Dream On (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 2) Read online

  “But the guy on Sampson Street isn’t your guy. He doesn’t work; he’s on welfare. He’s not like the other victims.” He pointed at the house. “This is our guy.”

  Cooper’s police radio came alive. “Detective Cooper, you’re not gonna believe this, but we had contact here.”

  Cooper snatched up the receiver. “What?” He looked at Dale. “Sampson Street.”

  “Caught a guy trying to break in,” the voice said. “Big ol’ machete in his hand. Taking him downtown.”

  “Alright.” Cooper hung up the receiver.

  “Let’s head downtown,” Dale said.

  Chapter 28

  Dale burst through the doors of the downtown headquarters of the Portland Police Bureau and briskly walked inside. Detective Cooper followed. The floor was checkerboarded with gray and white tiles, and the hallway doors and windows were topped with arches. A couple ceiling fans dangled from a high ceiling, one of them not turning and the other rattling precariously, halfheartedly stirring about the languid air. Police crisscrossed the space. Telephones rang. Typewriters clacked. There was a commotion in the back as two cops manhandled a wild, strung-out-looking man. There were well-worn wooden desks with rolling chairs, offices in the back, and rows of wooden chairs. Spiro was sitting in one of these chairs, and when she saw Dale, she quickly stood and walked over to him.

  “Get me up to speed,” Dale said.

  Spiro looked frazzled. Her hair was tussled, and her eyes were wide. “This huge guy with a knife walked right by us, right up to the door of the apartment. Starts kicking it. Then the cops jumped on him.”

  “And you got him?”

  Spiro nodded, pointed toward the back of the building. “They got him in a holding cell.”

  “You okay, Spiro?” Dale said.

  “I … When the cops grabbed him, he was so damn strong. They got the knife away from him, but he threw the first guy into the wall, slid right out of the other one’s grasp. Came right at me down the hall. I jumped at him as he was running by, grabbed his legs, brought him down. Then the cops came up behind me and cuffed him.”

  Dale smiled. “Way to go, Agent Spiro.”

  He gave her a good smack to the back. She scowled at him.

  “Come on,” she said and started in the direction she had pointed moments before.

  Dale walked beside her, and Cooper came with. The hallway was lit by flickering fluorescent lights. At the end of the hall were the bars of holding cells, covered with flaking green paint.

  As they briskly strode down the hall, Spiro pulled out a piece of paper and read over it. “There was a message for you,” she said. “Carl Bradford, the television news director at Channel 16, asked to talk to the lead investigator. He thinks he knows who the second killer is: Adam Steele, one of the anchors on the nightly news.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Cooper said.

  They made it to the end of the hallway, and Spiro took a turn and led them to the correct cell. As they passed the other cells, the rough-looking inhabitants made whistles and noises of appreciation at Spiro. She ignored them, eyes forward.

  Spiro led them to the last cell in the hallway, and Dale looked inside.

  And he stopped dead in his tracks.

  The man behind the bars looked like a transient. Tattered clothes. Scraggly beard. The eyes of a drunk. Not the intense, almost frightening blue eyes that he’d seen on the man he chased and lost in a movie theater.

  “That’s not the guy I saw yesterday,” Dale said.

  “Right, it’s the second guy we haven’t found yet,” Spiro said.

  “No,” Dale said and shook his head, staring at the drifter behind the bars. “Something’s not right here.” He called out to the man. “You tried to break into the apartment.”

  “Hard to deny that,” the man said with a thick drawl. “Three of ’em saw me.”

  “And you were going to kill Andrew Riley?”

  “I never heard that name until that other cop said it,” the man said. “I keep tellin’ you guys, I wasn’t gonna do nothin’ to whoever lived in that apartment. Some guy offered me a hundred dollars to kick in the door while I had that stupid knife in my hand. That’s it.”

  Dale’s mind spun, and his intuition went into overdrive. Something wasn’t right. And he might have just figured out what it was. He looked at Cooper and then to Spiro, an expression of dread stretching across his face. “Where’s Riley?”

