Brutal Honesty-Part Eight

Now there would be no ceremony, no more family dinners, no more talk of Scrabble competitions, or of first dates. Nothing. Patricia MacLeod was the body Natalie Schultz was staring at. Eugene Kaufman stood a ways away from the crime scene, smoking on a cigarette. Natalie had absentmindedly told him he would get cancer and die, but Eugene shrugged it off.

"I just survived being killed by an explosion. What's a little carbon monoxide going to hurt me?" So Natalie left him alone to inspect the body. Local police were guarding the perimeter, and the crime scene tape flapped in the wind. December.

The body was remarkably well-preserved, thanks to the icy weather. Patricia lay on her back, her arms extended as though she was making a snow angel, not that any snow had remained on the highway. Her legs were together though, and it struck Natalie that she could have been the spitting image of Jesus on the cross. Except, of course, Patricia was female, and wearing clothes, and there was no cross...Natalie stopped the line of thought. It was going nowhere.

"What do you see?" Casie Schwartz asked, standing beside her.

"I see tire tracks across her legs and left arm," Natalie answered promptly, "and a bullet hole in her forehead. It's definitely an entry wound. I can't tell from this vantage point whether or not there is an exit wound, but I'd bet there is. She's been here for quite a while now; the body is cold. Unlike Ephraim: he was still warm when we got to him."

"I meant concerning the killer's mindset," Casie said dryly.

"This was impulsive. Unplanned. Wild. A mistake. He was careless." To emphasize her point, Natalie pointed to chalk lines that marked out where the license had been left. Someone had taken it to have the fingerprints analyzed. But a photograph had been left behind. Natalie picked up the photograph, examining the license.

The face on the license was that of a handsome man. European, with a great tan and dark hair, slicked back and grown to just beyond the ears. The dark eyes were penetrating, deep-set, probing. The man wasn't smiling; he stared defiantly into the camera. The name listed was Gary Kerrigan.

"It's bound to be a fake name. An alias."

"You're right," Casie said. She stared at the face, trying to conjure memories. She tilted her head to the side, squinting at the small picture within a picture. "He looks a lot like someone I know...I don't know." She shook her head slowly. "The face is familiar-it's a long shot. I know I must have met hundreds, maybe thousands of people, in my lifetime, and after a while, everyone's face starts to look the same..."

"Hey!" Eugene objected, finished with the cigarette and circling over to where the two agents were staring at the photograph. "I think my face looks unique." He pretended to look hurt, but neither woman paid him any attention. They were too busy trying to recall the face on the dropped driver's license.

Casie shook her head. It was no use. Only one other person she knew might be able to place the face on the remarkably realistic forgery. Her father. Yosef Schwartz was a federal judge in Washington D.C. and had met most of the people Casie had met. Yosef had also met many hundreds of people for himself, and had presided over several widely-publicized cases.

She looked up to see Natalie and Eugene peering at her.

"I'm going to stop by my dad's office. I think he might know who this man is."

"Really?" Natalie was dubious; Eugene, skeptical.

"Natalie do you mind staying here, and cataloguing anything else that might be of interest?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Thanks." Casie turned to Eugene and gave him a peck on the cheek that left him turning red. "And Eugene, thanks for all the help. But for your own safety, please stay out of this."

 Dimitri Youngblood went to a local gym and worked out for an hour or so. He lifted weights, ran the treadmill, and punched and kicked a large red punching bag until his shirt was soaking wet and he had to take it off.

Wham, wham. With every impact, Dimitri felt more powerful, stronger than before. Wham, wham. He released his anger into every punch, into every kick that sent the bag twirling meters away before returning to be hit again. Wham, wham. His jaw was set, his mouth formed into a hard, thin line. His brow was soaked, and his muscles tiring. Wham, wham.

When he was done, he showered, changed, and left without a word, the rhythmic pounding coursing through his veins. Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, Casie Schwartz would be dead and he, Dimitri Youngblood, would be on his way out of America, for good.

"Sir?" The voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

"What?" he growled, masking his surprise. He had let his guard down again. Not good.

"Did you drop this?" The man handed him his cell phone. Crap. He was losing it. It was a good thing he was retiring for a while. He was growing overconfident, arrogant, even. He really needed to settle down. Dimitri took his phone, thanked the man tersely, and walked with his head down to the hotel.

Treali Storm was waiting for him in the room. His employer was nowhere to be seen. She did not acknowledge his entrance. Her grey eyes followed him as he moved around the room, settling at last into a large leather chair with a cup of coffee.

"What?" Dimitri scowled after five minutes of silence. Storm's eyes ticked over him, unimpressed, seeming to note every flaw in his appearance, at least everything she saw as a flaw.

"Tell me," Storm said quietly, "why you chose this path. Why did you become a contract killer, Youngblood?"

"None of your friggin business," he snapped. Storm didn't respond, but continued to stare at him with her piercing eyes. Dimitri was beginning to feel more than a little freaked out.

"Will you quit staring at me like that?"

