Apocalypse

by Dean Crawford

  Dean Crawford began writing after his dream of becoming a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force was curtailed when he failed their stringent sight tests. Fusing his interest in science with a love of fast-paced revelatory thrillers, he soon found a career that he could pursue with as much passion as flying a fighter jet. Now a full-time author, he lives with his partner and daughter in Surrey.

  Also by Dean Crawford

  Covenant

  Immortal

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012

  A CBS Company

  Copyright © Dean Crawford, 2012

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Dean Crawford to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor,

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  B Format ISBN 978-0-85720-475-2

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-85720-474-5

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-85720-476-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  For Terry and Carolyn

  You can’t own it but you can use it. You can’t keep it but you can spend it. Once you’ve lost it, you can never get it back. Time is free, but it is priceless.

  Harvey MacKay

  CONTENTS

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  1

  CORAL GABLES, MIAMI, FLORIDA

  June 27, 19:16

  ‘How many bodies are there?’

  Captain Kyle Sears hung one arm out of the Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor as it accelerated away from the airport district station. The warm evening breeze rippled the sleeves of his distinctive taupe uniform, the nearby ocean sparkling as the sun set behind the glassy towers of the city skyline.

  The warbled tones of a despatch officer replied to his question across the radio waves.

  ‘Two victims, both confirmed deceased from gunshot wounds. We got a tip-off from an unknown male caller. A forensics team is on their way and we’ve got a witness on the scene.’

  Sears grimaced behind his sunglasses. The motion twisted his neat gray mustache as he glanced at his fellow officer, Lieutenant José Rodriquez, who shrugged as he drove. ‘A witness doesn’t necessarily lead to a conviction.’

  Sears flicked a switch on the dashboard that sent sirens wailing as they raced along the boulevard, the interceptor’s flashing lights reflecting off the windows of other vehicles that swerved to get out of the way. Southbound on the Expressway, Sears could see the metallic sprawl of Miami International Airport nearby, the navigation lights of airliners blinking as they climbed into a spectacular sunset striped with tattered ribbons of black cloud.

  Rodriquez, a 30-year-old Latino out of Westchester, turned away from the palms of SW 40th and Ponce de Leon Boulevard and down onto Sistina Avenue, a shady tree-lined residential street where most all the homes were two-story colonials with manicured lawns. A far cry, Sears recognized, from the usual homicide call-ups on the north side, where ranks of shabby clapperboard houses ringed with chain-link fences faced sidewalks littered with junk.

  ‘There it is.’

  Half a dozen squad cars lined the street in a blaze of hazard lights outside one of the elaborate homes, police cordons blocking access to the sidewalk and gardens. A television crew from a local station was already hovering around, a reporter jawing into a camera as she gestured to the mansion behind her. Rodriquez pulled in and killed the engine as Sears climbed out and ducked under the cordon, flashing his badge at a beat cop who waved him through.

  ‘Forensics arrived yet?’

  ‘Inside,’ the cop replied. ‘Got here a few minutes ago.’

  Sears strode up to the front door as he donned a set of blue rubber gloves and surveyed the exterior of the property. To his right, a middle-aged woman cradling a small poodle in her arms was being questioned by two uniformed officers. Sears strolled over and the senior of the two cops, a portly officer with heavy jowls, filled him in.

  ‘This is Madeleine Ford, Captain,’ the officer informed him. ‘She observed the home-owner leaving the property in a real hurry about two hours ago, a man named Charles Purcell. We’re just waiting to find out who he is.’

  Sears nodded and looked at the woman, her white hair immaculately styled and her movements precise and controlled. Probably retired years before, most likely widowed with nothing better to do than watch the street outside.

  ‘What exactly did you see, ma’am?’ he asked with an easy smile as he removed his sunglasses.

  Madeleine stroked the dog in her arms and glanced at the television crews nearby with their hefty cameras.

  ‘Mr. Purcell came through here about two hours ago, officer,’ she said, clearly enjoying the attention. ‘Looked like he was in a real hurry. He went inside, and then about twenty minutes later he took off in his car like he was fleeing the devil himself.’

  Sears nodded.

  ‘Did you hear any gunshots or any kind of fracas from the home?’

  Madeleine shook her head.

  ‘Not that I recall. They seemed such a nice family, always polite, although he wasn’t about much.’

  ‘Purcell?’ Rodriquez asked.

  ‘He was always working out at sea,’ Madeleine replied. ‘Or so his wife said.’

  Sears made a mental note and then left Madeleine with the uniforms and strode with Rodriquez toward the Purcell family home.

  ‘Professional hit?’ Rodriquez hazarded. ‘Silenced weapons?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sears replied thoughtfully as they walked into the house.

