Next Victim

by Michael Prescott

  Tennant shook his head. "Doesn’t sound like our suspect. She wouldn’t have been checking out of the hotel. She just got into town tonight."

  "No, man, you don’t get it. I was, you know, checking her out…." He put a lascivious emphasis on the last word.

  "Oh. I see." Tennant felt old and stupid. "Where’d you spot her?"

  "Sitting at the bar."

  "Alone?"

  "Some dude perched next to her after a little while. They got to talking."

  Her contact, possibly. "Was the woman carrying a suitcase?"

  "Sorry, didn’t notice."

  "But you’re sure she’s the one in the photo?"

  "Pretty sure. I mean, I looked right at her."

  "Is she a guest at the hotel?"

  "Could be, if she checked in before I came on duty."

  "When was that?"

  "Eleven."

  Pierce hadn’t even left LAX until 11:45. She wasn’t staying at the hotel. Unless…

  "Did you see her leave?"

  "No, I don’t know what happened to her. I took a break around one-thirty, and when I came back, she was gone."

  "The man, too?"

  "Man?"

  "The…dude on the next bar stool."

  "Yeah, he was gone. I remember thinking maybe he got lucky."

  "He a hotel guest?"

  "Could be, but I didn’t recognize him."

  "The bartender would know whether they left together."

  "I guess. Chris went home hours ago."

  "What’s his home number?"

  "Hey, it’s three A.M. You’re gonna call him now?"

  "Yes, I am."

  Tennant got the number and hung up, then called the bartender. Twenty rings. No answer.

  "He could be spending the night with somebody else," Wilkins suggested.

  "Maybe." Tennant frowned. "Or he may have just turned off the ringer on his phone. Get his address out of the reverse directory."

  Twenty minutes later, Tennant was banging on Christopher Albright’s apartment door. "Mr. Albright, open up! Open up now!"

  He was rewarded by the sleepy shuffling of feet. Albright answered the door wearing only a terry-cloth robe. He was a thin, sallow guy with a stubble of fuzz on his cheeks. "What the hell…?"

  "FBI." Tennant produced his creds. "You the bartender at the MiraMist Hotel?"

  "Uh…yeah."

  "We’re looking for a woman who may have been at the bar earlier tonight. This woman." Tennant showed him the photo. "Recognize her?"

  "I think so. Yeah, I do. She got there a little after midnight. No liquor, just ginger ale."

  "Was a man with her?"

  "A guy joined her." By now Albright had led Tennant, accompanied by Jarvis and Bickerstaff, into the mess that was his living room. Evidently he had fallen asleep on the sofa. The TV was still on, flickering in a corner, the volume low. "He was trying to pick her up."

  "And did he?"

  "They left together."

  "And went where?"

  "Didn’t see, but I’d guess it was his room."

  "So he’s staying at the hotel?"

  "Definitely. Charged the drinks to his room tab."

  "Which room?"

  "Hell if I remember."

  "What was his name?"

  "Shit…" Albright ran a hand through the loopy tangles of his hair. "I’m sorry, I don’t know."

  Bickerstaff asked, "What was he drinking?"

  "Gin and tonic, twist of lime," Albright said immediately. He smiled. "Occupational hazard. I never forget a drink."

  "So if we check the bar tab…?" Tennant asked.

  "You’ll find him that way. Sure. He was there for maybe forty-five minutes. Sucked down two, maybe three gin and tonics."

  "Okay. Thanks. You’ve been very helpful."

  "What’s this all about, anyway? What’d this woman do?"

  "Parking tickets," Jarvis said. "A whole lot of ’em."

  Tennant told Wilkins and Dante, waiting at the hotel, to review the bar tab. By the time he arrived with J&B, the hotel guest had been identified as Donald Stevenson in room 1625.

  "Description?" Tennant asked Bickerstaff.

  "According to his Illinois DL, he’s Caucasian, blond and blue."

  "Got to be a fake ID."

  "Unless he’s just a businessman looking to get laid, and Pierce decided to use him for cover."