Storm was silent.

"Fine," Dimitri huffed. "I like killing people. It's fun. And I'm good at it. So why shouldn't I get paid for doing something I like and am skilled at?"

"You take pleasure out of killing people?" Storm finally spoke. "You enjoy knowing that each victim will never breathe again, will never speak or step again, will never love again? You take pleasure out of that?"

It was Dimitri's turn to stare. The fugitive continued, shaking her head in bemusement.

"No, Youngblood. If you truly took pleasure out of killing someone, then you could no longer be called a man. You are simply deluding yourself, Youngblood. Answer the question: why did you choose this path?"

Dimitri looked at the woman in front of him. He knew that she was Middle Eastern, yet she struck him as looking more European and acting more Oriental, what with her strange philosophical questions. He also knew that he could kill her in an instant. His hand hovered over the holster at his side, but then he thought better of it, remembering why Storm was even here in the first place. His employer had sent her. Great. I've messed up enough where she needs me supervised, like I'm still a child. This is not good.

Then again, he could always kill both of them-Storm and his mysterious employer-and be done with them forever. He really didn't want to kill Schwartz. But no one could know that.

Casie stood outside the mahogany door, and then knocked, tentatively at first, but more

confidently by the time her father called out "come in".

Casie walked into the study, magnificently furnished, and covered with papers. Yosef Schwartz was sitting at the desk, reviewing some paperwork that he hastily put to the side

when he saw his daughter. He smiled.

"Hello, Casie," Yosef greeted her. "How are you?"

Casie stared at him. So he hadn't heard about the explosion. Feeling a little miffed, Casie sat down across from her father. "Dad," Casie said. "I was at the Wilkinson house."

Yosef's face was blank.

"Kenneth Wilkinson, Dad."

"Oh," Yosef said, taken aback. "Invited?"

"Not exactly. Kenneth was killed, and I was investigating. Am investigating. The house exploded, Dad."

"What?" Yosef bolted upright. "Are you okay?"

"Physically, I'm fine. Psychologically, not so. I need you to look at something."

"Certainly, Casie. What's going on?"

Casie pulled out the photograph of the license. "I need you to tell me if you know who that is. The man in the picture."

"Casie, his name's on the license."

"Dad, it's fake," Casie said curtly.

"Oh." Yosef stared at the face for a while, then looked at Casie suspiciously. "Why?"

"Dad, this is for a case I'm working on!"

"Are you sure this isn't something more personal, Casie?"

"Tell me who it is."

"Casie, this is a picture of Dimitri Youngblood."

Casie burst out laughing, then realized her father was serious. She looked at the picture again, unconvinced. The healthy, robust-looking man in the picture didn't resemble the Dimitri she remembered at all.

"Dad, are you sure?" Casie asked, a funny feeling creeping up her spine.

"Why of course I'm sure. Positive." Yosef leaned forwards on his desk, crumpling some of the papers. "Casie, if you found this at Kenneth Wilkinson's house-"

"Dad, I found it at a roadside killing. The man on the license killed a cop and drove away."

"What?"

"Yeah, Dad. It's the same guy who killed Miranda Swift, Jonas Ephraim, Brianna Parks, and now Kenneth Wilkinson."

"Dimitri?" Yosef was shocked.

"Thanks, Dad, I have to go."

Casie grabbed her coat, purse, and the photo, and rushed out of the building and into her car. She called Natalie's cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Natalie, it's me, Casie. My dad ID'd the man as Dimitri Youngblood. You know, my first boyfriend? The one I wrote the poems for."

"That's the connection," Natalie said, awed.

"Yup," Casie replied grimly. "I'm going straight to the Hoover building. This is big."

Natalie went to reply, but Casie had already cut the connection.

Dimitri pulled out the gun and aimed it at Storm's face. She didn't flinch, or even blink. So much for the terror aspect.

"If you think your weapons will threaten me, you are wrong, Youngblood," Storm said softly.

"Put the gun down, brother."

"Brother?"

She didn't respond.

"I'm not your brother," Dimitri said.

"We are all brothers and sisters, here," Storm replied. "That is why this killing must stop."

Dimitri was so surprised he almost dropped the gun.

"But, you, me, we're not," Dimitri was at a loss for words.

"Biologically related we are not. But all are brothers and sisters. Put the gun down."

"Then if you don't want people to die, then why, why are you here? Why did you go along with..." Dimitri didn't even know his employer's name. "With that woman?"

"Go along?" Treali said. "Hardly. She is going along with me. You are going to pack your bags and leave. Do not return to America."

"No."

"Then you will do what Plan B requires."

"Plan B?" Dimitri echoed.

"We are going to find and confront Casie Schwartz."

"But I thought-"

"You will not kill her, Youngblood. You will tell her the truth."

"Truth? What truth?"

"The truth you already know."

"But what about-"

"I will take care of everything. Now put the gun away. We have much work to do."

<a href=http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977216078&nav=Namespace>Part Nine</a>