Why the Devil Stalks Death

by L. J. Hayward

  “Jesus.” Jack locked his fingers together on the back of his head. “That’s a gross violation of their authority.” Then a thought hit him. “It was Toomey, wasn’t it? He got you my address.”

  Adam shrugged.

  “Does the poor bastard know you’re just using him?”

  “Maybe he’s using me.”

  “If he was, he’d be the first one to ever get anything from you without having to pay for it.”

  That made Adam turn around. “What the fuck?”

  “Don’t pretend to be innocent. You sit there with that goddamn smirk on your face because you know what everyone is thinking before they do. And you use it to get what you want.”

  Adam’s top lip curled up. “I don’t need to be analysed by an amateur.” He opened a cabinet under the TV and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Unscrewing the cap, he muttered, “Besides, if that was true I would have fucking found the Judge by now and all this shit would be over.” He chugged back several mouthfuls before Jack got the bottle off him.

  “How much booze do you have here?” Jack headed for the kitchen again.

  “Doesn’t matter. The concierge will get me more.”

  “You don’t need anymore.”

  “No, but I want it.”

  Pouring the vodka into the sink, Jack snorted. “For someone who supposedly knows better, you don’t have much self-control.”

  “Fuck you.” Adam was too tired or too drunk, or too much of both, to put real effort into the words.

  “No, and that’s what I’m talking about. You used Toomey to scratch an itch, and now you used him to get to me, all because you want something you can’t have.”

  “Wow. And you said I was arrogant. Who said I went to your place looking for sex?”

  “What the hell else was I supposed to think? You show up, unannounced, with a bottle of bourbon. Isn’t that foreplay in your book?”

  When he didn’t get an immediate retort, Jack shook the last of the alcohol out of the bottle, set it beside the other one, and then turned around. Half expecting to find Adam passed out, he was shocked out of his anger to see the man back in the chair, elbows on knees and face buried in his hands.

  “Adam, what’s wrong?”

  “They shut us down.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because of you.” Lifting his face, Adam found the strength to glare at him. “That’s why I went to your place tonight. To let you know that if the Judge kills again, it’s on your head. Excuse me for bringing some Dutch courage.”

  Jack sat in the other chair. “Why did they shut Infinity down?”

  “You know why. They’ve been trying to stop us from the first day.”

  “ADFIS did this? Why now and not earlier?”

  Adam gave him a withering grimace. “Before, they couldn’t point to the fact that the ISO pulled their ‘advisor’ because of a ‘lack of new evidence’ and ‘insufficient reason to warrant the ISO’s further involvement.’ That’s what your boss said you reported to him when he called to say you wouldn’t be working with us anymore. I can’t fucking believe you, Jack. You got advice on how to deal with your psycho boyfriend and then fucked off. I didn’t think you were that selfish, but what really hurts is that you gave them a reason to shut us down.”

  Jack slumped back in his chair. Goddamn John Axworthy. For someone who worked in international relations, he was about as diplomatic as a toddler with a gun.

  “It wasn’t me,” Jack said. “I never said any of that. The decision to pull me off the strike force came from well above me.” He couldn’t admit that he hadn’t protested, that he had, in fact, rejoiced.

  Adam gave him a sceptical eyebrow quirk.

  “I swear. Jesus, if anyone had suspected ADFIS would react like this, I don’t think they would have pulled me out.” At least, he hoped so. “What happens now?”

  “Now? Steph gets reassigned, I go back to bloody Melbourne, and we wait for the Judge to kill another poor person before anything more gets done.” His hand moved, as if seeking a bottle. Finding nothing, he moaned. “And I just signed a fucking lease on a far too expensive apartment right in the middle of the bloody city. Shit.”

  “You were really going to move here?”

  Adam shrugged. “Been thinking about it for a while now. I have a friend here who’s been after me to join her practice. And, you know, there are other benefits.” For a moment, his gaze locked on Jack, and then his eyelids closed. “Well, I thought there were.”

  Sighing, Jack stood and hauled Adam to his feet. “Come on, bedtime.”

