Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

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Something sinister is going on in Baronville. The rust belt town has seen four bizarre murders in the space of two weeks. Cryptic clues left at the scenes — obscure bible verses, odd symbols — have the police stumped.
Amos Decker and his FBI colleague Alex Jamison are in Baronville visiting Alex’s sister and her family. It’s a bleak place: a former mill and mining town with a crumbling economy and rampant opioid addiction. Decker has only been there a few hours when he stumbles on a horrific double murder scene.
Then the next killing hits sickeningly close to home. And with the lives of people he cares about suddenly hanging in the balance, Decker begins to realize that the recent string of deaths may be only one small piece of a much larger scheme — with consequences that will reach far beyond Baronville.
Decker, with his singular talents, may be the only one who can crack this bizarre case. Only this time — when one mistake could cost him everything — Decker finds that his previously infallible memory may not be so trustworthy after all...

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“And if they don’t?” he said.

She set her wine down and fiddled with her napkin. “But I told Green that I think these cases have to be connected. I mean, six weird murders in a place like this? What are the odds of them not being connected? Which means the two we found are tied to the other four.”

“But we don’t seem to be making much progress.”

“Decker, we haven’t even been working the case for a full day. It takes time. You know that better than anyone.”

“We don’t have that much time, Alex. We only have a week of vacation.”

“Damn, I forgot about that.”

“And something tells me this sucker is going to take longer than that.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Work the case hard for now, but if we start bumping up against the end of our vacation we’ll need to talk to Bogart and have him extend it, or let us work the case on behalf of the FBI.”

Jamison frowned. “Somehow I don’t think it’s that simple, Decker.”

“Well, it should be. Six people are dead who shouldn’t be.”

“I get that,” she said nervously, as Decker’s raised voice made several people at other tables look around at them. She added quickly, “So I told you what I learned at the house: the two victims, the Bible verse on the wall.”

“Right,” said Decker absently.

“What do you think about it?”

“I think it’s a little much.”

Jamison looked perplexed. “What does that mean?”

“I asked Lassiter a question and now I’ll ask you. Why Baronville?”

“Why Baronville what?”

“Six unusual and inexplicable murders in this town. What’s so special about this place that it garners that much unusual homicidal activity?”

“Even towns like this have their share of bizarre crimes.”

“That’s true, but there’s something about this one that just seems off.”

“But you do think they’re connected?” she asked.

He nodded. “They’re not copycats, though, because most of the critical details are different. I think we’re looking at the same person or persons doing this.”

“So was your perfect recall any use today?”

“I have nothing to remember that would be helpful.”

“Really? Nothing?”

He said, “Actually, I heard a car drive away a few minutes before I saw the sparking from the electrical short.”

Jamison sat straighter in her chair. “You told me that before, but did you see the car?”

“No. There was no clear sightline from where I was.”

“Well, only three elderly people live on that street. So maybe they don’t even drive. And there weren’t any cars on the street when we drove over there. You think it could have been the killer leaving the house after dumping the bodies?”

“Could be. Blowflies can find a body very quickly.”

Outside, it had started to rain and the temperature had dropped, bleeding off the earlier warmth of the day.

She said, “I told Green we’d come in tomorrow morning and share any ideas. How did you leave it with Lassiter?”

“I didn’t leave it any way with her. She dropped me off at the house and that was that. Besides, I don’t have any ideas.”

“Some might come to you in the night.”

“Doubtful.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to work this case, Decker,” barked Jamison. “So stop whining and start doing your job.”

Decker glanced sharply at her, only to see that she was smiling at him.

He grinned sheepishly. “You’re right. I’m being an idiot.”

“Wow. I can count on one hand with fingers left over the number of times you’ve said that I was right.”

“You’re right more often than you think.”

Her expression changed. “Zoe told me what you said. About my ability to read people and to see things others don’t.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

She smirked. “Thanks. Green said they’d have all the files ready for us to go over tomorrow.”

Decker brightened at this comment. “Good. Maybe something will jump out.”

They fell silent for a few moments.

“Talked to Melvin lately?” asked Jamison.

“No. He and Harper are traveling on vacation somewhere. The Mediterranean, I think. Why?”

“I know how close you and Melvin are. I guess you could have gone on vacation with them, but it might have been awkward with the three of you. Especially in the romantic Med.”

Decker stared absently at his plate of food and didn’t answer.

“FYI, there’s a park near my sister’s house with a jogging trail,” noted Jamison.

He glanced up at her. “And why do I need to know that?”

“I know you’ve been working out, and you have dropped a lot of weight. Just want you to keep it up. You know, it’s harder to get back in shape than it is to stay in shape.”

“Thanks for enlightening me on that.”

He glanced out the window onto the darkened street. A few cars rolled past. And there were a couple of pedestrians. Other than that, downtown Baronville was relatively quiet in the gathering storm. For now.

“What are you thinking about, Decker?”

He continued to stare out into the dark. “I’m wondering who’s going to die next.”

Chapter 11

It had once been a mansion, perhaps beyond compare.

Now it was old, falling down, and possibly no longer salvageable.

It was from an era when money flowed freely, no income taxes were due, the world lived both more ostentatiously and more simply, and everyone knew his place. Globalization was not even a term, and information moved far more slowly, leading to a blissful ignorance among most.

Men were the breadwinners. They came home from work, spent time with their families, smoked their cigarettes, drank their beer, listened to the same radio programs and later TV shows as the rest of the country, went to bed, and got up to do it all over again, while women did the same on the home front.

John Baron looked out over what had once been the exquisitely landscaped rear grounds of his home, but was now merely dirt with weeds topping it.

He was a tall man, over six-three, with broad shoulders and a lean waist. He was physically strong and fit and always had been. However, at age fifty-three he could sense feebleness drifting into some of his muscle and stiffness into some of his joints.

His salt-and-pepper hair was long, and untouched by professional scissors.

His clothes were a hodgepodge of old things: a faded tuxedo jacket, a pair of dungarees, a white polo shirt, and an old leather belt to hold up the britches. On his feet were work boots. His weathered and handsome face was bristly with scruff.

He did not care about his appearance.

He lived alone. There was no one to impress.

His ancestral home was well over twenty-five thousand square feet, with more than half that again in outbuildings and other structures. It was far and away the largest home in the area, and maybe one of the biggest in the entire commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The estate had once covered hundreds of acres, set on the highest point in the eponymous town.

Fitting for the Barons to look down upon all others.

He had lived here since his birth. The only child of Benjamin and Dorothy Baron. The last married couple to reside here. Their son had never taken a wife.

John Baron had been a tremendous athlete, as well as smart and likable. His future seemed assured — enviable and inevitable.

Until his parents had died on the same night, victims of a horrible accident, or perhaps something else; the jury was still out on that. They left John, then only nineteen, as their sole heir. Though he knew his family was no longer fabulously wealthy, he had believed there was some money left.

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