Shadow of Death, page 28
The killer’s young hostage let out a terrified squeak as the knife drew closer against her flesh.
“What the hell?” the killer murmured. “You—you go and see what those idiots outside want. Because I’m telling you, you can kill me today, but she will die with me.” He laughed. “Maybe the two of us can haunt you, too.”
“God help me,” Mason murmured. “Fine. You want me to check the door?”
“Yeah. I want to see who is trying what.”
His gun still trained on the killer, Mason backed to the door.
“We don’t need any disruptions here,” he said loudly.
“I’m not a disruption,” a female voice said. “I’m unarmed. I just wanted to offer to trade myself for Melissa Wells.”
“What?” Mason demanded.
“Open the door, check her out. See if she’s really unarmed,” the killer said. “And don’t forget—if I’m going, she’s going with me!”
Mason cracked the door open. There was a woman standing there, mid to late twenties, about five foot eight with long light brown hair and a striking thin face. She was wearing black knit leggings and a tunic and lifted her arms to show that she carried nothing.
“I’m really a better choice,” she said, looking around Mason to see and talk to the killer. “Think of it! If you don’t manage to escape and get out of this or if you do, you’ll have killed a special agent or used her for your escape. I’m Della Hamilton, FBI. And I know you like your victims to have long hair. My hair is long and I’m the right age... Come on. This kid is a teenager. So far, you’ve at least chosen victims who were out of high school!” She paused, shaking her head. “You have a reputation. You’re a famous killer—don’t sully all that by having people think you were a pedophile.”
Apparently, she’d said just the right thing.
“I am not a pedophile!” the Midnight Slasher protested. “That’s disgusting. I haven’t gotten it down right yet, but I’m working on it, and I will be a master! I will learn to... Well, never mind! I will achieve what is necessary!”
“Whatever,” Mason said dryly. “And she has one hell of a point, I mean, you want to be a master killer, get it all right...perfect it all. But you don’t want to be remembered as a pedophile. That would...well, ruin your whole legacy.”
“Yeah, yeah... I never touched any of them. Except to kill them. And I was going to get it all right this time, but you found a stupid boat and followed me and... Ah, screw it! But you’re right. The pretty girl at the door can get me out of here, or... Well, I will be known for having killed a special agent! Yeah! Get in here, Special Agent Whoever. You come straight to me. When I can switch the knife over, this kid can go. But you need to know—if I die today, you die, too.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” Special Agent Della Hamilton said.
The killer laughed. “Suicidal, eh?”
“No, I just think I can talk you down,” she said. “And frankly, you fascinate me! Your mind is so amazing! And I’m older, okay, and maybe this is only in my own mind, but I think I’m...well, sexier, grown-up, and just a better choice for a victim all the way around. If you want to be famous—kill an agent!”
“Talk me down? I don’t think so. But I fascinate you? And you really are pretty damned gorgeous, so...hmm. Okay, lady, come on.”
“I am coming—when this guy lets me!” she said, smiling and shrugging to Mason.
“Let her by!”
“She wants you to take the shot during the exchange!” the ghost of Gideon Grimsby said. The ghost’s presence was near him. He all but whispered in Mason’s ear, almost startling him.
But Mason was staring at Della Hamilton, and she nodded at the words. As if she had heard them.
Had she?
He’d heard there were others like him. He’d even heard there was a special “ghostbusters” unit in the Bureau with some nothing title like Special Circumstances Unit.
He inclined his head; she blinked, letting him know she had the message.
“I’m coming over...slowly, slowly, and I’ll back up so you can free Melissa and get the knife right on me...”
She walked to him just as she had said she would do.
The killer moved the knife to push Melissa forward and reach out for Della Hamilton. And as he did, Della Hamilton dropped down, shouting, “Now!”
And Mason fired.
Melissa leaned to the side; Della was hunkered close to the floor.
The bullet hit the killer dead center in the forehead. While Melissa shrieked and cried with relief, the Midnight Slasher fell without a whimper.
* * *
The killer was dead. The reign of the Midnight Slasher had come to an end.
The wrap-up and the paperwork had just begun.
Naturally, there was chaos at first as other agents and police rushed in. The medical examiner and forensics arrived, and officers held the press at bay. Melissa’s parents were called, but before she raced down to meet them, she fell hysterically into the arms of Della Hamilton and then Mason, telling them, “Oh, my God, thank you, thank you! Thank you, both. You saved my life!”
Mason assured her he was grateful she was alive, as did Della Hamilton.
Gideon Grimsby stood by the whole time, arms crossed over his chest, a proud look on his face. Well, the ghost did like helping.
Mason saw Della Hamilton manage a wave and a nod and mouthed the words, “Thank you,” To Gideon at one point. Gideon smiled and nodded in return.
Mason turned in his firearm as necessary and was surprised to hear that a counselor was waiting to see him in the city. His Glock would be returned in the morning.
Things never happened that fast. He knew something was going on.
