I folded my arms over my chest, which made me even more aware of how pregnant I was because my boobs had gone up a full cup size, which made me even more irritated. “Damn it, Phin. Herb will call in every cop and Fed in three states. There won’t be a safer place to be in the world than that cemetery.”
“You don’t know what he’s planning.”
“And you didn’t see him do what I saw him do. I need to be there, Phin.”
His mouth formed a thin line, and he folded his arms as well.
I clenched my teeth. “It’s what I do. It’s who I am. You won’t ever change that. And if you loved me, you wouldn’t even try to.”
I forced myself to wait for his reaction. If he still insisted on keeping me in the hotel room, I’d knee him in the balls and mail his ring back to him, along with all of his stuff. Caring for me was one thing. Trying to control me was something I would never, ever accept.
Phin must have understood, because he slowly knelt down and fastened the Velcro strap on my left shoe.
“Promise me you won’t take any risks,” he said, staring up at me. “No unnecessary chances.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We met the two cops on guard in the hallway just as McGlade was leaving his room, bleary-eyed, his suit rumpled, fly unzipped. His shoes—Italian loafers—were on the wrong feet.
“What kind of asshole kills someone at three in the morning?” he grumbled. “It’s psychotic.”
“I’m driving Jack,” Phin said. “You coming with us, or going by yourself?”
McGlade frowned. “My car isn’t charged. The hotel didn’t have a long enough extension cord. And why is Jack going?”
Rather than reply, I headed for the elevators with the men trailing behind me. Herb texted me, saying he was already en route.
My escorts took their own car.
I rode with the boys.
McGlade was uncharacteristically silent, until I realized he’d fallen asleep in the back seat.
We reached the cemetery at 2:58 A.M. and found a police barricade already in place at the Ravenswood Avenue entrance. After parking on the street under a railroad viaduct, I met Herb at the front gate, a castellated Gothic structure built of pale stone that looked straight out of medieval times, complete with arches and turrets. It was the same color and style as Chicago’s famous Water Tower. In addition to five squad cars and SUVs, I counted two ambulances, three fire trucks, plus four unmarked government-issue sedans—the FBI. It was cold, the stinging wind a sign that winter wasn’t through with Chicago yet, and I wished I’d brought a warmer coat.
“Damn it, Jack, why are you here?” The first words out of Herb’s mouth.
I bit back my anger, forcing myself to accept that he, like Phin, was simply worried about me. Treating me like I was helpless, fragile, and incompetent was just their way of showing they cared.
“What if Luther is tracking me?” I asked, keeping calm. “Am I safer here, or back at the hotel, guarded by two men, while every other police officer in Illinois is here?”
“Fine. But you stay out here. There’s no way you’re going inside.”
Be nice, Jack. “What’s the situation?”
“We’ve got more than fifty cops here, plus Feebies. Hostage negotiator en route, in case Luther has grabbed someone. All exits blocked. Downside—Rosehill is big. Three hundred and fifty acres, including a massive mausoleum in the southwest quadrant. We’re searching it section by section, and it’s going to take hours.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“No. Gates were all locked. If he’s in there, he broke through the fence or hid inside before the cemetery closed for the evening.”
“And what time was that?”
“This main entrance, five P.M. All others at four.”
My cell buzzed. I glanced at the screen.
Blocked call.
“It’s him,” I said.
I answered.
“Hello, Jack.” Luther’s voice. “I just sent you a picture.”
On cue, my iPhone buzzed, indicating a text message. I clicked on it and saw a photo.
Life is because God is, infinite, indestructible, and eternal.
ROBERT E. FRANKS
Sept 19. 1909 – May 22. 1924
Herb leaned in over my shoulder to look.
“The place is surrounded, Luther,” I said. “Give up or you’ll die here.”
“We all have to die sometime, Jack. And this is a lovely place for it. Green, peaceful, some nice scenery. You should come in. I have no intention of killing you today. But you and you alone can save others, if you’re fast enough. Here one must leave behind all hesitation; here every cowardice must meet its death.”
I guessed that last line was more Divine Comedy.
“I’ll pass,” I said. “But I’ll be sure to drop in and say hello when you’re locked up in Cook County, being traded for cigarettes.”
“Suit yourself. I don’t have a Dante quote for that, but Burke should suffice. How about: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’ Have fun sitting on the sidelines, watching men die, knowing you could have prevented it.”
The call ended.
A cold wind whipped through my hair, stinging my scalp. The trees beyond the gate rustled in the breeze, and I realized I’d been unconsciously rubbing my belly. I took my hand away.
“Is the SRT here?” I asked Herb, not liking the sound of Luther’s threat.
“Yeah.”
“The bomb squad?”
