Dark Revelations by Duane Swierczynski, Anthony E. Zuiker Page B

Riggins knew the crush of the job better than anybody. The fact that he was still in it, after all of these years, was either a miracle or a statistical anomaly. Special Circs agents lasted anywhere from forty-eight hours to six months, tops. An unusually long career might mean a year or two of service. Somehow Riggins had lasted a quarter of a century. Only Steve Dark and Constance Brielle came in at a distant second and third spot on the longevity list.
    Dark had quit earlier in the year; Constance was pulling the plug now.
    She was headed to a job in the intelligence community; she’d been scouted. Riggins did some intradepartmental digging. Turns out, Constance had been scouted quite often over the years, but turned down all offers flat. She preferred to stay with Riggins. And, of course, Steve Dark, her unrequited paramour.
    Dark, who hadn’t visited her in the hospital.
    Not once.
    They’d never spoken about it, but Riggins knew it bothered the both of them.
    Riggins thought about the last time he saw Steve Dark. Six weeks ago, on the westernmost edge of California, in the wake of a bloodbath. For a period of time, a horrible, excruciating length of time, Riggins had worried that Dark had gone to the place of no return. That he might even be the Tarot Card Killer. Riggins knew things about Dark’s lineage that not even Dark himself knew. So when Riggins had the gun in his hand and pointed at the closest thing he had to a son . . . he was fully prepared to pull the trigger. And what an awful moment that had been.
    I’m not crazy, Tom. I’m as sane as I’ve ever been, Dark had said.
What have you been doing? Riggins asked.
My job. Just not for you.
Was he still doing the job, out there in L.A.?
     

     
    The truth was—and here was the horrible truth he could never, ever reveal to anyone, especially Steve Dark:
    Riggins half-expected Steve Dark to completely snap at any given moment.
    When it happened, Dark would not be to blame. Not entirely. Not when that kind of thing is in your blood.
    In the aftermath of the Sqweegel case five years ago, Dark had completely destroyed the body of his nemesis, chopping it to pieces before personally pushing it into a crematorium. Hours later, though, Dark realized his mistake. That they should have kept some of Sqweegel’s DNA for future reference, to match against unsolved crimes. And then Dark remembered the one place where he still could find a DNA sample. Riggins had volunteered for the job.
    Hours later, Riggins was picking up the dead cold hand of Sibby Dark and gently ran a stick under one fingernail like he was wiping a tear away from the corner of a baby’s eye. He thought about how hard Sibby Dark had clung to life, gouging away at her tormentor, ripping through his latex suit and tearing at his flesh.
    Riggins ran the sample personally, and waited for the results in the empty trace lab. When they came back with a CODIS hit, Riggins wasn’t surprised. Sqweegel hadn’t just sprung up from the bowels of hell to terrorize mankind. Even monsters had relatives.
    But Riggins had no idea that one of those relatives would be Steve Dark himself.
    According to the results, the two were brothers.
    So for the past five years, Riggins had swallowed the truth and kept it in a lock box inside himself, and he drank a little more booze to keep it shut. He couldn’t let it slip, he couldn’t let on.
    But he kept a careful eye on Dark, watching for any signs of psychosis or instability. Not that these things always ran in families, but it certainly explained a lot about Dark’s inclinations. He was the world’s best manhunter because he was a very short distance away from being a Level 26 killer himself.
    The very thought terrorized Riggins beyond belief.
    That someday, he’d have to hunt down his own surrogate son . . .

     
    “Riggins, are you still here on earth with us?”
    Constance smiled at him, but it was for show. Riggins could tell she’d been thinking about Dark,