5th Pentagram: The sequel to the #1 Hard Boiled Mystery, 9th Circle (Book 3 of the Darc Murders Trilogy) (Book 3 of the Darc Murder Series) (12 page)

And the winning was all.

It wasn’t that the Intermediary was so attached to personal power and gain. Not at all. It was the greater good that was the goal. Not the sissified greater good of that lunatic priest or the sanctimonious lawyer. They had been useful tools. Fit only to use as pawns to distract attention away from the true ends.

And their idea of “greater good” was so narrow. So based in tired religion. So filled with piety. So moralistic.

No.

The greater good was that which worked toward natural selection. Get rid of the old, weak and infirm. Cull the herd. Within reason, of course. Avarice could be tolerated, but not when it led to getting rid of the best and the brightest in order to protect its own place.

Therein lay the problem. Money and influence, which were synonymous in this day and age, were not the greatest good. They were not the ideal to which the human race should aspire.

Of course not. Any idiot could see that.

The builders of the Tower of Babel had it right. Come together. Bring the strongest, the most intelligent, the most courageous. And then construct a building that would take them to God.

They just hadn’t understood that God was a construct. A metaphor. A teaching tool left for the ages by those who had seen the strength to which humans could aspire when the best among them strove together.

Build a tower, yes, but not to reach to some nonexistent deity. Build the tower to attract more of the best. Gather them all in together. Create the perfect city-state that would be invulnerable, not because of location or positioning, but because those within were bigger, better and brighter than those without.

And then let the haters hate. Let the wailer wail. Let the destroyers attempt to destroy.

The best of the best would beat them back. Every single time.

Always there was resistance. From those who were weak and wanted protection. From the middle of the pack that believed they belonged up at the front. From those who were strong but incapable of embracing their own strength. False modesty was one of the biggest killers of real power.

And so, the herd would be culled. The Intermediary expected that the savant would survive. Indeed, that was an outcome to be desired. Robi Darcmel, unlike his partner, was certainly one of the brightest.

It remained to be seen whether or not he was one of the best.

* * *

Mala had talked to a lot of parents over the course of her career as a child psychologist. And she’d had to defend herself from many accusations, especially any time she had to challenge someone to take a close look at their own behavior.

The statement she’d heard more than any other?
If you were a parent, you’d understand.
There was not another thing a parent could say that Mala had dreaded more.

And yet…

Mala was horrified to learn that it was kind of true.

Here she was, a licensed child psychologist, trained to the gills, and she wasn’t positive on how she wanted to proceed. Yes, Janey was an unusual case. But that was what Mala had given more than half of her life to study. How to help troubled children, the more challenging the better.

But somehow, when you were in the trenches day in and day out, things changed. They took on a textural difference that helped to explain why parents were so adamant about the fact that no one could understand unless they’d had children themselves.

Something for Mala to remember next time she got in the room with a set of parents who were digging in their heels on the treatment. But there was something else she needed to remind herself.

She was a good psychologist. A damn good one.

Even in those times that the parents had thrown a fit, when they’d done what she’d asked, things invariably got better. Their relationship with their child improved, many times marriages were saved. In short, Mala knew what she was doing.

And one of her best pieces of advice? Don’t overreact to misbehavior, but don’t ignore it either.

She’d done pretty well about not overreacting to Janey’s recent misbehavior, but Mala was now swiftly approaching the time where she needed to do something or she’d miss the second half of it.

Janey and she had been through some tough spots. Times where Mala hadn’t been sure that either one of them would come out alive. But to have her foster daughter go missing had been one of the worst imaginable. Not knowing where she was, Mala’s mind had leapt to dozens of worst-case scenarios, each more horrific than the last.

And Janey needed to know that.

She had to understand how her behavior was affecting those around her.

“Janey!” Mala called out to her.

Before the entire name was even out of her mouth, Janey was rushing into the room, dragging her bear in one hand, waving a sheet of paper in the air with the other. The page was another of her drawings.

