Face of Murder

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Zoe hit the brake hard and quickly shifted into reverse. “Damn it! This one?”

“Yeah, down there,” Shelley said, doing her best to juggle her attention between the GPS and the phone in her hand. “No, not you, Fred. Right. And there’s no connection?”

Zoe didn’t like the way Shelley’s conversation sounded like it was going. They were flying blind at the moment, heading for Matthias Kranz’s student housing because it was the only logical lead that they had as to his location. A trace on his cell would make it a lot easier to track him down, but Shelley didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with setting that up.

“Okay. Keep an eye on it, please, Fred. Just let me know as soon as it pops up again. This is an active pursuit, okay? Thanks. You’re a star. Okay, talk later.”

Shelley ended the call, shifting in the passenger seat and looking around. “It should be one of these ones coming up, right? Fred says he can’t get a trace on the kid’s cell. We’ll just have to hope that he’s home.”

“Why do I feel like I already know he is not?” Zoe growled, slowing down as she peered through the side windows at numbers posted outside of houses.

“Because you’re an optimistic, happy-go-lucky kind of gal,” Shelley joked, without so much as cracking a smile. “Here. It’s this one.”

Shelley was out of the car and halfway across the sidewalk by the time Zoe had managed to get it into park, and she was a few steps behind still by the time Shelley was banging on the front door.

“I will go around the back,” she said, spotting a dilapidated wooden door in the poorly maintained fence between the house and the one next to it. Sure enough, the door flew open without much effort on her part, the wood too dry and old to fit snugly into the frame anymore. It wasn’t locked.

At the back of the house, a yard grown almost knee-high with weeds and grasses took up only fifteen feet by ten—enough for it to attract a higher price tag, but apparently not enough for the student residents to want to take care of it.

Zoe assessed the back of the house: two sets of windows on the ground floor, three sets of windows above, almost the same as the front. The difference was that the middle window was small and slotted—a bathroom window, not big enough for anyone to climb out of. Still, Zoe kept her eye on the others for a sign of movement.

It was the back door that opened instead, and her instinct to spring toward it and prevent anyone from leaving was met with owlish concern from a young man in spectacles. He was five foot four—short for a male, and certainly too short to be their killer.

“Your partner told me to let you in,” he said, leaning back away from her as if concerned that she would tackle him. “She headed upstairs to check the rooms, but I told her there’s no point. Matthias isn’t here. He went out early this morning.”

“How early?” Zoe asked, stepping inside. From here, she could see both the front and back exits. A good enough place to wait for Shelley to finish her checks, in case someone decided to make a break for it.

“I don’t know, man. Before I woke up. His shoes are gone, that’s how I know.”

“Do you have any idea where he went?”

“No.” The student seemed taken aback, confused even, by her questioning. “What’s this about?”

“This is about an FBI investigation, which you are obstructing if you do not answer all of our questions truthfully,” Zoe snapped. Perhaps Shelley wouldn’t have approved, but there was no time for the light touch here. Lives were at stake. “Think very carefully. Do you have any idea—even the smallest clue—about where Matthias is right now?”

The kid was still half-asleep, clearly, but that seemed to snap him awake. “Uh, okay, okay, just let me think! Uh… well, last night he said something.”

“What did he say?” Zoe asked, impatient and angry that she even had to ask the question to drag the information out of him.

“He talked about this guy who used to be his professor. He got, like, fired or something. Or quit, I don’t know. Anyway, Matthias was saying how he wanted to go check the guy was good or whatever. I don’t know. I thought it sounded kind of dumb, but Matthias actually likes his professors, you know? Like they’re people. Not like they’re professors or whatever.”

Zoe could barely contain her exasperation. As if professors were not people. This young man needed some sense put into him, but there was hardly any time to address that now. “Which professor? What was his name?”

“Oh, uh… I don’t think he gave me a name,” the student stuttered.