  “Alone,” Adam said mournfully as he stumbled along, one arm slung across Jack’s shoulders. Sitting on the end of the bed and struggling with his shoes, he muttered, “I’ve changed my diagnosis on your boyfriend. Probable obsessive-compulsive personality disorder with definite violent tendencies. He needs help, Nishant.”

  Jack took pity on him and removed the remaining shoe. “I know. I’m doing my best.” Except that he wasn’t. He’d felt so guilty about it, he hadn’t bothered to deal with the outcome of that conversation. Not when things had seemed to be going better.

  “Proper help.” Adam crawled up the mattress and curled around a pillow. “I know his type. They’re my specialty. He’s only going to get worse before he gets better. Don’t ask me, though. I have too much of a personal interest to be objective.”

  “Him pulling guns on you wasn’t personal.” Fingers crossed. “It was surprise and ingrained habit.”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said sourly. “Go home, Jack. Make sure he’s okay. I promise to never darken your doorstep ever again.”

  With the realisation that Adam was right about everything, Jack left.

  The facsimile of a friendship he and Adam had was over now. Not that it would have lasted beyond the parameters of the job, anyway, but if there had been a chance it could have survived, it was crushed now. Bridge burned.

  Ethan needed help. Jack himself would be a bigger mess than he was if it hadn’t been for the therapists he’d seen over the years, and he’d only had to deal with a fraction of what Ethan had been subjected to. The biggest hurdle wasn’t getting Ethan to agree, though. It was convincing him that the only way it could be done was through the Office. No other psychiatrist would be allowed access to the intelligence Ethan knew.

  Lastly, another innocent was going to die. It was the only way the strike force would be reinstated.

  As he got on the bike, Jack noticed a familiar figure coming down the footpath towards the hotel. Hands shoved in his front pockets, head down, shoulders hunched, Constable Toomey didn’t notice Jack. Out of uniform, Jack finally saw what Adam had been talking about. The man was built, his long, muscular legs encased in tight jeans, abs and pecs shown off by the silk shirt clinging to his torso, and when he turned to go into the building, his arse proved to be perfect.

  The odd sensation the man’s appearance left in Jack’s stomach wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t attraction, either. Mostly. Jack wasn’t sure what the rest of it might be, but it wasn’t an entirely comfortable feeling. He squashed it down. Adam knew what he was doing. Probably.

  All the rage that had driven Jack to Adam’s had changed to regret by the time he got home. Jack hadn’t done enough to catch the killer or make sure Ethan was okay. So, he was saddened but not surprised to find the apartment empty when he got in. All of Ethan’s clothes were gone. His books. The weapons he’d stashed around the place. The photo of Jack’s parents he’d moved to a more central spot had been returned to where he found it.

  “Jack,” Ethan said, tone flat when he answered Jack’s call.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” The studious neutrality of the words said otherwise.

  “I yelled at Adam for a while.”

  “I imagine you did.”

  Knowing Ethan wouldn’t want to hear Adam’s justification for invading their privacy, or that he hadn’t known he was, Jack just said,
“He won’t be back. Will you?”

  After a long silence, Ethan murmured, “I don’t know. I can’t feel safe there, Jack. I’m sorry.”

  Jack swallowed his guilt and worry. “Don’t be. I know you can’t. Are you safe now?”

  “I am.” His tone softened, as if grateful Jack cared enough to ask.

  “Good. Can I come to you?”

  Another pause in which Jack could hear Ethan breathing on the far end of the connection. “Not yet. I need to be on my own for a while. I left Shorty with Mrs. Langridge on the first floor. Please fetch him back. You shouldn’t be alone because of me.”

  “Okay.” Jack held back the desire to plead. He’d only just smoothed over his last fuck-up. “Just . . . let me know how you’re doing.”

  “I will. See you soon, Jack.”

  His laugh was strained as Ethan cut the call. The last time he’d said that, it had taken four months.

