The Psalmist (28 page)

Jackson stared at the ceiling and thought about the detective some more.
Amy Hunter.
He actually sort of liked her. He liked her determined eyes and her hand gestures, the set of her mouth—­the way she didn't seem to miss anything. The way she came at you head-­on. It reminded him a little of Kwan. He liked what he couldn't quite see, her spirit, which felt kind of brave. She'd done something to him—­
infected
him a little, it seemed, with a feeling that was intoxicating and maybe sort of dangerous, like the lost energies of his own youth.

For some reason, everytime he got to thinking about his future—­or about anything serious—­his thoughts turned to the homicide detective
. Amy Hunter.
It was as if she knew the secret that could get his life back onto the right path. And he wouldn't know what it was until he saw her again.

 

Chapter 49

T
HE
C
LIENT WATCHED
Rankin, moving through the night shadows on the lawn of the house across the lane, and he considered what he must be thinking. What was churning inside of him.

A whiff of doubt. Disloyalty, perhaps.
Is that what I am picking up? Will you eventually join the others, Gilbert?

He turned away and studied his own naked image in the full-­length bathroom mirror—­an image he much preferred to that of Gil Rankin. And he thought of the “others.” The tragedies their lives had become.

Mark, you were a decent man when you came to me. But, of course, you were asleep. I woke you, didn't I? I taught you. You learned how to think, and you became a good soldier. And a very wealthy man. For a while you believed in what we were doing; for a while you had everything you wanted, didn't you? Everything. You told me that. But such a busy little mouth, saying all those things about me, talking with the others. We finally had to remove the lips and the tongue, didn't we? You can see now that we had no choice.

Sheila, you had a “burning” devotion to us at one time. To me. Your words, not mine. But you were the worst traitor of all, weren't you, dear Sheila? You wanted to hurt us, to destroy us, and God knows you tried, talking with the “authorities.” You thought it was all happening out of sight and you would never be discovered. It was quite fitting that we arranged a wienie roast for you in that wax museum, don't you think? Yes, I know you do. Although your real fire will be an eternal one.

And poor Katrina. Lost sheep Katrina, off on the crooked path when you came to us. I gave you a chance to find your way, and for a while you did, and you helped us, didn't you? You found riches, you said. But your greed, Katrina, your betrayals, they earned you the chance to dig for more treasures in that pit, didn't they?

And Kwan. Sweet Kwan. You were so happy for a while. You, too, had all you ever wanted, you told me. Working for such a worthwhile cause, helping poor souls. But then you broke your promise and tried to run away with the corrupt Mr. Pynne. Such a bad mistake. We had to break your legs. You understand that, don't you? Broken promises, broken legs. A fair exchange, wouldn't you say, Kwan?

And now your broken bones rejoice, just as the others rejoice. Because you are finally free, aren't you? This is all as it was written. None of it is my choice. I am the Lord's Psalmist and I have been called to fulfill the law. These are the verses that I have been asked to share—­that each of you may now consider for your eternities. Oh, it is a humbling task. I am saddened by it, but much more so by what you became.

You understand me, don't you, Gilbert? Or will you join the others?

 

Chapter 50

F
RIDAY,
M
ARCH 24

H
UNTER
WOKE BEFORE
dawn and immediately began to pull on her running gear. She needed to get her blood pumping, her thoughts alert and focused. It was suddenly cold again in Tidewater County. Bay winds gusted along the coast, spitting an icy rain, as the new sunlight spread shimmers of color through the creeks and wetlands. It was a magnificent blue morning, and she ran hard against the wind coming back.

She fixed a protein shake and checked the news online while Winston sashayed back and forth, wanting her to gently grab his tail—­although he acted mortally offended every time she did. Theresa Kincaid's story had been posted an hour earlier. Already a dozen news sites had picked it up.

NEW CLU
ES IN ‘PRAYING WOMAN' MYSTERY

A series of numbers carved into the hand of murder victim Kwan Park, the so-­called Praying Woman, may hold the key to identifying her killer, police sources say. Investigators in this idyllic bayside community would not comment on the record, but sources who spoke on condition of anonymity confirmed that the numbers carved in Park's right hand appear to be a “calling card” left behind by the person who killed her and may be connected with at least three other murders in a tristate area.

A homicide detective investigating one of those murders said he has been in contact with Tidewater County detectives and is considering the possibility that the same killer may be responsible. He would not elaborate on the investigation, however, or on details about the so-­called “calling cards.”

Former Tidewater County developer Jackson Pynne, meanwhile, has been held in Tidewater Correctional Facility since Thursday evening on unrelated charges, and police sources have told the Associated Press that Pynne is considered a “person of interest” in the murder of Kwan Park. However, when asked yesterday if Pynne would be charged with Park's murder, an investigator familiar with the case said, “I hope not.”

