The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(66)
“Still run?”
“It runs. How much longer, who knows.”
“How many miles?”
“Lots.” Oliver straightened up a bit and started trudging along again, working his jaw, then said, “I take it out every now and then. Engine purrs, runs real smooth. Not burning oil, so that’s good.” He stopped in front of an ancient Buick LeSabre, its tan finish long faded into a hazy gray suggestion of its former luster. “Sixty-four. Nothin’ fancy. Gotta roll down the windows with a crank. Automatic transmission, but no headrests, none of them airbag doohickeys, no ee-lectronics. Just your basic car.”
“Can I take it around the block?”
Oliver reached over to a carabiner hanging from his pants belt loop and selected one of several dozen keys. “Just around the block. And don’t get lost. Police’ll track you down if you try to stiff me.”
Marcks took the ring from Oliver and said, “Yes sir. Be back in five.”
He returned in three. It had decent pickup, the engine was in surprisingly good condition, and the tires were not bald. It needed an alignment but it was a sturdy car built like they made them back in the sixties.
“So?”
Marcks pulled out some of the cash that Victoria had given him—which he had counted before getting out of the Buick—and made a show of slapping each Andrew Jackson into Oliver’s hands. “One-twenty work for you? All I got with me.”
“One-twenty works. Enjoy your car, Buddy.”
Marcks adjusted the aviator glasses on his nose. “I’m sure I will, Oliver. I’m sure I will.”
32
Marcks settled himself in front of the cyber café PC. He entered the code the guy at the register had given him and was granted access.
He took a moment to look over the desktop, which was a lot more flashy since the last time he had used a computer, over seven years ago. But once he started clicking, he realized that Windows still worked pretty much the same way: there was a start button and the task bar contained a big blue E for Internet Explorer. Except that when he launched the program, it said “Microsoft Edge” with something called “Bing.”
Whatever. It worked and he was able to get onto the internet. He first searched for FBI profiler Karen Vail. It brought up dozens of articles and a number of references to her in the form of press releases on the FBI website.
There was even one in the search archive related to her work on his case, when he was arrested. He found an article in the Post, quoting her on how important an arrest this was for Fairfax County Police because “Roscoe Lee Marcks is the worst of the worst and getting him off the street made the county a whole lot safer.”
Marcks clenched his fist. What bullshit. And how clichéd. “What the hell do you know?”
He realized he had said that aloud. A woman two seats over glanced at him. He shrank a bit in his seat and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He turned back to the monitor and continued reading: a quote from Erik Curtis, the detective on the case, saying how they could not have captured Marcks without the assessment provided by the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.
He paged back and clicked on another link. And another. And another. Vail had been one busy friggin’ profiler. And successful. If an organized society for serial killers existed, they probably would have taken out a contract on her by now.
He searched for the address of the Behavioral Analysis Unit but could only find “FBI Academy, Quantico” in a couple of press releases. Finally he discovered an announcement from a local real estate firm touting the contract they had scored in leasing 12,000 square feet in Aquia, Virginia, to the FBI for an expansion of its Behavioral Analysis Unit. Marcks grinned—only this time it was genuine. That was exactly what he had been looking for.
He scribbled down the name of the complex, then looked it up and found the address. Bing asked him if he wanted to map it, and he said yes, clicked the link, and it showed him exactly where the building was located. It even gave him an aerial view. And an interactive look at the surrounding streets. Very helpful. Thank you very much, Mr. Bing.
With that in his back pocket, he typed in his daughter’s name. Could he be so lucky to find some kind of reference as to where she would be hiding?
No. Articles on her book—that damn book—and a list of signings and speaking events on her tour. But cancellation notices appeared next to all of them.
He clicked a link among the Bing results and landed on Jasmine’s author webpage. The photo of her was professionally staged and designed to invoke a sense of pity. At least that was what he took from the picture. Most fathers look at images of their daughters and see beauty and innocence. But he was not most fathers. He paged through her website and found the “Contact the author” page. He chose to send her an email.
His fingers paused over the keys, rage building as he composed his thoughts. He banged out an angry message—but then deleted it. Shorter, simpler was better:
I’m going to make you pay.
Yes, that would do.
He hit “send,” then glanced at the clock on the taskbar. He had to finish up. He typed his name into the search field and—whoa, lots of results, including his mug shots and photos he did not even know were public, pictures of himself he had long since forgotten about. He suddenly became very self-conscious. He leaned closer to the screen. Looked left, then right.