Even as she walked into her office, Summerset stepped out of Roarke’s. The man had some kind of spooky radar, or he’d found a way to plant tracking devices.
Either way, it was creepy.
“I have some information you may want.” He offered her a disc. “There are names on there of people who trust me. Their identities must be protected.”
“Understood.”
“Some of the information can’t be officially confirmed, as the files have been sealed if not destroyed.”
She lifted the disc. “Is this speculation or fact?”
“The attacks are fact. There were witnesses, including the boy I spoke of last night—though he’s no longer a boy. You have his name now, and his statement as he related it to me. Others I spoke to, who were in the position to know or find out, state the initial investigation was able to identify most of the components of the substance used. The base was lysergic acid diethylamide, commonly called—”
“LSD. I know what it is.”
“The other components are on the disc, but as I said, can’t be confirmed. I have a connection who was, during the time, in the King’s Army. We weren’t acquainted during the war, but met some years after. He states a suspect was apprehended after the second attack, taken into custody. The investigation was subsequently closed, and deemed an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Officially, yes. Speculation, as he related the rumors that ran through the ranks. The suspect was transported to an unknown location. My acquaintance believes he was executed, but that can’t be verified. Others believe he was held and used to create an antidote, or still others say the military used him to create more of the substance, perhaps others.”
“No ID on the suspect then?”
“The theory was, and remains, he—or they—were part of the fringe element who believed society had to be destroyed before it could be rebuilt. The Purging, they called it. They were, thankfully, small groups who used any means to destroy homes, buildings, vehicles—hospitals were a favorite target, as were children.”
“Children?”
“They abducted them. Those they abducted they indoctrinated, or attempted to indoctrinate into their ideology. Once they’d purged—people, culture, technology, finance—the children would repopulate and rebuild.”
“Why haven’t I heard of this?”
“The Purging is documented, though whitewashed and diluted. Study your history, Lieutenant. Past is prologue.”
“Shit.” She turned to her board. “Maybe this is some fringe group of terrorists, and I’m going in the wrong direction.”
“Has there been any contact with authorities? Any claim for credit?”
“No. And damn it, this type of group wants the credit.”
“I agree. Any attack during the Urbans initiated by these fringe groups was immediately followed by a message sent to the nearest military or police authority. It was always the same message: ‘Behold a Red Horse.’”
“Horse? What the hell does a horse have to do with it?”
“I remember this,” Roarke added. “I’ve read of this, of them. They didn’t have a specific leader or figurehead, and were for the most part scattered and disorganized. But fervent all the same. They believed the wars, and the social and economic upheaval before them, signaled the end-time. And they not only welcomed it, but sought to help it along to their own ends.”
“Great.” She shoved the disc in her pocket, then a hand through her hair. “Add possible whacked religious fanatic to the mix. What’s with the horse?”
“The Second Horseman of the Apocalypse,” Summerset told her. “‘And when he had opened the second seal I heard the second beast say “Come and See.’”
“‘And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.’”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t blame him,” Roarke said. “He didn’t actually write it.”
“The red horse is often interpreted to represent war,” Summerset added. “And so they used that symbol, and that passage to symbolize their beliefs, and justify their murder of innocents.” Summerset studied her boards. “I don’t know if it’s what you have now.”
“It’s a hell of a long time to wait between attacks, but I have to follow this up. I appreciate the information.”
“Of course.”
Roarke looked after him when he left. “Difficult memories for him. You understand difficult memories.”
“Yeah, I do. And it’s worse if they decide to make a replay. That horse thing’s from the Bible?”
“Revelation.”
“I’ll need to take a look at it, and at your data. Maybe there’s another connection, personal grievance, greed, and bastardized religion. Abducted kids. We don’t have that. Possibly the killer was an abducted kid—toddler gets snatched, raised in Crazy Town, grows up and decides to saddle the red horse.”
She shook her head. “I have to work through this.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” He took her shoulders, drew her in for a kiss. “I’ll come into Central later if I can.”
She went to her desk, called up Roarke’s data. She gauged her time, hit the highlights, ordered the cross to run, and the results to copy to both home and office comps.
While it ran, she read Summerset’s data, picked through it, wrote up her own notes. Somewhere, she mused, there’d be a file on known members of this Red Horse cult. Sealed and buried maybe, but they’d be somewhere.
Once she’d organized for the briefing, she decided she’d program Revelation to audio on her vehicle computer. Save time.
She hauled up everything she needed, snagged her coat on the way out.
She intended to bypass her office, head straight to the conference room to update the board, program the new images. And spotted Nadine Furst, Channel 75’s top screen reporter, best-selling author, and dogged crime beat investigator pacing the corridor outside her bullpen.
They may have been friends, but at the moment, the always camera-ready, sharp-eyed Nadine was the last thing she wanted to deal with.
Nadine’s power-red toothpick heels clicked, and the glossy pink bakery box she carried swung back and forth with her movements. Eve wondered why, of all days, her men hadn’t snatched the baked goods and given Nadine a pass into her office.
Couldn’t get past her, Eve calculated, and into the conference room where even Nadine didn’t have the balls to intrude.
Eve moved forward, recognizing by those clicking heels and the swinging box Nadine was steamed.
“Getting an early start today,” Eve commented on Nadine’s return trip.
Those cat-green eyes fired. “You don’t return my half dozen contacts, and Jenkinson—Jenkinson, for God’s sake—turns down three dozen handmade pastries and tells me I have to wait out here or in the lounge. I get nothing but spin and double-speak from the media liaison. I deserve better than this, Dallas. Goddamn it.”
“I haven’t returned your contacts or any from the media. We’re Code Blue until the media conference later today.” Eve shot up a hand before Nadine could snarl a response. “My men, including Jenkinson, have more on their minds than pastries. Whatever you think you deserve, Nadine, there are times you just have to wait.”
“If you don’t trust me after all this—”
“It’s not a matter of trust. It’s about time and priorities. I can give you five minutes, and that’s all.” She turned into the bullpen, held out her hand for the bakery box. Jaw tight, Nadine shoved it at her. “Go on into my office. I’ll be right there.”
Leaving Nadine to go or stay, she crossed to Jenkinson’s desk.