“This doesn’t seem like Taylor’s type of crime,” I told Cheyenne. “And all of his previous messages to me have been handwritten, not recorded.”
“Any other killers in the habit of sending you personal messages?”
“Not at the moment.”
If Taylor was the killer and really was planning to see me in Chicago, I wanted to be ready for him. So, when Cheyenne and I reached the entrance, I pulled out my cell. “I’ll call a buddy of mine at the Bureau. Put some things into play.”
“Be careful, Pat.” Her voice held deep concern. Deeper than that of just a co-worker. “This one’s different. I don’t like this. Any of this.”
“I hear you.” A slightly awkward moment passed between us, then she returned to the mine and I speed-dialed Ralph’s number.
Special Agent Ralph Hawkins wasn’t just the acting director for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC, but was also one of my closest friends. Even though he was based in DC at FBI headquarters, I knew that if anyone could get a team in place at the Chicago courthouse by tomorrow, he could.
As I waited for him to answer, I noticed that the sun had dipped almost to the mountains, and the day was beginning to fade. Just past the flat strip of land where the helicopter sat, untamed spruce forests bristled down the slopes. Beyond them, ragged snow-covered peaks jutted to the sky.
My cell reception died, and I headed toward the chopper. Tried again.
Nearby, a car rolled to a stop on the potholed road leading to the mine, and Dr. Eric Bender, Denver’s chief medical examiner, stepped out. Thick glasses. Serene face. Eric was nearly six foot five and slim and had a sloping, sauntering walk that made him look like he was always slightly off balance. He must have noticed that I was on the phone, because instead of calling out a greeting, he just nodded to me.
I nodded back. I’d first met Eric last year, a month after I moved to Denver with my stepdaughter. Tessa didn’t make friends easily, so I was thankful when I found out that his daughter Dora was also a junior in high school, and I was even more thankful when the two girls hit it off.
Eric disappeared into the mine just as Ralph picked up. I brought him up to speed on the recorded message and the possibility that it might be Taylor. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make some calls. Fly to Chicago myself. When do you testify?”
“One o’clock. Calvin’s picking me up at the airport.”
“Werjonic?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you in the courthouse.” Ralph rarely spoke more words than he needed to. “If it’s Taylor, we’ll get him.” And he ended the call.
We could have extra screeners at the airports in the region, but I had a feeling that if Taylor wanted to get to Chicago he’d find a way. Still, I phoned my supervisor at the FBI field office in Denver and asked him to send out an FAA alert to all airports in the West and Midwest.
The task force helicopter pilot who’d flown me here from police headquarters stood leaning against the cockpit. He looked up from a copy of the Wall Street Journal. “Ready?”
“A few more minutes.”
Lieutenant Colonel Cliff Freeman had retired from the air force last year at forty-four and now flew choppers part-time for the federal government. A family man with twin eleven-year-old boys, he had short-cropped hair, was still in good shape, and had a knack for choosing up-and-coming high tech stocks.
I returned to the tunnel to take one last look at Heather’s body, and finally, when I was satisfied, I joined Cliff in the cockpit.
As we lifted off, I took note of the scarce trails and dirt roads that switchbacked down the mountains and through the nearby Arapaho National Forest. The exit route the killer had taken shouldn’t be too tough to narrow down. I studied the topography of the area. Memorized it.
Then the sun slid behind the mountains and night began to crawl across the Rockies.
The recorded message echoed in my head: “I’ll see you in Chicago, Agent Bowers.”
“I’ll see you too,” I said to myself.
And we skimmed over the foothills toward Denver so I could pack for my flight.
4
17 miles southeast of Bearcroft Mine 8:12 p.m.
Over the years Sebastian Taylor had learned to be careful.
Careful while he’d worked for the CIA finding permanent ways to deal with problematic people; then careful for the next decade to keep his previous line of work a secret as he launched his political career; then even more careful during his four years as the governor of North Carolina, laying the groundwork for a future run at the presidency. Careful, careful. Always careful.
He stepped from the shower and toweled off, then picked up his Glock from the countertop beside the sink and eased open the door to his bedroom.
Always careful.
But most of all he’d been careful during the last seven months after his fall from grace, after murdering an ex-associate and landing on the FBI’s Most Wanted List.
For decades Sebastian had done only what was best for America. But since his country had turned on him last October and started hunting him as a wanted man, he’d found room in his conscience for a different kind of loyalty and had discovered that money could be at least as satisfying a motive as patriotism.
Sebastian thought of these things as he finished dressing, armed himself, and then slipped on his handmade Taryn Rose Chester oxfords. Italian shoes were the best-made dress shoes in the world, and even though he was aware that he needed to keep a low profile with his purchases, he’d still allowed himself a few luxuries. A touch of the finer things in life.
Over the last few months he’d constructed a new identity, chosen a secluded home in the mountains thirty miles west of Denver, and then carefully covered his tracks as he planned his next move against a certain troublesome FBI agent who seemed to keep popping up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Special Agent Patrick Bowers.
Sebastian finished tying his shoes, stood, and straightened his hand-sewn Anderson amp; Sheppard suit coat to cover his shoulder holster. Yes. The finer things.
Which was why he was going to see Brigitte Marcello again tonight.
Even though he was just over fifty, Sebastian kept himself in impeccable shape, which was helpful for someone who preferred his women younger. And at twenty-seven, Brigitte hadn’t begun to sag and wrinkle and weather. She was still supple. Still beautiful. Still worth his attention.
After making love one night last month, she’d said to him softly, lovingly, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. You’re old enough to be my dad.”
“And you’re old enough,” he’d said as he drew her close, “to be my true love,” and then she’d melted into his arms and they’d had sex again. Yes, to get what you want from people, you simply have to tell them what they want to hear.
He picked up the manila envelope containing the photos of Bowers’s stepdaughter Tessa. Slipped it into his briefcase.
A quick glance at his watch: 8:22 p.m.
Just enough time to mail the pictures before picking up Brigitte at 9:00. After eight envelopes, the FBI had almost certainly installed face recognition video surveillance at the post offices in the Denver area. Much better to let the feds track his letters to random homes around the city-just find a mailbox flag flipped up from someone foolish enough to put his mail in the box at night rather than in the morning, and then slide the envelope inside.
Careful.
Alert.
Sebastian Taylor was not a man to be trifled with.
He entered the garage, flicked on the lights, and walked to his Lexus RX, rightly called a luxury utility vehicle rather than a sport utility vehicle. Opened the driver’s door.