Ugh, Hunter thought. Well, she probably deserved that.

But she also knew that this story would change the game. It would alter the public's perception about what happened and probably spoil the sheriff's and state's attorney's plans for a quick local resolution.

Feeling a surge of satisfaction, she drank down the last of her shake, as Winston stared intently up at her.

Afterward she clicked into her e-­mail account and saw that Shipman had left her an e-­mail with only a subject line:
Breakfast 8:15?

Okay, she thought. Game on.

“H
EY.”
S
HIP HEL
D
open the door to McDonald's, his mouth full of breakfast, a napkin stuck to the left elbow of his lumberjack coat. He was wearing a tie this morning with his wrinkled dress shirt and jeans. Ship was hustling now, part of the team again; she could feel how wired he was, even though his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Hunter liked nothing as much as working in top gear like this.

He'd taken the liberty of ordering her a yogurt parfait and orange juice and setting her place with a spoon and two napkins.

“Optimistic that I'd show,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I had to be.”

“Why? What's up?”

“Two things.”

“Okay.” Ship let her settle before explaining. He watched as she took the lid off the parfait and mixed the yogurt. A file folder was on the table beside his breakfast.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Two big developments.”

“Tell me.”

He was waiting for her eyes to turn back to his. “Gil Rankin and Kirby Moss were in central Virginia the day Mark Chandler was killed. The lips and tongue case? We've got verification now.”

“How?”

“Security tape in a convenience store. The tape was pulled by Virginia State Homicide.”

“Okay, great.”

“The second development's even more interesting,” he said. He wiped his hands again, pulled photos from the folder and pushed them to Hunter. One of his collar buttons, she noticed, was undone. “This was taken last night, right here, at the South Bay Market. The man in the passenger seat—­there's a better view of him here.” He showed her, pointing. White Jeep parked outside a convenience store, the passenger door open. A big man sitting in the passenger seat. A smaller man, with a round head and close-­cropped hair, opening the driver's door. “We think that may be Rankin on the passenger side. The car is registered to PSL Associates in Baltimore.”

Hunter nodded. “That would be Private Excelsior Security Consultants, headquartered in Miami, Florida.”

“Okay . . .”

“And is the other man Moss?”

“That's what we're thinking, uh-­huh.”

“So, presumably,” she said, “unless they left overnight, they're probably here in Tidewater County right now.”

“Yep.” He handed her a printout, a computer-­generated map that Fischer had probably produced. “These are all of the entry points to the county,” he said. Hunter studied it, going back to her parfait as Ship went back to his pancakes.

So, do we try to close off the county? Set up roadblocks at all the exit points? Or try to track him down surreptitiously?
They were in tricky territory. She didn't want to alert the sheriff right away—­or to alert Rankin to how much they knew. But she didn't want him to slip away, either.

“Tell me more about this,” she said, tapping the map printout.

“Mmmmmm.” Ship took a moment to finish chewing. “Okay. According to the register log? They purchased beer, deli sandwiches, orange juice, sodas, and microwave popcorn. Security camera shows they then drove off to the south.

“There's a flashing light intersection two and a half miles down the road, at Whistling Swan Drive,” he continued. “They could have gone north from there, but it's a long ways to anywhere. So most likely they kept going straight or, probably, took the road south.”

“To?”

“South is Jimmy Creek. There are about a dozen homes and two condo buildings that way. Close to eighty units, probably, although at least three-­fourths of them are empty.”

Unless it's a deliberate diversion, Hunter thought.

“Were you up all night on this?”

He shrugged.

“You haven't talked to the AP reporter by any chance, have you?”

His eyes fluttered, just before he shoveled a last forkful of food into his mouth. Hunter raised a hand to change the subject. “Doesn't matter,” she said. “Good work.”

“Oh, and one other thing.” Shipman accelerated his chewing again so he could talk intelligibly. “You saw what the AP story said? Word's getting out that the case against Pynne maybe isn't going to stick.”

“Wonder where they got that.”

“Well, the sheriff's ­people are conveniently blaming the task force now. For having picked up the wrong guy again. That's the word down at the Blue Crab. It's all over Main Street by now, I expect.”

“But of course we
didn't
pick him up.”

“I know. I'm just saying.”

“Okay. Doesn't matter,” Hunter said, pretending it didn't sting a little that the sheriff was still playing the rumors against her. He'd probably do it again when “Gilly's” name got out to the media: Keystone Cops task force now on its third suspect. Payback for the cold case she had solved over the winter.