  A bespectacled forensics expert, Hickling, guarded the entrance hall and waved them forward with a nod.

>   ‘The hall’s clear but don’t handle anything. We haven’t dusted down yet.’

  Sears headed toward the lounge at the end of a long corridor, where he could see periodic flashes from a crime-scene officer’s camera. He heard a cheerful voice followed by a burst of laughter and applause, bizarrely out of place at a crime scene. Hickling rested a hand on Sears’ shoulder as he passed.

  ‘It’s a bad one, Kyle.’

  The captain slowed. Despite years of experience, the cautioning hand of a forensics expert was enough to make even Sears apprehensive. He took a breath and walked into the lounge, then paused at the doorway to take in the scene before him as a tight acidic ball lodged in his throat.

  The lounge was large and well organized, two double leather couches lining the back and side walls, both within view of a large plasma screen that dominated the longest wall above a faux mantelpiece. French doors to his left. Bay windows to his right looking out over the lawns to the street. Sears looked at the plasma screen to see a re-run of Everybody Loves Raymond playing, incongruous with the somber mood. He couldn’t see what Raymond was doing because of the thick blood splatter sprayed across the screen.

  A woman lay slumped against the mantelpiece. Blond, mid-thirties, and dressed in a beige two-piece power suit. Maybe a lawyer or a banker. Her hair had once been carefully piled high on her delicate head but was now matted with thick blood, whilst most of the rear of her skull was embedded in chunks in the walls of the lounge and smeared across the mantelpiece beside her. She stared with her one remaining eye at the lounge door.

  ‘Surprise attack,’ Rodriquez said. ‘Last thing she saw was her killer.’

  Sears moved forward and looked down to his left, where, on one of the couches, lay the second body. The acidic ball in his throat threatened to leap out and he forced himself to keep breathing as he looked at the second corpse.

  A girl, maybe nine years old, like a miniature carbon copy of her mother. Right down to the bloodied cavity where the back of her head had once been. Her hair, delicately swept back on one side over a tiny ear, lay in thick tresses on the other side across a congealing mass of blood and bone that had stained the couch. Spilled bodily fluids caked her bare legs. What was left of one side of her face stared up at them, locked in a gruesome rigor of shock.

  Rodriquez’s voice was tight as he surveyed the scene.

  ‘Same MO. She never had a chance to react. Probably saw her mother die before she was shot.’

  When it came to homicide, like most all detectives with the Miami-Dade Police Department, Sears had seen it all; fourteen years of shootings, stabbings and poisonings; gangs, drugs and racial hatred. He had seen corpses sliced, punctured, maimed and decomposed. But every now and again he bore witness to something approaching true evil – a murderer who killed for no other reason than the goddamn hell of it. If the killer had a beef with the woman, that was one thing. But shooting the kid too?

  The flash of the CSI team’s cameras jerked him out of his grim reverie.

  ‘Any sign of forced entry?’ Sears asked, mastering his rage and revulsion.

  ‘Nothing,’ came the response. ‘Whoever did this was either a real pro or they walked right in.’

  ‘Burglary gone wrong?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘You kidding?’ one of the CSI guys responded, a small but studious-looking man who, like Sears, was struggling to contain his rage at the carnage surrounding them. ‘Nothing’s missing that we know of. Matter of fact, there’s no sign the killer even went anywhere else in the house. This was a hit, plain and simple.’

  Sears glanced at the mantelpiece, where a row of family photographs stood. Images of happiness. A smiling wife, the daughter at junior high, grandparents, friends. The whole nine yards. All of them splattered with blood. Sears was about to turn away when one of the frames caught his eye. So thick was the mess upon it that nobody had noticed that the frame was empty. Sears pointed to it.

  ‘Fingerprints, right now,’ he snapped. ‘The picture’s missing.’

  Rodriquez raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Good catch, Kyle,’ he said. ‘Trophy killer. You think the husband did it?’

  Sears was about to answer when his cellphone rang. He slipped it out of his pocket as he watched the forensics team swarm over the photograph.

  ‘Sears,’ he answered.

  A soft, unassuming voice replied.

  ‘Captain, have you found the picture frame yet?’

  2

  Sears almost combusted on the spot as he pointed frantically at his cellphone. Rodriquez instantly got the message and dashed from the lounge to get a trace on the caller.

  Sears took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, we’ve found the picture frame. You’ve taken the photograph.’

  The voice was eerily calm.

  ‘Yes I have, Captain, and for good reason. I need you to look out of the lounge window.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Charles Purcell.’

  Sears managed to keep his voice calm.

  ‘How did you get my number, Charles?’

  ‘From the Miami-Dade Police Department website.’

  Sears frowned. ‘But how did you know that I would be the officer attending, or even on duty?’

