Mark Edward Hall

Chapter 6

It was nearly 10 am before Portland Police Lieutenant Richard Jennings left the scene of Doug and Annie McArthur’s ruined house and the subsequent carnage left in its wake. Five men were dead from gunshot wounds; none had been carrying identification. Even worse, there had been a massive pileup on both the north and southbound lanes of Interstate 95. Two motorists were dead and six were in the hospital, three in critical condition. Two separate individuals had come forward saying that their cars had been hijacked by gunmen. One had identified photos of Doug and Annie McArthur; the other had no idea who the two gunmen were that threw her out of her vehicle, and furthermore, she could not adequately describe them. For unknown reasons, their faces were just blanks, she told authorities.

Following the initial stages of the investigation, things had happened fast. The State Police had quickly moved in and taken charge of the investigation, followed almost immediately by people in plain dark suits that Jennings recognized as federal agents. When he quizzed them about what agency they worked for he was given the cold shoulder. The State Police were gone in a heartbeat, leaving Jennings to deal with the feds. For the most part they were rude assholes who treated Jennings like a boy scout. By mid-morning they’d dismissed him altogether, telling him in no uncertain terms that his help was no longer needed on the case. He was too close to McArthur and his wife to be objective. Jennings had left the scene feeling like a beaten dog, vowing that there was no way he was going to sit idly by while his best friends were in trouble and on the run.

Jennings had dealt with feds before, on a number of cases, but these guys were different; darker moods, more secretive, much more efficient than what he was used to dealing with. And he never did get the name of the bureau they worked for. His natural instincts put him on guard, made him suspicious, but when he voiced his concerns to his own superiors he was told to back off, to let it be. Things were different in a post-911 world.

Jennings could not believe such a thing had happened and there were a million unanswered questions hammering his sore brain. He’d known Doug since he was a child; they were good friends. And Annie, Doug’s beautiful and gracious wife was a genuine sweetheart. Why would anyone want to hurt them?  They had a perfect life. And why were the feds involved? Who were the fuckers? Nothing made sense.

He did some asking around on the sly. Mostly he got the cold shoulder. An old friend with the State Police told him he wasn’t supposed to talk about it but since they were old drinking buddies he’d give him what he knew, which wasn’t much. Speculation ran the gamut from drug deal gone bad to a botched professional hit. Jennings had to stifle a laugh. He knew Doug wasn’t a drug dealer or a user. It was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. So why would professionals want to kill them? As far as he knew there were no skeletons in Doug’s closet. He believed, or at least wanted to believe, that by now most people had forgotten about Doug’s precognitive escapades as a child. Why would anybody want to bring all that back up? It was ancient history. More than ten years had passed since the last incident. There could be no financial gain by dredging all that shit back to the surface. Too many things had happened since. The world had moved on in new and dangerous ways.

There was one possibility, however. Although Jennings liked Annie immensely, he knew very little about her and her relationship with the De Rochés, her rich and powerful family. He did wonder from time to time how a beautiful woman from such an influential family could be happy living such a modest life. But whenever these thoughts intruded he would only have to think of Doug and he knew the answer. Douglas McArthur was one of the most likeable, honest and sincere people he had ever known. The man was kind and generous and so filled with life that it glowed about him, almost like an aura. Jennings was witness to the way he and Annie treated each other and understood that their love was the most powerful thing in their lives.

Just the same, perhaps there was a connection between Annie and the things that had happened this morning. It seemed a remote possibility, but he would have to start somewhere. He would try and contact her family today and ask some frank questions. Fuck the feds and fuck the politics. He didn’t need any of it. He’d fly below the radar, conduct his own investigation. He just wished Doug would call him.

As he sat at his desk drinking coffee and running all of these ruminations over in his mind, the telephone rang. He snatched it up and said, “This is Jennings. How can I help you?”

“Lieutenant Jennings, this is Seth Baxter, I work for Doug McArthur. Do you remember me? We met at a barbecue at Doug’s house.”

Jennings sat upright in his chair. “Of course, Seth, have you heard from them?”

“Doug called about an hour ago.”

“Where is he?”

“He wouldn’t say. He told me it wasn’t safe, that they were okay, but someone had tried to kill them and he would be in touch as soon as possible.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jennings said, running splayed fingers through wisps of thin blonde hair on his head. “Why?”

“Don’t know,” replied Seth. It was a rhetorical question, of course. Jennings didn’t expect Seth to know.

“Oh, Lieutenant Jennings?”

“Yes?”

“For some reason Doug didn’t want me to call you at the station. He said to use your cell phone number. Doesn’t that seem a little odd?”

“Yes, it does, Seth.”

“I tried calling a couple of times but got your answering service so I decided to call you at the station. I hope that’s all right.”

