Dream On (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 2) Page 11

  “Don’t leave until you tell me where you’re going,” she said and left her hand on the shirt, the fabric twisted in her fingers.

  “It’s Monday. I have to work.”

  “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon! You don’t have to be there for hours. What’s going on, Adam?”

  She knew her voice was unsteady and that the fear in her eyes had to be palpable to him. But he just met her gaze blankly, no expression on his face.

  “I’m going away for a while,” Adam said. “That’s all I’m going to tell you for now. This will make sense later.”

  She clenched tighter onto his shirt. “Honey, please. Tell me what’s going on. I’m your wife.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What’s in that?” she said and reached for the bag.

  He pulled it away from her.

  “Adam, please, what is going on? Think about me. And Denny and Rachel.” She put her hands on his shoulders.

  Adam paused. Looked at her. And turned to leave.

  She grabbed his wrist.

  He stopped, glanced down at her hand on his wrist then looked at her. Still no expression in those eyes. He swiped her hand away, turned, and rushed out the door, shutting it behind him.

  Alicia looked down at her hand where he had smacked it away. She held it with the other hand. It stung. But what bothered her more was the fact that he hadn’t kissed her. He always kissed her before he left. Always. Adam would never leave without kissing her.

  And while this hurt her to the core, her presiding feeling at that moment was one of suspicion.

  Chapter 32

  It was gray and dreary again. Generally, Dale despised days like this. But sometimes it made for great study weather.

  And he had been studying for hours. Reading. Pushing his way through the theory.

  His motel room was so dark from the lack of sunlight that he had turned on the lamp at the desk where he was sitting. He was a few pages from the end of the document, and he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. There was a tapping on his door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. Spiro walked in and sat on the corner of his bed. She wore a tan dress, the front of which was styled like a shirt with a collar, pockets on the chest and big buttons that ran from top to bottom. This dress was longer than her skirts had been, falling a few inches below her knee. She paired it with a brown belt and, on her right wrist, three big bracelets of varying shades of brown.

  “And?” Spiro said.

  “Just a few pages left. It’s … quite a theory.”

  “A theory that Jesus never existed.”

  “The theory isn’t just that Jesus never existed. There’s always been debate about whether or not there was a historical character of Jesus of Nazareth. This theory specifically states that the Flavian Dynasty of Roman emperors—Vespasian and Titus who we talked about before — created the character of Jesus and the entire Christian religion.”

  Spiro crossed her legs. “Wait a sec. I thought you said that the Flavians ruled around the 70s to 90s.”

  “69 to 96, to be precise, which includes the reign of Vespasian’s second son, Domitian, who ruled after Titus died in 81.”

  “So that means that if the Flavians created Jesus, they did it decades after he was said to be alive.”

  “Exactly. According to this theory, the Flavians backdated the story precisely forty years. Remember me mentioning the Jewish-Roman War? The Jews in Judea were rebelling against Rome. The Romans were actually quite open to the religions of the peoples they conquered. People could practice what they wanted. But they also had to pay tribute to Rome. There was a requirement that a statue of the current Caesar be located in every area. This didn’t jive with the Jews. No graven images and all that. So they revolted. Titus, while his dad was emperor, destroyed the rebellion.”

  “How does a new religion tie into all this?”

  “Even though they crushed the rebellion in Judea in 70, Judaism was still influential. The Romans had discovered that they couldn’t destroy the religion completely. But they figured they could control it. According to the theory, the Flavians wanted a way to pacify the rebellious people of Judea. So they turned to Jewish messianic prophecy that said that a messiah would be coming to earth. The Flavians created this messiah and backdated him forty years to the time of their enemies, the predecessor dynasty of the Julio-Claudians. They created a peaceful, pacifistic messiah who urged people to ‘turn the other cheek’ and, conveniently, to ‘render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.””

  “Like what Issac Bennett said before he died.”

  Dale nodded.

  “What do the Five Wisemen provide as evidence?” Spiro said. She was always the pragmatist.

  “Typology. The idea that the stories in the Old and New Testaments mirror each other. We see this mirroring throughout the history of all storytelling, the idea of basic story elements repeating themselves. Joseph Campbell calls this the monomyth. The Wisemen’s theory says that the Flavians—using a method similar to typology between the Old and New Testaments—modeled their Jesus character and the events of his ministry as they’re portrayed in the Gospels as dramatizations of the very military campaign that crushed the rebellion in Judea.”

  “Titus was the one who crushed the rebellion. So Titus is Jesus?”

  “More like Jesus is Titus. The Wisemen are saying that the major events in Jesus’ story coincide with events that happened exactly forty years later with Titus. Jesus’s ministry started in the year 30. Forty years later in the year 70, Titus destroyed the Jewish Temple. Jesus’s ministry ended in 33, and the Jewish Roman war ended in 73. Stuff like that.”

  Spiro cocked her head to the side. “I don’t know, man.”

