Blood of Cain

93

I hadn’t shaved since before leaving for Ireland. And I was better off for it. Prior to flying out of Shannon, I’d bought a pair of dark framed reading glasses, and an Irish tweed hat. I wore them both as I walked through Dulles International Airport.

CNN was on the airport TV monitors, the talking heads mentioning my name and how the Logan camp could most effectively do damage control. I heard one commentator say that the river confession video had had more than 250 million views and had achieved that number faster than any video in the history of the Internet. I looked straight ahead and walked fast, quickly finding the Hertz counter. Within twenty minutes, I was driving west on Highway 50 toward Middleburg, Virginia and into the threshold of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Walking into the lobby of the Red Fox Inn was like walking across a page of American history. Constructed from fieldstone and wood, the inn has more of a tavern feel, the kind of place Jefferson might have enjoyed a drink after knocking off the first draft of the Declaration of Independence. I stepped up to the front desk. A twenty-something blonde smiled wide, her blue eyes twinkling. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to pick up a package, a delivery for my boss, David Collins. Wherever we travel, it seems like our video and PowerPoint presentation travels with us. It’s such a video centric world today.”

“You’ve got that right. I blame it on cell phone cameras. All of them can shoot video, some in high definition. It takes a few clicks and the video can be uploaded to YouTube.”

“That’s good and bad.” I smiled

She pushed a strand of blond hair behind one ear. “I agree. Let me see if I can find your package.” She left through a side door and reappeared a few seconds later with the long box in her arms. “The note says Mr. O’Brien is picking it up for Mr. Collins.”

“Dave’s the boss. I take it and tote it.”

“Well, here you go.” She lifted the package to the counter. “It’s a little heavy.”

“Thank you.” I took the box and started to walk away.

She said, “You look familiar. Have you stayed with us before?”

“No.” I could see her eyes scrutinizing my face, trying to place me. I nodded, smiled, and left. I placed the box in the trunk of the rental car and then inserted the battery back into my main cell phone as I drove off.

There were three messages. I played the first one, from Detective Dan Grant. “Sean, where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. But I guess every news outfit in the nation has been trying to do the same thing. Call me. I have some news about the perp we’re holding in connection with the carny murders.”

I played the second message, and was caught off guard when I heard Courtney’s voice. “You said if I ever needed you … if I … never mind. I shouldn’t have called.” I felt a lump in my throat, a tightness in my chest listening to her frightened voice. The third message was from the same number, but this time Courtney didn’t leave an actual message. She inadvertently recorded a heinous scene. It was audio captured by her phone as she ran. It could hear her breathing quickly. Panting. Running. I heard her scream, followed by, “Oh God.’’

And then I heard him.

It was the same, unmistakable voice I’d heard when he called me. The voice of my older brother. Adrenaline pumped into my bloodstream when I heard him say, “God. Do you believe you deserve divine help? My little niece, Courtney. I’ve been expecting you.”

Three seconds later, her phone sounded like white noise was pouring from the speaker.

I called Detective Dan Grant. He said, “Sean, the guy we’re holding in connection with the carny murders … we have enough to go on. We spoke to his veteran’s hospital shrink, some family members, even a couple of Army buddies he fought with in Afghanistan. This guy’s PTS is off the charts. He said after banging the crap out of his head in one of our holding cells, he began remembering bits and pieces of things — things like killing Lonnie Ebert and two other carnies. But he said he was told to do it by someone else. Get this, Sean — he said he was under a spell from the devil.”

“Are you immediately dropping charges against Courtney Burke?”

“Yes, but we haven’t been able to find her to tell her that.”

“Then tell the world. Hold a damn news conference before she’s killed.”

“We’re doing that in the next hour. We just went to the DA with the stuff we have on the perp. He’s a sad case. Guy’s served three tours of duty — the first two in Iraq, and then two years in Afghanistan. His veteran’s hospital-appointed psychiatrist says the perp believes he hears voices — voices of his dead buddies from the war. Anyway, he wound up working the carny circuit. He said in Richmond, he’d met some magician, a guy he called the Prophet who told him he could cure his PTS through hypnosis back on the farm. The guy is telling us he vaguely remembers the Prophet putting him under, as in under a damn spell. Said the Prophet was a direct descendent from an ancient Irish druid god. Listen to this, the perp said this Prophet guy has some kind of commune up in the mountains where he predicts the future by human sacrifice, apparently like the druids did. He said the Prophet orders his followers to stick an ice pick into the victim. By watching the way the vic’s limbs convulse as he or she falls, along with the pattern of gushing blood, the Prophet predicts the future.”

“Dan, I’m giving you a cell phone number. Last call was made at 3:47. I need to know where it originated. This is a life or death emergency.”

“Give it to me.”

I gave him the number of the phone that Courtney was using, and then I called Dave Collins and said, “You told me a few weeks ago that you have access to software that can track GPS mobile phone signals to with a few feet.”

“I do, and I tried it with the number you gave me for Courtney Burke. She never came on the GPS radar, apparently she removed the battery and sim card.”

“She’s put them back in because she just called me.”

“She did?”

“Could have been the case of a butt-dialed call because I could hear her running. She was panting, breathing hard, like someone was chasing her. And then I heard the voice of my brother, Dillon.”

“What’d he say?”

“It was a cold welcome that was really a threat, like the cat had caught the mouse and was smacking his perverted lips. Keep checking her phone. Maybe you’ll see something.”

“I saw Kim today. She brought Max by, left her with us while she works a shift. Nick and I had lunch with Miss Max. Sean, I don’t know what, if anything, is going on between you and Kim. But I do know this much, she’s very worried about you. More worried than I’ve ever seen her.”

“Tell her I’m fine. Tell her I’m trying to tie up some loose ends and will be home soon.”

“You need to tell her, Sean.”

“I will … I have to take this call.” I disconnected and spoke with Dan Grant.

He said, “That call pinged off a tower on a mountain near Linden, Virginia.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

“It’s Courtney’s number, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Be careful, Sean. If it’s the same mountain, same place where our perp had, for all practical purposes … an oral lobotomy, you might run into the guy he said is the Prophet.”

“My goal is to bring Courtney to you, get the DNA test, and end the nightmare for her.” I disconnected and started driving, speeding toward Linden, Virginia.