Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Vryke finished filling out a U.S. Customs declaration form then eased his tension by drumming his fingers on the canvas bag carrying his laptops. He glimpsed the freckle-faced teen turning another page. Remember this day, kid, it guarantees you a place in history as the guy who sat next to Eugene Vryke.

  At that moment in Washington, D.C., a short distance from the White House, an urgent call came from the RCMP to the Office of Enforcement at U.S. Customs headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The alert concerned an extremely dangerous murder suspect, believed to be preparing to enter the United States from Canada at Washington State. It was immediately sent to the coordinator of the U.S. Customs Northern Border Office for processing.

  In British Columbia, near the Peace Arch, traffic was gridlocked on the southbound lanes awaiting clearance for entry by U.S. border officials.

  Turn signals blinking, the Seattle-bound Eagle charter belched a black diesel cloud as it maneuvered into the dedicated bus lanes. Flags of the United States and Washington State flapped above the U.S. port buildings. Roof-top and driver-level security cameras eyed traffic, sentry cameras recorded rear license plates. As the bus crept closer to the U.S. checkpoint, the driver popped open the door. A U.S. Customs officer wearing dark glasses and an all-business attitude boarded.

  “Everyone please disembark with your luggage and we’ll process you as quickly as we can in this building behind me. When you get inside, U.S. citizens to the right, others to the left. Please have identification and completed declaration forms handy. Be prepared to have your belongings inspected and declare the nature of your visit to the United States.”

  In Washington, at the U.S. Customs Northern Border Office, staff members were processing the details of the alert, containing criminal intelligence supplied by the FBI, SFPD, Toronto Police Service, and the RCMP.

  It was flagged urgent for the immediate arrest of Eugene Vryke, a suspect sought for murders in the U.S. and Canada. The alert’s history showed that Vryke, believed to be a U.S. resident of Maryland, was traveling in the Vancouver area and bound for the U.S. It listed his DOB, race, height, weight, eye and hair color. It included the aliases Foster Dean and Harlan Wells and two photographs. One from a Maryland driver’s license and one from the United Coast car rental security camera at San Francisco International.

  “Let’s get this out to Blaine preclearance at Vancouver International, and Amtrak,” a supervisor said.

  Struggling with bags, griping about the delay, the charter’s passengers lumbered into the processing building, lining up as instructed. They passed the wait discussing baseball.

  When his turn came, Vryke placed his small luggage bag and canvas computer bag on one of the large tables as requested by a female Customs officer.

  “Mind opening this one for me, sir?” About thirty. Short-cropped blond hair. Small gold rings in her pierced ears. “Can you please turn on your computers for me?”

  Vryke complied and the machines beeped to life. Each screen displayed a high-definition, action, animated video of major league baseball.

  “What’s this, sir?” She touched his satellite phone and collapsed dish.

  “Satellite phone. I’m a freelance journalist. I was filing travel stories from the Rockies to U.S. clients. Want to see one?”

  “No, thanks. You can close it up and go to the officer at the desk. He’ll want to see your ID. Give him your form.”

  Vryke took his place in the line before a U.S. border officer, sitting on a high stool at a podium desk behind a computer terminal. Behind the officer, Vryke could see his bus and passengers returning. He was third in line. The officer was examining IDs, asking short questions. Through the building’s windows Vryke saw two RCMP patrol cars, two Mounties talking to several U.S. officers. He tried to make out the cars. INS maybe? County? Customs?

  “Next.”

  It was Vryke’s turn.

  The officer was a balding man in his forties. Frameless glasses, pencil-thin moustache and dark blue eyes that were quick as he accepted Vryke’s U.S. identification and Customs form. Studying it, he keyed his computer. It beeped a response when he entered the name of Dennis Delmarcario.

  “Returning from vacation?”

  The computer continued beeping.

  “Yes.”

  Vryke could see his bus less than twenty yards behind the officer who was scrutinizing his computer screen. He glanced at Delmarcario’s photograph, then at Vryke, looking him in the eye. Same person. The officer started passing the documents back when his terminal beeped. A small icon flashed indicating an incoming hot alert. The records snapped back.

