He decided to run Drake's name through NCIC, and then a trio of government financial data and personal asset databases. Maybe his queries would reveal something—some connection to the Priest's group that would get things moving again. There was a negligible chance someone at headquarters might see the log entry of his search and question him as to what it involved. But he could probably concoct some cover story over it being for one of his legitimately assigned cases. Anyway, he'd worry about that later. It was worth the risk.
Unfortunately, within 15 minutes, he'd queried the database only to learn that Drake was clean, and that there was no data on him that would lead to the company in Canada. Arkin was tempted to pound his keyboard to pieces with both fists. Instead, he settled for knocking his empty water cup clear across the room with a violent sweep of his arm, sending it crashing against the wall.
TWENTY
"I can't believe you did that," Morrison said across the table at Carver's the next morning, after Arkin told him of his running Drake's name through the databases. "I cannot fucking believe that you did that. Just plain stupid. Dale Cooper would never have done something that reckless."
They were just finishing up their Mexican scrambles and coffees.
"What about when Cooper crossed the Canadian border to go undercover at One-Eyed Jack's?
Morrison just shook his head.
"Hey, give me some credit. There was serious temptation there to do far riskier things."
"What, like forge subpoenas?"
Arkin stared back, silent.
"Are you kidding me, Nate? You're the one guy who has always done everything by the book. Stayed inside the lines, out of some dubious sense of morality that's apparently so divine you can't even explain it in normal people words. Now what are you telling me?"
"You're overreacting. There's very little chance the queries will be noticed at headquarters."
"Are you joking? Almost in the same breath, you told me your management was up in arms over your dabbling in this very case. Something or someone has obviously rocked your management's boat on this. Has them running scared for their continued hold on power. You're being uncharacteristically naive if you don't think there's a good chance they'll check your NCIC log."
"Uncharacteristically? When did you learn that word?"
"Your fatigue is making you dumb. I could have run that search for you. I have 27 active cases I could choose from to bury it in. Nobody would ever have known. Next time you need something like that, you come to me, understand?"
"Thanks."
"Thanks yourself, moron. You're buying." Arkin fell silent and stared down at his coffee, looking glum. "Oh, come on. Did I hurt your feelings?"
"No. It's Hannah." He shook his head. "I feel so helpless."
"You are helpless."
Arkin looked up. "Thanks. That helps."
"No, really. You're helpless. You have no control over this. And the sooner you come to terms with that. . . ."
"What?"
"The sooner—I don't know—the sooner you'll find a certain solace."
"Solace? Really? And then what? I'll be as happy as you?" Morrison opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. "Right," Arkin said. "Thanks for nothing, Dr. Freud."
Morrison's lips almost, but not quite, formed a grin. "Point," he said at last, and they shared a mirthless nostril laugh.
As they walked out the door, Arkin's cell rang.
"Mr. Regan. What's the good news?"
"The good news is that the initial analysis took less time than expected. You're looking at a .50 caliber fired by a Zastava. The striations match those of the Cortez bullet. And I'm guessing that doesn't come as a surprise to you."
"No, it doesn't."
"A copy of the report is in your email inbox. Got to bring the feds in now."
"Sure. Hey, Paul, I owe you one. Thank you."
"You bet."
"Cortez gun?" Morrison asked as they walked along Main.
"Cortez gun."
*****
That afternoon, Morrison insisted that Arkin accompany him to the range, despite Arkin's protests over being dangerously fatigued.
"There's no better way to blow off steam than by putting some lead downrange," Morrison had said. "And anyway, nobody else is scheduled to be there, so the only one you're going to accidentally shoot is me."
*****
When he got back to the office, he had a voicemail from Killick asking him to call back.
"What's up?" Arkin asked when Killick finally answered on the 6th ring.
"I told you I was going to give you the highlights of those FBI 302s."
Killick went on to describe two witness interviews—already corroborated by security video—that placed a man from Phoenix named Karl Heinz at the gas station two blocks from Pratt's house just about 10 minutes after the shooting. Heinz was a person of interest for two reasons. For one, the witnesses saw him lashing a long, hard-sided black plastic case down into the back of his pickup truck as he filled up. For another, the man's name came up on a roll of donors to Egan's church.
"What color is his hair?"
"What?"
"Heinz's hair. What color is it?"
"Hold on. His DMV photo is in here somewhere. Shit—it's a black-and-white. Fucking FBI. But it looks like he has fair hair. Could be gray, could be blonde. Close-cropped. Why?"
"The Cortez shooter probably has dark, curly hair. And long."
"Really?"
"That should have been in one of Pratt's weekly case summaries."
"I'll go back over them. Anything else I should know?"
"Pratt was shot by the same Zastava that Egan was."
"How do you know that?"
"Turns out the bullet was recovered, but there was some sort of miscommunication and it was accidentally taken to the state lab for analysis instead of just being handed over to the FBI. But the chain of custody is solid, so no worries."
"Damn. That's awfully damned sloppy. And anyway, I thought you promised you were going to hold off and let us work this case."
"I am, for the most part. It's just a small community here, law enforcement wise. Word gets around."
