Terrorbyte (12 page)

Every so often Mac called, “Selena.”

After half an hour of slogging through muddy puddles, being hit by branches and whipped by wind-driven rain while peering into undergrowth yelling for Selena, we turned back.

“Do you think someone could have picked her up?” Mac asked, shining the flashlight into the trees alongside the road on our way back.

“I'd like to think so, yet I hope not for that person's sake.” Ahead, I could just make out red flashing lights. “Let's tell them about the missing woman and get the hell out of here.”

“Good plan.”

I had a queer feeling about the dead guy and had one last look at him before we left. It could be paranoia considering our alert status, but there was something about him. I used my cell phone to snap another quick picture of him and promptly emailed it to myself with a note to run it through our database. He was familiar, but then on a day-to-day basis I came across a lot of people and they did tend to blur sometimes. It didn't bother me too much. If I'd met him and my mind deemed it important, then I would remember. A little faith goes a long way.

Mac grinned at me as I dripped into the car. I smiled as I asked, “How the hell did any of us manage without picture and email-capable cell phones?”

“No clue.” He turned the ignition key.

I waved to one of the officers as Mac drove slowly out of the crash scene. People in hazmat suits and breathing gear headed for the crashed car and a decontamination shower was being set up. I'd pointed out the hairspray and suggested they have forensics look at it closely. I'd also handed over the clothes Mac and I had worn, for destruction; then gave the bag with the lighter to one of the police officers. I was confused; it had a Russian emblem but according to their passports, neither victim was Russian.

A decontamination shower was offered to us. Then someone in a hazmat suit suggested it wasn't necessary. We'd been in pouring rain and changed our clothes; that, combined with minimal exposure to a gas that was already dissipating, meant we were at low risk from any side effects.

Which pleased me. I had no desire to stand under freezing water, naked, surrounded by half the county.

My phone rang as we were leaving the crash scene. Sam's name lit up on my screen.

His deep voice flowed from my phone. “We got another one, SSA.”

“Where?” The phone slipped in my wet hands, leading to some impressive juggling before I could get it back to my ear, but I wasn't quick enough to hear his reply. “Say again.”

“Arlington.”

“On our way.” I hung up and looked over at Mac. “We're going to Arlington.”

“Good to know we have a destination.”

The victim wouldn't get any fresher the longer we delayed our arrival. I really wished I didn't think things like that.

Almost two hours later we struggled to change out of our sodden clothing under the shelter of a deserted gas station forecourt. It was morning and the weather hadn't improved much. Peeling off the wet jeans proved difficult. With my foot stuck in the muddy mess that vaguely resembled denim, I reached into the car for something to help. Using the scissors on a multi-tool thing Mac carried in the glove compartment, I hacked my way through the stiff fabric. All I seemed to do on days off was shop for clothes to replace those ruined by the job. I hate shopping.

“I could've helped,” Mac said, stowing his filthy clothing in the trunk.

“I'm perfectly capable of removing a pair of stupid jeans,” I replied. I threw the multi-tool into the car.

“Or you could've changed in the restroom.”

He was full of brilliant ideas all of a sudden.

“Ever been in one of them? There isn't enough room to swing a cat, let alone for me to wrestle muddy jeans.”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Just trying to help.”

I tugged off the jeans then faced the muddy leg problem: no way clean jeans were going to slide over mud. I scurried to the restroom with my clean jeans tucked under my jacket and Mac's laughter following me.

I gave thanks as I discovered the crappy gas station restroom had running water and paper towels.

Slightly cleaner and more comfortable, we continued our journey.

Thirty minutes was all it took and then suddenly we were in the latest victim's kitchen staring at each other. We'd seen this sort of mess before: a kitchen awash with blood. A familiar voice inside my head told me it wasn't my kitchen and everything was okay. Seems kitchens are favorite kill zones of the Unsubs I investigate. The overwhelming smell of bourbon was enough for my mind to stay focused on current kitchens and not drift back to my own.  I looked back over my shoulder to the doorway.

