“I want you to kill her,” she heard Mr. Clean say.
“Me?” Wayne replied, coughing loudly.
“You fucked her, you get to kill her,” Mr. Clean said.
“Is that how it works?” Wayne asked, still coughing.
“Yes. That’s how it works.”
“Well, if you say so. When?”
“Once it grows dark.”
“Why wait?”
“Because you must always kill at night.”
“Nobody can see you, huh?”
“That’s right. The night is our greatest asset.”
“Whatever you say.” More loud coughing. “Can we get another burger? I’m still hungry.”
Mr. Clean started the engine. They continued to banter during the ride back to the drive-through, their voices not betraying a care or trouble in the world.
Vick shut her eyes, knowing she was doomed.
Chapter 53
Cooper City was a bedroom community in south Broward County, the pleasant, cookie-cutter developments packed together like cookies in a can. The houses were older and more modest here, and dated back to a simpler time.
Renaldo Devine’s ranch house had been built in the sixties, which qualified it for historical preservation by Florida standards. On a dead end street, it had surveillance cameras posted on the four corners of the house. The padlocked gate boasted a multi-lingual No Trespassing sign.
Linderman sat in a police surveillance van across the street, staring at a live feed of the house on a monitor. He had arrived a short while ago, having been whisked from the airport in an unmarked car. Moody sat next to him, wearing a bulletproof vest.
“You look beat,” Moody said. “Sure you’re up for this?”
“I’ll manage,” Linderman said.
“Here. Put these on.”
Moody handed him a pair of headphones. The police had aimed an electronic eavesdropping cone at the house, and Linderman strained to hear any sounds of life coming from inside. A radio was playing a Spanish station, and the television was on.
He pulled off the earphones. “There’s definitely signs of life.”
“That’s what I thought. I think we better move,” Moody said. “You in agreement?”
Linderman nodded. He appreciated the gesture. Moody was in charge, not him, and the sheriff was only asking because he knew that Rachel might be inside.
Moody called the power company on his cell phone.
“Kill the power,” Moody said.
Outside the van, a transformer sitting atop a light pole made a loud popping sound. The power on the street was now down. Moody had effectively knocked out the surveillance cameras around Devine’s house.
“Time’s a wasting,” Moody said.
They got out of the van. It had grown dark, the blackness made more complete by the lack of streetlights. Parked behind them was a mini-bus with darkened windows. Moody banged on the door with his fist. A ten-person SWAT team piled out. Dressed in bulky Kevlar and clutching automatic weapons, they’d painted their faces black, and looked ready for battle.
“Listen up,” Moody said. “Our suspect is holding two people captive inside the house. Saving their lives is our foremost priority. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Let’s go,” Moody said.
The SWAT team jogged across the street with Linderman and Moody behind them. Linderman had worked with SWAT teams before, and had learned that the best tactic was to stay out of their way, and let them do their job.
Upon reaching Devine’s property, the SWAT team spread out on the sidewalk, and aimed their guns through the chainlink fence at the house. One member of the team was holding a pair of bolt cutters. He approached the gate, then suddenly stopped.
“Something wrong?” Moody whispered.
“The gate’s wired,” the man whispered back.
“Don’t worry. There’s no power,” Moody told him.
“I sure hope not,” the man said.
The man cut the padlock, and let it clatter noisily to the ground. The gate swung open on its own accord. The SWAT team swarmed onto the property without making a sound. Half the members circled behind the house, while the rest went up the path.
Devine’s house had a sagging front porch. As the team stepped onto the porch, hidden spotlights on the house came on, their brilliant white light flooding the yard.
“Take those lights out!” Moody yelled.
Linderman stood on the lawn. One of the spotlights had temporarily blinded him. He went into a crouch, and rubbed frantically at his eyes.
One by one, the spotlights were taken out of commission by the SWAT team, the sound of automatic gunfire echoing across the otherwise peaceful neighborhood. It was dark again, only their element of surprise was gone.
“That’s enough,” Moody shouted.
The shooting stopped. Linderman stood up, his vision slowly returning. From the garage came a loud, engine-like noise.
“What’s that noise?” Moody asked.
“A generator,” Linderman said.
The garage door was locked. Linderman knocked out the glass with his Glock and let himself in. He flipped the switch beside the door, and the interior lit up. A battery operated generator sat in the room’s center, rumbling loudly. A thick black cable was attached to the generator, which ran across the floor to the wall and into the house.
Moody was right behind him, followed by half the SWAT team.
“What’s this?” the sheriff asked.
“Devine rigged the generator to the security cameras, which must be battery operated,” Linderman explained. “When the SWAT team stepped on the porch, the security cameras came on, which in turn flipped the generator on.”
“Why?”
“He’s using the power to do something inside the house.”
“Let’s find out what.”
The SWAT team entered the house through the garage. They moved cautiously, fearing the interior might be booby-trapped, and pointed their guns at every shadow.
Linderman brushed past them. There was no vehicle in the garage. Mr. Clean was not here. That was either in their favor, or it wasn’t.
Linderman canvassed the empty rooms until he came to a study. The room was dark, except for the computer. An older model from Gateway, it sat on the desk, it’s screen brightly lit up. The hard drive whirred noisily.
He sat down in front of the computer, and tried to shut it off. When the computer did not respond to his typed commands, he pulled it away from the wall, and attempted to disconnect it from its power source.
“What are you doing?” Moody asked.
“Mr. Clean is erasing his hard drive. That’s what the generator is for. He must have a lot of stuff stored in the memory he doesn’t want us to see.”
“Can you stop it?”
Linderman found the power cord and wrapped his hand around it. The hard drive had stopped whirring, and he knew it was too late. He ripped it out of the wall anyway.
“What do you think was on it?” Moody asked.
“Devine is ego-driven. He probably stores videos of his crimes on his computer, and watched them to get his kicks.”
“Do you think we can retrieve it?”
Crutch had said Mr. Clean was clever. Linderman hadn’t expected this.
“I doubt it,” Linderman said.
One of the SWAT team members appeared at the doorway. “We found a head in the garbage,” he said soberly.
They followed him into the kitchen. The head of an older black man wrapped in plastic bag sat on the counter on a platter. Two other members of the SWAT team stood around the table, staring in morbid fascination. Linderman wanted to warn them of the nightmares they were sure to have, but didn’t think it would do any good.
“Did you find anything else?” Linderman asked.
“This,” another member said, holding up a manila folder. “It was sitting on the microwave.”
Linderman went into the dining area to get away from the head, and spread the folder’s contents onto the table. The words The Program jumped up at him. He had found the instructions on how to make a killing machine.