Mason was hailed by the waiting officers and agents, and he knew everyone was relieved a serial killer’s spree had come to an end. He wished he could feel celebratory, and he knew he had carried out the only feasible action. But he didn’t feel celebratory, just weary.
Of course, it had been just minutes before midnight when they’d taken down the slasher. With all the aftermath, it was the next day before anyone left the bayou country. And because of where they were, the press had finally arrived, but thankfully, by then the action was over and officers arranged to maintain the crime scene. People had a right to know what was going on but keeping details of such an event within ranks might prove to be extremely important.
He was ordered back to the city and the office before Della Hamilton finished a discussion with a member of the forensic team.
He didn’t see her again until they were finishing the last of the paperwork on the case and by then everyone involved was about to keel over.
Sleep was in order. When he was finally able to return to his hotel, he had no trouble crashing down into a sound sleep—despite the fact the dawn had arrived long ago and the sun was shining brightly beyond the heavy drapes that covered his windows.
He woke in the middle of the afternoon. An evening left in NOLA, time to finish up any necessary business, and then a flight back to the DC area in the morning.
Luckily, they’d been so far back in the bayou country the media hadn’t seen any of the takedown. And when asked, he assured the local powers that be he didn’t want his name seen anywhere, which was the right policy as known field agents could be at risk.
A press release saying the Bureau had rescued the Slasher’s latest victim and the man had been killed in the operation was just fine with Mason. He wondered if Della Hamilton was going to want more recognition.
She didn’t.
Mason was out on Royal Street trying to decide on a restaurant for dinner when he looked into a shopfront and saw a TV screen showing the news.
The takedown had been perceived just as he’d hoped—a joint effort by the FBI and local authorities.
A lot of his friends at the local FBI offices and police precincts he’d come to know in NOLA had wanted to get together that night. And while he truly enjoyed a lot of the camaraderie and understood the feelings of many that a celebration was in order, he just wanted to be on his own that night.
He felt as if he needed to shake something off.
He decided then to go over to Magazine Street for dinner and hopefully some soothing music at one of its many restaurants. He was surprised when Gideon slid into a seat beside him there; he’d been nursing a scotch and listening to some great jazz, something that helped still his mind.
“You are a strange bird,” Gideon told him.
“Why?”
“That fellow stole the greatest gift from so many—the gift of life. Mason, you stopped him.”
“With your help, for which I’m grateful—”
“And the help of Della Hamilton. I hung around her awhile earlier. She’s something, huh? As they say in your time, that girl has balls! Wait, she can’t, can she. Guts? Would that be right? She has guts!”
“She saw you in a flash,” Mason said. “And by the way, I am glad I brought a killer down. I’m just tired of... I took his life. I guess I hate killing.”
“But you love saving.”
Mason shrugged. “I will always act in the best interests of the victim. Let’s listen to the music, huh?”
“Sure. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning. Some bigwig with the Bureau is coming down tonight. He’s coming specifically to see you—”
“Why? Wait a minute. Last I heard, I run by the NOLA office, pick up another agent to drop me and bring the car back for the next guy who needs it. How did you hear that? I’ll be heading back to DC tomorrow.”
“Maybe not,” Gideon told him. “I heard Della talking to someone on the phone when she left the offices. She was going out, but that call changed things and she didn’t. She decided she’d better get some sleep. You were busy tonight,” Gideon told him, grinning. “You don’t interrupt a counseling session, and then it was a long day! You were supposed to have some dinner, some downtime... You’ll be informed. Apparently, this is...big. A couple of people are heading down from Washington just to discuss this with you.”
“And they informed another agent before me—about my assignment?” Mason asked.
“I’m guessing it involves her,” Gideon said with a shrug. “And that would be a darned good thing. You couldn’t do better, from what I saw.”
“She was good, yes. But—”
Mason groaned. Strange. He’d wanted this job; he’d worked hard for this job. But after his years in the military, now he was wondering why. He was good at what he did. He was a good investigator—largely because of a lot of help from the dead. But he was also good at killing.
And it just seemed to be weighing down on him lately.
“Damn you, man!” Gideon said. His accent—which he had largely lost during the many years since his death—came back strong when he was angry. “There is a seventeen-year-old girl alive and in the arms of her family because of you.”
“And Special Agent Hamilton, of course—or mainly,” Mason said dryly.
Gideon nodded. “I was glad to see her. I hadn’t met her, but friends saw her when she worked a case here not too long ago. The bank robbery out of Baton Rouge. They say she tricked the three—it was a woman and two men. That she got them into position by pretending to be a lost tourist, crying and desperate to find her way back to the airboat they’d been on. Anyway, she has a way that makes her excellent in this kind of case. But you! Stop it. When there is no choice, there is no choice. That teenager from today is going to need therapy for the rest of her life most probably, but she’ll have a life. Do you know what that man—so called Midnight Slasher—did to some of his victims?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“No, he wasn’t a pedophile. He sliced them, Mason. Slashed and sliced them! Cut off their fingers and ears while they were still alive.”