  "It’s possible." Tennant looked at Jarvis. "His credit card number’s on file from the check-in, right?"

  "Sure."

  "Run it. See when it was issued."

  Tennant turned the office behind the registration desk into a makeshift command center. On one of the newly installed phones, he called the Santa Monica Police Department and got through to the commanding officer of the OSE, the Office of Special Enforcement, waking him at home. He summarized the situation: armed and dangerous fugitive traced to a local hotel.

  "We need SWAT," Tennant said. "Yours and ours."

  The captain insisted that the department squad be first in the door, with the FBI team on hand only as backup. Tennant didn’t argue the point.

  "SET will roll in fifteen minutes," the captain promised.

  "SET?"

  "Special Entry Team. That’s what we call our SWAT guys. They’re good, Agent Tennant. Regularly win statewide SWAT competitions. We’re not a big department, but we’re not yokels either."

  "I believe you. Look, Captain, we need to keep this off the radio in case the suspect is monitoring."

  "SMPD communications are all digital and encrypted. Scanners can’t access the signals."

  "It’s possible she could have a stolen transceiver." Tennant wanted to cover every angle.

  "Wouldn’t do her any good. We assign each radio to a specific user. If it’s lost or stolen, we disable it remotely. Relax, Agent Tennant. You’re in good hands."

  Tennant got off the phone with the SMPD captain and phoned the FBI office to arrange a SWAT callout. Then he checked with Jarvis.

  "Credit card is new," Jarvis reported. "Donald Stevenson obtained it only a month ago."

  "Interesting."

  "There’s more. I had the credit card people give me his SSN. Ran it through the database. It belongs to Donald Stevenson, all right—but he died in 1989."

  Tennant felt a kick of adrenaline. "He’s our guy. No question."

  "So they’re in the room together. Fucking like bunnies, I guess."

  "That’s not the way these transactions usually end." Tennant frowned. "Maybe the room’s empty, and they both snuck out during the night."

  "We can ring room 1625 and see if anyone answers."

  "No. We can’t risk alerting them that anything’s up. With any luck, they’re both still there."

  And the suitcase is with them, he added silently. And everybody lives happily ever after.

  A half hour later Tennant was sitting in an undercover mobile command post parked on a side street near the hotel, conferring with Lieutenant Garzarelli, commander of the Santa Monica PD Special Entry Team.

  Garzarelli’s men were stationed in a stairwell on the MiraMist’s sixteenth floor. Members of the FBI SWAT squad were also inside the building, occupying less forward positions in deference to the locals. An engine company stood by, ready to dispatch paramedics to the scene if something went wrong.

  "Evacuation’s complete," Garzarelli said. "Floors fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen have been cleared of guests and staff." The lieutenant peered up at the white tower of the hotel. "You mind telling me what the hell we’re dealing with?"

  "You already know. Female fugitive, armed—"

  "Don’t give me the boilerplate. You don’t pass out gas masks and oxygen canisters to the primary assault squad for a routine arrest."

  Tennant met his stare. "Think of her as a courier."

  "What’s she carrying?"

  "Let’s say it’s something that could do a lot of damage if she or her friend has a chance to release it."

  Gar
zarelli was quiet for a long moment. Then he said softly, "Ebola?"

  "What?"

  "Is it the Ebola virus?"

  Tennant almost laughed. Ebola. This guy was watching too much TV. "No, Lieutenant. It’s not Ebola. It’s not a virus at all, or any kind of germ. But just to play it safe, let’s treat it like it is Ebola, and maybe no one will get hurt."

  Garzarelli nodded, looking relieved. Tennant knew his relief would vanish if he knew what was in Amanda Pierce’s suitcase.

  "If everything’s set on your end," Garzarelli said, "we can rock ’n’ roll whenever I give the word."

  "Not yet. I have to get up there."

  "You?"

  "Relax. I won’t get in anybody’s way. Your boys get to do the rough stuff, but I’ll be right behind them to help secure the scene."

  "They don’t need any help in that department."