  Dale and Spiro rushed into an interview room—small, nondescript, and stark. A short, fat man in track pants and a T-shirt was sitting at a table. He looked greasy, like a man who’d watched television for three days straight and forgotten to take a shower.

  Dale’s intuition continued to scream at him. This wasn’t right. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a folded photocopy of the Chinookan yearbook image of the Five Wisemen. He compared the man in front of him to the five young students. The man looked absolutely nothing like anyone in the photo.

  “Andrew Riley?” Dale said.

  “Yes?”

  Dale held up the picture. “Did you go to Chinookan University?”

  The man laughed. Hard. He rocked back in his chair. “Yeah, sure, buddy. I’m a preacher man now.”

  The door slammed open, and Cooper rushed in. “Agent Conley, the other Andrew Riley has been attacked.”

  Chapter 29

  Arancia screeched to a halt by the house in the wooded neighborhood that Dale and Cooper had been staking out earlier. Dale and Spiro hopped out. It was dark now. Cold. The sounds of insects echoed among the giant tree trunks.

  There was crime scene tape surrounding Andrew Riley’s property. A single black-and-white cop car was parked on the street along with an unmarked car. A uniformed police officer and a man in a suit stood in the front lawn conversing.

  As Dale and Spiro approached the crime scene, the suited man and the cop turned toward them. Dale flashed his badge, and he and Spiro went under the tape. The suited man said something to the cop, who then walked away.

  It was clear the suited man was a person of authority. Perhaps a lieutenant, though he looked a bit young for that, early thirties or so. He was about six foot tall and lean. His hair was bright blonde, perfectly parted and rather short on the sides, framing a face that was small and angular. The suit he wore was black and immaculate. White shirt with a dark blue tie.

  “I’m afraid you’re a little late to the party, Agent Conley,” the man said. “Andrew Riley was attacked, and our assailant got away.”

  “Where’s Riley? Is he alive?” Dale said.

  “Wounded but alive and at a secure location.”

  A disconcerted feeling swept over Dale. “A secure location? Who are you?”

  The man handed Dale his credentials. “I’m Agent Lewis Copeland. I’m with the CIA. And I’m taking over this case.”

  Chapter 30

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Dale said. He handed the badge back.

  “This is well above your clearance now, Agent Conley,” Copeland said as he put his badge away. He had a clear, precise way of speaking. “The CIA has been monitoring your progress. We appreciate the work you’ve done, but now your role in this investigation, and that of Agent Spiro, is to assist me.”

  Dale was a prideful man, and Copeland’s tone cut through him like a red-hot broadsword. “The CIA has no law enforcement authority. And I don’t ‘assist’ anyone.”

  Copeland smiled. It was clearly meant to be mediating but it came across as incredibly condescending. “I respect your vigilance, but we’ve been given special authorization from the FBI. And the fact of the matter is that the CIA is being very generous by allowing you to continue with the investigation given how you’ve handled things. When you started this case, two men had been murdered. Now one more man has been killed and another nearly so had Patrolman Bonner,” he said, pointing at the black-and-white that was now backing away and leaving, “not still been in the area when word arrived that the other A
ndrew Riley had been attacked. Don’t you see what happened? The real killer paid that bum to attack the other Andrew Riley to cease the surveillance here at his real target.”

  “Yes,” Dale said, staring daggers into him. “I’d put two and two together. Thank you.”

  “For the supposed whiz of historical mysteries, Agent Conley, I’m afraid your performance on this case has been less than stellar.”

  That pride of Dale’s was sizzling, ready to pop at any moment. “What exactly do you think your jurisdiction is here?”

  “There are national security matters to this case. I’ll explain. But, again, much of it is way above your clearance level.”

  Dale pointed a finger at Copeland, who continued to look at him with that smug smile. “This is my case, Agent Copeland. And the only man I take orders from is Special Agent in Charge Walter Taft.”

