Where'd you find the letter? No, no--which drawer? Does the unsub have a wife? Where does she live? Did he have a dog? What were the circumstances of his last arrest?
As one question led to another Parker Kincaid was soon talking less about whether the handwriting matched a signature in a DMV application and more about where the unsub would logically be hiding out. And he was nearly always right.
But he'd had to turn the offer down. A special agent in charge works long hours and, at that time in his life, he needed to be home. For the children's sake.
But none of this he wanted to share with Lukas.
He wondered if she'd ask more but she didn't. She pulled out her cell phone and made a call.
Parker was curious about the Topographic Archives they were headed for. He asked, "What exactly--?"
"Quiet," Lukas whispered abruptly.
"What--?" he began.
"Be quiet. Keep walking. And don't turn around."
He realized that she wasn't talking on the phone at all but merely pretending to.
Cage asked her, "You got him too? I put him twenty yards back."
"Closer to thirty. No visible weapons. And he's skittish. Erratic movement."
Parker realized that that had been why Lukas had been chatting him up and why she'd stopped and gazed at the dresses in the window--she'd suspected somebody'd been following them and she wanted the person lulled into thinking she didn't know. He too glanced back into a window they passed and saw a man trotting across the street--to the same sidewalk they were on.
Parker now noticed that both Cage and Lukas were holding their pistols. He hadn't seen them draw the weapons. They were black automatics and on the sights were three tiny green dots that glowed. His service pistol had been a clunky revolver and what he remembered most about it was hating the regulation that required him to be armed at all times; the thought of having a loaded gun anywhere near the Whos disturbed him terribly.
Lukas muttered something to Cage and he nodded. To Parker she said, "Act natural."
Oh, sure . . .
"You think it's the Digger?" he asked.
"Could be," she said.
"Plan?" Cage whispered.
"Take him," she responded calmly.
Lord, Parker thought. The Digger was behind them! With his machine gun. He'd been staking out headquarters and had learned they were primary on the case. We nearly got him at the theater; maybe the unsub had told him to take out the investigators if it looked as if they were getting close.
"You take the street," Lukas said to Cage. "Kincaid, you cover the alley. In case there's backup."
"I--"
"Shhh."
"On three. One . . . two . . ."
"But I--" Parker began.
"Three."
They separated fast. Cage stepped into the street, stopping cars.
Lukas turned and sprinted in the direction they'd just come from. "Federal agent!" she shouted. "You, you there! Freeze, hands on top of your head!"
Parker glanced into the alley and wondered what he was supposed to do if he saw an accomplice there. He pulled out his cell phone, punched in 911 and put his thumb over the send button. It was all he could think of.
He looked behind him, at Lukas. Beyond her, the man stopped abruptly then turned and took off in a dead run down the middle of the street.
"Hold it!"
Lukas was racing along the sidewalk. The man veered to the right, disappeared into traffic. She tried to follow but a car turned the corner quickly; the driver didn't see her and nearly slammed into her. Lukas flung herself back onto the sidewalk, inches from the fender.
When she started after him again the man was gone. Parker saw her pull her phone out and speak into it. A moment later three unmarked cars, with red lights flashing on the dashboard, skidded into the intersection. She conferred with one of the drivers and the cars sped off.
At a slow jog she returned to Parker. Cage joined them. Lukas lifted her hands in exasperation.
Cage shrugged. "You get a look at him?"
"Nope," Parker answered.
"I didn't either," Lukas muttered. Then she glanced at Parker's hands. "Where's your weapon?"
"My what?"
"You were covering the alley. We had a shake going down and you didn't draw your weapon?"
"Well, I don't have one. That's what I was trying to tell you."
"You're not armed?" she asked incredulously.
"I'm civilian," Parker said. "Why would I have a gun?"
Lukas gave a disdainful look to Cage, who said, "Assumed he had one."
She bent down and tugged up her jeans cuff. Pulled a small automatic out of an ankle holster. She handed it to Parker.
He shook his head. "No thanks."
