Under the Agent's Protection

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  And what a game it was!

  The Darkness had dared to enter Wyatt’s house and trembled with ecstasy for the risk of it all. It was too damn bad that the plan hadn’t worked. But if it had? Ah, just to think of Wyatt’s terror when he discovered the woman’s corpse.

  How many years had it been since the Darkness had first seen Wyatt? He’d been interviewed on television in Las Vegas after the third body had been found. It was then that the Darkness knew that finally a worthy opponent had been found. Handsome. Brave. Smart.

  When the public turned on the white knight the Darkness knew it had won. Yet, it wasn’t enough for the Darkness to win. It wanted to be known. It wanted to look Wyatt in the eyes and see adulation, admiration and love.

  The Darkness watched from the shadows and seethed. There—a flicker of emotion passed across Wyatt’s face. What had it been? Tenderness? For who—for the woman? What if Wyatt had started to play the game again and it wasn’t to defeat the Darkness, but to provide comfort for the woman?

  Had the Darkness been wrong to try and harm her? Had that moment allowed Wyatt to protect her—and become the woman’s champion? What if she lured him away and Wyatt stopped playing the game?

  That would never do. Never. Never. Never.

  “‘Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell,’” said the Darkness.

  Could Wyatt still be saved? Perhaps. But that would require another sacrifice...

  * * *

  Wyatt parked the truck next to the corner and consulted the piece of paper he had thrown on to the dashboard. Glancing at the two-story Victorian mansion on the edge of the Pleasant Pines business district, he admitted it was hardly what he expected from an outfit that slyly referred to itself as providing “private security.” Then again, this inconspicuous home might just provide the perfect camouflage.

  He scanned the front stoop for a placard or any kind of sign. There was nothing beyond the house number. Everly sat in the passenger seat and he glanced her way.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  Wyatt turned off the ignition and pocketed his keys. “Let’s find out.”

  They walked up the sidewalk and rang the bell. A sleek, silver intercom had been set into the wall. It squawked with a burst of static for a single second before a woman’s voice asked, “May I help you?”

  Wyatt looked for a call button, but there was none. He leaned forward. “I’m here to see Marcus Jones.”

  “Name?”

  “Wyatt Thornton,” he said. “From the Bureau.”

  “And?” asked the woman.

  Wyatt looked around for a camera and saw none. Obviously, appearances were deceiving. “Everly Baker,” he said, leaning toward the intercom and raising his voice. “Marcus met her yesterday at the diner.”

  Wyatt’s first impression that this was nothing more than a home—renovated to office space—was quickly replaced. The high-tech and thorough security employed by Rocky Mountain Justice was impressive.

  The woman’s disembodied voice came through the intercom. “Look at the camera.”

  The what? Wyatt didn’t see anything.

  The lock clicked, leaving the door ajar. “Marcus can see you now,” said the woman.

  Wyatt pulled open the door and stepped into a foyer. The walls were covered in white paper with a golden paisley pattern, so understated that it was only visible in direct light. There was a chair rail of deep mahogany and a striped paper of maroon completed the walls. The floor was covered in hexagonal tiles of black and white—all a typical look for a Victorian mansion, except for one unmistakable difference. The door leading to the house was reinforced steel, controlled by a keypad lock and screen for facial recognition.

  Everly moved close behind Wyatt, her mouth close to his ear. “It looks like something out of a James Bond movie.”

  Before Wyatt could agree, the door opened with a whoosh. Marcus Jones stood on the threshold. He wore jeans, a button-up shirt with light blue stripes and a navy blazer. The classic outfit was at odds with the innovative surroundings. “Hey, Wyatt,” said Jones. He offered his palm. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

  Taking the other man’s hand to shake, Wyatt said, “I—we—need your help.”

  “Sure,” said Marcus. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is there someplace we can talk?” asked Wyatt. “Someplace that’s a little more private.”

  Jones nodded. “Follow me.”

  They stepped through the metal entrance. A similar keypad and monitor for facial recognition were also attached to the inner door. Marcus tapped out a six-digit code, then stepped up to the scanner. Marcus’s likeness appeared on the screen. Twenty identification points were checked. A green light atop the scanner flashed and the door slid open.

  There was a curving staircase in front of them and another door at the back of the hall. There were also two wooden doors—one on the left and the other on the right. All of them were shut, the lock controlled with a keypad and scanner.

  “That’s quite the security setup you have,” said Wyatt, half conversationally, half in awe. “What is that you do here again?”

  “We do a little bit of everything. Anti-industrial espionage. Security for businesses. Sometimes we help out when local law enforcement needs a hand.”

  Wyatt was starting to get a picture of the work done by Rocky Mountain Justice. “The government hires you because you don’t have to play by the rules and can push boundaries they can’t,” said Wyatt.

  Jones didn’t bother answering the question, which was an answer in itself.

  “Right now, we’re a small crew. Elite, I like to call it,” said Jones as he led them up a winding staircase. “RMJ’s headquarters are in Denver. We have three operatives in the Wyoming office, myself included, as well as a communications specialist. I’m looking to expand with the right people.”