  There was a noise from the house, and Dale turned. The front door opened, and out walked Walter Taft. He was carrying his briefcase and was accompanied by another man who was tall and robust but not fat with white, combed-back hair and tan skin.

  More confusion. It was pummeling Dale now like waves on a beach during a vicious storm.

  “Howdy, pretty boy,” Taft said. He and the other man walked up to Dale, Copeland, and Spiro.

  “Sir, do you mind letting me know what’s going on here?” Dale said.

  “I got the call a few hours ago.” Taft motioned toward the other man standing next to him. “This is Norman Tinner with the CIA’s OSI.”

  They shook hands. Tinner had the look of an oil tycoon. Big and jowly. A paunch pushed against his white dress shirt. His eyes were blue, and his teeth were bright white. His handshake was strong, and his hand was thick but completely devoid of calluses. Soft, even. He looked the type who’d made some of life’s grimmest decisions but had never mown a lawn or changed his own oil.

  “The Office of Scientific Intelligence?” Dale said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry that we have to meet under these circumstances, Agent Conley,” Tinner said. He had the Texas twang to match the oil tycoon persona Dale had conjured up in his head. “But this is a CIA matter now. Agent Copeland, would you please inform Agents Conley and Spiro?”

  Copeland opened his attaché case and took out a folder, which he handed to Dale. Dale opened the folder, flipped through the papers quickly, then passed it on to Spiro. He crossed his arms and stared at Copeland.

  “What we’re dealing with are two killers from an MKUltra experiment in the ’60s,” Copeland said.

  MKUltra. This had already been a grim assignment—dealing with slashed throats and home invasions and stabbings—but Dale felt his spirits drop even further at the sound of that name. The implications were staggering. And Copeland was right about Dale’s clearance; this went way above the sort of issues he typically dealt with.

  Spiro turned to Dale. “MKUltra?”

  Dale was fighting a raging torrent of mixed emotions and his suspicious eyes lingered on Copeland then Tinner then Taft before he turned to Spiro to answer her. “A CIA experiment. It began in the ’50s. Ended a few years ago. They took unwitting American and Canadian citizens, ran experiments on them. Mind control experiments. With all sorts of techniques. Torture, hypnosis, drugs …”

  Neither Tinner nor Copeland looked at all ashamed of Dale’s explanation.

  “Yes,” Copeland said. “In this particular experiment we got word of five young men who came up with a religious theory that could change the world.”

  “The Five Wisemen,” Spiro said. “From Chinookan University.”

  “Their theory was dangerous,” Copeland said. “As passionate as the five of them had been as Christians, their academic discovery convinced each of them to renounce religion. It was a staggering discovery. But if their theory was to ever get out, it could create riot, panic. And it could call into question the principles on which this nation was founded. The world isn’t ready for it yet.”

  Dale shook his head. “Who put the CIA in charge of determining the world’s tolerance to controversy?”

  Copeland ignored him. “When two other men were found to be planning anarchic, Christian-based revolts, these men were also apprehended, and the experiment was staged. Through careful psychological and hallucinogenic manipulation, each group’s beliefs were amplified, and eventually the two groups were made to interact with each other. The two anarchic Christians were put in a position of power over the now atheistic Five Wisemen. The idea was to test the ways in which people react to positions of power and subservience.”

  “Like the Stanford experiment,” Spiro said.

  Dale nodded. She was referring to the Stanford Prison Experiment, a monstrous psychological exercise from a few years back. It had been conducted at Stanford University with funding from the U.S. Office of Naval Research. College students participating in the experiment were given random identities as either “guards” or “prisoners.” The professor in charge, Philip Zambardo, gave himself the role of “superintendent.” The guards grew sick with power and psychologically abused the prisoners. And their superintendent let it happen. It wasn’t until Zimbardo’s graduate student girlfriend objected to the abuses that the experiment was called off.

  “Yes,” Copeland said. “It was our version of the Stanford experiment. Afterward, the members were brainwashed to forget the whole thing, and they were programmed to stay in the region. For our convenience, of course. They were given a trigger phrase, in case reactivation became necessary. Ever seen The Manchurian Candidate? Like that.” He smiled as he said it. Dale’s skin crawled. Not only had Copeland used a pop culture reference to explain the way his organization had abused innocent citizens, but the slime was practically laughing about it.