Shelley clattered down the stairs, the heels of her shoes striking each of the steps with a staccato cacophony. “Upper floor is clear,” she said.

“Did you check down here?”

“No. Watch the doors.” Shelley disappeared from view momentarily, first on one side of the hall and then on the other, as she checked the downstairs rooms. Then she was out again, shaking her head.

“This one says Matthias went to visit an old professor.”

“Mathematics?”

“I don’t know!” The student raised his hands, looking back and forth between both of them. “I swear, I have no idea. I don’t even like Matthias. This was just a cheap option so we could split the rent. We got matched up by this service at the college. Seriously, I don’t know where he spends his time.”

Shelley snapped her fingers, apparently struck by sudden inspiration. “Was it James Wardenford?”

“Oh, yeah,” the student replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Now that you said it, I remember. Yeah. Professor Wardenford.”

“You have been almost useless,” Zoe informed him, before nodding to Shelley and leading the way back out of the building.

“I’m calling him now,” Shelley said, hitting buttons on her cell and lifting it to her ear. “We’d better get over to his apartment. If Matthias is there right now, he’s in danger.”

“And probably stinking drunk,” Zoe remarked, getting back behind the wheel of the car.

Shelley slid into the passenger seat, then swore and took the cell from her ear. “No answer. I’ll try him again.”

Zoe paused only to search for the address in her GPS—easy enough to find, since she knew how many places she had been since then and could simply choose the right option in the history—before hitting the accelerator and pulling out. “How did you think of Wardenford?”

Shelley was playing with her pendant with the hand that wasn’t holding her cell. “He was dismissed before Matthias had his accident. If he’s been out of the loop, he might be the only person from Georgetown who Matthias had contact with that doesn’t know about it. Either that, or Matthias has already been to him for help before and Wardenford figured out what was wrong, and now Matthias wants revenge. I don’t know. Wardenford didn’t mention Matthias when we knew the equations were all tangled up. I’m guessing he would still be in the dark.”

“Why would he go there, if not to kill him?” Zoe frowned, hitting the gas to avoid colliding with a slow-moving car as she made a sharp turn.

“If he isn’t aware that Matthias has been having any difficulties, then he could represent the last person from Matthias’s old life who will act as though nothing has happened. Treat him as though he’s still as capable as he was. That could be huge for him.”

Zoe thought about it. She had something that was entirely the opposite: the relief of being around the very few people who did know her diagnosis, and no longer having to pretend that she was like everyone else. But if everyone knew, except from a select few? She could see how there might be comfort in that, too. If her cover was blown and people started treating her even more like an alien, then she would want to go back to the one person who still thought she was just rude and aloof.

“But Wardenford knows about the equations now,” Zoe realized. “If he connects the dots in any way—if Matthias somehow shows his hand—”

Shelley finished her thought. “Matthias will kill him.”

Zoe pushed her foot down further on the accelerator. This was a matter of timing only. Either they got there before Wardenford was murdered, or after.

She hoped to god that it would be before.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Matthias shook his head. He was getting the hang of this now. The focus. He was able to get the words out. “I’m just glad the real killer has been caught.” There! See! A whole th—a th—a sentence. A whole sentence.

He was too busy being proud of himself to watch Waterfo—Wardenford. But when he spoke he sounded nervous, like his head snakes were all swimming, like something churned within him.

“Caught? Did they say who it was?”

Matthias twisted his face up with the concentration. Say it. Say. The words. Come on. “Pear. Uh, white. Pear white. No, something…” He knew he was so far off. So far off. He was about to get caught. Wardenford would know. He would know about Matthias’s snakes and how they all slithered in the wrong direction now.

“Dr. Applewhite,” Wardenford corrected quietly. “How did you hear about that? I haven’t seen anything in the news.”

Mistake, mistake! Didn’t check the news, didn’t read the—scrolls. Should have checked. Oh, Matthias, you got yourself caught. Those snakes were getting away.