Jennings reached in his jacket and retrieved his cell phone, looked at the dial. He pushed the button and nothing happened. Dead battery. He could never remember to keep the damned thing plugged in. “Shit,” Jennings cursed.

“Lieutenant Jennings?”

“Oh, sorry, Seth, yes, I’m sure it’s okay. Listen, do you have any idea where Doug would go?”

“No, but there is one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, when he called there was this steady background noise that sounded, well . . . it sounded like jet engines, like those on a plane.”

“Thanks, Seth,” Jennings said. “If you should hear from Doug again please tell him to call me.”

“I will, Lieutenant Jennings.”

“And Seth.”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t talked to anyone else about this, have you?”

“No, just you, Lieutenant.”

“Good. Can I trust you to keep this conversation under your hat?”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t even talk to another police agency.”

“Why not, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling it might not be safe.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

“Good. Well thanks for everything.  Bye now.”

As Jennings hung up he thought he heard a strange metallic echo on the line, as if someone had been eavesdropping. He stared at the phone in his hand. What the hell? Suspicious, he hung the phone up and rifled through his desk drawer until he found a spare cell phone battery, installed it, turned the phone on and listened to his messages. There were two messages from Seth Baxter but none from Doug. Why the hell hadn’t Doug called him? He used his cell phone to call the airport. He discovered that a corporate jet had landed at eight that morning and had picked up two passengers, a man and a woman. The Jet was registered to an offshore company by the name of De Roché Barbados LTD. Jennings had never heard of the company but of course it was De Roché’s company, no question about it. He left his office and strode out into the reception area, asked Rosemary, his secretary, to use the internet instead of the telephone to find out more about De Roché Barbados LTD. She looked at him oddly but did as he asked.

He had no sooner sat back down at his desk when the phone rang again. Jennings grabbed it up, his nerves tense.

“This is Jennings. How can I help you?”

“Rick, this is Special agent Frank Spencer with the FBI. You remember we worked on a case together about ten years ago up in your territory? That family that was . . . killed? They had a little girl but she was never found.”

Suddenly Jennings was on guard. “Yeah, sure I remember. How are you, Spencer?”

“Not so good, Rick.”

“No? What’s up?”

“I remember there was a kid about eighteen or nineteen years old, a friend of yours who claimed to have seen the whole thing in some sort of dream or trance or something. He said that the parents had been killed by this dark thing he couldn’t describe and that the little girl had been taken by it. Kid had the name of some famous general, as I recall. Let me see . . .”

“Douglas McArthur,” Jennings replied with a sigh of discontent. “But it’s spelled differently than the general’s name.” Jennings suddenly and instinctively knew that he was being baited. The feds were involved and of course Spencer was all over it. But why was he being so coy? Why were they all being so fucking coy?

“What do you want, Spencer?”

“Well, since you asked, I was wondering if I might get your help on a case.”

“What case?”

“Hasn’t made the news yet. Listen, for right now this is just between you and me. That okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Last night three members of a family were murdered in their home in Exeter New Hampshire. We’re trying to keep a lid on it for as long as possible.”

Jennings sat puzzled, breathing into the phone. “Little out of my jurisdiction, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t matter. I can get a waiver.”

“I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”

“Well. It’s just that . . . you’ve got experience with this sort of thing.”

“I’m still not following you, Spencer.”

“That guy we just talked about, Douglas McArthur, he still live around there?”

“Now wait a minute, Spencer. That was a long time ago. He was just a kid. He doesn’t play that game any more.”

“I know you’ve never believed he was the one doing those things, Rick. Christ, neither did I. You’re right, he was just a kid. But he saw things, horrific things, incredible things. And they all came true. How do you rationalize that?”

“I gave up trying a long time ago.”

“Maybe you’d better start thinking about it again.”

Jennings temper flared. “All right, Spencer,” he said. “Get to the fucking point. What’s this about?”

“I think you should see these . . . bodies, Jennings.”

It was a long moment before Jennings replied.

“Why?”

“They look just like that family ten years ago did. And the ones before that. We think the same . . . phenomenon killed them.”

“After all this time? Jesus Christ—”

“Something else.”

“What?”

“He left his signature.”

“Shit.” Jennings almost stopped breathing. “The same—”

“Exactly, but this time he left a little bonus.”

“A bonus? What kind of bonus?”

“A symbol of some kind. I won’t try to describe it on the phone; you’ll have to see for yourself.”

“It’ll take me about an hour and a half to drive down there.”

“It can’t wait,” Spencer said. “I took the liberty of sending a chopper. It’ll be landing at the Portland Airport in about ten minutes. You’d better hustle.”

Jennings told Rosemary he’d be out for the remainder of the day and left the office.

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