“We have several K9 units, some trained in explosives.”
“Find that grave,” I said, but as the words left my mouth I realized I didn’t want Herb to be the one looking for it. I believed Luther. Though I knew he was nothing more than a sick, disturbed man, part of me worried he somehow had the power to kill everyone here. I’d faced so many monsters in my career, but none scared me as much as Luther.
He was the boogeyman.
“Is there overnight security?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s not extensive. Pretty much just a guy driving around. He hasn’t reported in.”
I glanced beyond the gate into a pool of darkness. “Where are the lights?” I asked.
“No lights inside.”
“Caretakers?”
“There was a groundskeeper. Guy named Willie. Tom talked to him a few minutes ago.”
“Groundskeeper Willie?” I asked.
Herb shrugged.
Detective Tom Mankowicz approached with his partner, Roy Lewis, a bald guy who looked a lot like the boxer Marvin Haggler.
“Hey, Lieut,” Roy said, the smile on his face reaching his eyes. “Terrible situation, but good to see you.”
“We need to find the gravesite of Robert E. Franks,” I said. “Tell the teams in the field.”
“Won’t be easy.” Tom rubbed his chin. “There are a quarter million people buried here.”
“There’s got to be some sort of grave map or database.”
“Got the family service counselor for the cemetery on the way here, but it’ll be a few minutes.”
“What about that groundskeeper?”
Rob and Tom looked around, and then pointed to a man leaning against the stone entrance, watching everything going on with wide eyes. As we approached, I noted he was tall, with a pot belly that rivaled mine, short red hair, and a pointy Bob Hope nose.
“Mr. Kneppel, we need to know the location of a certain grave. Robert E. Franks.”
Kneppel’s wide eyes got wider, and when he spoke, he flashed a gold tooth. “Bobby Franks?” His voice was hoarse. “Uh…we’re not supposed to give out the location of that particular gravesite.”
Bobby Franks. That was a name I recognized. He was one of the most famous murder victims of all time. Back in 1924, it had been nationwide news, called the crime of the century. Two teenage law students named Leopold and Loeb had murdered the thirteen-year-old boy just to see if they could
get away with it. His death was nothing more than an intellectual exercise. But they’d inadvertently left evidence alongside the body and were defended by the most famous lawyer of the day and probably all time, Clarence Darrow. Darrow didn’t get them off, but he was successful in avoiding the death penalty, which the public had demanded. It made sense why the cemetery wasn’t public about the grave’s location—it could draw unwanted attention to a place whose purpose was to provide a quiet venue for the living to visit and mourn the dead.
“It’s okay, Mr. Kneppel,” Herb said. “We’re the police.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess it’ll be okay. He’s in the Jacob Franks mausoleum. The paths are all labeled.”
Willie mentioned an intersection, and Herb immediately spoke into his lapel mike, repeating the caretaker’s words.
Then he, Roy, and Tom headed for the cemetery entrance.
“Guys!” I called.
They stopped and turned back to face me.
“Let SRT handle this one,” I said. “With K9 support and explosives experts.”
“Seriously?” Herb said.
“I’ve got a bad feeling, Herb.”
“We talking cop intuition? Or…” He let his voice trail off, and I got the full meaning of his insinuation. Was I off my game? Had the stress, the preeclampsia, the baby, and Luther muddled my thinking and made me overreact?
“I dunno,” I said. “But I would consider it a personal favor if none of you went to that grave.”
They spent a few seconds exchanging glances.
“Sure, Lieut,” Tom said. “My fiancée, Joan, is big on intuition. I’ve learned to heed her. We can hang back here. Roy?”
“You’re my brother from another mother, man. Ain’t going without you. And I’d follow the Lieut straight anywhere, she asked.”
I speared Herb with my eyes. “Herb?”
“It’s my crime scene, Jack. I’m highest rank on site.”
“Highest rank or fattest rank?” McGlade chimed in, apparently grumpy after being woken in the middle of the night.
“Shoes fit okay?” Herb asked him.
McGlade looked down, noticed his faux pas. “I meant to do that. It’s a trending topic on Twitter. You did it, too, but your stomach is so huge you can’t see your feet.”
I heard a click and thought maybe Herb had set his jaw. Hard to tell with his chubby face.
“McGlade, one of these days—”
“—you’re going to stop eating everything you see?” Harry interrupted. “Don’t answer. I’m afraid if you open your mouth you’re going to suck all of us in.”
“Y’all a punk,” Roy said, taking a step toward McGlade. “Didn’t your mama teach you manners?”
McGlade sneered. “Nope. But your mama taught me some stuff last night.”
Roy took another step, and then Phin moved into the mix as well, backing up Harry.
There was so much testosterone in the air, if I wasn’t already pregnant I might have been worried.