Matthias shrugged to get the message down to as few words as he could. He couldn’t risk it, not now, with the—picnic in him. Not picnic. Focus. Explain it. “Campus rumors,” he said.

There was silence. Maybe Matthias said too much. Maybe the picnic—the panic was justified. Oh, but how awful it would be if he knew! If he saw the snakes!

A loud noise outside, and Wardenford rose to look out the window. “Goodness me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “They shouldn’t be making that kind of racket this early in the morning. Some people are still asleep. What time is it now, anyway?”

Matthias looked at his watch. Read it confidently without thinking. “It’s nine-sixteen.”

There was a long silence.

Matthias saw Wardenford look back at his watch and checked his own again. Focused. Squinted his eyes one way, then another. Wardenford was still looking outside. The time was wrong. The time he read out was wrong.

“Well,” Wardenford said, turning back from the glass and sitting on the—bench. “Some people just don’t have any sense of what’s right, do they? I imagine there was barely any reason for them to hit the horn at all. You know what these road-rage inner-city drivers are like.”

Wardenford gave his happy smile. Matthias looked at him and smiled back, and behind it all the snakes were foaming. He knew. Wardenford knew.

What a stupid mistake.

But maybe all was not—gone. After all, his mentor could guess about the snakes. The mind snakes. That didn’t mean he knew about the blood snakes.

“I try not to drive,” Matthias said. He had to be careful because he could not find his way to the word for the thing that people drove, the—refuge, and he had to control his expression as well. Wardenford might just think it was a one-off mistake. Not snakes but silliness. Maybe Matthias could pretend it was a—funny.

It wasn’t true, anyway. He’d been driving a lot, lately. But at least if he said he didn’t, he could distance himself from the suspicion. A killer didn’t get on the sub-sub—coach.

Wardenford hadn’t said anything for a minute. He was looking at his coffee. Matthias wondered if he was figuring it out.

“I haven’t driven at all, since…” Wardenford began, then stopped. “Well. All that unpleasantness. Best left in the past. Anyway, how are your studies going?”

Matthias picked up his coffee and sipped. Best left in the past too. But a direct question needed an answer. “Dropped out,” he said. Immediately he was unhappy smiles, raging at himself, the snakes all hissing and biting their own tails. Such an answer would mean—following. He would have to talk more. He looked into the black coffee and hoped it would end there, knowing it wouldn’t.

Wardenford set his coffee down on the table, ringing, ringing, ringing. “You dropped out? Matthias, what happened? You were doing so well when I left. One of my best students. Are you planning to study somewhere else?”

Matthias shook his snakes slowly.

“Good god. It must have been bad, whatever it was. Is it money? You can’t afford the tuition anymore? Please tell me it’s something like that, something we can fix. There are grants I can help you to apply for.”

Matthias shook his snakes again, slow, slow, slow.

Wardenford swallowed. His—pear bobbed up and down in his throat. He must have been nervous, Matthias realized. He was trying not to show it.

“Just let me know if there’s something I can do to help,” Wardenford said at last. “If you don’t want to talk about it just now, I understand.”

Matthias looked down into his coffee. Drank a bit. Wardenford knew about the snakes.

Not just the head snakes.

The blood snakes.

“Actually, you know, I do have to get somewhere,” Wardenford said, his voice suddenly pepping up. “I hadn’t realized the time. But what with it being so far on, I should really get ready. It’s been wonderful to see you, Matthias. Do come visit again. And consider my offer for help, yes?”

He stood up, a gesture that was clearly designed to show Matthias it was time to leave.

Could he leave?

Matthias didn’t want to do it but the head snakes, they needed it. They couldn’t stop with the blood and the headbox couldn’t contain them—not his headbox, not Wardenford’s headbox. They had to come out. There was an ache in Matthias’s chest, in his—his chestbox—his ven—ca—what was it, the thing in the chestbox—the thing… oh, it ached with the thought of ending him. The snakes were wrapping around it and squeezing their tails tight, but what could he do?

