Read Online Dark Prophecy by Anthony E. Zuiker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony E. Zuiker
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She left the photo of her sister, Julie, on the coffee table.
chapter 15
Quantico, Virginia
The phone woke Riggins from a hard dead sleep. He’d been enjoying the blissful feeling of not remembering who he was or what he did for a living until he fumbled for his cell, pressed it to his ear, then heard the voice of Constance Brielle—his second-in-command. And then it all came rushing back.
“Tom—it’s about Jeb.”
Constance speed-talked him through what had happened, and told him Falls Church PD had sealed off the scene for them. Before Riggins even had a chance to react or respond, Constance said she’d be by within a few minutes. Riggins let the receiver fall from his fingers, feeling a burn of rage and hurt and confusion. It quickly consumed the pleasant narcotic effects of sleep.
Not another one. Not so soon. This was insane. This whole job was insane. And Riggins considered himself insane for staying in it so long. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was the kiss of death. Work with me—die or go crazy soon after. Jeb Paulson had been with Special Circs what—a month or two?
What really troubled Riggins was Wycoff. As usual, he’d played his cards so close to his vest they were practically tucked up inside his cold, black heart. What did he know? Why had Wycoff insisted that Riggins go down to Chapel Hill personally? Did that son of a bitch know that whoever went down there would become this psycho’s new target?
Riggins stood up. He was wearing boxers and a ribbed T-shirt. He needed to find his shoes. If a man’s going stomping around a crime scene in the middle of the night, he needs his shoes. But the thought of Wycoff enraged him.
Get a hold of yourself Tom , he thought. You’re almost smashing through the guard rails and headed into Paranoiaville. Population: One (Everyone Else Is Out to Get You). Wycoff’s a prick, but he’s not indirect. If he wanted Riggins dead, he’d send his goon squad after him. They’d take him somewhere quiet, then slam some poison into his veins and that would be it. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, considering.
Still—Wycoff wasn’t telling him everything. And Riggins couldn’t escape the fact that he’d essentially sent the new kid down south to die.
All too soon, Constance called again. “I’m outside. You ready?”
“Yeah,” Riggins lied. His pants were barely up around his waist, and he was pretty sure he was out of clean shirts. Amazing what you forget when you’re clocking hundred-hour work weeks because there’s no one waiting for you at home. Riggins found the least offensive shirt, clipped his sidearm to his belt, slipped into his shoes, and made it out of his apartment.
Constance, of course, looked gorgeous. “You okay, Riggins?”
“Sure.”
Except he was pretty damn far from okay. Part of him prayed he was still dreaming, and that this was a nightmare.
They set out for Falls Church, on the edge of the D.C. border—about a forty-five-minute drive. The way Constance was riding the accelerator, it’d be more like thirty.
Constance Brielle couldn’t drive fast enough. The name that kept flashing through her mind like a twitchy neon sign was Steve Dark, Steve Dark, Steve Dark . But this was not about Steve. This was about poor Jeb Paulson.
At first she’d been a real bitch to Jeb. There was a quiet cockiness about him, as if his place at the table was a foregone conclusion. She hated that. You had to earn that. You didn’t just walk in and expect the shorthand to be explained, the in-jokes decoded for you. Nobody had done that with Constance, Christ knows. But soon Constance realized that it was nothing more than a defense mechanism. Jeb sought her out. He’d quietly pick her brain about a few things. No stupid questions. Good questions—stuff Constance didn’t think to ask back in her first few weeks at Special Circs. Soon, she realized that she was falling into a kind of mentor role with Jeb. Just like Steve Dark
chapter 15
Quantico, Virginia
The phone woke Riggins from a hard dead sleep. He’d been enjoying the blissful feeling of not remembering who he was or what he did for a living until he fumbled for his cell, pressed it to his ear, then heard the voice of Constance Brielle—his second-in-command. And then it all came rushing back.
“Tom—it’s about Jeb.”
Constance speed-talked him through what had happened, and told him Falls Church PD had sealed off the scene for them. Before Riggins even had a chance to react or respond, Constance said she’d be by within a few minutes. Riggins let the receiver fall from his fingers, feeling a burn of rage and hurt and confusion. It quickly consumed the pleasant narcotic effects of sleep.
Not another one. Not so soon. This was insane. This whole job was insane. And Riggins considered himself insane for staying in it so long. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was the kiss of death. Work with me—die or go crazy soon after. Jeb Paulson had been with Special Circs what—a month or two?
What really troubled Riggins was Wycoff. As usual, he’d played his cards so close to his vest they were practically tucked up inside his cold, black heart. What did he know? Why had Wycoff insisted that Riggins go down to Chapel Hill personally? Did that son of a bitch know that whoever went down there would become this psycho’s new target?
Riggins stood up. He was wearing boxers and a ribbed T-shirt. He needed to find his shoes. If a man’s going stomping around a crime scene in the middle of the night, he needs his shoes. But the thought of Wycoff enraged him.
Get a hold of yourself Tom , he thought. You’re almost smashing through the guard rails and headed into Paranoiaville. Population: One (Everyone Else Is Out to Get You). Wycoff’s a prick, but he’s not indirect. If he wanted Riggins dead, he’d send his goon squad after him. They’d take him somewhere quiet, then slam some poison into his veins and that would be it. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, considering.
Still—Wycoff wasn’t telling him everything. And Riggins couldn’t escape the fact that he’d essentially sent the new kid down south to die.
All too soon, Constance called again. “I’m outside. You ready?”
“Yeah,” Riggins lied. His pants were barely up around his waist, and he was pretty sure he was out of clean shirts. Amazing what you forget when you’re clocking hundred-hour work weeks because there’s no one waiting for you at home. Riggins found the least offensive shirt, clipped his sidearm to his belt, slipped into his shoes, and made it out of his apartment.
Constance, of course, looked gorgeous. “You okay, Riggins?”
“Sure.”
Except he was pretty damn far from okay. Part of him prayed he was still dreaming, and that this was a nightmare.
They set out for Falls Church, on the edge of the D.C. border—about a forty-five-minute drive. The way Constance was riding the accelerator, it’d be more like thirty.
Constance Brielle couldn’t drive fast enough. The name that kept flashing through her mind like a twitchy neon sign was Steve Dark, Steve Dark, Steve Dark . But this was not about Steve. This was about poor Jeb Paulson.
At first she’d been a real bitch to Jeb. There was a quiet cockiness about him, as if his place at the table was a foregone conclusion. She hated that. You had to earn that. You didn’t just walk in and expect the shorthand to be explained, the in-jokes decoded for you. Nobody had done that with Constance, Christ knows. But soon Constance realized that it was nothing more than a defense mechanism. Jeb sought her out. He’d quietly pick her brain about a few things. No stupid questions. Good questions—stuff Constance didn’t think to ask back in her first few weeks at Special Circs. Soon, she realized that she was falling into a kind of mentor role with Jeb. Just like Steve Dark
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