"What do you mean 'for the most part'?"
"Well, you know me. I can't just command my mind not to think about it. But what about on your end? Were you able to recover the Priest file from INDIGO backups?"
"Not yet. They're still trying."
TWENTY-ONE
It was finally dark. Morrison was back in position at his observation post above Arkin's house, having hiked over the ridge and down through the woods two hours earlier. There was a chill in the air, but he was wearing his winter BDUs and was quite comfortable.
He hadn't rotated though his observation cycle more than four times when something caught his eye to the south. Movement. A man on foot. Solo. Not a jogger. Someone walking. For the moment, on the darker side of the road where trees blocked the light of the moon. Good technique or just coincidence? Morrison would know in a few more seconds when the other side of the road became the better, darker option. Sure as shit, just before the west shoulder of the road passed a gap in the trees exposing it to bright moonlight, the walker switched to the east shoulder.
Tally-ho.
The stranger's pace slackened as he approached. He appeared to be looking toward the tree line on the side of the street opposite Arkin's driveway, directly below Morrison's position. After a moment, the stranger ducked into the trees, climbed a few yards up off the road, and began setting up his own observation post not ten yards below Morrison. Morrison stared with a predator's intensity. The man had his own set of small night vision binoculars hanging from a lanyard around his neck and a small two-way radio that he set against the trunk of an aspen. He didn't appear to be armed, but Morrison couldn't be sure. As the man reached to plug a tiny cord microphone and earpiece into the radio, Morrison caught a quick look at his left hand. His pinkie finger was missing. It was the jogger from the other day.
Morrison watched the stranger for a good half hour without so much as twitching his own toe. The stranger never moved either. He just kept watching Arkin's house. Waiting. For what, Morrison could only guess.
Fuck this.
With glacially slow movements, Morrison rose to a crouch, picked up his night vision binoculars, and began, step by step and quiet as a cat, to close the short distance between himself and the stranger. So much adrenaline coursed through his veins, Morrison thought he might burst. But he was well-disciplined, and kept his movements slow, fluid and silent. He only wished he'd thought to bring his night vision headgear, in addition to his binoculars, so that he could see where he was stepping.
Stupid. You're losing your edge.
As careful as he was being, it took him nearly 20 minutes to close half the distance to the stranger. But then, when he was no more than nine feet away, his foot cracked something. Maybe a dry twig. He froze in place, staring at the stranger's silhouette, barely visible against the moonlit road down through the brush and trees. The stranger remained still. A minute went by. Had Morrison dodged a bullet?
Without warning, the stranger sprang to his feet and ran for the road. Shit! Morrison flung his binoculars and took off after him. The stranger was fast, and Morrison had to chase him so hard that he decided to wait on trying to un-holster his .45. They sprinted back down Carson Road half a mile before turning onto County Road 1822 and then on toward Highway 550.
Though his thighs and legs burned with fatigue, though his lungs screamed for more air, Morrison focused his thoughts on the pursuit to help block out the pain. Your ass is mine. Your motherfucking ass is mine. Thirty feet back, he wasn't gaining, but he wasn't losing ground either. And he was sure the guy had left his radio behind, so he couldn't call for help. Give it up, meat. You're mine.
As they burst from the narrow county road onto Highway 550, the stranger crossed to the far side before turning right. But as Morrison followed, his own tunnel vision locked on the stranger, he found himself illuminated by a southbound car bearing down on him from the left. He heard the tires screech as the driver locked up his brakes. Morrison was moving too fast to change direction in time. I'm dead.
But he wasn't dead. The car, in an uncontrolled slide and turned nearly sideways, passed within a foot of his left arm, blowing his hair back as it passed. It caught up to and hit the stranger with a low thud before at last screeching to a loud and dusty stop. The car—a big 80s sedan—sat there for a moment, its motor still running, its lights still on. Then it peeled out and fled the scene at high speed. A hit and run. Unbelievable, Morrison thought, still catching his breath, bent over with his hands on his knees.
Looking up, he saw the stranger lying on the pavement on his back, still moving, but barely. Morrison forgot his fatigue and ran over. The man—a tall Nordic blond in black pants and jacket—was still alive.
"Who are you? Who the fuck are you?"
The stranger didn't seem aware that Morrison was there. He just squirmed slightly, looking up at the sky with crazy eyes. His nose was bleeding from both nostrils.
Morrison looked from side to side. For the moment, there were no other cars on the road. He gave the stranger a cursory pat down and then picked him up and slung him over his back like a wounded soldier. The stranger offered no resistance. Morrison carried him off the highway and a few yards into the woods, laid him on the ground, and handcuffed his arms around a stout aspen before setting off to retrieve his own car.
*****
It was just after midnight when Arkin's phone woke him from a disturbing dream in which he'd found dozens of drowned dogs floating down a wide, brown river.
"This had better be good."
"Buddy, you need to meet me at my place right now."
"Why? What on Earth—"
"Just get your private boarding school ass over here right now."
*****
Fifteen minutes later, Arkin found Morrison waiting in front of his carport as he drove up.