  Dale raised his hands. “Hey, it’s not my theory. So how would the Romans know enough about Jewish prophecy to create their benign messiah? When Titus destroyed Jerusalem, he took with him the spoils of war, which he put on display. Except for one spoil. The Jewish Scriptures. All the copies the Romans could find were destroyed. And maybe more importantly the Flavian’s had Josephus, once one of the leaders of the Jewish rebellion, and now, amazingly, an adopted member of the Flavian family and their historian. Josephus wrote the history of the Jewish-Roman War, and he even says that Titus gave him the Jewish Scriptures. Josephus, as a historian, then described events that fulfilled prophecies from the Old and New Testaments.”

  Dale closed the book.

  Spiro reached out toward the book, and Dale handed it to her. She flipped through the pages. “The theory boils down to a family of Roman emperors and their turncoat historian who created the religion of Christianity and the character of Jesus Christ as a pacifistic, pro-Roman messiah who fulfilled Jewish prophecy and through which the Romans could thus temper an already rebellious group of people.” She paused. “Yeah, I can see what Copeland was saying, that the world isn’t ready for a theory like this.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t think it would create a panic.”

  “We’re getting more secular,” Spiro said and put the book on the bed, “but the 1970s is still a very religious time, Conley. I think you would see troubles in this country, especially if people’s deepest beliefs were suddenly challenged in such a way. It’d be the ‘60s all over again except you’d have people on the other side of things freaking out.”

  Dale shook his head. “See, I think the theory would be quickly refuted, and that would quell anything like you’re describing. While I was reading, I just kept thinking about the supposed backdating and the historical events that happened between the time of Christ and the time of the Flavians. For instance, the Great Fire of Rome in 64. According to the historian Tacitus, Emperor Nero blamed the Christians for the fire. For Tacitus to have connected Christians to a historical event that happened in the time between Christ and the Flavians means that he would have had to have been in on the conspiracy too. And so would a lot of other people for it to work.”

  “Well, people a
re crazy,” Spiro said.

  Dale laughed. “Are you allowed to say that? Being a psychologist and all.”

  “Being a psychologist gives me more permission to say it.”

  “Cold,” Dale said. “But, then, you’re the gal who booted a guy for a rough month together.”

  “Truth be told, I also did it over the phone. While I was several states away. And he was recovering from surgery.”

  Dale’s mouth opened. He looked at the woman sitting on his motel room bed, tried to assess her. Beauty aside and based on appearance alone, she looked sweet. But she had ice water running in those delicate, little veins.

  Still, he could see a bit of pain in her eyes again, like the last time she talked about Calvin Dunnett. She looked at the floor. “I don’t know why I couldn’t make him happy, why it took him so long to love me. Remember in Casablanca when Sam tells Ilsa to leave Rick alone, that she’s bad luck to him? I guess that’s me. I’m Ilsa.”

  “You remind me a lot more of Rick than Ilsa,” Dale said. “Walling yourself off, indulging in your pain.”

  “But I try. I try so hard. I try to analyze things, make the best decisions. But it never works out.” Her eyes grew even more pained. And distant.

  “Not everything fits into charts, Spiro.”

  “Everything fits into charts.” She bit her lip, opened her eyes wider, perhaps fighting off tears.

  Dale had tried a couple times now to get her to realize that humanistic matters couldn’t always be quantified and dissected and compartmentalized. And if he were to reach out to her, offer a hug, there would be a venomous reaction. If he said something lofty and poetic, she would scoff at it. Some people just couldn’t be reasoned with. It was as though they wanted to be sad and tortured. The best you could do for them was to be around if they needed you.

  So he offered her a platitude. “You’ll find the right one some day.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot coming from someone who’s already found his one and only. Have you and Jamison Zane set a date? Big ceremony or just family?”

  At first Dale thought she was being nasty again. But there was a smile on her lips. It was the first time he’d seen her smile. A smile on the lips and the pain still in her eyes. There was deepness to Spiro.

  “Oh, well, nothing’s set in stone yet,” Dale said. “But when we figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He smiled back at her.

  Chapter 33

  Alicia sat at the desk in the office of her and Adam’s house. The blinds were closed, and the room was shadowy. Outside the window, a couple of birds chirped in the murky gloom. There was a light rumbling of thunder in the distance. It was going to rain. She could taste it. Her breathing was rapid, shallow. Her stomach was upset. Her physical symptoms, along with how her mind was in a loop—repeating Adam’s dramatic exit from the house—felt exactly like a breakup. Like being dumped. Heartache. Betrayal. Anxiety. A desire for answers.

  Before her on the desk was a phone book. She had torn through the desk, searching for clues to what Adam had been doing. She saw him writing something the previous night, and he had shielded it from her. She hated searching through things of his. It was betraying his trust. But he hadn’t just been acting out of the ordinary lately; he had been acting dangerously. And she was scared. For her and for her children.

  Adam’s erratic behavior at home would have frightened her no matter what, but coupled with his actions at work, she was beginning to feel terrified of her husband. There had been his notorious meltdown, of course, but it was his stammering during the broadcast the following night that concerned her more—because he lost his composure precisely when he began reporting the murders. Dark, unthinkable thoughts had been tormenting her.

