The Bureau Killer, page 7
“Do you expect some kind of liberation?” he asked the sniveling man.
They were in a dark room, small enough that he could almost touch opposite walls with his arms spread wide. Jared Cunningham was on the floor, unable to move. If the handcuffs around his ankles weren’t enough to stop him, the fact that the Educator had broken both his ankles went a long way to promising he wouldn’t try anything funny.
“Please, just let me go,” Cunningham cried.
“I guess that answers my question.”
“Please…”
The Educator rolled his eyes and went into the living room, where the curtains were taped shut to avoid letting even the slightest beam of light inside. It wasn’t a problem right now, but when morning came, he wanted to be prepared. This empty room was where he kept all of his equipment, and he preferred not to accidentally detonate that by letting any of the components overheat due to sun exposure. It was his ideal setup.
He got to work on creating a new piece. It was a design he had cooked up during his thirties, but there had been no need to use it until now. It wasn’t enough to blow up a house, probably not even something small like a garden shed, but it would undoubtedly turn Mr. Cunningham into a human firework.
Just think of the display.
The Educator smiled as he finalized his work, picturing the public show he’d make of this man. It would start with the usual whimpering and pleading, then the fuse would be lit. Begging and screaming would come next, but not for long, because the fuse was unmercifully short. Then, and only then, the sparks would fly. Cunningham’s head would light up like a jack-o’-lantern just long enough to feel the same kind of pain the Educator did.
He realized he was grinning when he put the final cap in place. He turned to make his way back to the pantry, where Cunningham still lay crippled and helpless. But as he left the room and went into the hallway, a bright light shone through the single pane of frosted glass in his front door.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered, rushing to the upstairs bedroom so he could take a good look at their visitor. The Educator was expecting a door-to-door salesman, maybe even a pizza delivery guy with the wrong address, but that wasn’t what he saw. Horror seized his dark heart as a Mustang stopped at the end of his drive. It sat there in the night for a couple of minutes, and the Educator froze, unsure if this was the time for fight or flight. His next movement depended solely on what happened next. What did happen made the decision for him.
Because Mason Black climbed out of the car.
And he was headed this way.
THIRTY-NINE
The house was a dark, uninviting prison. Mason watched from the car, his hands shaking with an awful mixture of fear, excitement, and rage. So what if he died in there tonight? At least he would go out doing something right for a change. That was enough, wasn’t it?
Still, the house loomed in the darkness like a monster lying in wait. Mason had enough experience to tell him nothing good could come of this—that he should wait right here until the FBI turned up and told him to move on.
But that wasn’t how these psychos got caught. Mason had stopped them time and time again, proving all his doubters wrong. Proving that he was still relevant, even if the SFPD didn’t think so. And he would prove it again. Tonight.
Taking a long, deep breath, Mason got out of the car and approached the house. He waited until he reached the window before he drew his gun so as not to draw attention from the neighbors. He peered through the glass but saw nothing, then moved on to the front door.
“Police, open up!” he lied, pounding on the door with all his force.
Through the narrow pane of glass in the door, he saw light. A figure stepped out and blocked it, lurking there. Mason watched, waited. He gripped the gun tight, anticipating the man’s every move until—
“Stop!”
The man inside shrunk as he ran toward the back of the house. Mason fired a round into the lock. The door flew open, and he dashed inside. Sweat dripped from his temple as he saw the figure flee. He began to take chase, but the report of a gunshot stopped him dead in his tracks. Mason froze, regained his senses, then leapt into the nearest room for cover.
“You think you can come into my house?” the man said. His voice was high and angry, spoken through gritted teeth. “You think you can just shoot your way through? You can’t. Even if you were police, which I know you aren’t… Mason.”
Mason’s eyes shot wide open. For a moment he wondered how this man knew his name, but the answer was obvious: he was in the same building as the Educator—the madman who had blown up that boat. The nutjob who had killed Jacob Fray and his family.
“Cop, PI. It’s just a label for the man who’s going to kick your ass,” Mason yelled.
That was all he gave. It was a short distraction to throw the man off-balance. He dove out of the room and blind-fired twice, using fear as his weapon against this terrorist. He rushed forward, ready to fire a third, and found the back door swinging open in the breeze.
“No,” Mason whispered, breathless.
His head ached with tension as he ran out of the house and into the dark backyard. There was a short pathway here that led to a gate. Mason hurried toward it and looked both ways, thin alleys spreading into three different directions. All were black with nightfall, and there was no sign of his assailant. There was no sound except for that of the swinging back door in the empty house behind him. But there was one other thing. A dim, grueling realization.
The Educator had escaped, and he knew Mason by name.
FORTY
His heart was empty, save for the darkness brewing within. Mason felt a lonely hopefulness wash over him as he turned back toward the house, stowing his Beretta back in the shoulder holster. There was no threat left inside, but he remained vigilant in case the man returned.
I was so close, he thought as he lowered his head and went inside.