  The offer to join the crew was definite. “I appreciate you hearing me out and offering to help,” said Wyatt. “But I’m retired.”

  “Retired?” Jones chuckled. “You sound so old when you say that. How old are you?”

  “I’ll be thirty-seven in August.”

  “You’ve got plenty of years left to work.”

  “Still not interested,” said Wyatt with a shake of his head. Everly had been silent during the exchange and he wondered what she thought about him leaving the work force at such a young age. She had an opinion—he’d bet money on it—if only because she had an opinion on everything.

  Then again, why did he care what she thought? He was helping her find justice for her brother—and in turn, he was tying up the biggest loose end of his life. When he thought about it that way, Everly’s opinion didn’t matter as much.

  The staircase ended in the middle of a hallway. Seven doors stretched out along the corridor—three to the right and four to the left.

  “This way,” Marcus said, pointing to the right. At the second door, Marcus entered yet another code and waited while the facial-identification software ran. The latch automatically released with a click and Marcus turned the handle and opened the door.

  It was a computer lab, as sophisticated as any Wyatt had seen in the secure rooms at the Hoover Building or the in bowels of the NSA. Several monitors hung on the wall and even more sat on a semicircular group of tables. There were four keyboards, and a private server hummed at the back of the room.

  So, while this incredibly high-tech operation wasn’t uncommon at the highest level of the government, it sure as hell was uncommon for a private agency. He doubted that Marcus Jones would give him more information about RMJ than he’d already gotten, but Wyatt was certain he would now have access to any database he needed.

  “Have a seat,” said Marcus. There were four chairs on wheels and Everly selected one. Wyatt took a seat next to her and Marcus sat near
the door. He rested his elbow on the table. “Downstairs you said you wanted to speak privately,” he said.

  Marcus was like that. He didn’t exactly ask questions, just gave openings for information to be given. Yet, what did Wyatt want to say? Marcus had been a special agent in Charge of the Bureau’s Denver field office. Even though he’d been part of management, he hadn’t worked on the Las Vegas case. He didn’t know everything Wyatt did—it was time to bring Jones up to speed.

  “This is about the last case I worked,” said Wyatt.

  “Las Vegas.” This was from Marcus. Again, not a question, not a statement.

  Wyatt nodded. “The serial killer I was hunting there has resurfaced here in Pleasant Pines.”

  Jones sucked in a breath and his eyes widened. It was a quick reaction, yet unmistakable. “You have my attention.”

  “My brother was one of the killer’s victims. We think there might be others, but we need access to information in some law enforcement databases.” Everly said. “We’re hoping you can help us with that search.”

  “What do you need?” asked Marcus.

  Focusing on the important details, Wyatt said, “The killer in Vegas left a calling card of sorts—it was half of a two-dollar bill that was placed in the wallet of all his victims. It’s how we first knew all the killings were connected.”

  “I never heard about that link between the victims.”

  “It was kept classified. We didn’t want any of it leaking to the media and then having to deal with copycat killers.”

  “I’m guessing that there’s a link with this newest death?”

  Everly rolled her chair forward an inch. “Half of a two-dollar bill was found in my brother’s wallet.”

  “And the circumstances around the death were similar.” Wyatt added, “In Nevada, all the victims had a very high blood-alcohol content and were found in the middle of the desert.”

  “Several men died of exposure in Pleasant Pines over the past couple of years, just like my brother,” Everly continued. “They all had a similarly high blood-alcohol level and had happened to wander into the woods where they died.”

  “You want to see if those men have half of a two-dollar bill among their possessions?” Marcus asked.

  “Exactly,” said Wyatt.

  “I have to ask—did you take this information to the sheriff?”

  “We told him about the two-dollar bill and the connection to Wyatt’s old case,” said Everly. “But the medical examiner ruled accidental exposure as the cause of death and Sheriff Haak didn’t want to listen to what we had to say.”

  “I know the sheriff kept a record of all the personal belongings found with each body. I also assume a copy’s been kept in the database, but without the sheriff giving us access to his computer, we’re stuck...” Wyatt let the statement dangle like a hook in the water, and he hoped like hell that Marcus would take a bite.

  “Which is why you came here,” said Marcus.

  “Pretty much,” Wyatt said.

  Marcus swiveled toward the table and began tapping on a keyboard. The RMJ site filled one of the monitors on the wall. “Let’s see what we can find out about these recent deaths.” The sheriff’s office site came up and within seconds, they had accessed a private page.

  “Is this legal?” Everly whispered.

  Marcus held up his hand, tilting it from side to side. So-so.

  Wyatt’s gaze was drawn to the computer’s cursor. His pulse grew stronger with each beat until the steady thump, thump echoed in his skull. “See if you can find a master list for property located on recently deceased.”

  Marcus typed, and another field appeared.

  “Try half of a two-dollar bill,” he said.

