CHAPTER ONE
The Section Chief's office was dominated by a big, walnut desk loaded with files piled helter-skelter. The walls were decorated with the usual seal of the FBI, the picture of the President, of the Director, and an eclectic selection of photographs of the Chief with various high ranking officials. The photos revealed his Chief, Fred Alfero, as a small, dark man with piercing black eyes. Tom knew from long experience that those eyes reflected an equally piercing intelligence and perception.
"Look, Tom," Fred had said, sympathetically, "we all know what you went though, but in this business you are only as valuable as your contribution to the last case you worked, and your last couple of cases . . . well, you just didn't seem to care. You're going to have to prove you can produce in the field all over again. It may not be fair, but that's the way it is." Fred reached several files down into his "In" box, pulling out a thick folder. "Here, you want a case? I've got just the one for you, a real way-out-there conspiracy with a local twist," dropping the file with a thump in the only clear space on the desk.
So here he sat in his dumpy little apartment sparsely furnished with the
cast-offs from a divorce settlement, steeling himself to read through what
was probably a going-nowhere investigation, and expected to breath life
and relevance into it in order to save his career. His mind wandered off
for a moment into a self-pitying assessment of whether he really even wanted
to save his career. Shaking himself out of that dead-end reverie, he took
a large gulp from his glass, firmly dismissed a desperate desire for a
cigarette, settled his reading glasses on his nose and went to the most
recent summary memo.
TO:
Research Division Section Chief
FROM:
Lyle Kokich
DATE:
11/13/96
RE: Potential Violent/Radical Organization
Recent statistical analysis has revealed that a significant anomaly in a bizarre violent crime has occurred over the past three years. During the 1993- 1995 period for which complete statistics are available, the crime, homicide by beheading, has increased from a virtually insignificant number (9.7 per year) to 43.2 per year during the 92 - 95 period (see Attachment 1 for a list of victims). While that number is still negligible in terms of overall homicides, this increase of over 400% has triggered additional research, and should provide an impetus for FBI involvement in the investigation of these cases.
[NOTE: The number of such cases may be significantly under-reported since a number of eyewitnesses (of varying credibility) reported seeing headless bodies, only to have the victims 'disappear' by the time law enforcement officials arrived.]
Research has focused on:
To summarize what has been discovered to date: There are marked similarities
between the known victims; the incidents seem to be dispersed geographically
in large metropolitan areas, consistent with general demographic spreads
(with one important exception discussed below); there are indications that
a similar increase in this type of crime has occurred internationally,
although records are more difficult to obtain and compare.
SIMILARITIES
OF VICTIMS:
PROFILE
OF THE HOMICIDES:
While its relevance seems questionable, for the sake of completeness, it is necessary to note that there was a consistent pattern of reports of unusual weather phenomena at the approximate time of the incident (isolated thunder/lightening storm).
CURRENT INVESTIGATION POSSIBILITIES:
There is an elevated statistical prevalence (in relation to the population) for these incidents occurring in the Northwestern States, notably the Seacouver area. Concentrating an investigation in that geographic region has a higher probability of obtaining results.
The similarity with the greatest potential for further exploration, and the reason for the investigation being transferred to the Subversive Groups Division, is the possibility that a single organization is responsible for all of these deaths, and that group is identified by the previously described wrist tattoo. The tattoo has been traced to a secretive "historical society" believed to be headquartered in France. The society's assets, membership and purpose are deeply hidden under multiple layers of corporate holding companies, and information regarding the organization is almost non-existent. However, phone records can be tracked to a few contacts in the United States, discussed below.
(NOTE: While information on homicides overseas is difficult to obtain, there appears to be a surge over the past two years in the deaths of individuals noted to have the wrist tattoo in Europe. Again, it is possible that this is under- reported since that type of information is frequently not captured in Interpol's computer database. In any event, the deaths were from a variety of causes, none of them by beheading.)
U.S. TELEPHONE CONTACTS:
French/U.S.
telephone contacts are concentrated in five cities, indicating a
regional breakdown in this "historical society" membership.
In concentrating on the Seacouver area, attention was given to the travel records between Seacouver and Paris, France (near the historical society headquarters), looking for anomalous travel patterns. Over two hundred Seacouver residents were identified as having traveled to Paris more than six times in the past three years. Almost all of those individuals had obvious business reasons for that travel. (Business reasons vary, including: academic research, computer sales, international sales of tourist trinkets produced in the far east, antiques sales and consulting, etc.) Of the approximately 30 people whose business affairs were not immediately attributable for the travel, 9 have been eliminated from suspicion after additional computer research, which revealed a particular personal interest or family situation giving rise to the trips. The remaining 21 individuals are listed on Attachment 3, with their last known addresses and telephone numbers.
SUMMARY:
This researcher strongly suggests that an investigation be launched immediately to track down the identity and purpose of the individuals wearing the tattoo, and to discover the link (if any) with the beheading victims. The excessively grotesque and possibly ritualistic nature of these deaths imply a group with violent and subversive purposes. The consistent link between those victims and persons seen with the tattoo, the secretive nature and evident financial and technical sophistication of this group, and the inability to trace the background of the majority of victims, are disturbing aspects of these cases, and the Bureau needs to identify whether the group constitutes a risk of future domestic violence.
K.L.