There were so many rooms he ran past. So much to explore, and he intended to take his time. He started by going upstairs, where he found nothing but one furnished bedroom. As much as he wanted to go through the drawers, two things kept him from doing so: he didn’t want to disturb any evidence in the way of fingerprints, and he didn’t want to take the risk of blowing his own hands off. By now, Mason knew just how dangerous the Educator was, and there wasn’t a chance in hell he would take such a risk.
“Is anyone there? Please.”
The voice came out of nowhere, making him freeze. Did he imagine it, or had somebody really cried for help? Mason made no movement whatsoever, listening intently for a sound that might never come again. He waited for a long while and almost gave up entirely, when…
“Hello? Are you a cop?”
Mason’s heart almost thudded out of his chest as he followed the voice downstairs. “Hold on,” he called. “I’m coming.” He hurried down the stairs as the man cried again, more desperate and urgent than before. He found a small room with an open door he must have run past, but he hadn’t taken the time to look inside during all the excitement of chasing the Educator.
Inside was a man who wore tattered, dirt-caked gym clothing. There were splashes of blood all up his legs. Handcuffs clamped his ankles together, and it only took one look to see those ankles had been snapped out of shape. A short bone protruded from the flesh of each one.
“Jesus,” Mason said, rushing inside while fidgeting in his pocket for his cell phone. Although Evie should have contacted the police by now, he dialed 911, and when the operator asked what service he would like, he said, “All of them,” then gave the address and hung up.
Mason tended to the sobbing mess of a man on the floor. Even among the tears it was easy to identify him as Jared Cunningham, though he looked like a mere shadow of the man in his photograph. Any pride and self-respect had gone when his ankles had broken, and the last remains of it went when he cried hard into Mason’s arms.
The Educator had broken him.
FORTY-ONE
The FBI arrived too late, and every one of them scowled as they passed him. Mason stuck to the wall beside the front door, giving a full statement to an agent he didn’t know. The man was strong, focused, and quiet. Mason didn’t like any of the agents any more than they liked him.
Jared Cunningham was carried outside by a medical professional and placed onto a stretcher. They wheeled him toward the ambulance that sat at the end of the path, his ankles drenched in blood that glistened black under the moonlight. It was sad to see him go like that—would probably never walk again—but at least he was alive.
The agent finished up and dismissed Mason, but Mason didn’t leave. As nobody came to escort him off the premises, he went back inside the house. He was only stopped by an attendee who reminded him to wear gloves and booties.
He must think I’m a cop, Mason thought before he complied.
Inside, the house was a chaotic mess. The living room was vacated with many police and FBI agents standing in the doorway biting their nails. Apparently, the room was full of explosives, and the bomb squad was inside making sure nothing would blow. Mason wondered why they hadn’t all fled the house yet, but then he heard a voice explaining to a nearby officer. A familiar voice.
Mason turned his ear toward Detective Bill Harvey.
“You’re safe, I promise. It’s just precautionary.”
“You better be sure,” the cop said. “I got kids, you know.”
“Just take the photos, Rogers.”
The mention of photos interested him. Mason squeezed through the busy hallway and saw Bill walk past. Thankfully, Bill didn’t see him, so he followed in the direction Bill had come from until he found an officer snapping pictures of a cheap-looking pine desk.
He tried his luck.
“Hey, are you Rogers?” he asked.
The officer startled and turned around. His gaunt face was sheet white. “Yeah?”
“I think the Feds are looking for you out front.”
“Oh, man. Thanks.”
As the cop hurried off, Mason took what little time he had to examine the documents on the desk. There were invoices, photos of Jacob Fray, and designs for bombs of his own. A family photo hung on the wall above it. A photo that showed their man Robert Green, proudly holding up an enormous fish. It confirmed this was his property, and if nothing else, that he was the Educator—the sicko they’d all been chasing.
Now that they had a name, which was more than they’d had a week ago, Mason knew it was time to get out of here. Before long, Bill would be back to look for the cop, and Mason didn’t want to be here to get removed from the site.
It was lucky he’d stuck it out this long.
FORTY-TWO
The Educator pounded down the alleyway, his footsteps creating echoes. There were homeless people sleeping on either side, with blankets propped up to form tents. In the middle was a fire-blackened trash can that was unlit. With the sweat streaming down his face, he knew why.
Although he was a white man in a black neighborhood, nobody cared enough to give him any trouble. They were probably more concerned about why there was a white guy running so fast through their territory. A guy in clean clothes, at that.
Just don’t look them in the eye, he thought.
When he reached the far end of the network, an alleyway split into two different directions. He chose one at random, lost in his own city. He slowed to a walk and made his way to the end, where he heard sirens for only a second over his heavy panting. Seconds later, police cruisers and black, unmarked cars with flashing lights zipped past. None of them saw him, but just in case, he sunk back into the shadows.
