Steven James - The Rook

The Rook

The B owers Files # 2

Steven James

(c) 2008 by Steven James Published by Revell , a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

Printed in the United States of America All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data James, Steven, 1969-The rook / Steven James.

p. cm. (the Bowers files ; bk. 2) ISBN 978-0-8007-1897-8 (cloth) ISBN 978-0-8007-3269-1 (pbk.) 1. CriminologistsFiction. 2. Arson investigationFiction. 3. TerroristsFiction. I. Title.

PS3610.A4545R66 2008

813 .6dc22

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to real people, either factual or historical, is purely coincidental.

For David and Kellie

The heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go to the dead.

Ecclesiastes 9:3

King James Version

That motley dramaoh, be sure It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.

The Conqueror Worm

Edgar Allan Poe

Thursday, November 5, 2008

Washington, DC

5:32 p.m.

The Chevy Tahoe sloshed to a stop in the soggy patch of unseason-ably thick snow, and Creighton Melice stepped into the twilight.

He scanned the decrepit Washington DC neighborhood. Drug dealers on the corners. A few blank faces staring at him through the windows of dead buildings. Thick shadows spreading across the street. Creighton drew in a breath of the stale air. Ah yes. Being in the rotting core of the city as the day died around him made Creighton Melice feel right at home.

His lawyer, Jacob Weldon, whispered nervously out the window of the SUV. So, do you want me to wait for you, then?

Creighton glanced at him. Weldon. A timid little man with over-ripe eyes.

No. Ill be all right.

Be careful. Weldon sounded relieved.

I always am.

Less than three hours ago Creighton had been in custody. Dank cell. Second-degree murder chargesand most likely a long prison sentence. But then, just as Creighton was rehearsing his story, Weldon showed up and announced hed made bail. Youre a free man, he said.

Dont screw with me.

Im serious.

Who? Who paid it?

Weldon shook his head. I dont know. Someone. A friend.

Creighton scowled. How could you not know? Didnt he have to sign for it?

Sent someone. A big guy, Ive seen him before, sitting in on the preliminaries. But he was just a delivery boy. Someone else footed the bill.

A friend, huh? Well, none of my friends have that kind of money.

Maybe you made a new one. Cmon, lets get you out of this place. Whoever it was wants to see you.

So they left the jail, drove around long enough to make sure no cops were trying to keep an eye on him, and then ended up here at 1311 Donovan Street in front of this vacant gray building wearing a tilted sign that read The Blue Lizard Lounge.

The place Creightons new friend had chosen for the meeting.

After Weldons Tahoe had disappeared around the corner, Creighton scoured the ground for a weapon, snagged a broken beer bottle, and leaned his hand against the dilapidated dance clubs metal door. It clung to its latch for a moment and then creaked open.

A hallway stretched before him, lit only by a meager network of lightbulbs dangling at odd angles every six feet or so.

He didnt like any of this. The meeting. The confined space.

Some guy he didnt even know paying his bail. Creighton tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle. Hed only used a broken bottle as a weapon once. That night had ended well for him, not so well for the guy whod been hitting on the woman who was about to become his girlfriend. He figured he could do at least as much damage tonight if he needed to.

As Creighton approached the end of the hallway, he could see two doors, one on each side. A single word had been scrawled on each door. And, while it was hard to tell for sure in the dim light, the words looked like they might have been painted with blood.

He reached out his hand. Felt the word Pain .

Still damp.

Tasted it.

Yes. Blood.

The word Freedom had been painted on the door across the hall.

Creighton glanced behind him. Only an empty hallway. Then he inspected the doors, checked for light seeping beneath them.

Nothing. Looked around the hallway one more time.

Nothing. Just an empty hallway that terminated here. At these two doors.

Freedom or pain.

Creighton pressed his ear up to each door in turn. Listened.

Not a sound.

He needed to make a choice.

The decision was easy.

Creighton chose pain.

With a soft click, the door mouthed open into a narrow entryway. Maybe fifteen feet ahead of him, a tightly focused light sliced through the center of an adjoining room, probably the abandoned clubs dance floor. A spotlight?

Why a spotlight?

Creighton smelled cigarette smoke. Someone was waiting for him.

His new friend.

Creighton crossed the entryway, and as he stepped into the harsh light, a voice halted him. Thats far enough. The voice was electronically altered, but to Creighton, the speaker sounded male.

Creighton paused.

At the other end of the room, about twenty-five feet away, sat a figure with an industrial-strength halogen work lamp glowing behind his chair. Even though the person was starkly backlit, Creighton could clearly see that whoever it was had a gun.