Tom leafed through the file, studying the drawing of the tattoo. It looked vaguely like an abstract drawing of a bird in flight, encircled in a double ring. It meant nothing to him, reminding him of no other graphic associated with a radical or terrorist group that might be filed away in his mental storehouse. The list of 21 individuals in the Seacouver area was a mixed bag of men and women. It was impossible to tell whether any one of them was more likely than not to be involved in the alleged conspiracy. The whole thing smacked of the bizarre and improbable. Beheadings by people wearing tattoos? There were certainly easier ways of committing murder. The description of the victims was odd, though. It seemed unlikely that so many would have murky histories and complex, hidden financial records. Recent incidents of various fringe groups in the west and northwest seemed to indicate the area was a hotbed of pretty wacky ideas floating around out there, though, so anything was possible.
Well, the best place to start was at the beginning. He reviewed the file once again, then sat down to write out a proposal for an investigation, which included visiting each of the 21 potential suspects to visually determine whether this tattoo business was a viable lead.
The following Monday, Tom appeared at Seacouver Police Headquarters, presented
his credentials and was granted access to the numerous beheading death
cases recorded in the city during the past four years. As he waded through
the thick files, viewing photograph after photograph of the gruesome crime
scenes, he found himself struck by their similarities. Not just that they
had all died in the same way, but the remoteness of the sites, and the
victims' singular lack of history or identity. The victims were apparently
in the prime of their lives and clothed expensively, but no one claimed
their bodies and there was little public interest in their demise. The
weather phenomenon' aspect also
cropped
up more prominently than he had expected, especially when the crime took
place indoors, where there was consistent evidence that a major electrical
surge had blasted the area, breaking windows and blowing circuit breakers.
After talking to the investigating officers, who had quickly run out of leads to follow on the cases, he concurred with them that these deaths were particularly disturbing, seeming so random, so anonymous, so violent, cold and calculating. The investigators reported, but discounted and ridiculed, reports of sightings of larger-than-life men and amazonian women doing battle with swords, straight out of some medieval ghost story, with the death climaxing in some great, occult explosion. But their eyes, as they related the supposedly silly stories, reflected discomfort bordering on fear.
He asked them about the tattoo. One of the detectives said it looked familiar, but he couldn't place where he had seen it. His recognition, as insubstantial as it was, heartened Tom as he stepped out into the cold, grey afternoon. Winter seemed reluctant to surrender its grip to the coming spring, but tiny buds could be seen struggling to sprout. It felt good to be out in the field again, Tom realized, as he reviewed his long list of individuals to track down. If he did find one of these people with the tattoo, this could be a very interesting investigation, indeed.
The next 10 days were spent on the most typical, boring, routine work aninvestigator does -- address to address, person to person, trying to track down each of the 21 individuals on his suspect list. Four were eliminated fairly quickly, widows over the age of 60 who appeared to have a lot of money and just traveled to France for the hell of it whenever they felt like it. Six of the names appeared to have moved out of the area since the list was compiled, and of the remaining 11, he was able to quickly confirm that four did not have the tattoo on their left wrist, as described.
That left him with seven suspects, all of which he had sighted at least once, but had been unable to tell whether the tattoo was present. He had mentally targeted two as real possibilities.
Brian Stratford - A 32 year-old researcher in archeology at the local college. He was young, fit, wore good quality clothes, and lived in an apartment in a better part of town than normally accessible to a graduate student. When Tom approached him, asking for direction on campus, he was shy to the point of being rude and secretive.
Carla Weingarten - A 43 year-old housewife. There was no evident explanation for her travel, and when he tried to strike up a conversation with her in a grocery store line, she also was rude and secretive.
His notes reflected that the other five were a mixed bag, but seemed less likely possibilities:
Frank Wilson: A 62 year old deeply religious man in relatively poor health. Possibly secretly traveling to France to go to Lourdes, hiding the fact from his family.
Matt Henry: A 21 year old male who may have been secretly traveling on what was supposed to have been his college money.
Joseph Dawson: A 48 year old male who ran a jazz club and was a double leg amputee from a wound in Vietnam. Possibly traveling to locate new jazz groups.
Emily Krichek: A 32 year old woman who worked as an accountant, but was trying to get a fashion design career going on the side (a probable reason for the travel).
Elizabeth Montez: A 58 year old woman who lived off her deceased husband's pension and probably traveled for entertainment/romance.
Eliminating these last seven took an inordinate amount of time. He spent most of it trying to get close to either of his two primary suspects without arousing their suspicion. At the end of the third day of fruitless effort, he found himself wandering into Joe's, the bar owned and operated by Joseph Dawson, one of his suspects. The bar was dark, warm, comforting, and a small jazz trio was playing on a tiny stage in the back corner. Tom enjoyed jazz and had an extensive CD and vinyl collection. It was one of his few personal indulgences. It soothed his troubled soul in a way that was difficult to describe. He sat on a stool, watching Dawson stump around behind the bar on his artificial legs, serving and conversing with the clientele. He was a big, burly man with a craggy, friendly face roughly furred over with a short salt-and-pepper beard and topped by an unruly mass of similarly colored hair. Tom tried to get a look at the inside of his left wrist, but Dawson was wearing a well-worn, long-sleeved flannel shirt. The absurd mental picture of Dawson wielding his cane in one hand and an axe in the other, cutting off somebody's head, brought an amused, secret smile to Tom's face. As the evening wore on, he struck up a conversation. Dawson seemed delighted to find another knowledgeable jazz aficionado, and the possibility that the man had a secret, violent identity diminished further in Tom's mind.