  Jack fetched Shorty, and Mrs. Langridge informed him she’d found the dachshund leashed to her doorknob, his bag of goodies beside him. Assuring her it had just been a miscommunication, he took Shorty home and watched as the dog searched every nook and cranny for Ethan. Eventually, Shorty curled up with Jack on the couch, his chin on Jack’s chest, big eyes sad and confused.

  “Yeah, mate,” Jack whispered, scratching his head. “I miss him, too.”

  McIntosh studied the results of Jack’s cognitive model while he and Lewis fidgeted in their seats. Once McIntosh agreed with Jack’s conclusion about the model results, he would be heading out once more. In an hour, whoever had left the message on his bathroom mirror would be at the Cenotaph, and Jack would be there as well.

  “It says here there is a 71.54 percent probability the serial killer is Ethan Blade,” McIntosh said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She looked at him over her glasses. “But you don’t agree.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Her gaze flickered to Lewis.

  “It’s not my personal feelings getting in the way,” Jack said, informing her that Lewis was in the know at the same time. “I know he’s come up as the top result, but it’s not him.”

  “He fits the profile, a little too well,” she reminded him gently. “How can you be so sure?”

  “You said it yourself. He fits it ‘a little too well.’ Lewis’s gut told him the tickets weren’t about the Messiah because it was too coincidental. I’m saying the same thing here.”

  Lewis frowned. “You’re insinuating that the Judge is not only after you, but that he knows a lot about Ethan Blade’s tactics and skills, and that he knows about your relationship with Blade.”

  Hearing it spoken aloud made it all the more real. How neatly Jack had been played, once again.

  “Yes. He’s not an SAS soldier. He’s like Ethan, and Eve Garrote. He’s an assassin, not a serial murderer.” When they still looked sceptical, Jack rushed on. “It fits. Before Ethan came here, he said he had to severe ties with his associates. He’s never said who they are or what they do, but what if one of them took exception to him retiring? Because of me?”

  McIntosh shook her head. “Are you saying he killed five people just to get to you?”

  “No. Only one. The first two in Melbourne, I don’t know what his motive was there. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe he’s just copying that killer’s style. They were killed years ago, well before I met Ethan. They don’t count. As for Williams and Luntz, I think they were assassinated as opposed to being victims of a serial killer. Lew said they were the only ones with something in common. The storage units. I bet whatever’s in them is why they were killed. Our guy just used those tickets as an excuse to come here and play his mind-fuck games with me and Ethan. Morrissey is the odd man out. He’s also the reason I was called in.”

  “That’s far-fetched, even for me,” Lewis said. “How would the Judge know you would be called in?”

  McIntosh looked down at her screen, still filled with the results of Jack’s model. “Because he was the one who suggested you to Stephanie Phelps.”

  Jack nodded. “He was right there in the middle of it. I can’t believe we all missed it for so long. I even explained it. Familiarity, confidence, and forgery.”

  “The second most likely candidate from your model.” McIntosh set the screen down and said grimly, “Constable Richard Toomey.”

  Things happened quickly then. Lydia organised a strike team to search the storage units, and Lewis began digging into Richard Toomey, revealing a stolen identity and a fake transfer from a rural police station with the first few probes. Jack went down to the armoury and restocked. He was in the garage, arranging panniers on a new bike when Lewis found him.

  “Not sure if it adds much at this stage, but I worked out what was bugging me about the Bible quotes.” He gave Jack an eye roll. “I’m disappointed that a good Christian boy like you missed it.”

  “I’m a boy and Christian, but not good. What is it?”

  “I don’t think the quotes were only picked because they related to the victims. All of the Sydney quotes have the number thirteen in either chapter or verse. Both for one of them. Adam’s quote was Matthew, chapter thirteen, verse thirteen. It means something to him.”

  “Yeah.” It made a sick sense in light of everything else they’d just learned. “Or to someone else involved in this.”

  “Blade?”

  “Maybe. Either way, it’s time to get this done.” He got on the bike.

  “The strike teams are in position. We got a clear signal off your implant. You’re good to go.” Lewis paused, then added, “Don’t go.”

  “I have to. If Ethan set up the meet, I have to be there for him.”

