Chris Kuzneski - The Prophecy

‘Wait. You think this was about her , not us ? I’m not sure about that.’

‘Me, neither. But until we ID the shooter, what can we say? If he’s from our past, we can’t tell the cops anything. We’ll have to get the Pentagon involved. And if that happens, you know damn well our statements will have to be cleared by them.’

‘And what if he isn’t from our past?’

‘Then he might’ve come for the letter. I mean, that’s why she was here, right?’

Jones nodded. ‘By the way, I’ve got it.’

‘Good. We’ll deal with it later. In the meantime, what should we say?’

‘Let’s stick to the basics. She showed up at your

‘And what were we discussing?’

‘You tell me. I came up with everything else.’ Payne paused in thought. ‘Let’s keep it simple. She was a schoolteacher interested in Greece, and she asked us about our treasure. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘Anything else to worry about?’

‘Just one thing. But it’s kind of big.’

‘What is it?’ Payne asked.

‘That gun you’re holding? I bought it on the street and never registered it because the serial number was filed off.’

‘What?!’ Payne blurted, suddenly panicked. The last thing he needed was to be arrested on a weapon’s charge.

Jones stayed quiet for several seconds before he cracked up with laughter. ‘Nah, I’m just messing with you. Serves you right, though. I can’t believe you stole my gun. If I’d had a backup piece, I would’ve shot you in the ass. You sneaky bastard!’

Payne hung up the phone without saying another word, realizing that Jones was fully within his rights to torture him. In fact, he’d probably

In the meantime, he had more important things to worry about.

Like identifying the shooter.

Payne untucked his dress shirt and exposed the bottom of his undershirt. With the soft cloth, he carefully wiped off all the smudges on the driver’s sunglasses. When he was done, he held them up to a street light and inspected the lenses. To his naked eye, they were spotless.

Next, he walked behind the bus and searched for the shooter’s torso. The initial impact had killed the man, snapping his spine and ribs like toothpicks. The messy part had come later, when his body got caught on the front axle and had been dragged along the asphalt for half a city block. At some point he had ripped free and was quickly run over by one of the rear wheels, which squirted out his innards like a popped zit. Thankfully one of the guy’s arms was mostly intact because that’s what Payne needed to make his identification.

Grabbing the lifeless hand, Payne made a perfect thumb print on one of the clean lenses, then repeated the process with the index finger on the

With any luck, he would know the shooter’s background by the end of the night.

13

Jones answered the same questions, over and over, for nearly forty minutes. First it was the campus cops, then the Pittsburgh police came rolling in. One officer after another, each slightly higher up the food chain than the previous one, all of them asking the same things. Not that Jones complained. He had spent too much time in the military to get upset over the chain of command.

The only request that bothered Jones was their final one of the evening. Since he was covered in blood splatter, they asked him to undress inside the chapel and give his tuxedo to a forensics expert for further analysis. Jones wasn’t sure why they needed his clothes — the shooter was dead, which meant this case would never go to court — but he complied. He figured, the sooner he got out of the police’s spotlight, the better. Because there were things he needed to do.

Illegal things.

Unfortunately, he would be forced to do them

With very few options in the lost and found, the police scrambled to find an alternative. The best they could come up with was a khaki jumpsuit that was a few sizes too small, but all things considered, it was acceptable to Jones. He wondered where they had found it on such short notice until he read the name on the front pocket. The tiny patch said: Sam .

‘Thank you, karma,’ Jones mumbled as he got dressed in the basement.

Upstairs, Sam was waiting for him. He stared at Jones for several seconds, checking him out in his new outfit, then burst into laughter. ‘Not as gay as your monkey suit.’

He took it in his stride. ‘Thanks for the loan.’

‘Loan, my ass. Report to work at 6 a.m. sharp. I’ll be damned if I’m cleaning up the blood myself. That shit ain’t in my job description.’

Jones bit his tongue and left before the janitor

Only a couple letters different from Sam , but way cooler in his mind.

No way in hell he was giving it back. Not unless they returned his tux.

Ironically, the coat was going to do more than keep him warm. It was going to help him break the law, which was why he had asked for it in the first place. If he had been concerned with warmth or style, he would have walked over to the Cathedral and retrieved his jacket from the coat-check girl. Instead, he wanted to use the SWAT coat to gather intelligence.

During the question and answer period, Jones had kept a few titbits to himself. The first was the existence of the mysterious letter. Since it was in his possession when Ashley was killed, he didn’t see the need to tell them about it. And neither did Payne. So Jones stuck with the basic story

The second item was a little more dishonest. Not a bold-faced lie, just a simple omission that would slow down the police investigation by an hour or so. It was the time Jones needed to get some information for himself.

Very early on, Jones realized Ashley wasn’t carrying any identification. He had figured that out when cop after cop kept asking if he knew her full name. The truth was he didn’t. She had introduced herself as Ashley and had never provided a surname during their conversation. If she had, he would have told the police immediately, so they could notify her next of kin.

However, he had failed to mention the location of her car. He knew he should have since it probably contained her purse, or insurance papers, or something with her name and address, but he decided against it because he wasn’t sure what else might be there.

Maybe information about the letter. Or possibly the actual letter.

Whatever the case, he wanted to see it first.

Wearing his SWAT jacket, Jones ducked under the crime-scene tape and turned left on Varsity

Everywhere Jones looked he saw bright, flashing lights. The entire left-hand lane was filled with police cars and satellite trucks from the evening news. People scurried to and fro, half of them buzzing from adrenaline, the other half from caffeine. Compared with earlier, this seemed like a different place — as though Pittsburgh had been magically transformed into Las Vegas. Only with fewer strippers and a lot more snow.

Glancing across the street, he saw Ashley’s Ford Taurus. It was parked fifty feet to the right, buried under an inch of fresh powder. In his mind, that was good news because it would help conceal what he was about to do. He needed to break into her car, right under the cops’ noses.

With a smile on his face, Jones walked down the steps like he owned the place. After waving to some detectives, he said hello to a group of paramedics, acting like he belonged, like he was one of them. And because of that, no one questioned his presence. Although the jacket helped, his attitude

Reaching into his pocket, Jones pulled out his wallet. Hidden in the crease of the leather was a small set of lock picks he had carried with him for years. The type that could get him inside a car or building in a matter of seconds. He had learned how to use them in the military and had continued to use them during his career as a private detective — a career that began several years sooner than Jones had ever imagined it would.