“I mean,” she said, feeling a crazy rush of anger, “are we more interested in solving this crime and bringing the perpetrator to justice? Or in controlling how the
media
spins it?”

Shipman stopped chewing for a moment and his eyes widened. Looking like a student called upon in class, he answered, “Solving it.”

L
UKE
B
OWERS WAS
driving away from the coast into a clear, cold morning, Amy Hunter beside him, her leg pressed against his, her hand tightening on his thigh each time they hit a bump. Emo rock rattled the dashboard, Hunter nodding to the beat, the music so loud there was no point in trying to talk. Ahead, nothing but miles of blacktop and blue sky. But then, wham, a huge pothole; Luke's eyes jolted open.

He blinked at the rosy morning light through the curtains. Then lifted his head, remembering where he was. He leaned on his elbow, admiring the elegant curves of Charlotte's mouth and chin as she slept. He suddenly felt very guilty.

Sneakers, he noticed, was sitting, not lying, at the foot of the bed, looking directly at him, as if he knew.

Maybe he does.

“Come on,” Luke whispered, allowing a moment for the hard edges of the dream to soften. “Go out for a walk?”

Luke let Sneakers romp through the moist morning shadows beside the marshlands. They followed the trail along Harmon's Creek, which in summer was sometimes teeming with turtles, walking all the way up to the bluff, where they stood together and admired the bay, the water glittering with thousands of sun sequins.

Why had he dreamt that, anyhow? What was it Charlotte had said the other day?
She likes you, you know that, don't you?

It wasn't true. He didn't believe it at all. Not in that way. During the long walk back, Luke decided that he'd offer to prepare dinner for them that evening. One of his three dishes: seafood tacos, crab chili, or the old faithful, spaghetti.

Classical music thundered dramatically from the kitchen as they entered the house. Charlotte stood at the stove, stirring egg batter, preparing French toast. Sneakers hurried past her to his water bowl and lapped furiously.

“Good news,” Luke said. “Guess who's making dinner tonight?”

“My two men?”

 

Chapter 51

W
HEN
A
MY
H
UNTER
arrived at the Public Safety Complex, she saw Crowe's car with his Virginia government tag in visitor parking. He was waiting for her in the first floor conference room. He wasn't alone. Another agent, a woman, was with him. They'd taken over the room, clearly intending to be there awhile, the table covered with laptop computers, printouts, file folders, phones, coffee and pastries from Holland's Family Restaurant.

“Hunter, have a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

He introduced the female agent curtly. Her name was Wendy Jennings. She looked a few years older than Hunter, big-­boned, with probing eyes, thick dark hair, and a distant smile. Hunter could tell right away that she tolerated Crowe but wouldn't abide by any of his nonsense.

“Go to your office?” Crowe said, clearly meaning the two of them, not Wendy Jennings.

“Okay, sure.” Walking a half step behind him, Hunter said, “I think I know what you're going to say.”

“Yeah? What am I going to say?”

“That this is federal now.”

Crowe grunted.

“I'm just surprised it took this long,” Hunter said. “So the local solution is off the table? Just like that? Jackson Pynne is off the table?”

“I didn't say that,” he said. “Pynne is involved. We just don't know how, exactly.”

“But he isn't the killer.”

Crowe said nothing. Clearly, though, there had been a reassessment overnight. The Bureau now realized that Gil Rankin
was
in fact a major player in the Trumble organization. And locating him was suddenly high priority. Hunter could almost feel the twin pressures working on Dave Crowe: from Washington and from the media, which was on the verge of turning this case into a national story.

In her office, Crowe took a seat and stretched out his legs, as he always did, placing one ankle over the other, then switching. Hunter passed along what Shipman had just told her over breakfast. She showed him the surveillance photos of Rankin and Moss in Tidewater County the night before.

Crowe said nothing at first. He handed back the photos.

“Nice job,” he said.

“It wasn't me. It was Ben Shipman and Sonny Fischer who figured this out. The homicide division.”

“Fisch and Ship.”

“Right.”

“Okay. So let's make some assumptions,” Crowe said. He sat up, crossed his legs at the knee and jiggled his left foot. “If we were to seal off Tidewater County. Surveillancewise—­”

“We've already mapped it,” Hunter said. She gave him the map Fischer had prepared. “There are eight points of entry and exit. Two monitored by cameras. We can work with state police, post someone at the other six points.”

“Roadblocks, you mean?”

“No.” Hunter had been thinking about it on the way in. “How about as a surveillance operation first? And we don't release his name or image to the public right away.”

Crowe's brow creased.

“I mean, for a few hours, anyway,” she said, softening her tone.