There he stayed, waiting until there was peace on the street. The Educator knew damn well they were going to his house, which also meant they knew who he was. This day was inevitable really, and Robert Green had a contingency plan in place for such an event. It wasn’t much (truthfully, he thought he’d never have to use it, so he spared certain expenses), but it would get the job done. At least he had his toys.
Green made his way slowly across town, using whatever back alleys and side streets he could along the way. It was only a matter of time until his face was plastered all over the news, so he made use of that freedom while he could.
I would have gotten away with it, too, he thought when he reached the site of his new hideout. It made him laugh out loud, thinking how much he sounded like a Scooby-Doo Villain. On paper, he supposed he was: he had a false identity and an evil plan, and he hated his enemies with a fierce passion that bordered on obsession. Only now he had one extra name to add to his list of victims. Mason Black had been getting far too close for comfort, and someday soon he would have to pay for his actions. Soon, but not yet.
Because first, some others had to set the stage. The police and FBI both needed a distraction to keep them from tearing Green’s life apart. Something big that would hurt tens, if not hundreds, of people. Robert Green had just the idea for such a distraction.
It was highly explosive.
FORTY-THREE
Diane had agreed to meet him, but she wasn’t happy about it. Mason sat in the Mustang, watching her stroll down the driveway in a robe he’d bought her last Christmas. She scowled and looked both ways as she crossed the street and climbed in beside him.
Mason felt a cool blast of air while the door was open. “Where’s MJ?”
“Inside with Charles.”
“Is Charles the guy I met?”
“Yes,” she said, and that was it. “You don’t look well.”
Mason nodded and gazed blankly out toward the street. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but not a single one of them would sound right. Not the way he clumsily said things, at any rate. He longed to tell her about how sorry he was for the things he’d done and how much he wanted—needed—her back. He wanted to tell her how much he hated himself for what had happened to Amy and that this entire case was nothing but a distraction. Those unspoken things left a bad impression of him, he knew, and Diane was undoubtedly thinking about how he was proving her point this whole time. That he just couldn’t stay out of trouble.
“I’m okay,” he told her.
“Sure. I saw on the news that they found the Educator.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m guessing you had something to do with that.”
Mason nodded while Diane shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. She sighed, and a small cloud of white breezed onto the windshield in front of her. “I’m not going to give you the lecture about how to take care of yourself,” she said. “Besides, I know you’re too damn stubborn to listen. I just want to make sure you’re careful.”
“I’m careful,” he told her, and the rest came spilling out. “I just feel like I don’t have any control in my life. Evie is back, and that’s great, but since Amy… Look, MJ feels a million miles away from me right now, and I know he’s only across the street.”
“You’re welcome anytime.”
“Thanks, but I don’t feel like I am. Anyway, I don’t want to see what you and Charles are doing. The last thing I need is to walk in on something like that. Honestly, I think I’d just lose it. I still see you as my wife, Diane. I still… Why are you laughing?”
Diane bit her lip and shook her head.
“What?” Mason pushed.
“Charles and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Looks like I already did.” Diane slapped her leg, and the wave of humor made her voice tremble slightly. “Charles is just a glorified babysitter, and he’s gay. Whatever you think is going on in there, it isn’t. You and I may not work things out, but I don’t just leap from man to man as soon as there’s a fallout. I’m hurting, too, you know.”
Mason felt an odd confusion of relief, lightness, and hurt. How had he been so foolish to make such a blunt assumption? Gay, he mused and laughed with her. But all the while, he hated to hear that Diane was hurting. He wished he could make her feel better. He wished—
The phone went off in his pocket, a text message announcing itself. He apologized and checked it, and when he saw it was from Evie, he could have done backflips. Please be good news, he thought while his thumb navigated to the message.
It was.
FORTY-FOUR
The text message was cryptic, but it was enough to instill a little hope in Mason. He said goodbye to Diane and sighed as he left her at the house, then rushed to the hospital where Evie waited for him. He couldn’t believe how things were turning out. He’d wanted to catch the Educator and repair his marriage, but instead he’d only identified the Educator and discovered that Diane wasn’t seeing somebody else after all. They were small wins that promised more.
Mason arrived and parked in the visitors’ lot, where Evie stood beside the ticket machine with her arms folded around her skinny chest. She turned on a smile when he got out and walked over to him, then rushed to meet him halfway.
“What is it?” he asked, checking her body language.
“It’s Jared Cunningham.”
“What about him?”
Evie grinned. “He’s being treated and has asked to see the man who saved his life. Would you believe it if I told you that Special Agent Hulls went in there to claim the benefits of our labor?” She stopped to swallow a laugh. “You should have seen his face when he specifically asked for you. ‘No, I want to see Mason Black.’”
Mason’s jaw dropped. “He knew me by name?”
“Must have got it off one of the agents. They work together, remember.”
It had completely slipped his mind that Cunningham was with the FBI. In all the flash-bang drama of the pursuit, Mason had slipped back into viewing things exactly as they were: a wounded man needing help after a terrorist almost killed him. The politics were either too complicated, or Mason was too exhausted to understand them.