"Take it," she insisted.
Parker glanced at the gun in her hand. "I'm not comfortable with guns. I was Sci-Crime, not tactical. Anyway, my service weapon was a revolver, not an automatic. Last time I fired one was on the range in Quantico. Six, seven years ago."
"All you do is point and pull," she said, angry now. "The safety's off. First shot is double action, second single. So adjust your aim accordingly." Parker wondered where her sudden anger came from.
He didn't take the weapon.
She gave a sigh, which left her mouth as a long tendril of steam in the cooling temperature. She said nothing but pushed the gun further out toward him.
He decided the battle wasn't worth it. He reached out and took the gun. Glanced at it briefly and slipped it in his pocket. Lukas turned, without saying anything, and they continued up the street. Cage gave him a dubious look, forewent a shrug, and made a call on his cell phone.
As they walked along the street Parker felt the weight of the pistol in his pocket--a huge pull, much greater than the dozen ounces the gun actually weighed. Yet it gave him no comfort to have this weapon at his side. He wondered why. A moment passed before he realized. Not because the hot piece of metal reminded him that the Digger might have been behind them a moment ago, intent on killing him and Cage and Lukas. Or even because it reminded him of the Boatman four years ago, reminded him of his son's terror.
No, it was because the gun seemed to have some kind of dark power, like the magic ring in one of J. R. R. Tolkien's books, a power that had possessed him and was carrying him further and further away from his children with every passing minute. A power that could separate him from them forever.
*
The Digger is in an alley.
He's standing still, looking around him.
There are no agents or police around here. Nobody chasing him or looking for him. Nobody to shoot him. Or capture him and send him back to Connecticut, where he likes the forests but he hates the barred rooms they make him sit in for hours and hours and do nothing, where people steal his soup and change the channels of the TV away from commercials about cars and puppies so they can watch sports.
Pamela said to him, "You're fat. You're out of shape. Why don't you take up running? Go buy some Nike . . ." Click. ". . . some Nike jogging shoes. Go do that. Go to the mall. I've got things to do."
The Digger now thinks he sees Pamela for a minute. He squints. No, no, it's merely a blank wall in the alley.
Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and . . . click . . . and obey?
He was jogging with Pamela one day, a fall day, through red leaves and yellow leaves. He tried to keep up, sweating, his chest hurting the way his brain hurt after the bullet bounced around in his cranium. Pamela ran ahead and he ended up jogging by himself. Ended up walking home alone.
The Digger is worried about what went wrong at the theater. He's worried about all the police and agents and worried that the man who tells him things will be unhappy because he didn't kill as many people as he was supposed to.
The Digger hears sirens in the distance. Many sirens.
He starts through the alley. Lets the shopping bag swing in his arm. The Uzi is inside the bag and it's heavy again because he reloade
d it.
Ahead of him, in the alley, he sees some motion. He pauses. There's a young boy. He's black and skinny. He's about ten years old. The boy is listening to someone talk to him. Someone the Digger can't see.
Suddenly the Digger hears Pamela's voice: "Have . . . have . . . have . . . children with you? Have . . . have . . . have . . . your baby?"
If we had us a child or three or four,
you know I'd love you all the more.
Then the memory of the song goes away because there's a tearing sound and the gun and the suppressor fall through the bottom of the shopping bag. He bends down to pick up the gun and as he does he looks up.
Hmmm.
This isn't funny.
The young boy and an older man, dressed in dirty clothes, the man who was talking to the boy, are walking up the alley. The man is bending the boy's arm upward. The boy is crying and his nose is bloody.
They are both looking at the Digger. The boy seems to be relieved. He pulls away from the man and rubs his shoulder. The man grabs the boy's arm again.
The man looks down at the Uzi. He gives the Digger a crooked smile. Says, "Whatever you doing, ain' my business. I'ma just go on my way."
"Leggo my arm," the boy whines.
"Shuddup." The man draws back his fist. The boy cowers.