He couldn’t spare him. If it wasn’t for all of the others—but the snakes were on his hands, written in letters so big Wardenford could read them now, and he knew. He would tell. Even if Matthias begged him not to, he would tell. He had to be stopped.

It was a mistake, coming here. He had wanted comfort, the words of an old mentor. Now Wardenford would pay in blood snakes, would pay for them like all the others. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have come. But there was no going back. Matthias had to do it. He had to do it now.

The—buzzing box on the table rang, a fun happy tune ringing out across the space, lighting up the display. In a flash, Matthias had to think: think, think. If he answered, Wardenford could tell them. Could bring the flashing lights and men with guns and put him away forever. That couldn’t happen.

That couldn’t be.

He saw an empty wine bottle sitting beside the sofa, down right by the edge, where Wardenford missed it when he was cleaning. He saw it clearly. Everything was aligned.

Matthias took the bottle and lunged forward and smashed the full force of it over Wardenford’s headbox, and the man fell to the floor with a startled groan, and it was done.

The buzzingbox rang again on the table, into the silence now of the room. Matthias stood above him, catching his breath, feeling the snakes writhe around in his own headbox in anticipation of the blood to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Zoe remembered the way from their last visit. She raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then counted doors the flashed by until she was at the right one. Behind it she could hear nothing, as she paused in the corridor and waited for that long second.

Shelley caught up, panting, as Zoe pressed the call button on her cell again. They both heard the ringtone faintly on the other side, going unanswered. They exchanged a look.

The situation was precarious. If the killer was inside, they did not want to give him time to get away—or to take Wardenford hostage with a weapon. But if he had already made his attack, then time was of the essence. Knocking on the door and shouting their presence seemed to be off the table.

Breaking the door down, then?

Zoe squared her shoulders, thinking about where she would need to kick it for the maximum chance of the wood around the lock splintering and giving way, but Shelley reached out for the door handle and turned it.

It opened.

Another glance exchanged. In unison, Zoe and Shelley drew their guns out of their holsters and held them ready at their sides.

Shelley pushed the door open slowly. It did not creak. They could hear the ringtone louder now. A good distraction which would cover the sound of their footsteps.

For a brief moment, Zoe entertained a fantasy in which Wardenford answered the phone in a drunken stupor, having forgotten to lock the door, and they discovered that he was totally alone.

Then the moment was gone, because she knew it could only be a fantasy.

Together they moved down the hall toward the area where Wardenford had led them before, where the phone was ringing. Zoe took the lead, bringing her firearm up to a more ready position as she approached the junction where everything would become clear. She took a single steadying breath, then sprang forward, pointing her gun into the room.

“Freeze! FBI!” The words came out automatically, a gut reaction to seeing someone standing in the room. Even before her brain had deduced who it was, she knew she had to shout it.

But she didn’t need any kind of specialist training to know who was standing in the room. He was five foot nine, one hundred and thirty-nine pounds, and he matched the photograph she had seen on his student ID. More telling than that, he was standing over the prone body of James Wardenford, with a heavy lamp in his hands.

They all froze for a moment, Matthias apparently assessing his options while Zoe took the scene in. Her eyes were drawn to something dark and glittering on the floor—something like dark shards—the shards of a wine bottle, she realized, before the second realization: that she had allowed herself to be distracted too far, her eyes dropping down too low, and she had not seen the telltale bunching of muscles before it was too late.

The only thing that she could do was to catch the lamp that Matthias had thrown at her, before it hit her and knocked her down. She fumbled with her gun, trying desperately not to drop either of them. With the safety off and Wardenford at her feet, both could be catastrophic.

She steadied herself and reversed the momentum to throw the lamp to bounce harmlessly on the sofa cushions, but Matthias was gone—leaping over to the far windows, and then rattling onto the fire escape, his feet making clanging drums of the metal structure.