When Janey thrust the picture in front of her, Mala could barely take in all of the elements. What she could see is that there were two men, one of them bald. And that there was lots and lots of blood.

The conversation could wait. She needed to get a hold of Darc.

* * *

The lines converged, pointing with glowing precision to their destination as Darc followed the glittering trail left behind. The socioeconomic level dropped with each passing street as they headed to the corner of 7
th
Avenue and South Elm grove Street in South Park.

Their destination was a facility that processed iron and bronze, part of a series of warehouses in the district that made the area a maze of corrugated tin warehouses surrounded by concrete. A man-made jungle of sharp metal and hard stone.

“Really?” Trey asked, as he viewed the target building. “Once, just once, I would like to be headed into… oh, I dunno… a toy warehouse. Or no, even better, a huge bakery that makes nothing but pastries. How about that? Effing metal smelting POS…” he grumbled as he got out of the car.

They walked up to the sliding metal door, only to see that the lock that was supposed to hold the door in place was hanging open. There did not appear to be anyone around the area, as it was a Saturday and most of the businesses around were closed.

“Looks like they take their security seriously,” Trey muttered, flipping the lock out and putting his shoulder against the sliding door. It didn’t budge. “C’mon, Darc. A little help, maybe?”

With Darc assisting, the door relented and screeched open in its tracks, revealing a scene from some gothic version of hell. The heat punched them in the face as the glow from molten metal illuminated the interior of the warehouse structure in a strange light. Shadows cast against the wall and ceiling girders merged with the orange gloaming, creating a vista of sharp angles and sinister radiation.

“Okay… ‘splain me this,” Trey said, looking out over the display. “If no one’s here, why is all the metal melted?”

Darc chose not to answer, focusing instead on the pathways of logic that were picking out a path amongst the groupings of machinery and half-finished metal products. Iron grates, railings and decorative ornamentation fought for space with larger, less obvious metal structures.

As they moved into the building, the door behind them screamed in agony as it was slammed shut, the boom of the closing entryway echoing through the large space. What light from outside had been present was now cut off completely.

“Tell me there was an automatic door closer thingy there that I just missed,” Trey begged. When Darc did not answer, he squeaked, “Come on! When I say
tell me
, I mean tell me. I’m not looking for a reality check, man. I just want to know I’m going to get out of here in one freaking piece.”

He went back to the door and pulled on it. “It won’t budge. We’re stuck in here.” He snapped his fingers. “No, wait. I can’t move this on my own. C’mere.” He waved Darc over to his side, where they both put their energy and weight into trying to reopen the sliding metal entrance.

Nothing.

“Right. I am not freaking out. I am
so
not freaking out.”

A loud metal clang sounded from deep inside the warehouse.

“I am
totally
freaking out!” Trey yelled, then clapped a hand over his mouth. As far as Darc could tell, his partner did so to keep from making any further noise. A sound decision, although it was always puzzling to Darc that Trey seemed to have so little control over his motor functions.

Darc surveyed the layout of the building, allowing the logic pathways to assert themselves as an overlay on his sight. “This appears to be the area where the framing tables, panel carts and welding fixtures are kept,” he told his partner, seeking a way to help him acclimate to the new environment. Trey often did not do well in unfamiliar settings. They seemed to unsettle him.

“I think the more important thing to address is the fact that someone trapped us in here,” Trey shot back.

“Yes.”

“
Yes
. Yes? That’s what you’re going with? You couldn’t say that you thought it was just a coincidence or something?”

Darc glanced at his partner and then to the surrounding heat and light. The logical conclusion was all around for him to see if he would but observe.

Trey followed his gaze and his shoulders slumped. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to lie to me once in a while.”

Perhaps this was one of those interpersonal suggestions that Trey was so often encouraging Darc to review. He realized that it might be to Trey’s benefit to hear untruths from Darc on occasion. It flew directly in the face of the logic trails, but so many of Trey’s recommendations did.