“Who's been in here?”

A large cop stood in the doorway with his arms folded and a serious look on his face. He replied, “The neighbor who found the deceased; no one else, ma'am.”

There were clear, bloodied footprints leading from the victim through the door to the hallway beyond. “These footprints, are they the neighbor's?”

“I inspected the woman's shoes and found the pattern to be the same; I've taken them into evidence to make sure.”

I smiled. “Good answer.”

He smiled back, his teeth glowing against his tanned face, the staunchness evaporating. “The victim is Colleen Bolton, mother of two girls and a full-time waitress. The children are aged twelve and fifteen; they're at school band practice. I've spoken to a neighbor who will take them until Child Protective Services can locate a family member.”

He loved his job, I could tell.

“Thank you, Officer.”

“Is this the same as the other crime scenes?” Mac asked. His eyes were watering from the unusually fresh tang of bourbon mixed with the more metallic smell of blood.

I inspected the body and glimpsed my reflection in the crimson blood pool. It might be cool to have red hair.

Mac was talking but I didn't hear the words. “What?”

“Is this the same as the other crime scenes?”

I turned slowly on the spot, surveying the room with much care. Writing on the walls surrounded the body; the wording was familiar and again scrawled in black marker pen. I made a note to check the poem. I felt the eyes drilling into me from up high behind me. A blue Post-it note was stuck to the refrigerator; a lone blue square amidst a sea of magnets and white school notices. I could clearly see the words on the note from where I stood.

“I feel so loved,” I pointed to the blue note.

Mac read it out, “ ‘Christmas in August just for you.' ”

Turmoil and aggravation dueled as I processed the spoken words. Hearing them out loud was so much worse than just reading them.

“What hellish shit is that?”

“I think he likes you,” Mac replied.

“I am so damn lucky,” I said and turned to observe the victim.

The body was in the same position as all the other victims; on her back with her knees raised. Blood and bourbon mixed on the tiled floor. A golden ribbon tied around her neck in a pretty bow and this time her eyes were laced shut and tied off with more gold ribbon.

“Your question before, about this being the same as the other crime scenes: yes and no,” I replied, taking a closer look at the body. As I breathed in the now-familiar chlorine, I could see something lying almost obscured under the woman's right shoulder. “Mac, I think we have a murder weapon.”  

I looked back and spoke to the policeman. “Have the forensics team and photographer arrived yet?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Send them in, please.”

We waited for the photographer to finish with the body and scene. Then the forensics team began to gather evidence.

“Anyone got a pair of forceps?” I bent down and with my pen flicked out what looked like a handle from under the woman's shoulder blade, until it was in plain view.

A technician handed some green disposable forceps to me. “Ma'am.”

“Thank you.” With care, I lifted the knife, hoping it didn't drop. The eight-inch blade glinted under the electric light. I watched fascinated, as light reflected from the blade, casting shapes on the walls. Little bright shapes danced, reminding me of a migraine aura. The knife spoke, whispering instructions: ‘Hold me Ellie; let me show you how it's done.'

The hilt jerked. It almost slipped from the forceps. ‘Wrap your hand around me, Ellie.' It wanted to slide into my hand and guide me.  Sparkling lights danced. The knife plunged into the back of a woman, released, stabbed again. The lights faded. The knife remained suspended in mid-air.

How bizarre.

Mac held out a paper evidence bag with an uneasy look on his face.

“You want to drop that in here, handle first?”

“Nope.”  Why should I? I found it. It spoke to
me
.

“Ellie?”

Jeez! 

“Fine.” I reached out and carefully let go of the knife over the bag. I watched it drop and wondered if it'd go right through the paper.  It didn't.

He inhaled sharply as he secured the top of the bag.

“Thank you.”

For a split second, I thought I saw relief in his eyes. How odd.

“You're welcome,” I replied.

“Why do you suppose her eyes were shut like that?” Mac asked.