It was after midnight and the crowd had stabilized to a few appreciative groups. Talk between the tables had grown over the evening as the regulars recognized each other, exchanging opinions about the quality of the young, new jazz group performing that evening. A hush fell over the crowd, then a few loud "About time" comments rang out, as Joe stumped up onto the stage, taking his old electric guitar in hand, carefully checking the tuning of the strings, one at a time. Finally, when Joe nodded his readiness, the young woman wielding the big string bass, thumped out both an underlying tune and jazz rhythm as the black man at the piano ran liquidly through several opening riffs, and then Joe, bending protectively over the familiar old instrument, quietly slipped into the cracks of the rippling notes of the piano, letting the music speak of silent secrets, of love and longing and loss. His guitar sang for over and hour, until the callouses of his left hand were split and bleeding, and both audience and performer were emotionally spent.
Tom couldn't bring himself to leave the warm comfort of the bar, knowing his dingy, cold apartment was all that awaited him, so he stayed until the trio finally packed up and Dawson had made his last call for drink orders. As he stumbled home, a little drunk on Dawson's superior collection of single malt scotch, he decided Dawson had an enviable life, listening to and playing great music in a homey, comfortable place where interesting people congregated. Feeling sorry for himself once again, he fell into bed with his clothes on, waking the next morning with a terrible taste in his mouth and a throbbing headache.
Another ten days went by as, one by one, he eliminated people on the list from suspicion. Fred Alfero was getting impatient at the lack of progress, believing the investigation was based on speculation, statistics and the over-active imagination of a researcher with too much time on his hands. Finally, Tom had succeeded in surreptitiously (and in some instances not so surreptitiously) getting a look at the left wrists of everyone on the list except Joe Dawson, who not only seemed an unlikely suspect, but also always seemed to wear long-sleeved shirts. That in itself wasn't surprising given the cool Northwestern climate. Besides, it was a good excuse to spend more time at Joe's, even though he was beginning to believe this conspiracy theory was a waste of time. Tom liked Dawson, enjoyed going to the bar and would have become a regular even if he hadn't had the excuse of an investigation. Alfero, however, had finally insisted that he wind the whole thing up and make a final report so he could assign him back to a paperwork routine. So, Tom found himself back at Joe's in the middle of the afternoon, expecting it to be his last official investigative visit. There was only one other customer in the bar, an athletic looking young red-haired man in a motorcycle jacket. He and Joe were talking quietly and looked up in surprise at Tom's entrance.
"Hey, Tom," Joe called out in recognition. Henderson, a man of above average height, slightly stoop-shouldered, slightly overweight with thinning hair carefully combed across his forehead, stepped up to the bar, smiling shyly. His cover story to Joe was that he was an insurance claims adjuster. He had elaborated the tale with variations on his real life, and included sad details such as being on partial disability (back problems) and suffering through an acrimonious divorce. Joe had listened sympathetically, and the two of them had, Tom felt, struck up a genuine friendship. If he wanted to continue it after the investigation was over, he might have to eventually tell Dawson who he really was. He secretly worried whether the budding friendship would survive the admission of deception, but hoped it would just end up being good for a few laughs..
"What brings you here so early in the day?" Joe asked. "The insurance business finally get to you?"
Tom took a seat on a bar stool to the right of the young man. "There's only so much excitement one guy can stand," Tom joked. "That last claim for a new headlight from a fender-bender was just too much for me."
Joe poured him a drink and refreshed the young man's beer. "Tom," he said, "Want you to meet Richie Ryan, a friend of mine. He sometimes finds me musical talent, when he's not off racing his motorcycle."
"Hi," Ryan said, offering his hand. For a moment the sweet, youthful smile made him think Ryan was just a teenager. But when you looked into his eyes there was a hardness that only time and painful life experience could bring. Out of habit, he stole a look at the kid's left wrist. Nope, no tattoo there.
They chatted amiably about sports teams and local news for awhile as Tom plotted a way to wind up this evidently pointless investigation. Finally, the moment came as Joe was wiping the bar around Ryan's beer. Tom stood as though to leave, brushing his arm up against Ryan's glass, spilling its contents all over Dawson's left sleeve.
"Jeez! I'm sorry, Joe!" Tom exclaimed as he and Richie grabbed cocktail napkins to sop up the liquid. "Here, let me buy you another drink, Richie."
Tom watched closely as Joe soaked up the beer dripping from his arm with a bar towel. For a minute, he was afraid Dawson wasn't going to do the logical thing, which was to roll up the dampened sleeve. But finally Dawson rolled his shirt sleeves carefully to his elbow, and turned to pull Richie another draft of beer. The inside of his wrist was scarred, as though from a recent burn, but Tom was secretly relieved to note there was no tattoo. Then Dawson placed the mug, held in his right hand, in front of Ryan.
"You okay?" Dawson's voice intruded on Tom's thoughts as they whirled in shock and recognition. There it was, the tattoo on the inside of Dawson's right wrist. Tom sat heavily on his stool.
"Hey, Tom? Everything okay?" Joe repeated, as Tom suddenly realized Joe was looking at him oddly.
"Uh, yeah. Of course," Tom said, trying to regain his mental equilibrium. "I guess I, uh, stood up too fast," he improvised.
