Free Dark Prophecy by Anthony E. Zuiker Page B

access—possibly both. “Did any of this stuff turn up at the Green house?”
    “No,” Banner said. “But something else did. A nasty aerosolized agent called Kolokol-1. A whiff of that stuff and you’re out in three seconds.”
    “It sounds familiar.”
    “Reportedly, the Russian Spetsnaz used it on Chechens back in 2002. It’s a derivative of the potent opiodids fentanyl, which is dissolved in halthane ...”
    But Riggins wasn’t paying attention. He muttered to himself, “Two different chemicals. Both used to knock out the victims. Why?”

chapter 18
    Washington, D.C.
     
     
    Knack knew how to get important people on the phone. It wasn’t too difficult. You just made it sound like you’ve already called a thousand times before, that you had some insanely urgent business, and unless they connect you right this fucking second you’re going to totally. Lose. Your. Shit. It was a tone of voice Knack had perfected over the past few years.
    However, this tone didn’t seem to work at Special Circs. “I’ll transfer you to the press office,” a calm voice said.
    “No, no, honey, I don’t want the friggin’ press office, I want—”
    “Hold on. Your call is being transferred.”
    “Fuck.”
    Knack thumbed the END key. Press officers were absolutely useless to members of the press. He had to try something else.
    Wait. He had Paulson’s office number from the rental agreement. Some small part of him was disturbed to be calling a dead man’s phone number. Then again, that small part of him wasn’t the one on deadline. Knack punched in the number. The line rang twice, then there was a click . Yes! He was being transferred, just as he predicted. But to whom? The line clicked again.
    “Riggins.”
    Bingo.
    “Agent Riggins? Jon Knack from the Slab. Just one quick thing—”
    “Good-bye.”
    Knack had to act fast. He unleashed the next four words in a frenzied burst:
    “I know about Paulson.”
    There was pause on the line. Riggins was cracking the window open slightly. Knack leaped through it.
    “This is the second one, isn’t it? Look, I know Paulson was in Chapel Hill. He was investigating the Martin Green murder. Now he’s gone. You don’t think this is coincidence do you?”
    “No comment,” Riggins said.
    “Isn’t it highly unusual for a serial killer to be targeting law enforcement?”
    “No comment.”
    “Last time this happened was with Steve Dark, wasn’t it?”
    Knack heard a grumble. He’d hit a nerve there.
    “Honestly, Knack? Just between you and me?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Shove it up your highly unusual ass.”
     
     
    Knack hadn’t expected Riggins to confirm anything. But his reaction said it all. There were many kinds of non-denial denials. He opened up his laptop and started writing his story. Now he had a serious update, with “confirmation” from sources deep inside Special Circs. Riggins hadn’t given any such thing, but he wouldn’t come out to deny it, either. Sometimes getting a source on the phone for a “no comment” was all you needed.
    Besides, Knack had Paulson at the scene of the first murder. Now Paulson was dead. It begged the questions: Was this a cover-up? Or the start of something big?

chapter 19
    West Hollywood, California
     
     
    Dark opened his laptop. The Slab had a Paulson story online—posted just a few minutes ago.
    The update mentioned that Paulson had a wife—Stephanie Paulson (née West), twenty-four. An elementary school teacher who followed her sweetheart down from Philadelphia. She’d been in the process of applying for a job in the D.C. school district, where she thought she’d make the most difference. Knack painted Stephanie as a bright, selfless woman. Exactly the kind of person you’d have to be to put up with a partner working for Special Circs. They had been married exactly thirteen months. There was no quote from Stephanie, but Knack had been able to track down college friends via a social networking site who filled in the