“Maybe he's bored with the whole ribbon around the neck thing.” I stared at the deceased. “Last time we had a mouth laced shut, now eyes … I'm thinking this is a message. Or maybe our Unsub likes to pretty them up with ribbon.”

Mouth and eyes laced shut … smacked of those three monkeys, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

“Could well be,” Mac replied. He was scanning for a tech to take the bag and its bloody contents.

I leaned closer to the victim's head and sniffed her skin to make sure I really could smell chlorine. Seemed like I was being stalked by the damn gas. “Chlorine.”

“Pardon?” Mac said. “So it is the same.”

“I can smell chlorine in her hair; it's faint but it's there. So yeah, we have all the elements. I believe this is the same Unsub.”

We left in the same dreadful weather that heralded our arrival. A grey blanket of gloom, buffeted by wind and debris.

Once back at the Washington office, my mind began to run over the night's events and kept stalling over the crash. No amount of prodding would budge it, even though I had more pressing matters to work on. Elvis started up all over again. This time ‘Trouble' was his choice of song and I had a feeling I was looking for trouble. On second thoughts, the feeling was more that trouble was looking for me.

In an effort to clear it from my head, I decided to talk it over with Mac.

“How did he die? The bag deployed and he was wearing his seat belt. His legs weren't even trapped, for God's sake. His face was a mess but those weren't life threatening injuries.”

Mac took a split second to catch up then shook his head. “Guess the crash investigators will figure that out.”

“Guess so,” I replied. I stood up and moved out from behind my desk. Mac was looking at the timeline for the murders on the white board across the room. He turned and faced me as I perched on the edge of my desk.

“It does seem unusual though.”

“Maybe he died before the impact, of a heart attack or something. Do you know how long chlorine gas takes to kill someone?”

Mac stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. “I do not.”

“Depending on the grade and its intended use, it could take only ten minutes. But why would someone continue to drive a car filling with chlorine gas? It's not like it's invisible or doesn't have an overpowering stench … he must've been incapacitated prior to the release of the gas. Probably by the blows to his face and temple.”

“This is going to bug you till we find out, isn't it?”

My head rested comfortably on his shoulder. “Yep.”

“We're gonna do something about it, huh?”

“Yes.” I pulled back a little. “We are.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Some answers.”

“And how are you going to come by those?”

“I'm not entirely sure at this point but it will come to me.” Thoughts were already crystallizing. My lower lip was in danger of being chewed right through. “Does it strike you as odd?” I recognized it probably didn't seem odd at all to him. “He is a New Zealander, she's a Canadian and here they are traveling together in Virginia?”

Mac appeared thoughtful for a second. “The world's not that big a place anymore, sweets.”

He gave me one of his you're-going-somewhere-with-this looks. His eyes gleamed. I knew he thought I was onto something.

“A clue?” Mac said.

“I am interested to know when and where they came into the country, if they were together or, if not, where they met up. I think it's also worthwhile checking with the embassies,” I replied.

His eyes narrowed as he continued to watch me. “Why?”

“Because, Mac, both New Zealand and Canada are considered safe countries by our State Department. Citizens holding those passports can travel here freely,” I said.

“And?” Mac asked.

“And in the recent past Mossad have stolen both Canadian and New Zealand passports.”

“Israelis?”

“Yeah,” I said, with a small nod.

“Ellie, why would Mossad agents be traveling on stolen passports in Virginia?”

“It's something they do if they are following someone, to avoid drawing attention to themselves or the person, or cell, in question.”

“I know you are a chick an' all and given minimal facts, are capable of constructing a life story …” Mac chuckled and ducked before I could smack him, “… but even for a woman this is way out there, babe.”

I attempted a sulky, wounded expression but couldn't pull it off. “Homeland Security bumped up the security alert to orange two days ago, saying there was sufficient intelligence coming out of Afghanistan, indicating an attack was possible … and we come across a car crash and the dead guy, interesting passports, a missing victim and chlorine gas.” I stopped abruptly.