Tom made an awkward excuse and left, walking aimlessly through the cool,
damp Spring evening, eventually finding a place to eat, then stopping in
a couple of different bars to sit in solitude and think. The evening passed
in a haze as his thoughts tumbled, unsuccessfully trying to put the pieces
together. That night as he mechanically went through his bedtime routine,
he paused to look deep into his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The
fluorescent light shown harshly on his shining, semi-bald pate, emphasizing
his sallow skin and tired eyes. He inspected himself for a long moment,
not liking what he saw, not liking what he did, not liking where the facts
of this case were leading, but knowing that he had to find out.
CHAPTER
TWO
When Tom reported his find to Alfero the next morning, his supervisor's interest was only marginally enhanced. "So the guy has a tattoo. As far as I can tell, we have no evidence linking him with anyone else who has the tattoo, or the tattoo itself to any of the local deaths, right?" Alfero demanded, leafing impatiently through Henderson's report.
"That's true, Fred, and in all honesty, Joe Dawson hardly seems like somebody who could do the kinds of things that were done to those victims," Tom agreed, leaning forward earnestly. "But . . . there is something odd here, and people are dying. As for linking him with others, for that we need additional investigators to establish the man's patterns, tap his phone, the usual." His insatiable curiosity was what had gotten him into this business in the first place, and he couldn't let go now until he had some answers. He didn't want to believe Dawson could have anything to do with those horrible deaths. The only way to find out was to uncover the whole story.
Alfero sighed in frustration. There were frauds being perpetrated, murderers on the loose, serial killers stalking their victims, and this guy wanted to track down a tattoo, for God's sake. But he wanted Henderson to succeed, to get his enthusiasm back, to be the agent he had once been, and this case had certainly managed to tweak his interest. "Okay, Tom. I'll give you one of the trainees for one month, and you can draw up the paperwork to try to get a tap on his phones. After that . . . well we'll see. Now get out of here before I change my mind."
Shayla Winters knew she looked exactly like what she was, a fresh-facedgraduate of the 1996 class of the FBI Academy. Tall, a little gawky, lanky dark hair cut just below the ears, pretty in a plain sort of way, she also had some special talents that had set her apart from her Academy peers. She had unerring instincts about when people were hiding something or lying. She was physically strong, fast and highly trained in various forms of hand-to-hand combat and was a first-rate markswoman. Unfortunately, she was also socially awkward, shy and uncertain in her dealings with her new co-workers, and desperate to prove herself. She was the first in her family to graduate from college, and becoming an FBI agent was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. She sat uncomfortably in Tom Henderson's small overheated office wearing the typical unflattering trainee uniform, a boxy grey suit and white blouse. Confronted by a seasoned FBI agent, she was restlessly unable to decide what to do with her arms, her legs, her hands, finally settling on tucking her legs underneath the chair and grasping her hands tightly together in her lap as nervous sweat gathered in her palms. Henderson was behind his paper-strewn government issue metal desk, studying her file. The afternoon sun barely filtered through a small, dirty window and battered, half-shut blinds. Henderson's morose, lined face looked up appraisingly over his reading glasses.
"Ever do waitress work?" he demanded gruffly.
"Excuse me?" Shayla asked, not understanding the question.
"Have you ever worked as a waitress?" he repeated impatiently. "I need to get someone inside a bar, to observe its owner."
"Uh, well, yeah. I worked as a waitress to get through college," Shayla responded uneasily. "I, uh, kind of hoped I wouldn't have to do that anymore." Shayla smiled, thinking she had made a joke, but Henderson was unmoved.
"Here," Henderson tossed a thick, dog-eared file across the desk to her. "Read this tonight. I want you to get a waitress job at Joe's Bar as soon as possible. You'll find the address with the rest of the information on Joe Dawson, the owner. Call me tomorrow and let me know of your progress. If you see me there, obviously, we've never met. I want to know the patterns of Dawson's life, who he talks to, who calls him, especially anyone you see wearing a tattoo like the drawing you'll find in the file."
"I'm going . . . undercover?" Shayla asked, embarrassed at the squeaky sound of her voice.
"Is that a problem?" Henderson asked.
"Well, no. Not at all. It's just that . . . well, I'm a trainee and I didn't expect . . . it isn't usual, is it?" Shayla stumbled.
"No it's not, but you're all I've got, Winters, so we'll just have to make do, won't we?" Henderson's smile conveyed no humor whatsoever.
Two days later, Shayla had landed the job working four evenings a week at the bar. After only a couple of days, she knew she liked Dawson and couldn't imagine him involved in anything as weird as the awful killings described in the file. Keeping an eye on him while waiting tables was harder than she expected. A couple of times Joe conferred with someone in the dark, back corner of the bar. Whoever it was slipped out without Shayla getting a look at them. It could have been perfectly innocent, for all she knew, and Joe didn't give off any 'vibes' of deceit at all. Then after only a couple of days she got lucky. The evening crowd had not yet begun to arrive and she and Joe were polishing glasses behind the bar when a man walked in through the front entrance. Joe excused himself and went to the far end of the bar nearest the door. The stranger, a balding man in his mid-forties dressed like a college professor, handed an envelope to Dawson and they spoke for a few minutes in low tones. Straining to hear, Shayla could make out only a few words . . . Paris . . . the barge . . . Amanda. But as the envelope changed hands, Shayla thought she saw the shadow of a mark on the wrist of the stranger's hand. Dawson immediately put the envelope in his briefcase which he kept behind the bar, spinning the small combination lock after he closed it.