  “The Latin phrase,” Spiro said.

  Copeland nodded. “And now we’re facing the fact that at least some of them were accidentally triggered three days ago by a freak coincidence—a set of words said by Channel 16 anchor Brittany Smalls. A component of the experiment was to give the Five Wisemen the desire to broadcast their atheistic theory to the world, hence the careers they eventually chose: newspaper, radio, an advertising man, an author. The two Christians were programmed with the desire to stop that message at all costs. The man you’ve been hunting, Agent Conley, based on the description you gave and the description given by Andrew Riley, is a man named Owen Kelso. The other is Gary Holzer.”

  “And now they’re eliminating the Five Wisemen,” Dale said.

  “Yes, while the Five Wisemen are undoubtedly trying to get their theory out to the world. Which is why we have to find all the remaining men. They all have to be stopped.” Copeland crossed his hands in front of his stomach, as though signaling that he was through, and looked at Dale and Spiro, waiting for a reaction to the revelations.

  Dale turned to Spiro. She was as flabbergasted as he was. Dale swung his eyes over the others and landed on Taft. He grabbed Taft’s arm and pulled him to the side, tugging him halfway across the yard before stopping. They were now well out of earshot of the others.

  Taft swatted Dale’s hand away. “Get your hands off me, Conley.”

  “How much of this have you known, and how long have you known it?”

  Taft ran a hand over his shiny forehead. “Conley, I told you. I just got the call a few hours ago. Before that, all I knew was that the CIA was watching this.”

  Dale was fuming. “So you did know.”

  “I didn’t know any of the details until just now. Listen, this is above my clearance too. All I knew was that you couldn’t know the CIA was watching and that I had to make everything look like a normal interagency case.”

  Dale scoffed, putting the pieces together. “So to make everything easier on yourself, you didn’t bring on an actual FBI agent but rather a civilian employee. Less paperwork. Fewer questions asked.”

  “Something like that, Conley. But not as sinister as you’re making it sound.”

  “Christ,” Dale said
, shaking his head. “And you saddled me with the bride of Satan over there. Do you know what a pain in the ass she’s been, sir? That lady has some deep-seated issues. Deep.”

  “I wouldn’t judge so easily, Conley. Spiro was very keen on reading your file before the case. Have you bothered to learn anything about her past?”

  “I know she dumped some poor sap who loved her because he had brain troubles.”

  “When Gillian Spiro was ten years old, she saw her father rape and beat her mother after she totaled the family car. Spiro ran into the room and tried to stop it. A ten-year-old, Conley. Spiro ended up with a broken arm and a concussion. Her mother ended up in a hospital bed for two months. Until she died. Spiro was raised by her aunt and uncle. You like to bitch about your partners. Try getting to know them.”

  Dale’s big mouth always got him into a world of trouble. In his work life, he found that Taft had a magical talent for shaming that could make him feel about two inches tall. Dale was currently two inches tall.

  “I ... had no idea.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  Dale looked over at Spiro now. She was watching him and Taft. They made eye contact.

  “Yeah, she’s not so bad,” Dale said and turned back to Taft. “She’s been adapting really well.”

  Taft looked at her. “Easy on the eyes, too.”

  “You’re married, sir. Think about Peggy, you dirty, old bastard.” Dale’s mind returned to the assignment. “So, the Five Wisemen’s theory. What is it, and why is it so volatile?”

  Taft reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thesis-style bound book. He handed it to Dale. The title was printed on a plain, green cover, just above the names of the Five Wisemen.

  Jesus Christ: A Mythological Creation of the Roman Empire

  Chapter 31

  Alicia Steele grabbed the back of her husband’s shirt as he opened the front door of the house on his way out. She yanked him back and pulled him around to face her. Adam’s big gym bag was in his hand, and he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.