“Why? What are you thinking?”

“That if we put his name out there, we may lose him.”

“And if we don't, we might unnecessarily endanger the ­people living here.”

“Yes, I know.”

When Hunter said nothing else, he asked, “Why wait a few hours?”

“Strategy. A different way of doing things. Not instead of, but in addition to.”

Crowe's eyes crinkled. “Okay, I don't know what that means,” he said.

“Meaning: nothing's happening with Jackson Pynne, right?”

“Correct. He's free to go. So?”

“So, Jackson Pynne made an interesting offer yesterday,” Hunter said. “I've been thinking about taking him up on it.”

“What offer?”

“He offered himself,” she said. “As bait.”

Crowe held his frown. “What are you talking about?”

“We set him up in a house in the county. Someplace secluded, where he'd seemingly be vulnerable. Only we make sure he isn't. Provide round-­the-­clock surveillance and security. Monitor the surrounding roads and properties.”

A trace of dimples appeared on his cheeks. “And you think your friend Gil Rankin would just walk into a trap like that? I doubt it.”

“Jackson thinks so. He seems convinced that Rankin will come after him right away if he's let out. Maybe overnight.”

“Why?”

“Because that's what he's been told he has to do. They're afraid Pynne knows too much and is going to talk. I don't fully understand it. Except this organization operates under its own peculiar set of laws. Which maybe don't always make sense to ­people like you and me.” Crowe's forehead remained wrinkled. “But Pynne seems to understand them. Better than I do. Pynne's involved in this in some way, as you said, right? I think his instincts are at least worth paying attention to.”

“Sounds pretty unorthodox.”

“I know,” Hunter said. “That's kind of what I like about it.”

Crowe let out a long sigh. He was probably with her, Hunter figured, just didn't want to give in too easily. Plus, he'd need to run her idea by Washington before he agreed to anything. “I think I'd want to talk to Jackson Pynne first.”

“Me too,” she said. “Why don't we go see him.”

H
UNTER WAS SURPRISED
by how agreeable Jackson Pynne sounded when she called him about a follow-­up interview. His voice on the phone seemed nearly giddy at first, as if he'd been waiting on pins and needles to speak with her. Yet, when he came walking into the interrogation room at ten minutes past two, he looked almost like another person. His face was pale, his hair disheveled. But his eyes brightened as soon as he spotted her.

“How are you, sir?” Hunter said, reaching to grasp his extended hand.

He again held her hand longer than he should have. But his face dropped when he saw Dave Crowe standing behind her.

Hunter introduced him as “the FBI agent now heading this investigation.” Crowe, dressed in a dark blue suit, no tie, reached out to shake.

Pynne nodded a terse hello and sat. For some reason, he wouldn't shake Crowe's hand.

“Sir, you understand that no charges are going to be filed against you,” Hunter said once they were all seated. “They're dropping the interference charge. So you're free to go.”

Pynne scooted back his chair, trying to get comfortable.

“If I may,” Crowe said. “I've read the transcript of your conversation from yesterday, Mr. Pynne. We're trying to get a better fix on the ­people who are after you. Gilbert Rankin: is he the man you said is pursuing you? Is he Gilly?”

Pynne looked steadily at Hunter as Crowe spoke, giving no indication that he heard anything Crowe was saying. Then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. She could see that he wasn't going to answer.

“Can you tell us a little more about Gilly Rankin,” she said. “Why do you think he's going to come after you?”

“Why?”

“Why.”

“Because that's his job. The man's got an assignment, he does it, no questions asked. That's the way this organization works,” he said. “His assignment is to take me out.”

“Do you know that for certain?” Hunter asked.

“Do I know it for certain? No, not for certain. But that's the only thing that makes sense. I can see now how this thing was set up.”

“Okay, how was it set up?”

Pynne shrugged. “It's obvious. They planted evidence. Tried to frame me for these murders. That was the setup, right? They thought I was going to run, do something stupid, maybe self-­destruct. But I didn't, and so now they think maybe I know too much. Maybe I'm going to tell you what I know. So they decide they need me out of the picture, sooner rather than later. I'll cause them more trouble if I'm prosecuted.”

“How would you cause them trouble?” Crowe asked.

Pynne, continuing to look at Hunter, said nothing. Clearly, something about Dave Crowe rubbed him the wrong way. It was like a dog picking up vibes.

“How would you cause them trouble?” Hunter asked.

“By talking,” he said. “Because they think I know things.” A faint smile animated his face. “I
don't
. But that's what they think. Because of Kwan.”

“And so the assignment is coming from August Trumble, you're saying?” she asked.