Her second break came the very next day, when a middle-aged woman came in during the evening rush hour and sat at the bar. This time it was easy. She and Joe spoke for a few minutes in inaudible whispers, then the woman handed him a computer disk, which he slipped into his shirt pocket. They continued to talk and did not seem to mind when Shayla hung around nearby. Their conversation was innocuous, concluding in the confirmation of a date for the 'usual' poker game on Monday night when the bar was normally closed. The woman wore numerous bracelets on her left wrist, but if you were looking for it, the tattoo was not difficult to spot.
Later, Shayla asked Joe about the poker game and he agreeably confirmed that a regular group met to play "just for fun," as he shared a broad wink with his new waitress. When she reported the scheduled game to Henderson, he was intrigued by the possibility of getting Dawson and at least one other of what he had started calling the "tattoo group" in a predictable time and place.
There was only one obvious table underneath sufficient light to hold a game of poker, and Shayla was instructed to plant a microphone underneath it the day of the planned game. The tiny electronic device could be concealed in her palm and it was no problem to place the device as she cleaned up at the end of her shift. It made her feel . . . dirty, somehow. Joe was a good guy. These seemed like nice, harmless, ordinary people, not like the hardened criminals she had expected to be pursuing. She didn't like Henderson, didn't like what she was doing and even wondered if what they were doing was really legal. Henderson had not invited her to sit in the sound truck across the street from the bar that night, but the next morning when she reported to work, she was fully expecting to hear that nothing had been heard but bad jokes and local gossip.
She found Henderson in one of the numerous rooms at the Regional Headquarters set up with various technical equipment to play back and manipulate audio and video tapes. Despite the ban in the building against smoking, the air was stale with tobacco smell, and a Styrofoam cup overflowing with cigarette butts was mute evidence that Henderson had been there all night, and had consistently and steadily broken the rule.
"Anything interesting?" she asked, poking her head in the door.
Henderson waived her in without comment as he scribbled notes on a legal pad. "Well, Agent Winters," he said with a sigh, rubbing his face tiredly, "This business is getting, as Lewis Carroll would say, "curiouser and curiouser." When Shayla just cocked her head at him with an unspoken question, he turned, rewound the tape on the big reel-to-reel recorder behind him to the beginning and pushed the "play" button.
The ambient noise of glasses clinking and chairs scraping accompanied various voices speaking simultaneously, and for several minutes it was hard to follow the multiple conversations. Finally, the game seemed to have started, with the rustle of shuffled cards, the plastic clinking of poker chips and a few jokes about various players' skills at the game. As bets started being made, conversation began to bubble among the group, which sounded like four men, including Dawson, and one woman.
DAWSON: So, Jerry, how long you think Daley's going to be in town?
MALE #1: I really don't know. He's been restless recently. Maybe its the Gathering, but . . . I think its something else. I'll bet a dollar.
FEMALE: Big spender! Here, I can meet that. If he's going back to old habits, I'd just as soon he get out of town as soon as possible. That guy is trouble!
MALE #1: Come on, Marie, it's been decades since he's gone off the deep end. I think Sean Burns really helped him. (Pause) But since Burns was killed, he has gotten pretty ragged around the edges.
MALE #2: I'm in. Maybe he's after the Highlander.
MALE #1: It’s possible. Everybody else seems to be. I wouldn’t blame him for retreating permanently to that island of his north of town. I’ve heard its real nice.
DAWSON: He's not even in town. I'll raise to five.
MALE #1: Yeah, well, Daley's never been much into headhunting. I'm not sure he even owns a sword.
[Shayla shared a shocked look with Henderson, who held up his hand to stop her comment so they could listen.]
WOMAN: Come on, Mike, the guy kills women for jollies! If he's back on that kick, I don't want him around here, that's for sure.
MALE #3: Marie, we don't interfere. I'm gonna fold.
WOMAN: It's times like this when I think that is a stupid rule. Joe, at least you can talk to your guy. You could sic him onto Daley. That would take care of the bastard once and for all!
DAWSON: (angry) It doesn't work like that at you know it! He does what he does with his own kind and my friendship with him has very little to do with that.
WOMAN: Yeah, right, Joe. Everybody knows he saved your ass in France last year.
DAWSON: Don't judge what you don't know about, Marie. You have no idea what it cost him!
MALE #3: Look what it cost us, Dawson! I heard Galanti killed a lot of us until Shapiro stopped him.
DAWSON: Shapiro didn't stop anything, Phil. I know! I was there. It ranks as one of the top three most awful moments of my life! Mac was Galanti's friend, and he was the one who found out Galanti believed we were all like Horton, that we had murdered his wife and were out to kill them all. He felt he was protecting himself, protecting his race. [angry] Did you know that Shapiro killed Galanti right in front of Mac? Can you imagine what that must have been like? To be forced to take a friend's Quickening? And Shapiro. What an arrogant asshole! He was convinced that we could protect ourselves against them, that he could kill them all, if necessary, just like Horton. All he wanted was vengeance. Somehow, he thought we could win a war with them. [short laugh] Mac ripped through our security like tissue paper. I've watched that man for almost 20 years and he is, under normal circumstances, a pretty scary guy. But that night . . .
MALE #3: What'd he do?