  “One minute, sir.”

  Vryke’s pulse quickened. Through the window he saw the small police posse, bulked with kevlar, holstered pistol handles protruding, the computer beeping. The border officer at the desk reaching for his phone.

  Vryke swallowed.

  “Yeah, Cal, it’s me. The darn thing’s seized on an incoming --”

  “Excuse me! But we’re going to miss our game!” someone complained from the line behind Vryke. The officer was deaf to it. “…Yeah, Cal. You have to reset it now. Right. We’re backed up good.”

  The officer hung up and gave Vryke his papers. “Welcome back to the U.S., sir.”

  In Seattle, Vryke found a cheap motel, paid cash for one night after registering with a new alias.

  He had to hurry. The previous night in his Vancouver hotel, he had felt the onset of a seizure but managed to suppress it with an injection before it overwhelmed him with convulsions.

  The room reeked of beer and cigarettes. The walls vibrated with loud music from the downstairs bar. Vryke tossed his bag on the bed. No time to lose. He switched on his computers, made the necessary adjustments to go on-line. As his systems fired up, Vryke leafed through the Seattle yellow pages; then his keyboard began clicking, a small grin cutting into his face, as he found exactly what he needed. Making some notes on the motel’s take-out menu. On-line, he checked the schedules for the next day’s flights on Five Star Skyways to Baltimore. There was one in the morning. There were seats available. Good. He’d buy a ticket at the counter at the last minute. Vryke then made a few phone calls.

  He sensed the police were getting close. He was tempted to enter their systems but he had to refrain. If he kept ahead of them he could succeed. He just had to be smart, avoid being sloppy. He checked the news wires and local newspapers, especially for Toronto and San Francisco, see if they were gaining on him. Nothing so far. He went to a hidden compartment in the liner of one of his bags, removing his kit for the morning. The wig, dye kit, the contact lenses to change his eye color. New glasses. He rubbed his upper lip. The moustache was filling in. Vryke went to the washroom, shaved his head, trimmed his eyebrows.

  Before he went to sleep that night, he sat alone in his darkened room, the scars of his face bathed in the glow of his computer screen as he comforted himself on-line with her words to him after he asked if there was anyone who could truly forgive the sins of a past life.

  She responded: I am the one.

  Tears spilled from his eyes as he wrote to her.

  Now I have the courage. I’ll never be alone again. Thank you, livinsf.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Twenty-four hours.

  We’re only a day behind you. Sydowski grimaced at Vryke’s face. Soon, everyone will know you.

  In a few days, once they confirmed more vital information and obtained arrest warrants, police in San Francisco and Toronto would go public with short news conferences identifying Vryke as a dangerous fugitive wanted for homicides in both cities. They would release his photos, aliases, a brief summary, and little else. Vital hold-back wouldn’t be released. They were at a critical point in their pursuit now, Sydowski thought, crunching on Tums tablets and rubbing his tired eyes. He had slept less than four hours since yesterday’s VICAP break in the case. He had polished off a takeout order of a BLT, fries, gravy, and a large milk at his desk. Now he was dealin
g with his heartburn, files, notes, calls and hunches.

  Vancouver city had put a team of detectives on it. Their forensic people were scouring the rental for latents. Checking the aliases with hotels and motels. The Mounties were doing the same throughout British Columbia’s Lower Mainland. So far, no homicides with his signature in metro Vancouver. Sydowski saw that Toronto had not discovered any trace or prints in the Palace Arms hotel. Clean.

  In Alberta, the RCMP dispatched investigators from Major Crimes South to the Banff hotel where he had registered under an alias. The hotel staff reported that guests had complained of “a loud disturbance in the middle of the night” coming from the room. The Mounties immediately secured the room, roused a judge for a warrant, then paged the IDENT section out of Calgary subdivision.

  Was he at work there?