  She found nothing unusual in the desk, so she flipped through the phone book. Adam had been obsessed with the phone book, making secret calls. She came across a page with listings for the name Nathan Cook, a name she recognized from yesterday’s news as being the latest victim in the killing spree. All of the listings for that name had been crossed off with an ink pen.

  She felt her heart beat rapidly, a tingling over her skin. Panic. She knew that the best way to respond to a crisis situation was to think rationally. But how could she?

  When it looked as though her husband was a serial killer.

  Rational. Be rational. What was the rational thing to do?

  She stood up and ran downstairs, grabbed a newspaper, and went back up to the office, returned to the chair. The rain had started. It pattered the window. She looked through an article about the killings and found the other victims’ names. Isaac Bennett, Philip Vasquez. She flipped to those names in the phone book and found that Adam had crossed off some of those entries too.

  She felt nauseated.

  A piece of paper, folded in two, fluttered out of the phone book. She picked it up. On the paper was a two-column note, written in her husband’s handwriting, though the script was sloppier than Adam’s usual, steady penmanship.

  Most of the names in the right column she didn’t recognize, though they looked to her to be historic. In the left column, the first three names were the names of the murder victims, the names she just found crossed off in the phone book.

  She looked at the last name, Andrew Riley, and her trembling hands moved reluctantly back to the phone book.

  She flipped to the Rs. And saw more pen marks. Both listings for Riley, Andrew had been crossed off. She gasped and dropped the phone book. She covered her mouth with her hand. Something drew her attention back to the newspaper. She saw the smaller article to the side, and remembered why the name Andrew Riley had looked familiar. The article’s title was: Two Men Attacked—Possible Victims of Serial Killer? She began reading.

  Two men, both by the name of Andrew Riley, were attacked yesterday in the Portland area. Though both men survived, the fact that they bear the same name has led investigators to suspect that one of these men was to be the next victim. Since the attacks were carried out within a short time from each other and many miles apart, this all but confirms the theory that there are two or more killers at large.

  She put the newspaper down and took a couple short, choppy breaths. Her body quivered. Then she looked at the phone. She picked up the receiver, her fingers shaking so badly she could hardly dial.

  Bradford’s baritone voice replied. “Hello?”

  “Carl?”

  “Alicia? What’s wrong?” Deep concern in his tone.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at work. I’m calling about Adam. I think something horrible is going on.”

  “I’ve been having worries about him myself. Acting so strangely.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s more than that. He left the house, wouldn’t tell me where he was going. And I ...” She could barely make herself say it. “I think he’s the second killer they’re after.”

  Alicia heard him release a long breath. “I’ve been having the same thought. In fact I ... I called the police yesterday and got a statement to the federal agent in charge of the investigation, Dale Conley.”

  It shouldn’t have comforted her to learn that someone had turned her husband’s name in to the police. But she was surprised to realize that it did. “That’s actually quite a relief.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was going off a hunch. Unless you’ve found some sort of evidence?”

  Alicia looked down at the note. “I have. A phone book. And a note. Adam has crossed off everyone in the book with the names of the murder victims.”

  “Bennett, Vasquez, and Cook,” Bradford said.

  “They’re crossed off, Carl.” Alicia’s voice began to shake. “All the names. And there’s also—”

  “Andrew Riley is on the list too.”

  “Yes.”

  Bradford always had a commanding but reassuring quality during tense moments, and now, at the darkest moment she could imagine, he spoke in a voice that calmed her frantic heart ever so slightly. “A
licia, it’s not safe for you there. Get out of that house immediately. And pull the kids from school. You can all stay at my house tonight.” Bradford’s tone became grave. “But first, take that note and phone book to the police.”

  Chapter 34

  Owen was in his decrepit hotel room in a ruined part of Portland. The heater under his window rattled and pumped out a musty breeze of stale air with a lingering hint of a thousand cigarettes. It had gotten chilly and rainy outside, so he had turned it on, but he kept it at its lowest setting because even though it was so cold, his body was warm. Since he heard the words four days ago, the words that brought the memory of the facility back to him, he’d felt a rise in his body temperature. It was as though his mission was warming him from the inside.

  He sat at the table, leaning back in the chair in a tank top. The phone was to his ear, and as he waited for the operator’s response, his eyes danced around the room. The motel was truly terrible, godforsaken in the most literal sense of the word. He looked at the bed and its ratty cover and wondered as to the number of hedonistic activities that had taken place there. A Western was playing on the old, black-and-white television, the volume turned low. Over the sound of gunfire and hoofbeats there was the cadence of rain outside, tapping against the window.

  The operator finally got back to him. “Hautala, you said?”

  “That’s right. H-A-U-T-A-L-A. Tyko Hautala. T-Y-K-O.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no listing under that name.”

  Owen exhaled. “Thank you.”

  He hung up. Then slammed the phone on the table. The impact made the bell inside ring, and it let out a long note that slowly faded away to nothing.

  Owen stood up and paced in a circle, ending up at the window. He watched rain spatter the glass, the drops washing down the pane. The sky outside was gray. The cityscape was bleak. There was the sound of traffic on wet roads.