“The Everglades stretch miles and miles,” Amy said. “And we have forests and wildlife preserves all around the state—from the Keys to the Georgia line, and out into the panhandle.” She looked at Hunter. “A pale horse.”
“A pale horse,” he repeated.
“I know there are Four Horsemen, but I’m not well versed in the Apocalypse.”
He nodded. “Try Bible verses,” he said. “Revelation 6:1 to 6:8—good place to get a handle on what the prophecy was. But remember, most likely there’s an agenda. Someone with the ability to charm and manipulate others and make them do his bidding—no matter how cruel or irrational—most probably has a very personal agenda for power. Or maybe just murder,” Hunter said.
He stood, as well. John was politely waiting, but he looked worn out.
And Hunter had plenty to go through on his own when he reached a motel room: files, maps, profiles...
“Um, I’m not going to get a lot of sleep,” Amy said.
“You have to sleep,” John told her.
“I know. I’ll try. Who is picking up who, where and when?” she asked.
“I’ll get John at six-thirty. Then we’ll come for you,” Hunter said.
“Good—you do the driving,” John agreed.
They started out; Amy paused, seeing that Hunter was looking at the table.
“I’d like to take your sketchbook,” he told her. “Any objection?”
She shook her head and then turned, following John out.
Hunter looked after the two of them, studied their board one more time and then followed.
They were going to have to move fast. If he was right, the pale horse had been honored, but there were three more to come.
* * *
Amy was ready, outside the small house she rented about a mile and a half east of one of the city’s massive theme parks, when the car pulled up for her.
It was precisely 6:50 a.m.
John was in the passenger’s seat, so she was happy enough to crawl into the back.
“Get any sleep?” John asked her.
“Some,” she said, buckling up, and then quoted from the reading she had done the night before. “‘I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.’”
Hunter glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “Good memory. I can only paraphrase.”
“Johnny Cash just gave us a taste of it,” she said. “‘The Man Comes Around.’”
She thought Hunter offered her either a grim smile, or a grimace.
“But she wasn’t killed by famine or plague,” Amy continued.
“She was killed by something like a sword. A spike. Okay, spikes and swords are different, but she was struck through the heart with metal,” Hunter said. “I’m not saying they’re going to follow the Bible exactly, but I do believe they’re planning on something happening.”
She leaned forward.
“Sad and tragic and horrible as these killings are, they haven’t unleashed the plague.”
“No, they haven’t,” Hunter agreed. “You know, there are dozens of interpretations of the book of Revelation,” he said. “Some saw the white horse as Christ, coming to save the souls of the righteous. Some see that white horse as Satan himself.”
Amy watched the landscape roll by out the window.
“How about some music while we’re on the way down?” John asked. “I might be able to get another few winks. And then let’s hope the forensic teams and medical examiners have something useful for us.”
“Identities would help,” Hunter said, but he turned the music on.
They arrived at the morgue by a quarter of nine, and Dr. Carver was in reception speaking to the receptionist about another case.
Carver told them he was ready to get started. The victim had been bathed and prepped.
They suited up, ready to stand for the hours the autopsy would take.
Carver adjusted the microphone that would record his every observation. He began with the obvious—the victim was in her early twenties.
She had not been sexually assaulted. There were traces of sedative in her system, but that sedation had mostly worn off. She had fought desperately against the ties binding her, rubbing the skin at her wrists raw.
Death had indeed come from the metal spike that had been thrust through her—with considerable force.
Amy watched in silence, breathing through her paper mask, and trying to remain completely still to listen.
Observing an autopsy was always painful but could be crucial. Or not. She did believe the medical examiner spoke for the dead as no one else could. But sometimes, the dead had little to say that wasn’t already known.
Suddenly, John grabbed his chest; his eyes caught Amy’s as he keeled over, slamming into the autopsy table. Before he could crash to the floor, Hunter was at his side, lowering him down carefully, saying something to Carver about his heart.
Amy cried out, ready to run to him.
“Larson, I need room!” Carver said.
She stopped, standing still as a rock, barely breathing.
Dr. Carver left the dead to help the living, ripping off his gloves as he bent over John. He began shouting orders to his assistants in the room.
Before she could dig her own phone from her pocket, one of the assistants had dialed for an ambulance.
“His medicine!” Amy called out to Dr. Carver. He searched John’s pockets, then slipped a tiny pill beneath his tongue.
Sirens could be heard. An ambulance, coming to the morgue. It seemed like an oxymoron.
Carver explained to the EMTs that John had suffered a heart attack.
And all she could think was that they shouldn’t have had that pizza. And she couldn’t let her partner go off to the hospital alone; she had to be with him.
He was the best partner.
He had become the best friend.
