It was an extremely safe neighborhood. Sure, there were the occasional break-ins. Home invasions were rare, and murders were rarer still. Driving to the house, the officer possessed an inch of confidence in the report and a healthy splash of boredom poured on top. He pulled into the driveway of the impressive Colonial-style home.

  "Dispatch, this is Officer Franklin. I’ve just arrived at 235 Milton. Please acknowledge."

  "Roger that, Franklin. Don't go inventing electricity all by yourself."

  Franklin ignored the comment. Their gibes no longer bothered him. His last name had instantly given him the moniker “Benjamin Franklin.”

  He sighed. Franklin could have applied for a downtown LAPD assignment. Or he could have moved to San Diego. But he’d requested to work in Pacific Palisades because he thought it would be interesting. And, to be honest, his girlfriend liked the area, so that was a plus.

  Up until now, he'd done everything except mop the floors. Franklin understood it was just part of being the new guy. But it had been seven months, and he was more than ready to move up the ranks. Just maybe a newbie would start soon.

  Officer Franklin was mindful to lock the car when he exited. He wouldn't want any rich kids trying to steal his car. That would give the boys at the station a new water cooler topic, at his expense.

  He walked to the door of the residence, just like he’d been trained, always ready to grab his holstered weapon. The porch light was off, and he congratulated himself for being smart enough to bring his flashlight.

  He knocked on the door. No answer. He reached over and rang the doorbell twice. Still, no answer. He was about to call it a night and just write it up as “no one at home.” Then he thought, Why not just try the doorknob?

  The doorknob turned. Maybe the deadbolt's set. But it wasn't. The door, unlatched, opened with ease. Before switching on his flashlight, Officer Franklin staggered back, hit in the face by a wave of putrescence.

  He retched once and then again. The nausea, in repetitive waves, washed over him. Once he was positive there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit, Franklin stood up like a colt standing for the first time – unsure and a bit wobbly. Staggering to the police cruiser, Franklin began taking long, deep breaths. Smelling his own breath, he fished through his pockets for a breath mint which he deposited quickly into his mouth. When he was confident he could speak clearly, he unlocked the car, grabbing the police radio.

  "Requesting immediate backup at 235 Milton Drive. I repeat, I need backup at 235 Milton. I repeat, immediate backup required at 235 Milton Drive."

  Dispatch’s voice sounded quite serious now. "Roger. Officer Franklin found the Easter Bunny."

  Franklin could have sworn he heard giggling in the background. Assholes.

  Once more he radioed in to dispatch. He repeated his request with more insistence. But this time he had remembered to use the code signifying he’d found a dead body. Franklin also asked for an ambulance to be dispatched.

  "Roger that,” came the curt reply. The peals of laughter were gone.

  A moment later, a nearby officer reported he was on his way to the scene.

  Thank God, Franklin thought. Thank God he hadn’t puked in front of his peers.

  Margaret Taylor was aware there were still words being spoken, but she was unable to respond. She knew there were words coming out of the phone, but she couldn't respond. She’d arrived at the hotel minutes before in sore need of a hot bath and a drink. How could he be dead? she thought. She'd left so many messages on his phone. How could he be dead?

  “Ma’am, are you still there?" the officer asked.

  "Yes, I'm sorry.”

  “We're still processing the scene, ma'am. We'll call you as soon as we know more."

  "Was his death due to natural causes, or was it something else?”

  “I don't mean to upset you, but there may have been foul play involved. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your ex-husband?"

  "What? No. I don't think so, but I haven’t seen him in quite some time,” Margaret Taylor said. In her heart, she knew—maybe she'd always known. The fact that the revelation had always been there, the seed deposited years before, intensified her grief tenfold.

  Without another word, she hung up the phone and walked to the mini-bar.

  Chapter Forty

  The phone call connected with a garbled squelch.

  "He's headed into the desert.”

  “What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going in after him."

  "Okay, just be careful."

  "I always am; besides, he's unarmed."

  "Okay, but are you still sure you want to end it this way?"

  "Yes, it's time to move on. Besides, I’m bored. I'm ready for a vacation."

  "All right then, but be careful."

  "You already said that."

  "I know. It's just that—"

  "Don't tell me you're worried."

  "I am the one that worries."

  "Well, don't. This is an easy one."

  "You said the same thing about Saint Lucia."

  "That was totally different, but you're right. I'll be careful."

  "Okay. I'll see you soon."

  Chapter Forty-One

  It was an unusually mild night for this time of year. The temperature hovered in the high seventies. The moon was full, and it illuminated the traveler's measured steps. Daniel knew he was being followed, but that's what he wanted.

  It was such a strange sensation. He'd been aware of his gifts before, but now it felt like somebody had ratcheted up the power. It was like every nerve ending in his body and every brain wave were now heightened. It did nothing to deaden the pain of loss, but it allowed him to look at it from a different angle. The Stranger was no longer a stranger. He and The Beast walked next to him, even though Daniel couldn't see them.