“Check on him,” Zoe shouted to Shelley, who was behind her and unable to make good the pursuit, as she herself launched after Matthias. They couldn’t leave an injured and possibly dying victim alone. She dived through the window and onto the fire escape, registering even as she did so that she would now be going after a deadly killer—alone.

Shelley bent swiftly to fit two fingers to James Wardenford’s neck, relieved to find a pulse beating there and the warmth of a body. She was even more relieved to hear him groan softly, his eyelids fluttering open and shut as he attempted to fight through the pain and confusion.

His shoulders started to move. Shelley crouched beside him, doing her best to avoid crunching shards of glass and a thin trail of blood that was coming from his head, and placed her hand firmly on top of his back. “Stay still,” she said. “Don’t try to move. I’ll call for help.”

Being in law enforcement had one key advantage that Shelley had always loved: the ability to get directly in touch with other life-saving services and get them to someone who needed them as soon as possible. She dialed quickly and relayed the information about where she was and how Wardenford had been injured, then cut the call and focused on soothing him.

Somewhere out there, Zoe was chasing a killer. Shelley strained her ears, listening for any sound outside the window. After their rattling footsteps on the fire escape faded away, there was nothing. No gunshots, which was good.

No sound of any kind that she could identify, over the sound of traffic and people talking and general life in the city, which might be very bad indeed.

She was distracted for too long. Thinking, wondering about Zoe. She was supposed to be paying attention to him. His eyes were closing, and he was going ashy pale.

Shelley swore, kneeling down by Wardenford’s head, wincing as an errant piece of glass found its way through her trousers to nick her skin. “Don’t do this,” she begged, touching his face, shaking his shoulder gently. “Come on, James. Stay with me. The ambulance is nearly here. You just have to stay awake for a few minutes. You can do this.”

The sound of a siren in the road outside made Shelley catch her breath. But Wardenford’s eyes remained closed, and she could barely detect his breathing.

“No, come on!” she shouted, pinching the skin on his neck to give him a sharp shock and get his attention. “Come on, James. Don’t go to sleep. They’re here. They’re coming to save you. Don’t give up!”

Zoe reached inside her lungs for extra breath, reached inside her legs for more power to leap and run faster. It was no use. Matthias was young and fit, and he had a head start. Maybe if he stumbled, fell, got stuck behind a slow-moving pedestrian or hit by a vehicle, she could catch up. It was a long shot maybe.

Where was he going? He was not familiar enough with the neighborhood, surely, to know shortcuts and quick switches—he was moving down roads and between houses at a seemingly random rate, glancing over his shoulder when he made turns to see that she was still there behind him.

She was getting further and further away.

Almost far enough that if he took two turns in quick succession, she wouldn’t be able to figure out where he had gone.

No—it couldn’t end like this. Zoe couldn’t let him get away, out there to potentially harm someone else or to even end up disappearing forever. The kid might have had neurological problems, but underneath that he was still smart. Unfortunately, thanks to the growing need for kids at good schools to have extracurricular activities under their belt in order to compete with the other perfect grades, he was also fast.

He’d been given a perfect bill of health in his medical report, except for that TBI.

Dammit! Zoe cursed as she stumbled on a loose paving slab. This part of the city was not as well-maintained as the areas she was used to, apartment blocks with overgrown yards and weeds springing up to disrupt the pavement. The roads were wide, telegraph poles leaning at odd angles where cars had hit their bases and papered-over cracks in the tarmac, but they were also interrupted by tress planted along their edges in happier times. Cars, trees, garbage spilling out of homes, abandoned furniture—it made for a mismatched and staccato pattern that dashed the advantage her abilities gave her, in the way that only human-made chaos could.

“FBI! Stop!” Zoe shouted, then decided it was better to save her breath in the future. There was no way that he was going to stop just because she told him to, and with the way he tore from one side of the sidewalk to the other, crossing empty road, there was no chance of keeping him in her sights for long enough to fire.