She stared at Hunter Forrest, who had quickly and efficiently seen to John, and to every command Dr. Carver had given.
His face was hard, but knit with grave concern.
Then his eyes touched hers as she wavered. “Amy, go.” Hunter told her. “Go with John. He’ll need you. I can be our eyes and ears for this.” He seemed to hesitate. “Go,” he repeated. And then he added, “Trust me.”
She was aware then that he must know she was skeptical about him, not at all sure she wanted to work with him. But she knew something else at that moment, too.
She did trust him.
She turned and ran out of the autopsy room.
3
Hunter stripped off his paper gown. The autopsy, at last, had come to an end. Dr. Carver left his assistant to close up the body, and he and Hunter headed for Carver’s office for a recap of the results.
“It didn’t appear that she was sexually assaulted before the murder,” Carver said, sitting behind his desk, “but she led a very active sexual life.”
“You think she was engaging in sex work,” Hunter said.
“I think it likely,” Carver said. “Again, her age was somewhere between twenty and twenty-four, tops. She must have been on the streets for a while as she was showing signs of malnutrition. As to the murder, yes, she was tied to that stake. She struggled fiercely. And it took more than one person to drive that spear into her heart. She was on the cross when it was done—that was obvious from the blood flow.” He hesitated and shrugged. “The slashes were done to her face before she was raised on the cross. That murder was carried out with great cruelty. She didn’t just die. She was tortured before she was killed.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “South Florida, especially the big cities on the east coast, has their share of violence. It’s mostly dr
ug-related, domestic or even accidental when people become the victims of gunfire when they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—mostly stray bullets. I’ve been at this job for almost ten years now. Started in the lower ranks, of course. I’ve seen bodies in barrels, half-consumed by fire, stabbed, strangled and shot. But I’ve never seen anything so brutally carried out as this. Hunter, you’ve got to catch this guy.” He was silent a minute. “These people... As I said, the force needed took two people.”
“Two strong people, right?” Hunter asked.
“Yes—to lift and wield that spear. But that’s not just my knowledge as an ME. I’m going to say that it’s simple logic. It isn’t easy to pierce through bone and the human body like that. But that doesn’t mean both killers had to be male, though it’s likely.”
Hunter’s phone was buzzing in his pocket. Carver checked his, as well.
Amy had them both on her list for sending out messages from the hospital; they were receiving the same information at the same time.
And it was another text from Amy. Dr. just came out again; John remains stable. They’ll be moving him to intensive care. He doesn’t believe, at this point, that irreparable damage has been done. Still in the waiting room; hope to be let in soon.
He saw Carver was busy texting back even as he texted back himself.
Thank God. Keep us posted.
He saw Carver’s reply. Thank God. Keep us posted.
They looked at each other and grinned.
“Medically, we should be optimistic, right?” Hunter asked.
Carver nodded. “He had the good sense to have that heart attack with a medical doctor near. Yes, I’m a medical examiner but I went to med school to get that job, you know.”
“Right,” Hunter said, and smiled. “I’m glad you were there.”
“You don’t need to go over there yet,” Carver said. “They’ll let in one visitor at a time, when they do. Give it until tonight.”
“John was divorced, and his ex-wife passed away in a traffic accident around six years ago,” Hunter said. “But he has a son and a daughter. I’m sure Amy is contacting them now. Might take a bit for them to get here. His daughter is in Virginia and his son is up in Jacksonville. I know Amy isn’t going to want to leave until someone else has arrived to be with John.”
“He’s going to need to be in that hospital a few days, though—and then he’s going to need to get some rest and change some of his habits.”
Hunter shook his head. “Amy was just scolding him for eating pizza last night. He’s a good man, and we’re going to need him around a long time to come. I’ve known John to down a twenty-two-ounce steak. Yes, he will have to change a few of his ways.” Hunter stood. While he wanted to see John and assure himself that his friend and sometime coworker was hanging in, he knew there was nothing he could do at the hospital.
“All right, I’m going to head back out to the murder site and interview a few of the locals.”
“Have a nice conversation with the cows,” Carver said.
“Yep, lots of cows. And a big enough population to support several different churches and a synagogue.”
“But the population just isn’t that big. You don’t think the murderers were looking for isolated places to carry out their barbarity?”
“I don’t have a theory yet. I have a body in Maclamara, which is a tiny place. And a body on a road through the beaten edge of the Everglades, although it’s hard to tell what natural topography is in many places now. Thing is, that road is barely used these days with the highways. Locals use it—easier access to point A and point B when they’re close enough to each other. But that’s the point—someone knew there was a good likelihood they could spend hours out there without being seen, and yet, eventually someone would come by. A display like that is meant to be seen.”
“You don’t mean the killers intend to be caught?”
