanitarian, but Trevor just didn’t like him.

  “Where to?” the driver asked as soon as Trevor settled into the backseat.

  “The commuter airport.” It was just after three. He’d be there in plenty of time for his flight back to Boston. Pulling his cell phone out of his inside pocket, he noted he’d missed two calls. He played the first message, and frowned.

  Julie’s tests were inconclusive, but she might know how the virus would be spread, and whatever she knew scared her. Recognizing how it could happen was invaluable, but knowing it and stopping it were two different matters. How much worse was this going to get before it was over?

  Will I live long enough to see it happen?

  He was anxious to get to Kodiak and learn as much as he could about this virus. He didn’t care how cold and snowy it was. If this was the Great Burning, he wanted to be with friends when his time came.

  He swallowed the morbid thought as the car pulled away from the curb. There was a second message from Susan Davis, asking him to call.

  “Hi, Susan, what’s up?”

  “Good news. Micah positively identified the horse in Nebraska.” She chuckled. “The stallion remembered him. The owner bought him from Sunnybrook Farm in Utah about three years ago.”

  He frowned. Sunnybrook Farms sounded familiar.

  “What else did you learn?”

  “This place doesn’t have anything to do with the cult. While we were there, three girls showed up in a convertible, wearing shorts so short and tight, they should be illegal. I think Micah’s still in shock.”

  Trevor laughed. “Take it easy on him. He’s just recently entered the twenty-first century.”

  “I know. Poor guy. We’re going to meet with a few other ranchers in the area and then drive down to Utah to check out Sunnybrook.”

  “Come back to Boston when you finish. I want the whole team together for a briefing.”

  “Will do. We should be back some time on Friday.”

  She ended the call, and he put his phone away

  Leaning back, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the unexpected luxury.

  “We’re here, sir,” the driver said, startling him awake when he opened the door.

  “Thanks. Long night.” He handed the man ten bucks, checked in to his flight, and grabbed another cup of coffee.

  Whoever said catnaps are good for you is full of shit.

  He was more tired now than he’d been earlier, and what was worse, he’d forgotten to call Cartwright about Rose. He couldn’t count on hearing from Tony. As busy as L.D. was, he’d probably forgotten all about his request by now. He hadn’t written it down, and that was never a good sign. Finding a quiet corner in the lounge, he dialed Cartwright’s private number.

  “Hal,” he said once the man answered. “Trevor Clark. I had an interesting meeting in town today.”

  “L.D. Hamilton?”

  “How did you guess?” Trevor chuckled.

  “He’s been on everyone’s case the last few weeks. I know he’s one of the president’s handpicked men, but he’s driving me crazy. Why haven’t we done this? Why aren’t we directly involved and negotiating with the Harvester? He claims this is no longer a police matter but an issue of homeland security. He’s not entirely wrong, but if it were up to Hamilton, he’d give away the farm to save a daisy. Thank God I don’t answer to him.”

  “I know what you mean. He just sang me that song. I’m all for compromise, but not when someone’s got me by the short hairs. I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Shoot. If you spent the afternoon with him and kept him off my back, I owe you one.”

  “Fifteen years ago, an attorney from Nevada, Andrew Weber, arranged an adoption for an orphanage looked after by nuns called the Templars of Mary. I’m looking for adoption records for a six-month-old girl. The child, Rose Munroe, was born in California. Both parents died in a cult suicide. Family has been trying to find the child ever since. This is the first solid lead they’ve had. The paper trail we can access is a dead end. I wonder if you’d try.”

  “I’ll see what we can do. We may be able to get into anything the lawyer filed, but you do know Rose could’ve been adopted from any state. He may not have been the only one working for the nuns.”

  “I know, but whatever you can do will help. Thanks.”

  He ended the call. Just finding the girl would be a minor miracle, and if they did, would she be willing to let Lilith into her life?

  • • •

  “I love it, Julie,” Cassie said, stepping up behind her to stare in the mirror. “Kelly’s done a fantastic job. God, I’d kill for curls like that. Weight gain, sore boobs, mood swings, and limp hair. Pregnancy seemed a lot more glamorous twelve years ago.”

  Julie chuckled. It was time to move on, and letting go was the first step. While she’d hated her curls as a child, as an adult they looked di
fferent, more relaxed. The brightening rinse the hairdresser had used gave her auburn tresses a new copper penny glow and brought out the blue in her eyes.

  “You look fabulous and you know it. As a kid I thought short hair made me look like Little Orphan Annie—either that or Bozo the Clown.”

  Cassie shook her head. “You’re beautiful. I’ll bet you looked like an angel. You have no idea how many perms I endured for the ‘look,’ and ended up with a frizzy mess instead.”

  Julie ran her hand through her curls. “It feels good. It’ll be better than tying it up and rubbing that sore spot each day. And there’s nothing mousy about your hair now, and that style suits you.”

  “If we’re finished being our own mutual admiration society”—Cassie chuckled—“let’s get going and show the world. It’s almost six. Time to get home and get supper ready. Ariel has basketball practice tonight, and she’ll be starving when she gets in. Are you going to try to reach Trevor again?”

  “I really should.” She glanced at her watch. “So what is it, about ten there? He was up late last night. Maybe I can catch him before he goes to bed.”

  Cassie unlocked the door. “Why don’t you call him while I get supper started?”

  “I will. I’ll use the house phone. I can leave you something to cover the bill.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I told you, the perks are pretty good here. Want a drink before dinner? I’m only allowed soda, but Miles has a fully stocked bar.”

  “Soda’s fine. I’ll be in my room in case Ariel comes in. I really don’t want her to know what’s happening.”

  Cassie nodded and handed Julie a can of soda and a glass full of ice cubes. “Let’s keep it quiet as long as we can.”

  Julie sat on her bed and leaned against the headboard. Was Trevor in bed, too? He had to be as exhausted as she was, although the nap she’d had during that hot rocks massage had helped. She punched in the number and waited.

  “Hello, Julie,” Trevor said, picking up before the second ring. “I was debating calling you, but I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”