Brutal Honesty-Part Seven

Natalie Schultz was already on the phone, to 911.

"Help! We're at the Wilkinson house-it just exploded. There was a mixture of methane gas and oxygen that detonated resulting in a large fireball that has destroyed the property! Unknown if there are any casualties. Nearby buildings may be on fire."

"I'll send emergency personnel right away. Who is this?"

"Special Agent Natalie Schultz, FBI."

Casie Schwartz watched as Natalie calmly explained what was going on to the emergency dispatcher. If only she could have that same tranquility that seemed to follow Natalie everywhere-even to exploding crime scenes, it seemed. That reminded her. Casie sighed. Now most of the evidence they would have was gone. It was a good thing that all of the photographing had been done already, and some evidence removed, such as the poem. But the note had vanished in the explosion.

Natalie ended the call and walked over to Casie, regarding her partner with that same strangely serene gaze.

"Natalie," Casie began.

"I know. We lost a lot of evidence. And we almost lost our lives, too. But don't worry, Casie, we'll find this killer." She squeezed her cousin's hand. "This murderer won't get away with another killing."

"I sure hope so," Casie replied. "It would be a very good thing to see this man, if he even is a man, locked up. Better yet, taken to the electric chair."

Natalie shivered beside her in the cold. "I know what you mean."


Dimitri Youngblood thought about drawing his gun, but then thought better of it, and sat down in the leather chair across from the two women.
His employer was tall, pushing almost six feet, whereas Treali Storm was shorter than five. Both wore their hair in a braid down the back; the former had jet black hair, the latter, silver. Beyond the braid, and the stony expression common to their faces, the two women had nothing in common. Though he had immediately recognized Storm, he didn't move a muscle in his face. He thought for a moment, rather absurdly, that he should be in Las Vegas, playing poker. What he didn't know was that his employer was thinking the same thing.

"All right," Dimitri conceded, crossing his legs as though to make himself comfortable. "Why don't you tell me what's going on here? After all, I think I have a right to know."

"Well, Mr. Youngblood," his employer said, smiling with that evil grin he had come to despise, "I think it is time we reach one final agreement."

"And that would be?" Dimitri kept his tone civil, although inside, he was uneasy.

"One more person must die."

Dimitri nodded. "Who is it, where, and when?"

"Casie Schwartz. The FBI agent. She is become a liability. You will kill her tonight, when she comes home. Kill her in her bedroom, when she is sleeping with her fiancé, and then kill him, too."

He glanced at Storm, who listened impassively.

"And who is she, and what does she have to do with this?"

"That, Mr. Youngblood," replied the woman carelessly, "is the other part of our deal. She will watch you. She will make sure you do everything right. I take great pride in being meticulous. This woman is my insurance."

She looked for a moment at Storm, who did not return the gaze. "Do you know who this is, Youngblood?" She continued without an answer. "This is Treali Storm. She has killed more than you?She has yet to be arrested. That could change. You have yet to be arrested. Better yet, you have yet to die. That could change."

"What am I being paid?"

Her eyes glittered, then narrowed to slits. "Twenty million. Do it." She slapped another box into his hands as she and Storm moved to leave.

"Wait." Dimitri said in a flat tone.

"Yes?" His employer said coolly, without looking back. "Is there something I should know about?"

"Wilkinson. He said something?He was expecting me!" The woman faltered, and turned to meet Dimitri's eyes. Sensing his triumph, he continued. "He told me to tell you that he was sorry. But what I would like to know is how in the world did he know I was going to kill him? You said this would be a clean job. Apparently, you weren't telling the truth."

She stared at him with icy eyes, and pure contempt.

"You are paid to do a job. Do it without complaint. What a victim says is of no immediate concern."

"He knew my name!" Dimitri insisted.

"Wilkinson chose the path he wanted. What is in the past, it must remain in the past." Storm spoke for the first time, her penetrating grey eyes raking his face. "You are a contract killer, Youngblood. Not a psychologist, nor an historian. What you choose, the path that you walk, it is yours alone. Likewise, Wilkinson's path is alien and utterly unfamiliar to you. Leave it be."

His employer smiled at that last comment, and nodded. "Shall we say, safely, that if you?mmm?become too curious, that curiosity will be stifled. Painfully, and quickly." Dimitri was undaunted.

"You better be paying me for the quality work I'm doing."

"Fear not, Youngblood, twenty-five million from the last job have already been wired to your secure Swiss account. Twenty more, if you complete this final assignment." She leaned in close to him, her breath on his neck. The perspiration on her face glittered. "If you fail?if you fail, I will leave your punishment to your own imagination. I trust you are adept at torturing victims, are you not?" He didn't respond. "Then take my advice, and do what you're told."

The woman left, with Storm behind her. Neither looked back.

"I don't get paid enough for this," he muttered to himself.

After he was sure they were out of earshot, Dimitri took a gadget from his suitcase and scanned the room for bugs. The handheld registered something across the room?There. Dimitri removed the painting of flowers from its hook and plucked the microphone from its hiding spot. Checking to make sure no one was watching, he closed the shades and bolted the door. Then he smashed the microphone with all one hundred and eighty pounds of his tightly muscled body.

"There," he said, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants. He walked back to the bed and opened the last box. Inside were the keys to another car-something anonymous, he supposed, and with fake plates. His hand went automatically to his wallet, and he pulled it out to choose a fake license from the seven he usually carried. Crap. Only six were in there. What happened to the seventh? He had had it earlier?Dang! He must have thrown it at that cop, the red-headed lady. The one he shot. He was getting careless. If only the freak hadn't ticked him off?Son of a-

Dimitri glanced at the clock. He knew his time was running out.


Natalie stamped her feet to keep out the cold, and then looked at Casie. She began to pace back and forth. "You know what?"

"What?" Casie snapped irritably, shaken, and more than a little upset.

"I'll bet you a hundred bucks the DNA profiles have been completed."

"I already know the results," Casie said tiredly.

"What?" Natalie was shocked. "You already got the results?"

"No," Casie explained, "I didn't get the official results. But we both know what they'll be."

"What?" Natalie stared at Casie, waiting for the explanation.

"Wait, you mean you don't know?"

"Of course I don't. I'm waiting for you to tell me!"

"Natalie, every single bit of DNA we have found at every one of these scenes has been from the victim."

"Not anymore," Eugene said grimly. He had walked up from the ambulance some twenty meters away. Both agents turned to stare in surprise.

"Did you hear about the cop who was killed?"

They nodded.

"Name was Patricia MacLeod. Shot point-blank range in the face. No idea why. Maybe you've been told, we think it was the same killer as this series."

"O'Donnell told us that," Casie said impatiently. "We were supposed to stop by the scene when we were done here. What the hey, the place exploded, looks like we have nothing better to do. Why don't we go check it out?"

As they walked towards the car, Eugene continued.

"So the first team to get there noticed immediately that someone had thrown a driver's license onto the ground. Not MacLeod's. I'm sure it was fake, but if you have a fake license, you want your photo on it, right?" Natalie nodded. "Not only is there a nice, clear photo on that thing, someone got a little careless and left their fingerprints on it."

"Right," Casie cut in tersely. "We should get over there now. Don't want to get in anyone's way here. They're busy cleaning up this mess?" She jerked her head towards the smoking Wilkinson house.
Natalie sighed.

"Guess the technicians aren't going to have a chance to run ballistics on the gun and Wilkinson's wounds?At least we have the photographs." But she might as well have been talking to herself.

<a href=http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977215732&nav=Namespace>Part Eight</a>