DAWSON: [barely audible] Mac had Jack by the throat. Jack was struggling like a child caught in a giant's hand, screaming at me to shoot Mac, but I knew by the time I got off enough shots to bring him down, I'd be on the floor, if not dead. He'd have done it, too, no matter what our friendship meant. I begged him to end it. Begged him. [pause] Somehow . . . I still don't know how . . . he stopped himself. He asked Jack if he wanted peace or he wanted war. Jack was so scared . . . I don't think he'd ever realized just how overpowering they can be. Jack finally said he wanted peace and Mac walked away. [pause] Our friendship, such as it is, has been shaky ever since. [chuckle] Jack has never been the same. All you have to do is mentioned the Highlander and Shapiro heads for the bathroom.
[long silence]
MALE #2: I need another drink.
Henderson reached up and pushed the stop' button. For a minute Shayla's mind was blank as she pondered the implications of the conversation, and she was only aware of the sound of the building air conditioner whirring ineffectively in the background and the muted traffic noise from outside. Henderson rose stiffly, pacing the room as he lit another cigarette. Shayla looked at what Henderson had written on the pad:
Daley (Daily/Dalie) - New in town. Not into Headhunting??? Kills women for jollies. Decades since he's gone off the deep end.
Gathering?
Sean Burns (Byrnes/Birns) - now dead. Psychiatrist treating Daley?
Highlander (Mac?) - Not in town. Everybody seems to be after him. Dawson's been watching him for almost 20 years. Scary. Powerful. Made peace w/tattooed group?
Rule not to interfere. (Interfere w/what?)
Something big happened in France last year. Reason for the deaths of the tattooed group in Europe?
Shapiro (Jack?) - arrogant. Killed Galanti in front of Mac.
Horton - killer of Galanti's "race"?
Galanti - killed members of tattooed group (protecting his race?) What race? Is this a racial hate group?
Quickening? "Take his quickening"
"The rest is less interesting. You can listen to it later, but they do mention that Daley is staying at a downtown hotel." Henderson turned to her and, for the first time since she had met him, his eyes were alive with excitement and interest. "I want you to canvass the local hotels. Find any male registered under the name of Daley. Try various spellings and sound-alikes. I'm going to see what Interpol's got on Jack Shapiro, Galanti, Horton and Sean Burns."
"You might try the various psychiatric and psychological societies on Burns," Shayla suggested. Henderson nodded in approval, making additional notes on his pad. She left him scribbling away as cigarette ash occasionally floated down to the page. She hadn't seen him smoke before, and suspected that the long night and the bizarre case had prompted a return to an old, nasty habit.
Michael Daley's long, thin legs carried him quickly through the lobby of
the Seacouver Ritz
Carlton and into the elevator. Other guests piled into the small space
after him, forcing him towards the back. A woman in a fluffy white fox
coat backed into him, excusing herself as she did so. He could feel the
tickle of the fur on the back of his hands, could smell the heavy scent
of her perfume. Even though he could only see the back of her head, with
its shiny globe of carefully combed dark hair, he wanted her. He clenched
his hands against his desire, digging his nails into his palms. Lately
the compulsion was getting stronger. He had fought it so long, and was
getting so tired. The elevator door
opened
and the woman edged her way out. He never even saw her face, but he had
to force himself not to follow, knowing the horrifying consequences if
he did. The next floor was his, and he almost ran down the hall. His shaking
fingers fumbled with the plastic keycard. He finally managed to let himself
in, where he sat on the edge of the bed in tense solitude. Gradually darkness
descended, dimming everything in the room to grey shadow. Finally, he reached
out and dialed the phone. It was the fourth time in three days he called
the number, which he knew by heart. It was the recording again. He left
another message, knowing each successive time he sounded more desperate.
He needed to talk to
MacLeod,
to see him. He was the only one who knew, who understood. The only one
besides Sean Burns who had tried to help him. And now Sean was gone. The
grey light faded into darkness as he sat staring into distant space, clenching
his hands convulsively, again and again.
San
Francisco, Spring 1854
As he made his way through a portion of Chinatown, he nodded to a couple
of shopkeepers who knew him as a knowledgeable buyer and seller of their
wares. Over the past year he had become well acquainted with these neighborhoods.
To get back to his rooming house he was required to pass through some of
the more colorful parts of the city. He turned the corner and started up
a long hill, encountering several overdressed women. They appeared to have
been lying in wait for him, surrounding him, their strong perfume mingling
with the less pleasant smells of the street.
"Hey, pretty boy, I'd love to show you a good time," said one. The others
echoed similar sentiments as Duncan edged away, disentangling himself from
their clutches. Over the months, the girls had made a game of pursuing
the handsome gambler. They kept coming after him as he backed off, laughing
at their jokes and taunts, and excusing himself. Finally he turned and
stepped quickly around the corner in escape, and a small body crashed into
his leg, almost knocking him down. A dirty bundle of rags appeared to have
bowled into him, and was now rolling about in the dust of the street. MacLeod
caught the bundle and hauled it up, revealing a small face streaked with
grime. The bundle fought fiercely, protesting in language usually familiar
only to sailors and
prostitutes.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir," a loud voice called from behind him. He turned and reflexively backed away as a woman, dressed in what appeared to be a circus tent, with a bosom that stretched out in front of her like a ship in full sail, descended upon him and his wiggling rags. She snatched the bundle out of his hand. The small figure froze as the woman leaned down to put her face close. "I told you to come right back once you got the gentleman's cigars, you little ingrate. He got tired of waiting and left!" She backhanded the child with a loud "smack," but the child just stood, big eyes wet with unshed tears.