  Sydowski had heard nothing new so far. Nothing from U.S. Customs, who had flashed the bulletin from Blaine to Maine, alerting U.S. border officials at the nearly 150 northern points of entry, all airports, train stations, crossings and ferry terminals. Nothing from the FBI. Nothing new on any of the known credit cards. All we have is that he had returned a rental in Vancouver and vanished.

  In the East, the FBI was working the names and addresses in the metro D.C. area, shaking down all the District, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania possibilities. As expected they were dead ends. The feds were also running the aliases and details against Social Security numbers, trying to lock on to true information. So far nothing.

  Turgeon put down her phone. “The techs from Crime Scene and Horace are finished with his United Coast Taurus. They’ve faxed a report over from Hunter’s Point. Here it is.”

  Turgeon retrieved it from the machine, shaking her head as it dispensed the last page. “Looks like nothing that could be his. Hold on, Walt.” She lifted a page, then another, before passing it to Sydowski.

  The report said the arches, whorls and loops of the latents showed more than fourteen minutiae points similar to the fingerprints of Iris May Wood, resulting in a match. A faxed B/W crime scene photo showed her prints in the dark, silvery fingerprint powder smeared on the door handle, window, armrest, wall, indicating the moment of terror and her futile struggle. Sydowski looked long and hard at the photo.

  In Canada, in the Banff hotel room where Vryke had battled death, an RCMP forensic expert was looking for any evidence of a crime. Housekeeping staff had checked their files. Nothing unusual about the room after the suspect left. It was actually very tidy, according to the woman who had remade it. That made the detectives suspicious. The room appeared spotless and had a pleasant smell as the Mountie prepared a two-gallon jug of water, sodium perborate, sodium carbonate, and luminol. She attached a small sprayer, pulled the curtains, switched off the lights, darkening the room before she began applying the solution to the clean walls, glistening tub, and sink. The process, known as chemical luminescence, would detect any blood a suspect may have wiped clean, invisible to the naked eye. Once the solution contacts blood, it reacts, glowing blue in the dark, as it did now, in huge large smears on the bathroom wall, ghostly twelve-inch letters rising in the dark as the Mountie continued spraying, her face hidden behind a surgical mask, her eyes behind her goggles reading the words scrawled on the wall in blood:

  I WILL SHOW YOU PAIN

  At that moment in Baltimore, the FBI Special Agent coordinating the Vryke investigation in the area telephoned Sydowski directly.

  “Inspector, we just heard from our Seattle field office, Foster Dean purchased a last-minute one-way ticket at the Five Star Skyways counter at Sea-Tac International this morning.”

  “Where to?”

  “Baltimore. Landed approximately four hours ago.”

  “He was on the flight?”

  “Five Star Skyways confirms. The ticket was used.”

  Sydowski hung up.

  Four hours behind you now.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Vryke bought a full-fare ticket at Five Star Skyways’ counter at Seattle International. In the pre-boarding area he surveyed the groggy passengers with their takeout coffees, water bottles, newspapers. There is always one who leaves their ticket in a vulnerable position.

  He found him.

  Cowboy hat, jeans, boots, large belt buckle, a trucker type. Arms folded. Eyes closed. On the adjacent seat, his ticket was peeking from a small bag with a rolled up USA Today. Vryke plopped next to him, sending it all spilling to the floor.

  “Sorry, friend. I’ll get it.”

  Vryke clumsily gathered the man’s belongings, including his ticket to Baltimore which Vryke quickly switched with Foster Dean’s ticket, slipping it unnoticed into the stranger’s ticket folder. The cowboy nodded then yawned. Perfect. Five Star’s computers would confirm Foster Dean was on the Baltimore-bound plane, Vryke thought later during the boarding call as he casually walked in the opposite direction of the departure gate.

  He entered a restroom to ditch Foster Dean’s credit card in an empty stall, pausing when he happened upon the words: God’s plan for Salvation, on a soaked pamphlet draped over the rim of a toilet. You do work in mysterious ways, don’t you?