  “So he can shoot you?”

  “So I can tell him the truth.”

  “And if it’s Toomey who’s waiting?”

  Jack smiled. “We’ll get some answers at least.”

  Conceding, Lewis stepped back, and Jack roared out of the underground carpark. Stealth was pointless at this stage. Toomey knew so much already; trying to hide the rest was useless.

  He came in along Pitt Street, turned down Angel Lane, and parked. Overhead, the birdcages were silent, the recordings of native bird calls turned off for the night. The art installation was too flimsy to support a grown person’s weight, but Jack scanned the hanging cages, anyway. Now he knew the nature of his foe, he wasn’t taking any chances. Convinced it was clear, he headed towards Martin Place and the Cenotaph.

  Sidling between two buildings facing onto Martin Place, Jack stopped just before stepping out into the pedestrian mall. Back to the wall, he peered around the corner. The Cenotaph sat in the middle of the paved street, a stone sepulchral guarded at either end by a bronze soldier and sailor. On the face Jack could see, the words “Lest We Forget” were visible. Jack had attended several ANZAC Day services at the Cenotaph, and the thought that Toomey could defile it with his sick games made Jack furious. Several of the streetlights around the Cenotaph weren’t working, leaving most of the area in vague shadows. Good for sneak attacks.

  A gun barrel settled low on Jack’s side.

  Far from shocked, Jack merely whispered, “About time you showed up.”

  “Aw, as smart as he is handsome. Finally got a clue, did you?” Eve Garrote moved in front of him and pressed against his body. She followed his line of sight, her breasts rubbing across his chest. “Mm, that’s not all you got. Is that a gun in your pants or are—”

  “All right, enough with the bad jokes.” He indicated they move into the deeper shadows. “Ethan asked you to pick up the ticket on me, didn’t he?”

  Garrote’s teeth flashed in the darkness. “It’s sweet you call him that. And yes. I owed him a favour, and this is how he calls it in. To protect you. I couldn’t actually give a toss about you, but he is my brother and we always stay loyal to family.” She twirled her gun around a finger and winked at him. “Mostly, anyway.”

  Jack stared at her. Without the sunglasses he got a look at her
eyes. White irises, too wide pupils.

  Brother? It made him think of Ethan’s associate he met a year ago. A woman who’d helped them find out who the traitor within the Office was. A woman who’d treated Ethan like an annoying sibling—who’d had white eyes as well. A family of Sugar Babies, at least two of whom were assassins. Christ.

  Putting that aside for now, Jack concentrated on the immediate situation. “Is Ethan here?”

  “Ethan is around. If things go as planned, everything will be sorted out while we’re tucked away safely.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “And then you two lovebirds can fly off into the sunset. If the sheer cuteness of it doesn’t make me shoot you first.”

  “You’re weird. You know that, right?”

  “He said you do that. Just say things no sane person would when talking to one of us.”

  “I stick with what works,” Jack said dryly. “Are we really just going to stand here all—”

  “Reardon!”

  Jack jerked. His name bounced back and forth across the empty street. He didn’t recognise the voice, but then he hadn’t spoken to Toomey a lot, and had no doubt the man hadn’t been using his real voice. No doubt because the accent on the word had been British.

  “Uh-oh,” Garrote said. “Looks like things did not go according to plan.” She shook her head despairingly and whispered, “He should’ve learned long ago that they never do.”

  Jack made sure his USP was loose in its holster, checked his backup in the back of his pants, and lastly swung the black Austeyr assault rifle around to his front. “In that case, let’s wing it.”

  He headed into the open space of Martin Place, ignoring Garrote’s hissed “You’re an idiot.” This meeting had taken too long to happen. Now it was here, Jack wasn’t waiting any longer. Not when it meant Ethan had possibly been incapacitated—or worse.

  “Here he is,” Toomey said as Jack came into the clear. The tall man stood by the Cenotaph, feet shoulder width apart, hands on hips. He was a dark shape amongst the shadows, just a hint of blond hair picking up some of the distant lights. “Surprise.”