  ‘Please, Captain, all will be revealed. The window, if you will.’

  Sears turned on the spot to see several officers rush across the lawn outside.

  ‘I’m looking.’

  ‘The third officer on the right will jaywalk and get hit by the white Lexus.’

  Kyle Sears’ train of thought slammed to a halt as he tried to understand what Purcell was telling him. All at once he turned his head and saw a white Lexus moving out of the corner of his eye. His officers scattering to make calls and get equipment up and running. Sears realized that Purcell, the crazy bastard, must be in the car.

  Sears whirled and sprinted from the lounge, down the hall and onto the lawn outside to see the car rolling by. Bobby LeMark, one of the newer guys, dashed out from behind the forensics van toward his squad car. Jesus, no. Sears couldn’t help himself and yelled out.

  ‘Bobby!’

  LeMark turned as he ran, floundered and lost his balance. In a terrible instant, Sears saw the Lexus swerve to avoid him and then the terrible crunch of a fender as it slammed into LeMark’s legs. The officer crashed down onto the asphalt with a dull thump. Tires screeched as Sears stared in horror.

  ‘Arrest the driver!’ he bellowed as he staggered down the lawn toward the sidewalk.

  A swarm of officers drew their weapons and aimed at the white Lexus as they rushed forward. Sears heard Purcell’s voice in his ear.

  ‘I’m not in the car, Captain. It will be an old lady of at least sixty. Don’t worry, your man will be fine, nothing more than a twisted ankle. I’d have warned you earlier if it was going to be anything worse.’

  Sears stared in confusion as an elderly and transparently terrified lady was hauled from the Lexus by heavily armed cops. Sears waved them down, watching as LeMark was lifted to his feet by his comrades, his face pinched with pain as he hobbled awkwardly on his left foot.

  ‘It’s his right ankle, isn’t it, Kyle?’

  Sears stared at LeMark for a moment and then shouted down the phone.

  ‘Where the goddamned hell are you, Purcell?!’

  ‘Your partner will work that out in precisely one minute and seventeen seconds. Right now, I need you to listen to me while there is still time.’

  Rodriquez rushed to Sears’ side and held up his fingers as he mouthed words silently. One minute, fifteen seconds.

  Confusion whirled through Kyle Sears’ mind as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. Charles Purcell’s voice sounded again in his ear, calm and controlled.

  ‘Captain, I need you to listen very carefully to what I am going to tell you. It will not make sense but I swear to you that if you do as I say, you’ll understand why it is so important.’

  Fourteen y
ears of training and experience pulled Sears back from the brink of disbelief. He took another deep breath and controlled his thoughts. Keep him talking. Just keep the bastard talking.

  ‘Charles, did you kill your wife and child?’

  A long pause followed, and when Purcell spoke again his voice crackled as though his vocal cords were being torn from his throat.

  ‘No sir, I did not.’

  ‘You were seen leaving the scene of the murders, Charles.’

  ‘By Madeleine, our neighbor,’ Purcell confirmed. ‘She’s with you guys now, holding her dog, right?’

  Sears felt a chill lance down his spine as he pivoted on one foot to see Madeleine still watching the forensics team. Slowly he turned full circle, his eyes searching parked cars and the windows of nearby houses.

  ‘There’s no sense in hiding, Charles,’ he said. ‘If you’re not guilty, then handing yourself in right now is the best course of action.’

  ‘I wish that were true, Captain, but my life is already over. Sir, I need you to visit an apartment in Hallandale that you’ve never been to before, and I need you to contact a man you’ve never met.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I know you can see me, Charles.’

  ‘I can’t see you, Captain. But I have watched you.’ Before Sears could respond, Purcell continued, his words charged with a strange timbre, as though he were saying goodbye to an old friend for the last time. ‘In less than twenty-four hours I will be murdered and I know the man who will kill me. My murderer does not yet know that he will commit the act.’

  Sears’ mind buzzed with disbelief. ‘Then how can you know that he will do it?’

  ‘You will find that out soon enough,’ Purcell replied, ‘and it cannot be prevented.’

  ‘Hand yourself in and let us protect you.’

  ‘If I was to do that, Captain, then the man who murdered my family will never see justice. It has to be this way.’ Purcell paused. ‘The ambulance is coming now, correct?’

  Sears looked up and saw an ambulance turn onto Sistina Avenue, its lights flashing but its sirens silent.

  ‘Where are you, Charles?’

  ‘You’ll know in fifteen seconds, Captain. For now, please listen to me. The bullets that killed my family are still in the house. Find them and have them analyzed for a compound known as Rubidium-82. Then, go to one-one-seven on Sixty-Fourth, Hallandale. When you’re there, you’ll need to contact a man named Ethan Warner.’