by David Clark
“Uh uh,” was his expert response, and it sent her into a tizzy.
“Jordan. Jesus. You know how this works. You have to give me something more than just one-word answers.”
Jordan’s hand caught the microphone before Megan was able to raise it beyond halfway to his face. He shook his head and watched the spotlight disappear from both of them. That left them in the dark, only illuminated by the random flashing of red and blue lights. “Probably just a mouse.”
“A mouse?”, Megan asked, seemingly annoyed.
Jordan used his hands to show her the size of about a two-inch circle. “Yep, a small stain on the new wood floor in the barn. An owl or something probably swooped in and carried it off after it died. The field back there is loaded with mice.”
“You’re joking, right?” This time she was more than annoyed.
“Look around. Everyone is packing it in.”
Her head turned, and she looked around at the scene which was just as Jordan had said. There was no recovery of a body. No evidence technicians walking out with bags of samples or cut out portions of the floor. The only sample that Jordan advised they take to confirm it was animal, was in a small envelope already stored in a case. There was no one left at the scene doing any further searches.
When she turned back to Jordan, she looked like someone had just killed her puppy. To her, that might be what it was. Her show was considered a fictionalized drama. Some, her loyal viewers, believed in what she broadcasted. They thought for sure she was who she said she was, and could do what she said she could do, but a large swath of the public saw her as nothing but a con person who fed people what they wanted, or needed, to hear. If she happened to break anything real, any hard news, that would make her seem legitimate as a reporter. Which explained why she chased any case the bureau assigned to Jordan. It was a natural marriage.
“Nothing here spectacular to look at. Sorry.” Jordan added. He wasn’t sure why he added the sorry. Maybe he was sorry. Maybe he was just being polite. He turned and headed toward his car, not wanting to drag this out anymore, and desperately needing sleep.
“I wouldn’t say that. You are looking pretty spectacular,” she said while he was only a few feet away. “We are staying at the same hotel if you want to stop by.”
Jordan didn’t have to look back to know what the expression was on her face. He had seen it many times and given in many times too. “I am tired. Night Megan.”
“Oh, come on,” she pleaded.
“Nope. Tired.”
“Room 307,” she yelled after him.
2
Hotel life never agreed with Jordan, but it was something that came with the job. In fact, he couldn’t remember any case that had taken place inside of a hundred miles of his home in Savannah, or any places that were repeat visits. So, it was a live-where-you-want-kind of job, as long as there was a field office he could go into, and an airport. This meant suitcase living in anything from a rundown mom-and-pop motel that the bureau temporarily took over, or suites at a swanky five star with a great restaurant. It was less of the latter, and more of the un-air-conditioned holes in Americana and mountains of Styrofoam cups and takeout containers.
Where they were staying in Florence, a little town in northern Kentucky, was something in between the two extremes. This was not a five-star by any sense of the description, but it wasn’t bad. It was clean, quiet, and cool. All things Jordan valued when it came to sleeping and reviewing case files. The task force had taken up an entire floor of the four story building and the only conference room they had, which was nothing more than three rooms with their walls removed, but it was enough for the owners to be able to advertise themselves as a conference center. Not exactly a perfect war-room for the team, but with a few extension cords and network cables the team brought themselves, they found a way to make do.
Of all the criteria Jordan rated the facilities against, the taste of their coffee in the morning wasn’t the most important, not like it was for the others. The rest of the agents had a scale that started at just-hot-dishwater, then went up the midpoint of hot-water, and ended with asphalt. The good stuff was in between hot water and asphalt. What he was drinking this morning was just above hot water, and while he was not normally a coffee drinker, after the night he had, he appreciated it. He was on his third cup while he poked around the scrambled eggs he ordered. There was nothing wrong with the eggs. When they arrived, he was busy reading over some notes and let them get cold and rubbery. He was sure they would have tasted just fine if he had tried them when they were hot. Instead, he opted for the two slices of toast after spreading on a liberal amount of strawberry jam.
In between each bite, he reviewed his notes again to pass the time while chewing. He was alternating back and forth between looking at his notes as a normal agent, and then as a demonologist. The agent side knew there had to be some kind of pattern to what and where, even if it was random. All the occult symbology and messages left spoke to him as a demonologist. There was a reason for the messages. Was the perpetrator trying to tell them something? Is the “why”, “what”, and “where next” buried inside of it, or was all this just something to throw them off? All were questions they had to answer, or rather, he had to.
Two rather feminine hands touched his shoulders. They rubbed and kneaded the base of his neck. The touch was just as slight as the waft of jasmine that circled around him and up his nose. The touch, while pleasant, sent him into a scramble to gather the photographs he had spread all around on the table.
“So, he wants to learn the meaning of life through divine influence?”, Megan asked. Her hands let go of his shoulders, and she sauntered around Jordan to the chair on the other side of the table. Without waiting for an invite, she had a seat, and poured a cup of coffee from the half-empty pot in the center of the table. She looked like the woman he had seen many times. No make-up. No teased up hair. Natural with her green eyes and full lips. Her normally teased up long black hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, keeping it off her shoulders and away from her neck, giving him a clear view. Even looking as tired as she did now, she was still a beautiful woman.
