passenger side window, but Hank couldn’t make out his face in the dark. Chevy van, 1970s, not a lot of light coming from the dash. “Heading down the Interstate way if you’d like a lift.”
“I sure would,” said Hank, approaching the door. “That’s real kind of you, mister.” He could see the man more clearly now—just a kid, mid-twenties and pretty built from the look of the arms on the steering wheel. Spoke with a heavy Southern drawl, too; all-American good ol’ boy from the looks of it.
Hank pulled the door handle.
“Passenger door doesn’t work,” he said. “You gotta swing around back.”
“Gotchya.”
Maybe the booze had dulled his instincts over the years; maybe he’d been domesticated too long and gone all Pollyanna and shit, but Hank Biehn didn’t give his good fortune a second thought as he skirted around to the rear of the van.
“It’s unlocked,” the kid called, and Hank opened the door. “Just leave your stuff back there and come on up front. Need a hand?”
“No, no, I got it,” Hank said, hoisting his duffel bag inside. He climbed up after it, and was surprised to find the back of the van completely empty—just the grooved metal bed and the shell of the outer walls.
But what Hank Biehn didn’t notice was the strong smell of Pine-Sol and the subtle yet palpable scent of rotten meat underneath.
Oh no, his old factory nerves were simply too shot to pick up on
that.
What a good kid,
Hank said to himself.
And here I am just thinking how the world’s gone to shit
.
Weasel, your luck is changing!
“You gotta make sure you slam that door tight,” the kid said. “Latch doesn’t work like it used to. Dang old-school Chevys.”
“I heard that,” Hank said. He was on all fours now, his back toward the driver as he pulled the door shut. It seemed to latch fine. But when he turned around again, he gasped when he discovered the driver was almost on top of him.
“What the—?”
“Your body is the doorway,” the kid said.
Then he raised his gun and fired.
Chapter 12
Sam Markham stepped into his office on Monday morning feeling tired and helpless—like a dog that had been chasing its tail for days. He’d grown to despise this place—cramped, bare, with no windows and a single fluorescent light that fluttered sporadically above his head. He thought about the plaque in his bedroom back in Virginia, and was sorry he didn’t bring it with him to hang over this, the gates of his own private hell.
Markham sat at his desk and turned on his computer—took a swig of coffee and replayed the last four days in his mind. It was all a blur to him, a soupy mishmash of dead ends and frustration. None of his leads had paid off—the interviews with the families, the Internet and library investigations, the connections between the victims, the ties to Islam and the lunar visuals. The forensic analysis turned out to be a wash, too—no leads on the materials, nothing new via Donovan. But worst of all, the FBI labs had come back with
nothing
on Jose Rodriguez. That’s right,
no writing at all
had been found on him anywhere. Markham hadn’t expected that.
Rodriguez was supposed to be reburied sometime today, and Donovan’s funeral had been officially scheduled for Saturday. The same day as Elmer Stokes’s execution.
His computer ready, Markham sighed and logged into Sentinel, the FBI’s latest version of its case-management database. The Sentinel system had been active for less than a year, and Markham had to admit that it was better than the old Trilogy System—or “Tragedy System,” as the SAs used to call it—but still he thought of it as an untrustworthy logistical pain in the ass.
Markham signed into the Sentinel file for Vlad. An agent from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) had finally entered the information about the killer’s shoes: Merrell Stormfront Gore-Tex XCRs. Even weight distribution. Slight wear. 2004 model.
“You like to hike,
“I sure would,” said Hank, approaching the door. “That’s real kind of you, mister.” He could see the man more clearly now—just a kid, mid-twenties and pretty built from the look of the arms on the steering wheel. Spoke with a heavy Southern drawl, too; all-American good ol’ boy from the looks of it.
Hank pulled the door handle.
“Passenger door doesn’t work,” he said. “You gotta swing around back.”
“Gotchya.”
Maybe the booze had dulled his instincts over the years; maybe he’d been domesticated too long and gone all Pollyanna and shit, but Hank Biehn didn’t give his good fortune a second thought as he skirted around to the rear of the van.
“It’s unlocked,” the kid called, and Hank opened the door. “Just leave your stuff back there and come on up front. Need a hand?”
“No, no, I got it,” Hank said, hoisting his duffel bag inside. He climbed up after it, and was surprised to find the back of the van completely empty—just the grooved metal bed and the shell of the outer walls.
But what Hank Biehn didn’t notice was the strong smell of Pine-Sol and the subtle yet palpable scent of rotten meat underneath.
Oh no, his old factory nerves were simply too shot to pick up on
that.
What a good kid,
Hank said to himself.
And here I am just thinking how the world’s gone to shit
.
Weasel, your luck is changing!
“You gotta make sure you slam that door tight,” the kid said. “Latch doesn’t work like it used to. Dang old-school Chevys.”
“I heard that,” Hank said. He was on all fours now, his back toward the driver as he pulled the door shut. It seemed to latch fine. But when he turned around again, he gasped when he discovered the driver was almost on top of him.
“What the—?”
“Your body is the doorway,” the kid said.
Then he raised his gun and fired.
Chapter 12
Sam Markham stepped into his office on Monday morning feeling tired and helpless—like a dog that had been chasing its tail for days. He’d grown to despise this place—cramped, bare, with no windows and a single fluorescent light that fluttered sporadically above his head. He thought about the plaque in his bedroom back in Virginia, and was sorry he didn’t bring it with him to hang over this, the gates of his own private hell.
Markham sat at his desk and turned on his computer—took a swig of coffee and replayed the last four days in his mind. It was all a blur to him, a soupy mishmash of dead ends and frustration. None of his leads had paid off—the interviews with the families, the Internet and library investigations, the connections between the victims, the ties to Islam and the lunar visuals. The forensic analysis turned out to be a wash, too—no leads on the materials, nothing new via Donovan. But worst of all, the FBI labs had come back with
nothing
on Jose Rodriguez. That’s right,
no writing at all
had been found on him anywhere. Markham hadn’t expected that.
Rodriguez was supposed to be reburied sometime today, and Donovan’s funeral had been officially scheduled for Saturday. The same day as Elmer Stokes’s execution.
His computer ready, Markham sighed and logged into Sentinel, the FBI’s latest version of its case-management database. The Sentinel system had been active for less than a year, and Markham had to admit that it was better than the old Trilogy System—or “Tragedy System,” as the SAs used to call it—but still he thought of it as an untrustworthy logistical pain in the ass.
Markham signed into the Sentinel file for Vlad. An agent from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) had finally entered the information about the killer’s shoes: Merrell Stormfront Gore-Tex XCRs. Even weight distribution. Slight wear. 2004 model.
“You like to hike,
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