  Marcus didn’t hesitate and entered the phrase into the search engine. A colorful ball spun for a minute and stopped. Your query has four matches. There were four names listed, as well. Wyatt picked up a notepad and pen from the table and scribbled them down. “Robert Barnes. Jeffery Stone. Brian Green. Seth Carlson.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Everly asked. “Go to the sheriff?”

  She looked from Wyatt to Marcus and back again.

  It was Marcus who answered. “There’s at least some proof that four other men were found with half of a two-dollar bill on their person. It’s a lot more than a coincidence if you ask me. More than that, it should warrant some kind of investigation.”

  Wyatt folded his arms across his chest. With a shake of his head, he said, “It’s still thin. We need to know as much as we can about the other guys—see if there are connections beside the obvious.”

  “Gender. Place of death. The torn-up money.” Marcus counted out the facts as he spoke. “That’s more than a little thin.”

  “If this is a serial killer—” Wyatt began.

  “If?” Marcus interrupted. “If? I thought you were sure, that’s why you came here. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “I keep coming back to the same question—why? What’s his motivation? Why does he need to kill these men?”

  “Plain and simple,” said Everly. “He has his own agenda, even if nothing he does makes sense to us.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Serial killers are highly intelligent and very methodical. There’s always a reason for everything they do. More than that, every case that I’d worked before this one had another common theme. All the killers fed off the terror of their victims.”

  He continued. “They liked knowing the other person was in pain and feared for their life. This morning, Everly pointed out that there’s no viciousness to any of these killings. Aside from the calling card, each death looks natural.”

  “Maybe he’s a new breed of serial killer,” Marcus suggested.

  Wyatt lifted one shoulder and let it drop. The scenario didn’t fit. Or rather, it was too perfect of a fit. So why the hesitation? Was there something wrong with his theory? Or was he paralyzed by the past, afraid to make another mistake that might ruin him once and for all?

  Chapter 8

  Everly and Wyatt had spent the better part of two hours tracing the life of each of the victims. Marcus Jones stayed with them for the first hour but left when he received a phone call from RMJ’s headquarters in Denver.

  While consulting the notepad in front of her, Everly said, “The similarities in all these men are eerie.”

  “They were all from out of state, visiting for work or waiting for friends—and therefore by themselves.” Wyatt shifted in his seat. “The fact that they were alone made them easy targets. No one to miss them when they first disappeared.”

  Had Axl been an easy target? Everly hated to think that somehow her brother had been exploited. A shard of grief stabbed her in the chest. She bit her lip. The pain was cleansing.

  “I’m sorry if what I said sounds callous. I guess sometimes I can come across a little academic,” he said.

  How was it that Wyatt could read her so well? Oh, yeah—he was a behavioral scientist and she’d be wise not to see something special about his attentiveness.

  “I’m okay,” she said with a shake of her head. “You’re right. Axl was alone and he was an alcoholic years ago. He went to treatment, and maybe thinking he could control his addiction left him more susceptible to being...” Everly couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought, much less the sentence.

  “Do you want to take a break?” Wyatt asked. “This has been tough on you.”

  “A break from what?” She laughed, and her voice cracked. “Finding out who killed my brother is the only thing that matters to me right now. Or might ever matter again.”

  “Let’s wrap this up then,” said Wyatt as he let go of her wrist. “Let’s go over everything we’ve found so far.”

  She paused. “Each man in this list is almost exactly the same. Sure, their hometowns were different, as were the reason
s they were in Pleasant Pines—but they were all the same, down to their approximate height, weight and coloring. It’s as if the killer has a type.”

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair and cradled his head in his hands. “Like I said earlier, a serial killer is obsessed with having the same kind of victim. Basically, the killer is recreating an event from their past. What they need is new people, similar looking people, to replay the same role again and again.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Everly, “my brother was a perfect fit.” She waited a beat. “How have these deaths not been connected? How is it that no one ever figured out that four men have been murdered by the same person?”

  “Look at the dates,” he said. “While it’s becoming obvious to us now, those dots are pretty far apart for anyone who’s not looking to create a picture. Still, years ago, I had a team of two dozen agents and more than twice that number of police officers dedicated to finding the killer. Even with all those resources, we never figured out who was responsible.”

  Before Wyatt could say more, Everly’s phone began to ring. She fished it from her bag. “It’s Sheriff Haak,” she said. “Axl’s body is probably ready to be taken back to Chicago, which means I need to get out of town.”

  “Put the call on speakerphone and tell him I’m here. He may not agree to open an investigation now, but I think we can get him to meet with us.”

  Everly swiped the speaker icon before setting the phone on the table. “Sheriff Haak,” she said. “I’m here with Wyatt Thornton.” How many business meetings had Everly taken in the same manner? So many that the words felt comfortable and yet, this phone call wasn’t about anything as mundane as an advertising campaign or a client’s public-relations problem.

  “Oh, really?” the sheriff said, his tone brittle.

  Wyatt leaned toward the phone and spoke. “I’m sure you remember that I found a link between the death of Axl Baker and an old case of mine.”