"Hey!" MacLeod grabbed her arm before she could hit the child again. "He's just a boy."
"Oh, don't you worry about little Mikey, sir. He's just a foundling. I've
taken him in, given him a roof over his head in return for running errands
and such. I've too soft a heart for sure." She grabbed the boy's arm roughly
and pulled him along behind her. MacLeod could hear her upbraiding the
boy shrilly as they turned the corner and went out of sight. He stood thoughtfully
for a moment, then followed them around the corner, noting their entrance
into the Green Lady Gentlemen's Club. He had known as soon as the child
had slammed into him that someday the boy would die, then be reborn as
an immortal, like
himself.
A few days later, he was walking the same route, but this time as he passed by the Green Lady, he slipped into the alleyway to the back entrance. The boy, Mikey, was sitting on the back stoop, slowly peeling one of a very large pile of potatoes in a bucket by his knee. He looked to be about eight years old, with dirty blond hair. His face and clothes weren't much cleaner than when he had previously seen him, and from the smell it had been a long time between baths. "Hello, Mikey," Duncan said quietly. The boy looked up at him with a closed, blank expression.
"Entrance is out front," he said. "Not allowed to come in this way."
"I wanted to talk to you, Mikey," Duncan said, sitting next to the boy on the step.
"If you want boys, you'll have to go to the Dragon House over on Cable Street," Mikey said, shrinking away from the stranger.
MacLeod smiled sadly. "No, Mikey, that's not what I want. I wanted to ask you where you came from. You . . . you look like someone I knew once, is all."
"I didn't come from nowhere. Go away. You'll get me in trouble," the boy protested.
"Mikey," Duncan continued patiently, "my name is Duncan. Duncan MacLeod." He held out his hand for the boy to shake. Faced with an authoritative figure, the boy felt compelled to return the gesture.
He looked up into the stranger's face for the first time and saw dark, kind eyes. The man was well dressed, very handsome and athletic looking, the kind of man Mikey had always wanted to be. He put his small, dirty hand into the man's large one, and formally shook it. It made him feel very grown up.
"What is your name?" MacLeod asked.
"Mikey. Michael Daley," the boy answered. A few probing questions from MacLeod and the boy's story tumbled out of him, as though he had desperately wanted to tell it, but nobody had ever wanted to listen before. He had lived in orphanages for as long as he could remember and had no idea of who his parents were. The last place had been terrible, with little food and with the children expected to sew soles onto shoes 16 hours a day. He ran away and ended up begging in the streets until Mrs. Sackett had agreed to provide him with food and a place to sleep on her porch, provided he earn his keep.
"Mikey," said MacLeod, speaking softly, intently. "I was a foundling, too, and I would like to help you, but I need some time to make some arrangements. I can usually be found over at the Double Eagle Saloon if you need me." He cupped the boy's chin in his hand so they were face to face. "I'll be back." Then he was gone.
The next few days, Duncan MacLeod and his promise to return was all Mikey could think about. He dreamed about it at night, fantasizing living with MacLeod, dressing like him, being like him. During the days, though, things didn't change. Mrs. Sackett was always after him with an endless series of chores. When he wasn't fast enough, she hit him. When he was fast, she hit him anyway for being impertinent He had grown to hate her, to hate her fleshy body, to hate her breath, her strong, sweet perfume. She frightened him and he had had nightmares about being smothered by her huge bosom. Between his daydreams about MacLeod and his nightmares about Mrs. Sackett, his work suffered terribly, leading to more beatings than usual, until he crawled to his only refuge, a dark place underneath the back porch, weeping in frustration and loneliness.
It was a couple of weeks later and he had almost given up on ever hearing from MacLeod again. The raising of his hopes, only to be disappointed, had made him even more miserable than before. He was hauling water upstairs for Mrs. Sackett's bath, his small body straining to carry the large buckets of steaming water, when he heard MacLeod's voice in the parlor. He deposited the buckets in the small room off of Mrs. Sackett's large bedroom and office as quickly as possible, and tiptoed down to stand by the door, his body tense in hopeful anticipation.
"I didn't realize you were interested in little boys, Mr. MacLeod," he heard Mrs. Sackett say, all smooth and oily.
"What I am interested in is seeing that the boy has a proper home," MacLeod stated, his slightly accented voice hard and impatient. "I have made arrangements for a Catholic orphanage, run by someone I know and trust, to take him in. Mikey shouldn't be here, in a place like this," MacLeod insisted.
Mikey froze. Another orphanage. He had only known hunger, deprivation, pain, cold and loneliness in orphanages.
"The boy is important to me," Sackett insisted. "I am very fond of him, and he does a lot of work around here."
"How much do you want?" MacLeod asked.
Mikey didn't want to hear the rest of the conversation. He stepped into the room, his body trembling with anger at MacLeod's betrayal. "I won't go! I won't go back to an orphanage! You go to hell, Duncan MacLeod!" Mikey dashed out of the room before anyone had the chance to respond, crawling to his secret place underneath the porch to hide. MacLeod ran out after him, looking desperately around the alley.
"Mikey, it's not what you think!," he said, as though he were certain Mikey could hear him. "It's a nice place in the country. It's not like the other places you've known." He stood for several minutes, waiting. "Mikey, I know you can hear me, and I know it must be hard for you to trust anyone. But you can trust me. Please!" He stood again for several minutes, waiting. "Alright, Mikey. But you know where to find me if you change your mind." Then MacLeod left. Mikey stayed underneath the porch for hours, sobbing until he could cry no more, then fell asleep with his head on his arms.