The Digger shoots the man twice in the chest. He falls backward. The boy jumps back at the loud sound. The suppressor is still on the ground.
The Digger aims the gun at the boy, who is staring at the body.
"If somebody sees your face . . ."
The Digger starts to pull the trigger.
"Have . . . have . . . have . . . children with you?" The words rattle around in his skull.
The boy is still staring down at the body of the man who was beating him. The Digger starts to pull the trigger again. Then he lowers the gun. The boy turns and looks at the Digger. He whispers, "Yo, you cap him! Man, just like nothin', you cap him."
The boy is staring right at the Digger's face. Ten feet away.
Words rattling around. Kill him he's seen your face kill him, killhimkillhimkillhim.
And things like that.
The Digger says, "Hmmm." He stoops and picks up the spent shells and then the suppressor and wraps it and the gun in the torn puppy bag and walks out of the alley, leaving the boy beside a garbage pile, staring at the body.
Go back to the motel and . . . click . . . go back to the motel and wait.
He'll have some soup and wait. He'll listen to his messages. See if the man who tells him things has called to tell him he can stop shooting.
When I hear you coming through the door . . .
Some soup would be nice now.
I know I love you all the more.
He made soup for Pamela. He was making soup for Pamela the night she . . . click. It was Christmas night. Twelve twenty-five. One two two five. A night like this. Cold. Colored lights everywhere.
Here's a gold cross for you, he said. And this box is for me? . . . A present? Oh, it's a coat! Thank you thank you thank you . . .
The Digger is standing at the stoplight, waiting for the green.
Suddenly he feels something touch his hand.
The Digger isn't alarmed. The Digger never gets alarmed.
He grips the gun in the torn puppy bag. He turns slowly.
The boy stands beside him, holding the Digger's left hand tightly. He's looking straight ahead.
Love you love you love you . . .
The light changes.
The Digger doesn't move.
All the more . . .
"Yo, we can walk," says the boy, now staring at the puppies on the torn bag. The Digger sees the green figure in the walk/don't walk light.
The green figure seems happy.
Whatever happy is.
Holding hands, the two of them walk across the street.
15
The District of Columbia Topographic and Geologic Archives is housed in a musty old building near Seventh and E Streets.
It also, not coincidentally, is located near a little-known Secret Service facility and the National Security Council's Special Operations Office.
There's no reference to the Archives in any tourist literature and visitors who notice the sign on the front of the building and walk inside are politely told by one of the three armed guards at the front desk that the facility is not open to the public and that there are no exhibitions here but thank you for your interest. Have a nice day. Goodbye.
Cage, Parker and Lukas--on her ever-present phone--waited in the lobby. She shut off the unit. "Nothing. He just disappeared."
"No witnesses?"
"A couple of drivers saw a man in dark clothes running. They think he was white. They think he was medium build. But nobody'd swear to it. Jesus."
Cage looked around. "How'd you get us in here, Lukas? I couldn't get us in here."
Now it was Lukas's turn to shrug cryptically. It seemed that New Year's Eve was the day to call in markers and incur debts.
They were joined by Tobe Geller, who entered the facility at a slow trot. He nodded a greeting to the other members of the team. Then their fingerprints were checked by an Identi-Scanner and their weapons secured in a lock box. They were all directed to an elevator. They stepped into the car. Parker expected to rise but this elevator, it seemed, went no higher than the first floor. Lukas hit the button marked b7 and the car descended for what seemed like forever.
They stepped out into the Archives proper. Which turned out not to be stacks of dusty, old books and maps--which Parker, Certified Document Examiner, had been looking forward to checking out--but a huge room filled with high-tech desks, telephones, microphones and banks of twenty-four-inch NEC computer screens. Even tonight, New Year's Eve, two dozen men and women sat in front of these screens, on which glowed elaborate maps, typing on keyboards and speaking into stalk mikes.
Where the hell am I? Parker wondered, looking around and concluding that the issue of access to the Archives had nothing to do with finding a civil servant with a key to the front door.
