by Jeff Lindsay
He shrugged and speared the last chunk of his steak. “I’m gonna have some flan, and a cafecita. Then I’ll get a cab, since I’m not allowed to help,” he said. He scooped up some rice and beans and nodded at me. “You go ahead, unless you want to walk back to work.”
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I did not, in fact, have any desire to walk back to work. On the other hand, I still had almost half a milk shake and I did not want to leave that, either. I stood up and followed, but I softened the blow by grabbing the uneaten half of Deborah’s sandwich and taking it with me as I lurched out the door after her.
Soon we were rolling through the front gate of the university campus. Deborah spent part of the ride talking on the radio and arranging for people to meet us at the kilns, and the rest of the ride clenching her teeth and muttering.
We turned left after the gate and headed down the winding road that leads to the ceramic and pottery area. I had taken a class in pottery there my junior year in an effort to widen my horizons, and found out that I was good at making very regular-looking vases but not terribly successful at creating original works of art, at least not in that medium. In my own area, I flatter myself that I can be creative, as I had recently demonstrated with Zander.
Angel-no-relation was already there, carefully and patiently looking through the first kiln for any sign of practically anything.
Deborah went over and squatted beside him, leaving me alone with the last three bites of her sandwich. I took the first bite. A crowd was beginning to gather by the yellow tape. Perhaps they were hoping to see something too terrible to look at: I never knew why they gathered like that, but they always did.
Deborah was now on the ground beside Angel, who had his head inside the first of the kilns. This would probably be a long wait.
I had barely put the last bite of sandwich into my mouth when I became aware that I was being watched. Of course I was being looked at, anyone on the business side of the yellow tape always was.
But I was also being watched—the Dark Passenger clamored at me that I had been singled out by something with an unhealthy interest in special wonderful me, and I did not like the feeling. As I swallowed the last of the sandwich and turned to look, the whisper inside me hissed something that sounded like confusion . . . and then settled into silence.
And as it did I felt again the wave of panicked nausea and the 78
JEFF LINDSAY
bright yellow edge of blindness, and I stumbled for a moment, all my senses crying out that there was danger but my ability to do anything about it completely gone. It lasted only a second. I fought my way back to the surface and looked harder at my surroundings—nothing had changed. A handful of people stood looking on, the sun shone brightly, and a gentle wind riffled through the trees.
Just another perfect Miami day, but somewhere in paradise the snake had reared its head. I closed my eyes and listened hard, hoping for some hint about the nature of the menace, but there was nothing but the echo of clawed feet scrabbling away.
I opened my eyes and looked around again. There was a crowd of perhaps fifteen people pretending not to be fascinated by the hope of seeing gore, but none of them stood out in any way. None of them were skulking or staring evilly or trying to hide a bazooka under their shirt. In any normal time, I might have expected my Passenger to see a dark shadow around an obvious predator, but there was no such assistance now. As far as I could see, nothing sinister loomed in the crowd. So what had set off the Passenger’s fire alarm? I knew so little about it; it was just there, a presence filled with wicked amusement and sharp suggestions. It had never showed confusion before, not until it saw the two bodies by the lake. And now it was repeating its vague uncertainty, only half a mile from the first spot.
Was it something in the water? Or was there some connection to the two burned bodies here at the kilns?
I wandered over to where Deborah and Angel-no-relation were working. They didn’t seem to be finding anything particularly alarming, and there were no jolts of panic roiling out from the kiln to the place where the Dark Passenger was hiding.
If this second retreat was not caused by something in front of me, then what caused it? What if it was some kind of weird interior erosion? Perhaps my new status of impending husband-hood and stepfather-ness was overwhelming my Passenger. Was I becoming too nice to be a proper host? This would be a fate worse than someone else’s death.
I became aware that I was standing just inside the yellow crime-scene tape, and a large form was lurking in front of me.
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“Uh, hello?” he said. He was a big, well-muscled young speci-men with longish, lank hair and the look of someone who believed in breathing through the mouth.
“How can I help you, citizen?” I said.
“Are you, uh, you know,” he said, “like a cop?”
“A little bit like one,” I said.
He nodded and thought about that for a moment, looking around behind him as if there might be something there he could eat. On the back of his neck was one of those unfortunate tattoos that have become so popular, an Oriental character of some kind. It probably spelled out “slow learner.” He rubbed the tattoo as if he could hear me thinking about it, then turned around to me and blurted out, “I was wondering about Jessica.”