  "Today they do. I know what to look for. They don’t." Tennant walked away without further discussion, adding as he left the command post, "Give me ten minutes."

  In nine minutes he had joined the SET squad and donned his tactical vest and ballistic helmet, his Nomex gauntlet-style gloves, and finally his SF-10 Avon gas mask and oxygen canister. Through his earpiece he heard Garzarelli check in with his team. The element leader affirmed that they were loaded and locked.

  Tennant had seen the eight-man team strap on the gear they carried in a rapid-mobilization diesel SUV. They had a hand-carried battering ram to break open the hotel room’s door in the event that the electronic lock had been disabled. Should they encounter resistance, they had flash-bang grenades to confuse and disorient the suspects. The lead assaulters could flip down night-vision goggles if the room was too dark for normal eyesight—a possibility, since an observation post across the street confirmed that the drapes remained shut.

  "Clear tactical frequencies," Garzarelli ordered. "No chatter. You men are good to go."

  This was it—ass-pucker time. In a few minutes Amanda Pierce and her contact would be either in custody or dead. Tennant didn’t care which way it worked out, so long as the suitcase was recovered and none of the good guys got hurt.

  The risk was that Pierce and her friend might have time for a defiant, suicidal gesture. The gas masks were intended to provide for that contingency. But this kind of warfare was still new to him. Hell, it was pretty goddamn new to everybody. It was a brave new fucking world.

  Tennant followed the squad down the carpeted hallway to the door marked 1625. The scout produced a boxy piece of electronic equipment and pressed it against the outer wall of the room. The unit was a RadarVision scope, which used ultra-wide-band radar to see through concrete, wood, or plaster.

  Tennant saw a luminous blob dancing on the LCD panel.

  "We have movement," the element leader whispered into a throat microphone on a breakaway strap. His LASH radio headset transmitted the words clearly to Tennant’s earpiece. "Minimal but rhythmic, consistent with deep respiration." The rise and fall of the abdomen was detectable by the radar pulse. "Movement located near northeast corner, in approximate position of bed." They had studied the room’s layout before suiting up.

  There was no other movement, Tennant observed. Either the two suspects were sleeping so close together that the radar could not distinguish two separate respiration signatures, or one of the pair had left—possibly taking the suitcase.

  But one, at least, was still there.

  The scout put aside the radar scope. The element leader took out the passcard for the room’s electronic lock and inserted it in the slot. Above the lock, the red LED turned green as the latch released. Silently he eased the door an inch ajar.

  The two assaulters took up their positions flanking the leader, who served as point man. Their HK MP-5 9mm submachine guns were held at port arms. Night-vision goggles were perched on their foreheads, ready to be snapped down over their eyes if needed. Gas masks hid their noses and mouths.

  The element leader ticked off a silent count on his fingers.

  On three, they went in.

  Where there had been silence, there was a sudden eruption of noise as the door was thrown wide, the SET squad rushing in to cover both sides of the doorway, the leader shouting, "Police, you’re under arrest!" More shouts from squad members checking the bathroom, closet, and balcony—"Clear!" "Clear!" "Clear!"

  Tennant watched from outside the doorway. When his chest started to hurt, he realized he’d forgotten to breathe.

  Then the leader reported, "Team leader to base, premises are secure. There is one, repeat one, occupant of this room, a female, and she is one-eight-seven."

  One-eight-seven was the section of the California Penal Code that covered homicide.

  Amanda Pierce was dead.

  "You say one-eight-seven?" Garzarelli asked over the radio, seeking confirmation.

  "Affirmative, sir. She’s about as one-eight-seven as it gets."

  Her contact had killed her. Tennant could think of a dozen reasons. She had been followed from Oregon and had inadvertently endangered them both. The killing might be her penalty for that mistake. Or maybe it was an insurance policy, a way to ensure that she never talked.

  Tennant didn’t care about the reason. What mattered to him was that Donald Stevenson, whoever he had been, had killed Pierce and left the room.

  Which meant he must have taken the suitcase.

  Slowly, Tennant stepped through the doorway into the room and looked toward the bed, where the breathing had come from.