"What is this?" he asked Geller.
The young agent glanced tactfully at Cage, who nodded his okay to tell all. Geller replied, "Topographic and cartographic database of two hundred square miles around the District. Ground zero's the White House though they don't like it when you say that. In case of natural disaster, terrorist attack, nuclear threat--what ever--this's where they figure out if it's best for the government to sit tight or get out of town and if so how they ought to do it. What routes are safest, how many congressmen'll survive, how many senators. That sort of thing. Like the war room in Fail Safe. Way cool, hmm?"
"What're we doing here?"
"You wanted maps," he said, looking excitedly at all the equipment the way only a born hacker would do, "and this's the most comprehensive physical database of any area in the world. Lincoln Rhyme was saying we needed to know the area. Well, we may not. But they do." He nodded affectionately toward a long row of six-foot-high computer towers.
Lukas said, "They're letting us use the facility, under protest, provided we don't take any printouts or downloads with us."
"We get searched on the way out," Geller said.
"How come you know so much about it?" Parker asked Geller.
"Oh, I sort of helped set it up."
Lukas added, "Oh, by the way, Parker, you've never heard of this place."
"Not a problem," said Parker, eyeing the two machine-gun-armed guards by the elevator door.
Lukas said, "Now, what're the materials Rhyme found?"
Parker looked at the notes he'd taken. He read, "Granite, sulfur, soot, ash, clay and brick."
Tobe Geller sat down at a monitor, turned it on, typed madly on a keyboard. An image of the Washington, D.C., area came on the screen. The resolution was astonishing. It looked three-dimensional. Parker thought, absurdly, how Robby and Stephie would love to play Mario Bros. on a monitor like this.
Lukas said
to Parker, "Where do we start?"
"One clue at a time," he responded. "Then start narrowing down possibilities. The way you solve puzzles."
Three hawks have been killing a farmer's chickens. . . .
"First, granite, brick dust and clay," he mused. "They point to demolition sites, construction . . ." He turned to Geller. "Would they be on this database?"
"No," the young agent responded. "But we can track down somebody at Building Permits."
"Do it," Parker ordered.
Geller made the call on a landline--no cell phone would work this far underground and, besides, like all secure facilities in Washington, Parker supposed, the walls were shielded.
"What next?" Parker wondered. "Sulfur and soot . . . That tells us it's industrial. Tobe, can you highlight areas based on air pollutants?"
"Sure. There's an EPA file." He added cheerfully, "It's to calculate penetration levels of nerve gas and bioagent weapons."
More buttons.
The business of the District of Columbia is government, not industry, and the commercial neighborhoods were devoted mostly to product warehousing and distribution. But on the screen portions of the city began to be highlighted--in, appropriately, pollution-tinted yellow. The majority were in the Southeast part of town.
"He's probably living near there," Lukas reminded. "What industrial sites are adjacent to areas of houses and apartments?"
Geller continued to type, cross-referencing the industrial neighborhoods with residential. This eliminated some but not many of the manufacturing areas; most of them were ringed with residential pockets.
"Still too many," Lukas said.
"Let's add another clue. The ash," Parker said. "Basically burnt animal flesh."
Geller's hands paused above the keyboard. He mused, "What could that be?"
Lukas shook her head. Then asked, "Are there any meat-processing plants in any of those areas?"
This was a good suggestion, one Parker himself had been about to make.
Geller responded, "None listed."
"Restaurants?" Cage suggested.
"Probably too many of them," Parker said.
"Hundreds," Geller confirmed.
"Where else would there be burnt meat?" Lukas asked no one in particular.
Puzzles . . .
"Veterinarians," Parker wondered. "Do they dispose of the remains of animals?"
"Probably," Cage said.
Geller typed then read the screen. "There are dozens. All over the place."
Then Lukas looked up at Parker and he saw that the chill from earlier was gone, replaced by something else. It might have been excitement. Her blue eyes were stones still, perhaps, but now they were radiant gems. She said, "How about human remains?"