“Of course you were,” I said. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Do they know if it’s her?” he said. “I’m like her boyfriend.”
The young gentleman had now succeeded in grabbing my professional attention. “Is Jessica missing?” I asked him.
He nodded. “She was, you know, supposed to work out with me? Like every morning, you know. Around the track, and then some abs. But yesterday she doesn’t show up. And same thing this morning. So I started thinking, uh . . .” He frowned, apparently at the effort of thinking, and his speech trickled to a halt.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Kurt,” he said. “Kurt Wagner. What’s yours?”
“Dexter,” I said. “Wait here a moment, Kurt.” I hurried over to Deborah before the strain of trying to think again proved too much for the boy.
“Deborah,” I said, “we may have a small break here.”
“Well, it isn’t your damned pot ovens,” she snarled. “They’re too small for a body.”
“No,” I said. “But the young man over there is missing a girlfriend.”
Her head jerked up and she rose to standing almost on point like a hunting dog. She stared over at Jessica’s like-boyfriend, who looked back and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “About fucking time,” she said, and she headed for him.
I looked at Angel. He shrugged and stood up. For a moment, he 80
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looked like he was going to say something. But then he shook his head, dusted off his hands, and followed Debs over to hear what Kurt had to say, leaving me really and truly all alone with my dark thoughts.
Just to watch; sometimes it was enough. Of course there was the sure knowledge that watching would lead inevitably to the surging heat and glorious flow of blood, the overwhelming pulse of emotions throbbing from the victims, the rising music of the ordered madness as the sacrifice flew into wonderful death . . . All this would come. For now, it was enough for the Watcher to observe and soak in the delicious feeling of anonymous, ultimate power. He could feel the unease of the other. That unease would grow, rising through the musical range into fear, then panic, and at last full-fledged terror. It would all come in good time.
The Watcher saw the other scanning the crowd, flailing about for some clue to the source of the blossoming sense of danger that tickled at his senses. He would find nothing, of course. Not yet. Not until he determined that the time was right. Not until he had run the other into dull mindless panic. Only then would he stop watching and begin to take final action.
And until then—it was time to let the other begin to hear the music of fear.
E L
E V E N
Her name was Jessica Ortega. She was a junior and lived in one of the nearby residence halls. We got the room number from Kurt, and Deborah left Angel to wait at the kilns until a squad car arrived to take over.
I never knew why they were called residence halls instead of dormitories. Perhaps it was because they looked so much like hotels nowadays. There were no ivy-covered walls bedecking the hallowed halls here, the lobby had lots of glass and potted plants, and the halls were carpeted and clean and new-looking.
We stopped at the door of Jessica’s room. It had a small, neat card taped at eye level that read ariel goldman & jessica ortega.
Below that in smaller print it said intoxicants required for entry. Someone had underlined “Entry” and scrawled below it you think ?
Deborah raised an eyebrow at me. “Party girls,” she said.
“Somebody has to do it,” I said.
She snorted and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and Debs waited a full three seconds before knocking again, much harder.
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I heard a door open behind me and turned to see a reed-thin girl with short blond hair and glasses looking at us. “They’re not here,”
she said with clear disapproval. “For like a couple of days. First quiet I’ve had all semester.”
“Do you know where they went?” Deborah asked her.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Must be a major kegger somewhere,”
she said.
“When was the last time you saw them?” Deborah said.
The girl shrugged. “With those two it’s not seeing them, it’s hearing them. Loud music and laughing all night, okay? Major pain in the butt for somebody who actually studies and goes to class.”
She shook her head, and her short hair riffled around her face. “I mean, please.”
“So when was the last time you heard them?” I asked her.
She looked at me. “Are you like cops or something? What did they do now?”
“What have they done before?” Debs asked.
She sighed. “Parking tickets. I mean, lots of them. DUI once.
Hey, I don’t want to sound like I’m ratting them out or something.”
“Would you say it’s unusual for them to be away like this?” I said.
“What’s unusual is if they show up to class. I don’t know how they pass anything. I mean,” she gave us half a smirk, “I can probably guess how they pass, but . . .” She shrugged. She did not share her guess with us, unless you counted her smirk.
“What classes do they have together?” Deborah asked.