Jackson shrugged:
Who knows?
Hunter sensed that, for whatever reason, he wasn't going to open up as long as Crowe was in the room. There was something about Jackson Pynne that she liked, she realized, a mysterious integrity about him.

“Are you still on board with the idea of helping us out?” she asked. “Being bait?”

“Sure,” he said. Pynne smiled as if she had just asked him to the prom. “What've you got in mind?”

Hunter told him the plan she'd worked out with Dave Crowe and the state police commander. Pynne would be released from jail that evening and transported to a residence on Sherman Creek. Police would provide round-­the-­clock protection, monitoring the house and grounds and all points of entry with visual and digital surveillance. “You won't have to leave the house. Just stay inside, watch television, read. Tell us whatever you need. Give us a list of groceries.”

He seemed to like that. “All right,” he said, chuckling at something.

“And you believe he'll come for you,” Hunter said.

“Do I believe he'll come for me? No,” he said, “I
know
he will.”

“Okay.”

“So what time would the release be?” Crowe asked.

Hunter looked at Jackson. “Eight o'clock?”

“Okay,” he said. “Eight o'clock. Only thing I ask is that the pastor be there when I'm released.”

“Oh.” Hunter looked at Crowe, who was shaking his head. “All right,” she said.

She knew that Gil Rankin operated at night. All of the Psalmist killings had taken place under cover of darkness. Chances were good that he'd come for Jackson Pynne overnight, which was what Jackson believed, too. By then they'd have night-­vision surveillance in place on the property, and patrol cars, officers, and agents staking out the surrounding roads, ready to take him.

“We'll put it out on the five and six o'clock news, then, that you're being released. And see what happens,” she said. “Everyone okay with that?”

Pynne nodded.

“Good,” Hunter said.

G
IL
R
ANKIN A
ND
Kirby Moss went over the details of their plan at the house on Jimmy Creek late Friday afternoon. It didn't take long. When they finished, Rankin told Moss to go to his room and watch television. Moss was making him nervous.

“Think I'll take a nap,” Moss said.

“Okay.”

“Is that all right?”

“As long as you don't sleep through this thing.”

Moss gave him a look, hoping Rankin would smile.

Rankin lifted the blinds as soon as Moss left the room. He moved his armchair to the window and gazed out at Jimmy Creek for a while, the sunlight rippling bright silver slivers on the water. Scenery to rest his eyes. It was a nice place, this Tidewater County, but Gil Rankin didn't expect he'd ever come back again. Kirby Moss never would, either. He was pretty sure of that.

He sat alone with his thoughts, and pretty soon they began to gnaw at him again. The way this assignment didn't feel clean anymore, didn't feel like any of the others. Rankin knew he wasn't supposed to think about it. The motives behind the assignment weren't his business. Those were the terms of the deal.
But how could he not think about it?
This one had seemed simple enough at first—­take out four disloyal employees; make Pynne the fall guy.
Disloyalty
, the Client had said,
is one of the greatest earthly evils.

But taking out Pynne now also meant taking out the fall guy.

That was the part that didn't make sense. That was the thing that was gnawing at him.

You're the only one I can really count on to complete this, Gilbert. You understand that.

But Gil Rankin, left with too much time to think, wasn't sure if he
did
understand it.

C
ROWE AND
H
UNTER
established a command post for the operation in the makeshift FBI office at the Public Safety Complex. The house they'd chosen at Sherman Creek was surrounded by wide-­open lawns on three sides, wetlands on the other. It would be impossible for anyone to get close without being seen. The house was a summer rental property, a faux Victorian, owned by a cousin of the county clerk. Four state police officers would be on the grounds, monitoring the drive in from the highway and along the creek. Four officers would be inside the house. Cameras covered all points of the lawn. There should be no blind spots.

It was Hunter's idea that Louis Gunther, a local DWI attorney known for his tacky TV commercials, would drive Pynne to the house. Gunther's involvement would add to the sense of Pynne's vulnerability.

Hunter, Fischer, and Shipman were in the six o'clock operational meeting along with six state troopers and five Bureau agents. The room smelled of coffee and perspiration. By design, sheriff's deputies weren't invited. Crowe wanted the operation to be as streamlined as possible, and he'd learned enough by now about the workings of the Sheriff's Department to keep them out of the loop.

“Pynne will be released from the county jail at eight
P.M.
,” Crowe said. “He'll be met by his attorney, Louis Gunther, and driven to the Sherman Creek property. We believe that our suspect, Gilbert Rankin, will come after him there overnight. Probably sometime after midnight.”

“Wonder what Gunther's being paid for this,” one of the troopers said quietly, trying to make a joke.