Cody McFadyen - The Darker Side: A Thriller

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THE

SIDE

Also by Cody McFadyen

SHADOW MAN

THE FACE OF DEATH

D A R K E R

Cody McFadyen

B A N TA M B O O K S

NEW YORK

TORONTO

LONDON

SYDNEY

AUCKLAND

A Bantam Book / October 2008

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright 2008 by Cody McFadyen

Book design by Carol Malcolm Russo

Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McFadyen, Cody.

The darker side / Cody McFadyen.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-553-90567-0

1. Government investigatorsFiction. 2. Women detectivesFiction. 3. Serial murderersFiction. I. Title.

PS3613.C438D37 2008

813'.6dc22

2008028095

www.bantamdell.com

v1.0

THIS ONE IS FOR HYERI, AND ALL HER GENTLE WAYS.

THANKS AS ALWAYS TO LIZA AND HAVIS DAWSON FOR SUCH

able and enthusiastic representation. Liza, thanks for listening all the times I needed to bitch and moan. Continuing thanks to Chandler Crawford for lugging my works across the ocean to other countries and getting them excited too. Big thanks to both Danielle Perez and Nick Sayers for the excellent editing; they never fail to make me make it a better book. And to all the readers whove e-mailed or written, youre the fuel for the engine. Ill keep writing as long as youll keep reading.

THE

SIDE

THE CALM

DYING IS A LONELY THING.

Then again, so is living.

We all spend our lives alone inside our heart of hearts. However much we share with those we love, we always hold something back. Sometimes its a small thing, like a woman remembering a secret but long-gone love. She tells her husband shes never loved anyone more than him, and she speaks the literal truth. But she has loved someone as much as him.

Sometimes its a big thing, a huge thing, a monster that cuddles up next to us and licks us between the shoulder blades. A man, while in college, witnesses a gang rape but never steps forward. Years later that man becomes the father of a daughter. The more he loves her, the worse the guilt, but still, still, still, hell never tell. Torture and death before that truth.

In the late hours, the ones when everyones alone, those secrets come knocking. Some knock hard and some knock soft, but whispering or screeching, they come. No locked door will keep them out; they have the key to us. We speak to them or plead with them or scream at them and we wish we could tell them to someone, that we could get them off our chest to just one person and feel relief. We toss in bed or we walk the halls or we get drunk or we get stoned or we howl at the moon. Then the dawn comes and we shush

C O D Y M c F A D Y E N

them up and gather them back into our heart of hearts and do our best to carry on with living. Success at that endeavor depends on the size of the secret and the individual. Not everyone is built for guilt. Young or old, man or woman, everyone has secrets. This I have learned, this I have experienced, this I know about myself. Everyone.

I look down at the dead girl on the metal table and wonder: What secrets did you take with you that no one will ever know?

Shes far, far too young to be gone. In her early twenties. Beautiful. Long, dark, straight hair. She has skin the color of light coffee, and it looks smooth and flawless even under these harsh fluorescents. Pretty, delicate features go with the skin: vaguely Latin, I think, mixed with something else. Probably Anglo. Her lips have gone pale in death, but they are full without being too full, and I imagine them in a smile that was a precursor to a laugh; light but melodic. Shes small and thin through the sheet that covers her from the neck down. The murdered move me. Good or bad, they had hopes and dreams and loves. They once lived, like all of us, in a world where the deck is stacked against living. Between cancer or crashes on the freeway or dropping dead of a heart attack with a glass of wine in your hand and a strangled smile on your face, the world gives us plenty of chances to die. Murderers cheat the system, help things along, rob the victims of something its already a fight to keep. This offends me. I hated it the first time I saw it and I hate it even more now. I have been dealing with death for a long time. I am posted in the Los Angeles branch of the FBI and for the last twelve years I have headed up a team responsible for handling the worst of the worst in Southern California. Serial killers. Child rapists and murderers. Men who laugh as they torture women and then groan as they have sex with the corpses. I hunt living nightmares and its always terrible, but its also everywhere and inevitable.

Which is why I have to ask the question.

Sir? What are we doing here?

Assistant Director Jones is my longtime mentor, my boss, and the head of all FBI activities in Los Angeles. The problem though, the reason for my maybe-callous query, is that were not in Los Angeles. Were in Virginia, near Washington, DC.

T H E D A R K E R S I D E

This poor woman may be dead, the fact of her death may touch me, but shes not one of mine.

He gives me a sideways glance, part thoughtful, maybe a little bit annoyed. AD Jones looks exactly like what he is: a veteran cop. He exudes law enforcement and leadership. Hes got a square-jawed, strong face; hard, tired eyes; and a regulation haircut with no nod to style. Hes handsome in his way, with two past marriages to prove it, but theres something guarded there. Shadows in a strongbox.

Command performance, Smoky, he says. From the Director himself.

Really?

Im surprised by this on a few levels. The obvious is simple curiosity: Why here? Why me? The other is more complex: AD Joness compliance to this unusual request. He has always been that rarity in a bureaucracy, someone who questions orders with impunity if he feels it is warranted. He said command performance but we wouldnt be here if he didnt feel there was a valid reason for it.

Yeah, he replies, the Director dropped a name I couldnt ignore.

The door to the morgue swings open before I can ask the obvious question.

Speak of the devil, AD Jones mutters.