When he woke, night had fallen. Mrs. Sackett would be furious, he knew. He trembled with fear and cold as he reluctantly climbed the steps into the house. Mrs. Sackett was in the kitchen yelling at the cook as he entered. She paused, turning to face him ominously as he poked his face around the door. Her look was cold and angry. Mickey cringed as she pulled back her arm to hit him, when one of the girls who worked upstairs put her head in the door from the parlor.
"Mr. Wilson wants to be with Alice instead of MaryAnn but Alice already has a customer," she whined. "He's gettin' real nasty."
"Alright, I'm coming," Mrs. Sackett said. Then she leaned down, her enormous breasts, overwhelmingly exposed in her evening dress, almost touched Mikey's face. "I'll deal with you later. Go up to my room and wait." She held his eyes until he slowly nodded, then turned and sailed out of the room.
Seacouver, 1996
Shayla Winters had spent the entire morning checking out the downtown hotels. She finally located a M. Daley registered at the Ritz Carlton, and began tracking down theaddress Daley had filled in on the hotel registry. It belonged to a boutique software firm operating out of Phoenix, Arizona called Software Solutions, specializing in custom designed accounting programs. Daley was listed as its president. She tried looking him up in various indices and directories, but found little information. She called the Bureau's regional office in Phoenix and asked them for anything they had, but they said it would be a week or more before they could report back.
In the meantime, Henderson had been checking with Interpol on Galanti,
Horton and Jack
Shapiro, only to discover that they had no information on anyone with a
last name of Galanti,
and that he would need additional identifying information to get anymeaningful
data about Horton and Shapiro. Sean Burns was, however, another matter
entirely. The man had an impressive
record of degrees, honors and publications inpsychiatry going back 40 years
and was based, interestingly enough, in France. He had,
however, disappeared the previous
year and was listed as a missing person even thoughhis lawyers had assured
the police that Burns had left specific instructions in anticipation
of
a long hiatus away from the public eye. Further research revealed that
Sean Burns was an orphan,
unmarried, and had left a complex financial network that implied a significant
net worth. Henderson sifted through
the fax pages from Interpol again. Burns had a profile
similar to those of the other beheading victims, and now was missing and
Dawsonand his friends had said Burns had been killed. The puzzle was getting
more and more complex.
Duncan MacLeod retrieved his bag from the airport luggage carousel, relieved
to once again have
his precious katana in his possession. Getting through customs with
it was always a
trial, even though he carried extensive documentation about his status
as a dealer in antique
weapons. His ears buzzed with fatigue and jet lag after his 16 hours onvarious
planes from Paris. The last week or two had been frantic, with the conclusion
of a complex transaction
involving four different dealers, two private collectors and amuseum all
vying for a set of Japanese painted screens that the Japanese royal family
hadfinally decided to sell. To have all four seasons complete and in immaculate
condition
made
the 18th Century silk panels a priceless treasure, but the royal family
did not want the publicity
of an auction, so they used a dealer of known absolute discretion, Duncan
MacLeod. The royal family had done
business with the MacLeod family for two centuriesunder the belief that
the business was handed down from generation to generation. Based
on that history, MacLeod was trusted
implicitly. It was both a great honor and a great headache,
and Duncan's intimate knowledge of the language, the people and the protocolwas
critical to the success of the sale.
He took a cab to the garage where he stored his classic black Thunderbirdconvertible.
To his great relief, after a few slow grinds of a low battery, the motor
turned over. The day was
cool, but he needed fresh air after being cooped up in an airplane for
over a half day, so he brought the
top town. It was another half an hour before he pulled
in behind the four story building
he owned. He had stopped to buy a few groceries, and had
his hands full as he struggled to make it to the door to the dojo
on the first floor. His boots
echoed in the empty gym as he made his way across the floor to the freight
elevator and rode
it up to his loft apartment. Muslin covers draping the furniture made the
space
look
ghostly, and the air was stale and cold. Mac dropped his bag, took off
his leather coat and put
the groceries away, relieved to discover that Richie Ryan, his protege‚
who had been known to
use the place from time to time, hadn't left anything in the refrigerator
to deteriorate to lab experiment
stage during his four month absence.
The blinking light on his answering machine caught his attention with a guilty start. He hadn't called into his Seacouver machine in almost a week. He normally tried to check it every few days, but events and travel requirements had gotten in the wayrecently. Mac pressed the rewind button and waited with growing concern as the 17 messages that had been left were obviously lengthy. The first several were duplicates of calls he had gotten in France, the next four were various dealers and traders wantinginformation, but the last four messages were different.
"MacLeod, its Mike. I . . . I really need to talk to you. Really. Call me. You have my number in Phoenix."
The next was from the same voice. "Mac, its Mike. Look, man, I need your help. Something's come up. You are the only one who knows how to help me, who understandswhat's going on. I've got to see you. I'm coming to Seacouver, and my plane leaves in a couple of hours. Call me before seven tonight if you can."
Again. "Duncan, please call. I'm at the Ritz Carlton here in town, room 2435. Please."
Finally. "Duncan, its Mike. I . . . God, I need your help. I'll wait here for you to call."
MacLeod called, then grabbed his coat, tucking his katana into the special pocket in the lining, and quickly headed out the door.