“I do know,” he said calmly.
Mason was glad he’d paid his tab. He stood. As he’d learned to do, he pretended he was on a phone call as he told Gideon, “I am so grateful she is alive—and our local intelligence knew where to find him before he could hurt her. Truly, I am. I just... I guess I wish I’d been a negotiator. I’d like to talk someone down for a change.”
“You talk them down when you can—you save the victim when you can’t,” Gideon said.
Mason nodded. “Yes, I know. Guess I’m tired.”
“You should be. Get some sleep.”
“I’m going to.”
“Finish listening to the jazz. See you in the morning,” Gideon said, and then he was gone.
That was the problem sometimes befriending ghosts. Since they were excellent at slipping away through crowds and even walls, it was extremely difficult to have the last word with them.
* * *
The following morning, just as Gideon had said, Mason found himself in an office with the “bigwigs” down from Washington.
Two bigwigs.
The one was an elderly man. Mason had heard of him. His name was Adam Harrison, and he was known for both his philanthropy and the fact he’d been instrumental in forming special units of the Bureau.
He was with another man, this one in his forties, a striking fellow with Native American blood and a stature that indicated hours in the gym—and probably out in the field as well.
This man was Jackson Crow.
Mason knew who they were. Everyone in the Bureau knew about the special, separate unit that was called in for bizarre cases that included cult activity, so-called witchcraft and cases which involved “haunted” buildings, “werewolves,” or any other strange manifestation. They had an amazing record for resolving cases, and while they were teasingly called “the ghostbusters,” the Krewe of Hunters were also highly respected.
He had thought at times about seeking an interview with Adam Harrison or Jackson Crow. But he’d discovered he was good at working alone. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have children. That meant he could keep going at any time he wanted on his own—all day and into the night—when he was hot on a trail.
But now, he was intrigued.
He had been called in by them. He was sure that meant they’d been observing him from afar.
And they knew.
Just as he had known the truth about the Krewe.
That morning, the three of them were alone in the office. When the introductions were done, Jackson Crow began his speech.
“Due to recent developments, we’re forming a new team, attached to our current unit. Loosely, we’ve been referring to our new operation as Blackbird—but officially, it will be the Euro Special Assistance Team. You’ll be working with me as your immediate supervisor, and you’ll still be stationed out of our Northern Virginia offices. But you’ll be on the move a great deal—should you accept this, of course,” Jackson Crow told him.
Mason shook his head. “Accept... I’m not sure what. I mean... Well, truthfully, I know you run a special unit, and you must know that I—”
“Speak to the dead. Yes, of course. Gideon didn’t fill you in?” Adam Harrison asked him.
Mason’s brows shot up. Then he grimaced.
He’d assumed the people who were selected for this unit were found from across the country. Some were possibly found through the academy, and some because they stumbled into a case while working with other law enforcement or because they’d simply become involved.
Mason smiled, nodded, and leaned back. “I guess you’ve met Gideon.”
“We started up in New Orleans,” Jackson said. “We have many...friends here.”
“Of course,” Mason acknowledged dryly. “No, Gideon didn’t tell me much. But Euro—”
“Yes, we’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but the world has grown very small in the last several years. You are aware the Bureau has sixty legal attaché or legate offices around the world, as well as at least fifteen offices in our embassies in foreign countries?” Adam Harrison asked him.
He nodded. “Of course. I’ve been with the Bureau six years, ever since I got out of the service. Yes, I was aware. I admit—”
“We’re federal, yes, and our focus is this country. But as Adam said, it’s a small world these days, and when we have an American causing havoc abroad, conspiracies that involve Americans, felons we wish to apprehend abroad, hostage situations, and so on, we need a presence. Do we have great relationships with all countries? No. But with most of Europe and beyond, law enforcement likes to be reciprocal,” Jackson said.
“Okay, so...”
“I was asked by someone as high up in the chain as you can get to begin this project, to open support on strange cases that stretch outside of the country,” Jackson told him. “Someone who doesn’t want to admit we have help from strange places—yet still wants to make use of our rate in solving crimes and catching killers—wants us to get a team to Norway as quickly as possible. They’ve now found four bodies, stretching from France to England to Norway, completely drained of blood along with strange writing on the river embankments where the bodies have been displayed,” Jackson said. “There might have been earlier victims here in the States. They are afraid the vampire isn’t working alone, or perhaps something even more sinister is going on. You’d work with Interpol and local police over there—”
“I don’t speak Norwegian.”
“Neither do I. The amazing thing is most Europeans speak English or a minimum of two languages, something I wish we were better at here,” Adam said.
“You said a team. So—”
“We’ll be starting this with two agents and detectives from England, France, and Norway, as well as an Interpol liaison, a Frenchman named Bisset who seems able to get anything needed at the drop of a hat. And, you’ll be working with support back here in anything tech or forensic. You’ll be the first of a team with Special Agent Della Hamilton,” Jackson told him, then nodded his head toward the door to the office.