“Look.” I spread out my palms. “Everyone needs to calm down. Herb, please, do this for me.”
His hound dog jowls dropped even farther, his mustache looking like a horseshoe.
“Sure, Jack. I’ll let the SRT take over.”
He barked orders into his mike, and I released a sigh of pure relief.
“See how I distracted him from going?” Harry whispered to me. “I would have thrown a donut for him to fetch, but didn’t have one handy.”
Once again I wondered if McGlade was smarter than he acted.
The next few minutes were spent in silence, all of us waiting. Roy and Tom fidgeted. Harry stepped away and switched his shoes. Herb appeared more anxious than I’d ever seen him. I thought about reaching for Phin’s hand to hold it, but was worried he wouldn’t accept mine. Willie pulled out a flip phone at least a decade out of date and walked away, his finger in his free ear.
Finally, Herb’s radio crackled. “We’ve reached the mausoleum. We’re going in.”
I checked my iPhone.
3:10.
According to Luther’s book code, it was time for the next victim to die.
April 2, 3:10 A.M.
Matthews shouldered the M-16 assault rifle and spoke into his shoulder mike, “Sanchez, Williams, you stay with me. Swartwood, Patel, get in position behind us on the edge of the road. This is a potential hostage situation, so sight your targets. Kitt, Strand, I need eyes around back, make sure nothing comes up from behind.”
His men fell into position around the mausoleum, a stone building approximately ten feet tall and the size of a small garden shed. Stone flower pots framed the green iron door, where a pair of red roses had been threaded between the handles. The structure was surrounded by trimmed hedges and flanked by similar mausoleums and headstones. It bothered Matthews. Too many places to hide.
“Battles, open that door, and get out of the way. Angelo, get eyes inside and report back. I’ll be on your six.”
Matthews covered the door as Battles pulled the bolt cutters out of a backpack. The lock on the door gleamed under the LED flashlight mounted beside the M-16 scope—a new lock, no rust, unlike the decades of oxidation on the vault’s iron gate.
“Set for bursts of three, and stay sharp,” he said.
Matthews heard the metallic snick of the pinchers biting through the lock.
Battles slid the bolt cutter into his pack and backpedaled down the steps and away from the entrance, shouldering his weapon as Angelo approached.
It was difficult to see much more than the beam of Angelo’s LED light.
“At the door,” Angelo said, his voice soft and steady, though Matthews could hear an edge of fear in it. That was a good thing. Fear enhanced the senses.
Matthews expected the iron door to creak, but it opened smooth and silent, as if its hinges had been oiled.
“Stepping inside,” Angelo said.
His light played off the stone, shone through a stained-glass window in the back wall.
“Report,” Matthews said.
“Clear. There’s two vaults, one on top. Bottom one is Robert Franks. Stained-glass window above them, and…we have a device.”
“IED?”
“I don’t think so. Metal canister. Looks like a scuba tank.”
A course of panic flooded through Matthews. “Possible aerosol. Get your masks out and—”
The crack wasn’t as loud as thunder nor as bright as lightning, but the explosion knocked Angelo out of the building.
Matthews felt the ground vibrate the soles of his Doc Martins and took an involuntary step back.
The two men flanking the mausoleum dove for cover, but he stayed upright.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
No one spoke, no one moved.
Was that even a bomb?
Angelo had been thrown onto his back, but now he sat up.
Thank God. He appeared to be in one piece, and there was no debris, no shrapnel, no fire, no smoke.
Everything stood perfectly silent—
—except for a hissing inside the crypt.
Matthews caught a sickly-sweet floral odor a half second before Angelo started coughing and screaming, the cop pawing at his face and frantically trying to rip off his vest.
Matthews recognized the odor: geraniums.
Post-9/11, they’d all been given a crash course in chemical agents. A geranium smell was linked to one of the deadliest chemicals used in World War I—lewisite.
Matthews screamed, “Chemical agent, masks on!” He slid out of his pack, and ripped open the zipper, digging for his own gas mask, eyes beginning to burn.
When he tried to call for backup, he suddenly couldn’t speak, his throat already swelling.
In his earpiece, he heard a cacophony of choking…screaming…coughing…vomiting…pure panic.
He’d been cold up until this moment, but now his skin grew hot as the invisible gas penetrated his Kevlar, accelerating through levels of increasing pain—first th
e fast onset of a sunburn, and then a steady sting, and then skin being eaten away.
Snot, mucus, and tears streamed down his face, and before he realized what had happened, he threw up all over himself.
Matthews struggled onto his feet despite the agony—had to help his men—had to make the screaming stop—but when he started walking he realized the problem—the gas had come in contact with his eyes, his corneas.
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