“You saw nothing,” he said. His glance was both glaring at and studying her at the same time.
“I know. Trust me.” She said and then went to take a sip of her coffee, but paused. Her lips pressed into a grimace and her head tilted. “You don’t, do you?”
“I didn’t say that” he replied. The last of the photographs were now back in their large brown envelope.
“Jordan, after what we are, why don’t you trust me?”
“That is in the past,” he reminded her.
His answer appeared to disappoint her. Her hands put the coffee cup down on the table and she leaned forward. “Past, present, future. What does it matter? Plus, it is not just that. We are one of only a few that know about this world. That makes us unique and joined together at the same time.”
“You are media, that is enough.”
Megan’s disappointment turned to amusement, and she giggled. “Oh, that. Yes, I am. I needed that story last night. I have a deadline in two days for next week’s show. I guess now I have to go visit the woman in Cincinnati who is missing her eight departed cats and wants me to help her make contact.”
It was now Jordan’s time to snicker while Megan took a sip from her cup.
“Hey, it’s not funny,” she whined.
“Yes it is.”
Her jaw dropped open as she looked across the table at Jordan. He had seen that little girl look in her eye before. He knew what was coming, and had every chance to move, but didn’t, and let her give his shin a playful kick under the table.
“Okay, maybe it is,” she coyly admitted. “My viewers love that kind of stuff though. So, I gave you my room number. Why didn’t you come by?”
“Was too tired,” Jordan said before taking another bite of his toast. Her eyes followed the jam covered triangle of bread, and her hand reached over to grab the oth
er half. Jordan had every intention of eating that piece, but didn’t object. She bit the corner off of it, slowly. Her eyes locked with his, the whole time.
“Was that all?”
Jordan gave her a look that said it all. That was one question he would not answer. He took a sip of his own coffee, but kept his gaze locked on her, as he always did. Nothing intentional, just a habit when she was around. “So, what was that about learning you said?”, he asked in an attempt to change the subject.
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to see anything.”
“You weren’t, but what was that?”
“I didn’t get that good of a look,” she said with a wink. “I saw all the spheres with the writing and a path extending out from them. One in each picture. I couldn’t tell if all of them were there.”
“They aren’t. Just about half. One at each scene except one,” Jordan said.
“The arrows were the only symbol at one scene, weren’t they? Was it the first one?”
Jordan nodded. The photographs that Megan saw were the drawings done in the victim’s blood at each crime scene. The first scene had what looked like the feathered ends of two arrows standing up. A symbol used in the occult for learning through divinity. The other scenes all had spheres with writing in them and a line that led away from the circle. The night before he had arranged them into the proper placement for the Kabbalah, also known as the Tree of Life.
While Jordan was not a heavily studied symbologist, his superiors always seemed to make the leap that demonology and the occult were the same and sent him anytime the occult appeared present. Necessity is the mother of invention they say, so Jordan became a quick study on the topic. Not that he was an expert. There were true academics that were better suited for this, some he consulted on these types of cases. Doctors Joel Lawrence and Lauren Brooks were two of those he consulted with most often. They were just as stumped as he was when he presented them the pictures of five of the spheres from the tree. The tree itself describes and defines the nature of God, the human soul, and the connection between the two. The tree itself is not purely an occult symbol. It is something popular in all religions, astrology, and many old mystic beliefs. From a message purpose, it was meaningless by itself as its true meaning was so vast, and that was what Jordan was about to explain to Megan when it hit him, and both hands collapsed to the table with a thud, rattling the coffee cups and the dishes. His head flopped backwards looking up at the water stained drop ceiling and dangling webs of dust above him, taking his eyes off of her for the first time since she sat down.
“Jordan, what is it? Are you okay?”, she asked, concerned.
Both hands reached up and rubbed back down his face to pull away what had been a veil of confusion. “This is not ceremonial, or worship related,” he mumbled through his hands.
“How so,” Megan started and then stopped. There was a brief pause before she said, “Oh,” followed by a louder and more annoyed sounding, “Oh. So, five more, and then he will either commit suicide or suicide by cop?”
“Once the tree is completed, he will look to use his knowledge and complete the journey of return, ascend to finish his connection with God.” Jordan tapped the table loudly and bit his lip. “Whoever this is feels they are following the path that will reunite them with God.”
“If that is true, what a whack job.”
Jordan grabbed his coffee cup and gulped down what remained. He stood and looked right at Megan, as serious as a heart attack, “Not a word.”
She held her right hand up and crossed her heart with her left before she said, “Not a word. I have an old lady with cat issues to take care of.”
“Jordan,” Neal called from the door of the restaurant. His deep voice thundered in the small room that could seat no more than a few dozen at any of the four tables, six booths, and long bar it had.