  Amanda Pierce was on the bed, but she wasn’t breathing.

  His gaze tracked to the nightstand, where a room-service menu flapped in the breeze of an air-conditioning vent. A rhythmic flutter, which the scope had read as respiration.

  He looked around the rest of the room and saw the suitcase. It lay on a desk chair, its contents scattered. He experienced a wild moment of hope, which died when he looked over the miscellany of items.

  There was no metal canister. It was gone.

  The team leader’s voice, loud in his earpiece, took him by surprise. "Looks like her partner offed her," he said.

  Tennant realized the SET officer was addressing him. He nodded and turned toward the body again.

  Amanda Pierce’s eyes stared at him, wide and somehow angry, even in death. She had been duct-taped to the headboard, her throat cut.

  Duct-taped…

  Throat cut…

  Tennant kept up with the major investigations handled by the bureau. He remembered the maniac in Denver who had recently resurfaced in LA.

  "It wasn’t her partner," Tennant said slowly.

  The element leader glanced at him. "Sir?"

  He didn’t answer. He stood staring at the bed, thinking of the missing canister and the case code-named RAVENKIL.

  Things had been bad before. But they had just gotten a whole lot worse.

  17

  Mobius.

  His name, his mantra, coiling through his mind, a snake swallowing itself in a perpetual act of self-devouring, of unappeasable appetite.

  It was a name that signified many things, but above all the loop of time coiling to intersect itself, merging past and future in an endless present, the great now extending forever.

  He had killed before and he would kill again, but always it was the same act, the same victim, the same moment in time.

  Always he saw there, the gun in her hand, the song playing like background music, the theme song of his life.

  She spoke to him, and then there was the gunshot blast, the heat and pain, and the water closing over him like the petals of a flower as he sank into a humming brightness.

  He tried to call to her for help, but the water got in the way, the water that flooded his mouth and filled his eyes like tears, and around him slow tendrils of blood unwound in the water, making clouds of red….

  And then—and then—

  He was out of the water, he was strong, reanimated, and he was holding her down, taping her wrists to the headboard of th
e motel bed. A knife was in his hand, and she couldn’t hurt him. He was the one who would do the hurting now, and the bitch couldn’t stop him. The bitch could only writhe and struggle and die.

  That was how it had been tonight, in the MiraMist Hotel. That was how it was, every time, always.

  Mobius had left the MiraMist at 2:45, taking the stairs to the lobby, exiting via a rear door without being seen by the hotel staff. His car was parked a short distance away. He had driven east on Wilshire Boulevard, into the Westwood district.

  At 3:15 A.M. he parked on an elm-shaded side street outside the Life Sciences Center on a university campus. He put on his gloves and took the canister with him when he got out of his car.

  The campus was deserted at this hour. The Life Sciences building was situated along one side of a picturesque quadrangle. He was considering the best way to break in when he noticed a light in the basement windows.

  Someone was at work in a lab.

  This was very convenient. Although he had intended to perform the procedure himself, he knew he would be unfamiliar with the new equipment. Now, by pure good fortune, he had found an assistant.

  It took him no time at all to defeat the lock on the front door of the building with a set of tools from his glove compartment. Silently he descended the stairs. A sign with an arrow pointed to ORGANIC CHEMISTRY LAB II. The lab door had a window in it. Looking through, he saw long countertops crowded with Bunsen burners, Pyrex flasks and beakers, test tube racks, and triple-beam balances. This much he’d expected, but what surprised him was the quantity of computer gear in the lab—keyboards and monitors and boxy CPUs.

  At the far end of the room stood the lab worker in the white coat, bending over a table. Mobius opened the door and entered, unheard. When he was halfway across the room, he rapped his knuckles on a counter, and the other person turned.

  "What the hell? How’d you get in here?"

  "The building was unlocked."

  "No, it wasn’t."

  "It is now."

  Mobius looked over his new friend. He was just a kid—early twenties at the oldest. Sandy hair, thin build, hard plastic goggles over his wide, alarmed eyes.