"I have someone you just have to meet."
"A social call?"
Morrison opened the trunk of his car. In it lay the stranger, now conscious, but gagged with duct tape and bound with handcuffs and belly chains into a fetal position. He was tall, blonde and blue-eyed. Nordic blood, no doubt about it. His left pinkie finger was missing—an old wound with old scars. His left leg was clearly broken, his foot pointed in an unnatural direction. The left side of his pelvis seemed crushed inward. And a large white bone protruded three inches from a long and bloody tear in his mangled left forearm. It was the worst compound fracture Arkin had ever seen.
"There's a man in your trunk."
"Yes, there is. We were just about to get acquainted. He's going to be our new star witness."
"Is that right?"
"Caught him surveilling your house this evening. Flushed and chased his ass down to Highway 550 where he had a close encounter with a speeding car. It's just not his day."
"Surveilling my house?"
"About an hour ago."
"You were watching my house."
"I told you, I've got your back, buddy."
Arkin gave a soft snort, still staring down at the stranger in the trunk. "Didn't you promise you weren't going to do that?"
"You made me promise not to set up an observation post next to your house. I set it up well above your house, so we're good."
"You are so—" Arkin broke off and shook his head. A weak smile appeared on his face.
"I think that's the first time I've seen you smile in a week."
"Am I smiling?" His voice sounded weary.
"I think you are."
"You might be right."
"Always am."
Arkin nodded. "Thank you for this."
"De nada."
Arkin's expression hardened.
"Did he have any ID on him?"
"Not even so much as initials penned onto the tag of his shirt."
Arkin stared down at him again. For a moment, he felt a pang of compassion and consequent urge to get the man to a hospital right away. But then he thought of Pratt's family, reached down, and tore off the duct-tape gag. Blood and bile spilled from the corner of the man's mouth.
"Who are you?"
The stranger's eyes met Arkin's but he said nothing.
"Who are you? Speak!"
Arkin gave a hard yank on the elbow of the man's fractured arm. Any normal man would surely have screamed out in pain. All this one did was pop his eyes a little wider and breathe a little harder.
"Let me get my blowtorch," Morrison said. "It's just over on my workbench. In thirty seconds I'll have him singing 'Ave Maria.'"
The stranger didn't react.
"Why are you here?" Arkin asked.
The stranger's breathing was labored. He pursed his lips as if about to speak, then didn't.
"One more time. Who are you and why are you here?"
The stranger closed his eyes. "To save. . . ."
"What?"
"Save you from yourself." His accent was foreign—maybe Dutch?—his voice weak. His tone struck Arkin as sincere and sympathetic. Almost apologetic. Almost sad. Like that of a father reluctantly reprimanding a frightened child whom he dearly loves. It was unnerving.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Open your eyes!"
The man's eyes stayed closed, prompting Arkin to yank his broken arm even more violently than before. Then he twisted and bent it backward with all his strength.
"There's that dark side I've been waiting to see," Morrison muttered.
The man no longer appeared to feel anything.
"Did the Priest send you? Wake up, asshole! Did the Priest send you?"
At this, a faint smile appeared on the stranger's face. His eyes opened a crack and, just audibly, Arkin heard him whisper "Priest." Then he lost consciousness.
Arkin punched the man's wounded arm as hard as he could. The man didn't move. "Let's get him to the hospital."
&
nbsp; "I think we're too late for that, brother."
The stranger had stopped breathing. Morrison pressed two fingers against his carotid artery, held them there for a moment, made eye contact with Arkin and shook his head. Arkin had a sudden, desperate urge to shout, as if the man could still hear him, Can you see anything? What can you see? But he got hold of himself, as embarrassed as he was surprised at his flash of irrationality. Then he frowned, clenched his fists, looked up at the night sky, and sighed.
Half an hour later, convinced they hadn't the time to arrange a more professional and untraceable disposal, they dumped the body in the woods 50 yards off a deserted stretch of Florida Road, far from any homes or driveways, knowing coyotes would probably have at it in short order. That would be that.
TWENTY-TWO
As he stood watering the bonsai tree in his office the next morning, Arkin reflected on what had happened the previous night. It was now abundantly clear that he was a possible target, and that he was probably being watched by a whole surveillance team of some sort. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the same group he was chasing when he led the Priest case for DCI years earlier. It was also clear—from the engineered disappearance of the INDIGO files, to the mysterious pressure being brought to bear on MWA with sufficient gravity to scare them off the Pratt case—that this group had operatives holding high-level positions in U.S. intelligence and law enforcement agencies. And he was beginning to suspect that the group had been behind his demotion, humiliation, and banishment all those years ago. That it was they who'd destroyed his career, upended his life, and pulled the strings that sent he and his wife packing to this remote mountain town.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, the hotter his face felt, and the faster his mind raced. Names charged at him from years back. Seemingly innocuous events in the past took on sinister significance through the dark lens of hindsight. How long had they watched him? Who was involved? How much did they know about him? What vulnerabilities could they exploit? What should he do now?
The Shadow Priest: Omnibus Edition: Two Complete Novels Page 19