  Vryke appraised his reflection in the mirror; dark red hair, red moustache, thinned eyebrows, different eye color and glasses. Not bad, he thought before heading for Boeing Field, and Golden Airstream VIP Charters. The company offered ‘One-hour Readiness On Demand’ and Vryke chartered a small jet for Neil Chattersly, vice-president of CiceroComputrex. It cost a few thousand dollars on the company card.

  Emergency business.

  He buckled in to one of the aircraft’s luxurious leather-bound chairs. A single attendant offered him a pastry and coffee. The pilot and co-pilot were friendly and professional. “Sit back and relax, Mr. Chattersly. We’ll have you in San Francisco in no time at all.”

  As the jet leveled, Vryke felt two forces closing in on him: death and detectives. But as he looked at the endless blue sky and the Pacific, he was confident he would triumph. For he had found her. She would forgive him unconditionally and she would be his for all eternity.

  I am the one.

  Their meeting would be magnificent. He envisioned it, and every glorious thing he knew of her. How she would be working so near to Forever & Ever, in a gift shop with chiming transom bells. He had visualized her warm eyes, her kind face and pure heart. She’d been there all this time, dispensing the virtues, sympathy, gratitude and forgiveness, in the form of a card for a few dollars each.

  She was The One.

  Many times in his mind he had pictured her large uphill house near Twin Peaks overlooking the twinkling lights of the city. Its perfect yard, its mature trees nodding in a breeze under a moon gliding through satin clouds. He had imagined his hands on the wrought iron of the front gate, the soft grass of the manicured lawn under his shoes. He had even envisaged the fading sirens rising up from the Mission below and how he would find her Edwardian house armed with a VigilShield electronic surveillance home security system that he could easily disarm. How the thick shrubs in the darkness would allow him to work undetected at a rear basement window. He imagined slipping on his omni-scope night-vision goggles that would read the ambient light, transform it into eerie monochrome images. He envisioned setting down his small bag of tools in silence because each was wrapped in a towel. He envisioned easily removing the steel prowler bars from the window, quietly cutting the glass, replacing it all carefully upon entering her basement so it appeared untouched.

  He had imagined how he would take his time to find his way quietly to the main floor, pausing on each step, emerging in her kitchen that would be so fragrant with fresh flowers as he moved into the living room.

  He had visualized the pendulum, heard it ticking in the grandfather clock as he padded up the staircase, moving with utmost care as he checked each room, until he found hers, light with her scent, a mild mixture of soap, lavender, and perfume. He imagined stopping to savor it.

  He had pictured himself entering her
room like a dream, seeing her computer on the desk in the corner, the very vehicle through which she had dispatched her promise to deliver him from all the sins of his past life and eternal damnation. How with utmost reverence, he would caress its keyboard. Then he saw himself turning to find her asleep on her large bed.

  That is how he had imagined it would be.

  Now Vryke was basking in the reward of his cyber intrusion into every facet of her life. After landing, he had rented a car, checked into a motel, waited for night, then made his way to her hilltop home and their destiny. In all the pain-filled years he had spent searching the world, he had ached to know this moment; had envisioned it in a million dreams.

  No need to dream anymore.

  It was now real.

  He was here. Lit with the glory of The One.

  Looking down upon Olivia Grant asleep in her bed, breezes parting the window’s curtains heralding the night sky to paint her with moonlight. Standing there, an other-worldly apparition in his dark hooded coveralls, his infrared glasses, holding his breath behind his surgical mask. Enraptured. His heart ascended as her face turned to him. Behold, the sorrow and the pity, the grace she held for him. Divine Forgiveness.

  It brought Vryke to his knees.

  He dared to move his face near to hers, his tiny camera lenses recording the final chapter.

  He reached out to touch her, his hand mere inches from her cheek when he refrained, holding himself dead still for several moments, creating a portrait of beauty and pain. Vryke blinked back his tears. His search had ended. His mission fulfilled. They would be together forever. Without a sound, the fingers of his latex gloves reached into his bag, feeling the injection kit, bypassing it for the big towel.