It deserved further speculation.

For now, however, they had a body to find. And from every piece of information coming from the gleaming strands of color, they were walking right into a trap.

CHAPTER 8

Mala hung up after her third attempt at trying to reach Darc and Trey. She’d dialed both of their cell numbers, only to go straight through to voicemail.

Time to escalate this.

Captain Merle was either not in today, seeing it was a Saturday, or he was away from his desk. Knowing Merle, the former was much more likely.

Dispatch was unable to help her, as Darc had not checked in before heading to wherever he was. They last they knew, he was headed with Trey to the morgue. They could triangulate off his cell phone or Trey’s Land Rover, but only in an emergency. And no, a child’s drawing apparently did not qualify.

Phoning the morgue, Mala was finally able to talk to someone who had at least seen the bald detective. Considering Darc’s habits, that fact was a minor miracle, as far as she was concerned.

“Yeah, they were here,” the intern who had identified himself as Cody Lyons informed her. “But then he flew out of here like a bat out of hell. No clue where he was going.” The young man paused for a moment. “That guy’s a little strange.”

“Thank you for your help,” Mala replied before hanging up.

Maybe this was all a wild goose chase. There was nothing concrete that said that Darc was in serious danger. Then she glanced back down at the picture Janey had drawn. Concrete or not, Mala trusted that little girl’s instincts. In her own way, she was becoming as sharp as Darc in her ability to discern hidden information.

There was one last Hail Mary she could attempt. Mala called the office number she still had in her phone for Bryce Van Owen, the former serial killer Assistant Prosecuting Attorney. Not that she had any desire to hear his voice… the man was long gone… but in the hopes that she would get through to his successor. Someone further up the food chain might be able to get the ball rolling, at least.

The phone rang twice, three times, four… Mala was about to hang up, when a voice came through the connection. “Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Carson Speer.”

“Mr. Speer,” Mala said, hoping against hope. “My name is Dr. Mala Charan. You don’t know me, but--”

“Dr. Charan!” he gushed. “I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’ve heard your name so many times since I started. Nothing but good things, of course.”

“Oh, well… I’m very happy to hear that,” Mala replied, flummoxed. “I need your help with something that may not make a lot of sense.”

“That seems to fit your team’s MO to a tee,” he answered, chuckling. “Shoot.”

Mala explained the situation to him, briefly sketching in the relationship between Darc and Janey and the nature of the pictures she drew for the bald detective. The attorney listened intently, only interrupting when he needed to clarify some detail.

“Well, this definitely falls into the
weird as shit
category,” he said as she finally finished. “But I’d expect nothing less from you guys. I’ll call over and see if I can get a trace on their vehicle or cell phones. Sit tight. I’ve got your phone number here on my phone display. I’ll call if I find anything.”

He hung up, and Mala stared at her cell phone. The man was charming without the intensity that had made Bryce so dangerous… and appealing. The new APA radiated competence and seemed more than willing to accept her word based off of her reputation alone. She appreciated that.

She also wasn’t about to sit on her ass and wait for a call. Driving toward the station would more than likely put her closer to where Darc and Trey were anyway, and was much preferable to doing nothing. And with Janey along, who knew? She and Darc were connected in a way that defied logic. Maybe she’d stumble across some savant-type breadcrumbs left by the bald detective.

Stranger things had happened.

* * *

Trey was doing everything he could not to hyperventilate.

But the dark warehouse, lit up like some crazy jack-o-lantern with all the glowing liquid metal, and the knowledge that someone had trapped them here was starting to feel all too familiar.

Some serious shiz was about to go down.

“Well,” He said into the darkness. “At least there are no snakes.”

He backed into one of the framing tables by mistake, knocking off a rod of iron that clattered against the cement floor, piercing the silence. Trey leapt into the air, screaming like a girl, clutching at his chest to keep his heart from leaping out.