“No,” Hunter said. “But they do mean for their murders to be a message.”
“And you think there will be more.”
He nodded grimly.
Carver rose to shake his hand. “I’m happy to help in any way at any time.”
“Great, and thanks again.”
Hunter left the morgue behind. Carver had spoken for the dead.
Now he needed information from the living.
* * *
Amy had held John’s hand in the ambulance, but since he’d been rushed into Emergency, she’d been relegated to sitting. And waiting.
A few other members of the FDLE had dropped in. They’d checked with her and moved on. It didn’t make sense for too many people to just sit.
She’d kept up with Dr. Carver and Hunter Forrest, had tons of coffee, paced and wasted a great deal of time with her head in a whirl. She’d contacted John’s children, though she had waited to be able to give them the good news that he was stable before she had done so.
She was still waiting.
Her phone rang. They would be taken off the case, she thought, seeing the number for Mickey Hampton, her immediate supervisor, on her caller ID.
John had been the experienced agent in their duo; Hampton was probably going to hand it over to another agent.
Hampton asked her first about John. She told him what she could.
“I have a feeling John will pull through fine,” Mickey told her. “When you’re comfortable, get back out to the murder site. I have orders from above that we’re to stay on this. When the kids get there to be with John—and you can think and act rationally, of course.”
“I’m...lead?” she asked.
“For a few hours at least,” he said dryly. “The same great voice that wants you on it has warned that the lead investigation is going to be FBI. But this is still Florida, and he’ll be working with us. We had a recent meeting here in the office. Their tech and our tech will follow any digital leads, and you can call either with questions—or for help. Apparently, ownership of the swath of land she was found on is debatable—state or federal. Anyway, this is Florida. You’ll partner with that specialist fed.”
“Yes, sir. Do you...know this man? The FBI agent?”
“Only by reputation, but he has a great reputation and he’s worked with FDLE before. They say he’s a team player, so you should be fine. Stick with him.”
“Like glue.”
“You’ll make a fine team.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again. There was nothing else to say.
When she finished the call, she found she was still waiting.
She wished she had files; she wished she had a laptop or a tablet with her. She did, however, have her phone. And finally, she settled down enough to pull it out and explore what she could on the internet. She thought she’d read up on cults.
And it was terrifying.
Ugandan police had reported more than nine hundred people had recently committed suicide. Equal to or above the number dead from the People’s Temple, the followers of the charismatic Jim Jones in Jonestown. There had also been those who had died over several years related to the Solar Temple, those who had died following David Koresh of the Branch Davidians, and notable cults in Korea and Mexico that had brought about suicides—and possible murders.
Charles Manson’s followers, his “family,” had perpetrated horrendous murders.
She began reading about the horrors of Jonestown—how some had escaped before the end had begun. When Congressman Leo Ryan had visited, members had tried to leave with him. His truck was attacked, but he survived that attack and made it to the airport. He was then attacked by other members of the cult at the airport and shot and killed. Four others died and eleven were wounded.
Soon after, the murder/suicide began, with three hundred of those dead being under the age of seventeen.
Jones had gained his followers in several ways; he had convinced them he was a
mind reader and a faith healer. He convinced people of color that if they weren’t under his protection, the government would round them up and put them in a concentration camp. He used blackmail and beatings to keep control. And he brought his “family” to Guyana, hoping to better leverage his position there.
“Special Agent Larson?”
Amy looked up. For a moment, she felt as if her heart stopped. At the very least, it skipped a beat. John’s doctor, looking weary, stood by her.
She almost dropped her phone as she stood to face him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You may see John now. He’s resting, but conscious, and he’s doing well. We have him in the ICU, and we ask that you keep him restful and calm.” He directed her toward the correct room.
She walked quickly, stopping to use the intercom to gain entry, and then hurrying to the door. Large windows were open to the nursing station; if John was in distress, he would be seen.
That was assuring.
When she entered the room, she did so as quietly as possible. His color remained pale, but he appeared to be breathing easily.
Sleeping, she thought.
But as she paused by the door, he spoke to her.
“Get in here, kid.”
A swell of relief washed through her; his voice sounded surprisingly strong.
She strode to his bedside; he was ready to take her hand.
“How do you feel?” she asked him.
“Like I was hit by a triple-decker bus. But I’m lucky. I’m going to be good. And no more pizza. They have a dietitian coming tomorrow, and by then my kids will be here, and with them being as obnoxious as you are...well, I’ll eat better in self-defense!”
She smiled and sat on the chair by his side, still holding his hand.
“What are you doing, sitting?” he asked her.
“I’m staying here.”
“You have a murder to solve. But I suppose Hunter is out there, and you wanted to come with me, and he insisted you did.”
Danger in Numbers Page 4