  There were still so many questions to be asked, and so many answers left to be excavated. Whereas before he might have worried about such a thing, now he had absolute confidence that they would come. It was strange. Now that he was no longer thinking of himself, but of others, he felt like he could let go of the worry. It wasn't completely gone. The transformation was not yet complete. But he had faith that it would take him over, body and soul. The thought made him smile.

  Lose oneself in giving, came the voice, soft and sweet, as if it had been blown in on the summer breeze. Yes, it was like playing by a new playbook. The tactics and strategy were similar, yet there were subtle differences. It was like the difference between having a friend vs. having a brother. One was like ankle deep water—refreshing for a time—made to feel permanent. The other was chest deep—all in—you couldn't change it.

  That's what he felt now as he walked—free for the first time in years. He could almost feel the crosshairs on the back of his head, but he wasn't worried. He was confident, not in a cocky way, but in a way that felt good. He felt that his life was finally meant for something. It was meant for many things, and at that particular moment, it was not meant for dying.

  Daniel inhaled the desert air, letting it fill him, propelling him forward. Yes, he felt the enemy coming, but he also felt his friend, and without turning to regard him, the voice whispered, I am here. You are not alone.

  The assassin picked a careful path across the desert floor. Silent steps borne of endless practice. The Marine sniper was well ahead of the assassin now, but the natural killer wasn't concerned. They were walking through miles of open desert, and it was nearly impossible to find a place to hide. Briggs was illuminated by the moon, whereas the assassin was shielded by the orb's position behind them. Yes, it was a perfect night to stalk—a perfect night to kill. The cat and mouse game would soon be complete, and then they would move on to other things. They always moved on to other things.

  To kill for fun, thought the assassin, and then the assassin’s other half's warning sounded subconsciously. Yes, it was better to do it from far away. But the assassin wanted to be closer. All that was needed was to skirt to the side to find a better vantage point.

  There it was up ahead. A hill. Briggs's stride was taking him straight for it. The assassin considered the options, and the hill zeroed in as the perfect chance. Briggs would pass through, leaving a perfect lane for the killer to take a shot.

  No need to hurry. They had all night. The assassin could keep this up for days, with a rifle cradled in confident arms, and a pack full of provisions carried on a body honed from years of toil and practice. The assassin was the perfect weapon.

  Eyes flickered from the target to the ground, back and forth, selecting the perfect path. Silent and careful—always careful. The eyes flickered up, back to the Marine sniper, who had been the perfect stroke of luck.

  Wait. Where did he go? One second Briggs had been there, and then he'd disappeared. Impossible. The assassin scanned left and right carefully. Nothing. No way. There was nowhere to hide.

  The assassin looked at the base of the hill, weapon at the ready, calculating the distance since Briggs had last been seen. Impossible. He was right here, the assassin thought, and then the truth became known. There it was. It would have been almost undetectable, even in broad daylight. A small drop off led to an old riverbed that snaked along the same path. Briggs must have taken the slight detour, and sure enough, there was his form, weaving his way toward the hill in the slithering depression.

  The assassin breathed in relief, confident once again, as the killer slipped into the ancient riverbed. The shot could have been taken here, but the assassin wanted something better. The perfect shot was the best way to end it.

  Onward they went until Briggs reached the base of the hill and started climbing. He never once looked back. Then the assassin realized where Briggs was going. It hadn't been obvious in the dead of night, but now a map of the area coalesced in the assassin's mind, and there it was. The ranch from the coyote hunt. The one Tom's friends had told them about during their bloody interrogation.

  Yes, that had to be it. Briggs was going to see the old rancher. The assassin had considered that option before, but Briggs had already made another trip to the ranch. Now he was once again taking a late-night stroll across the desert. It might have seemed strange to a normal human being, but the assassin was used to seeing strange things.

  After some quick mental math, the assassin figured at their current leisurely pace, it was maybe another hour on foot until they got to the ranch. He wouldn't get that far. The plan was to leave Briggs's body in the desert. Maybe someone would find him, and maybe they wouldn't. That didn't really matter. The key was the challenge. It was time to make a move now, so the assassin cut right, careful not to dislodge anything that might give the position away. Time to maneuver around and cut him off. Time to end the game and claim the prize.

  The spot the assassin picked was perfect. It was just on the other side of the hill’s crest. The path Briggs was on would take him there directly. It was as if nature tailor-made the ambush point just for this moment. A tight funnel bordered by the steep rise of the hill to its peak on one side, and a cutaway cliff on the other. It was like God had taken a knife and sliced the back side of the hill clean off. It was the exact point the killer needed. The assassin moved beyond it to monitor Briggs’s progress.

  Crouched within an indentation to avoid detection, every few seconds the assassin would chance a look. Briggs's form was moving up the hill now. Faster, the assassin thought. Have to move quickly now. Maybe something close in would be best. Briggs was completely unaware; it could be perfect. The assassin never told her other half this, but it was better to see the life drain from a target’s eyes. It was better to feel that last hot breath as they drifted into nothingness. Yes, that was how the assassin would do it. Close in until the life force could be sucked from the target.

  The assassin went back to the ambush point, hidden from view. The only downside was that Briggs couldn't be seen now. But the assassin was confident in the sniper's path. The other half wouldn't be happy. There was still time. The assassin stopped, pulled out the phone, shielding the dim light and sent a text.