The sound of his voice startled Jordan, causing him to fumble the folder he held. The photographs fell to the floor at his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“Get your stuff. We need to go. We got a call,” Neal ordered before vanishing and allowing the door to slam shut.
Hurriedly, Jordan reached down and shoved the pictures back into the folder and took a final glance at Megan. “Not a word.”
“I promise,” she said and took a drink of her coffee. Her eyes stared over the lip of the cup and right through to his soul.
“Okay,” was the only response Jordan could muster before he turned and rushed for the door.
When he reached the door, he heard a final message from Megan. “Hey Jordan, be careful.”
3
The second floor of the Florence Police Administration building on Ewing Boulevard was a crowded hive of activity. Every detective on the force and every member of the FBI task force assembled to track down the Runaway Occult Killer were huddled around a single monitor. The image on that monitor was the overhead shot of a bald man in his late forties. His hands shook each time he raised them to remove the cigarette out of his mouth. The motion caused a shower of ashes to fall before it ever reached the tray in the center of the table. A single bag of corn chips laid on the metal table next to an unopened can of soda. Both were peace offerings from the local detectives that took him into custody after they arrested him during a traffic stop.
George Stephens, 42-year-old male from Rhode Island, pulled over to catch some shuteye last night. The only problem was, he didn’t use any of the rest areas that lined the interstates, or even an empty parking lot. Instead, he parked his brown late model station wagon in the emergency lane of I-71. Just after sunrise this morning, a local traffic cop pulled up behind him to see if he needed assistance. A common check for cars found in the emergency lane. A normal stop on what seemed like a normal day. Something traffic officers perform hundreds of times every day across the country. Most ended with nothing more than a changed tire, or a call for a tow. This one officer happened to notice a pile of bloody clothes stashed in the back as he approached the driver’s door. That changed everything. Instead of a simple knock on the window with a hand, maybe a question about what the problem was, he returned to his cruiser to call for backup.
After they detained him, they transported him back to the administration building where detectives questioned him about the bloody clothes for two hours before he tripped up and mentioned the name Timothy Gaines. A 33-year-old male who was last seen alive checking his mail. His body was next seen in a grotesque display that was tagged as victim number 3. Both detectives recognized the name and ended the interview to call in the task force who had jurisdiction on the case.
Neal Lawson spent forty-five minutes in the room talking to him while the rest of the task force and the entire department looked on. From where Jordan stood, behind several rows of people, he couldn’t hear what was being said, but he watched the dance. Unless it was a suspect ready to confess to all, it was all the same. The minutes of relaxed confusion, where they played it cool, acting like they aren’t sure why they are being questioned. Once the investigators had enough of that, they laid their cards on the table. In this instance, it was a lineup of victim and crime scene pictures. Their presence on the table always transitioned the dance to a state of shock. This only lasted as long as the investigator allowed it. Once they leveled that accusation, the confident denial set in. This was easily identifiable by the body language. The suspect sat back in the seat as far away from the pictures as they could while making large dramatic movements with their hands and head with every word they spoke. George followed the script of the dance like they all did, and then Neal left him on the dance floor. The moment the door closed was always what everyone wanted to see. That singular moment would tell them all they needed, and George didn’t disappoint. He sighed heavily as his head dipped to look at the pictures, then it fell to his hands.
“Well boys?”, Neal asked as he joined the others.
“Guilty,” said Todd Lanford. Reading people was his specialty, but you didn’t have to have his experience to
see it. The rest nodded in agreement.
“You’re up,” Neal said.
Jordan felt every eye in the large group gathered in the small room and spilling out into the hallway. Most looked at him because they knew why he was going in there. The rest, the locals, just followed the others, but looked at him with an inquisitive curiosity. He felt the weight of their gaze, but no longer felt uncomfortable about it. None of this was out of anticipation of a great break through. He had been part of the agency for nine years, but some still looked upon him as a fraud. Which was why he focused so much to try to contribute in a more traditional capacity.
He paused for a moment before opening the door. Not to gather his thoughts, but to clear them. When he opened the door, George’s head sprung up from staring at the floor and acknowledged Jordan by sitting up and back in his chair. His body language was relaxed. No tightly crossed arms or posturing. Jordan took the seat that Neal had occupied during his interrogation and laid his brown leather portfolio on the table.
“Mr. Stephens, I am FBI Agent Jordan Blake. How are you doing?” Jordan cringed as the words escaped his mouth. He could almost hear the laughter coming from the room down the hall, but was thankful when George Stephens appeared to appreciate the decency behind the question and responded with, “I feel numb and confused, but I guess I will be okay.”
“That is good to hear. I have a few questions to ask you.”
“I imagined you might,” he hesitated. Each time George attempted to speak, he appeared to choke on the words. There was something crawling up from inside and wanted out, but something else was holding it down. A war between his humanity and survival. The torment on his face told of the intensity of the struggle until one side was overpowered. “I did these. I did all these.” His head dipped again.