  Headed to the ranch. Meet me there, and then pressed send. The reply was almost instantaneous. It was how they worked. Always monitoring the phone. The reply was a simple okay.

  Plans were now coordinated. The assassin waited impatiently, already tasting the blood that was soon to come. Maybe they would kill the rancher too. Maybe they would just have some fun with him. It didn't matter. They would do it together like they always did. Two as one.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The assassin didn't have time to enjoy the view. It was reassuring to see their calculations had been precise. From off in the distance, the assassin could see the lights of the ranch. Once again, the assassin marveled at the ambush point. Not only was it perfect for the kill shot, but it also offered an amazing view of the valley beyond. With the moon casting its glow upon the Earth, the assassin thought it was a fitting spot for the night’s errand.

  The assassin waited and listened. Two minutes went by. Nothing. Maybe Briggs had stopped to take a break and drink some of the water he had purchased at the hospital gift shop. Another three minutes went by and still there was no sign of Daniel Briggs.

  The assassin peeked up the trail. He must be coming, but still there was no sign of him. Patience. The assassin waited another two minutes, attempting to tamp down the anxiety. Maybe Briggs had turned around or maybe he stopped to take a nap. Maybe—

  But then the assassin heard a noise. It sounded like a handful of pebbles rolling downhill. He was coming, and he was nearby.

  The assassin considered grabbing the rifle again but settled for the knife. The blade was sharp and compact. It was the perfect weapon for stabbing into a neck or slicing across a man’s eyes. The assassin liked the neck; it put on a bloody good show.

  The assassin counted down the seconds. It was imperative to time the strike perfectly. The appointed time came when the assassin knew Briggs would be within striking range, yet he still wasn't there. The nervous energy made the assassin take another look up the trail to where he should be by now. Suddenly, a shadow materialized overhead. The assassin rolled over to face the falling form, trying to get the blade in position. But the shadow knocked the weapon away, falling heavily on top of the assassin. The air blasted from lungs already constricted, ready for the attack. The assassin tried to roll away but was pinned down by strong hands and legs.

  A familiar itch of panic rose in the assassin's throat. The rifle was too far away, and the knife had fallen over the edge. Briggs's surprise was complete. It had been perfectly executed, something the assassin should have done. The roles should have been reversed.

  And then the pressure let up.

  "Get to your feet," Briggs said.

  Veronica Taylor stood up, ignoring the pain in her knee and hip from where she had fallen. Daniel stepped back and covered her path to the rifle.

  "You don't look surprised to see me," Veronica said, trying to sound nonchalant. In fact, she was trying to figure out a way she could still kill Briggs.

  Daniel didn't say a word; he just stared at her. She expected some kind of babbling questions about the child or maybe the others, but none came. It put her off kilter. That was a feeling she had never liked.

  Maybe her other half was right. Maybe she did need to see someone. She couldn't help the words from coming out, "When did you figure it out?"

  Daniel still didn't move. He had changed. They had both seen it. It was an interesting transformation that made their hunt that much more appealing. It was like a fine wine aged to perfection and ready for ingestion.

  Veronica grabbed onto an idea.

  "Your rancher friend is going to die."

  Now there was a flicker of concern on Daniel's face.

  "How did you know I was going to be there?" Daniel asked.

  "Oh, we figured it out," Veronica said, stretching her neck from side to side to loosen the tension.

  "Who is we?"

  Veronica paused until she was sure that he wasn’t kidding. Then she laughed. Oh, he hasn't figured it all out. Oh, that makes this so much more fun.

  "Who is it, Veronica? Who's helping you?"

  "You think I'm going to tell you?" Veronica pointed at Daniel. "You should see the look on your face. You had me fooled. I really thought when you weren't surprised to see me a second ago; you had figured it out. But you haven't. You're too late." Veronica pointed back over her shoulder to where the ranch lay. "He's going to die because of you—just like the others. How will you live with that knowledge?"

  "Live with what?" Daniel asked.

  "All that death. I mean—I know how I deal with it. I've never had a problem with it. Call it something in my DNA. Even as a kid I didn't care. But you—you did it for a living. You killed people, and you watched your friends die. I don't know how you can live with yourself. Maybe I should go buy you another bottle of Jack Daniels. How long do you think it will take to find the answer in there?"

  Daniel didn't budge. Veronica was hoping that he would come forward—that he would try to hit or grab her. She had read his file. It was amazing what a few phone calls could dig up. The poor Marine was a broken hero.

  "Tell me Daniel, how heavy does Nathaniel’s death weigh on your conscience?”

  "That wasn't my fault," Daniel said.

  The peals of laughter came straight from Veronica's belly. "Oh, is that what you think? You mean, that wasn't your fault? Let me tell you something, hero, his death was your fault. You see, we did the math. We knew you were tough; we knew that you could take the physical pain. But a little boy? We saw how you connected with him. We saw that you wanted to help him. So, what's the best way to put a hero on his ass? Take away the thing that he wants most."

 

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