The girl shrugged again and shook her head. “You’d have to check like the registrar,” she said.
It was not a terribly long walk to see like the registrar, especially at the pace Deborah set. I managed to keep up with her and still have enough breath to ask her a pointed question or two. “Why does it matter what classes they had together?”
Deborah made an impatient gesture with her hand. “If that girl is right, Jessica and her roommate—”
“Ariel Goldman,” I said.
“Right. So if they are trading sex for good grades, that makes me want to talk to their professors.”
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On the surface, that made sense. Sex is one of the most common motives for murder, which does not seem to fit in with the fact that it is often rumored to be connected to love. But there was one small thing that did not make sense. “Why would a professor cook them and cut off their heads like that? Why not just strangle them and throw the bodies in a Dumpster?”
Deborah shook her head. “It’s not important how he did it.
What matters is whether he did.”
“All right,” I said. “And how sure are we that these two are the victims?”
“Sure enough to talk to their teachers,” she said. “It’s a start.”
We arrived at the registrar’s office, and when Debs flashed her badge we were shown right in. But it was a good thirty minutes of Deborah pacing and muttering while I went through the computer records with the registrar’s assistant. Jessica and Ariel were, in fact, in several of the same classes, and I printed out the names, office numbers, and home addresses of the professors. Deborah glanced at the list and nodded. “These two guys, Bukovich and Halpern, have office hours now,” she said. “We can start with them.”
Once again Deborah and I stepped out into the muggy day for a stroll across campus.
“It’s nice to be back on campus, isn’t it?” I said, in my always futile effort to keep a pleasant flow of conversation going.
Deborah snorted. “What’s nice is if we can get a definite ID on the bodies and maybe move a little closer to grabbing the guy who did this.”
I did not think that identifying the bodies would really move us closer to identifying the killer, but I have been wrong before, and in any case police work is powered by routine and custom, and one of the proud traditions of our craft was that it was good to know the dead person’s name. So I willingly trundled along with Deborah to the office building where the two professors waited.
Professor Halpern’s office was on the ground floor just inside the main entrance, and before the outer door could swing shut Debs was already knocking on his door. There was no answer. Deborah tried the knob. It was locked, so she thumped on the door again with the same lack of result.
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A man came strolling along the hall and stopped at the office next door, glancing at us with a raised eyebrow. “Looking for Jerry Halpern?” he said. “I don’t think he’s in today.”
“Do you know where he is?” Deborah said.
He gave us a slight smile. “I imagine he’s home, at his apartment, since he’s not here. Why do you ask?”
Debs pulled out her badge and showed it to him. He didn’t seem impressed. “I see,” he said. “Does this have anything to do with the two dead bodies across campus?”
“Do you have any reason to think it would?” Deborah said.
“N-n-n-o,” he said, “not really.”
Deborah looked at him and waited, but he didn’t say anything more. “Can I ask your name, sir?” she said at last.
“I’m Dr. Wilkins,” he said, nodding toward the door he stood in front of. “This is my office.”
“Dr. Wilkins,” Deborah said. “Could you please tell me what your remark about Professor Halpern means?”
Wilkins pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, hesitating, “Jerry’s a nice enough guy, but if this is a murder investigation . . .” He let it hang for a moment. So did Deborah. “Well,” he said at last, “I believe it was last Wednesday I heard a disturbance in his office.” He shook his head. “These walls are not terribly thick.”
“What kind of disturbance?” Deborah asked.
“Shouting,” he said. “Perhaps a little bit of scuffling? Anyway, I peeked out the door and saw a student, a young woman, stagger out of Halpern’s office and run away. She was, ah—her shirt was torn.”
“By any chance did you recognize the young woman?” Deborah asked.
“Yes,” Wilkins said. “I had her in a class last semester. Her name is Ariel Goldman. Lovely girl, but not much of a student.”
Deborah glanced at me and I nodded encouragingly. “Do you think Halpern tried to force himself on Ariel Goldman?” Deborah said.
Wilkins tilted his head to one side and held up one hand. “I couldn’t say for sure. That’s what it looked like, though.”
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Deborah looked at Wilkins, but he didn’t have anything to add, so she nodded and said, “Thank you, Dr. Wilkins. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I hope so,” he said, and he turned away to open his door and enter his office. Debs was already looking at the printout from the registrar.
“Halpern lives just a mile or so away,” she said, and headed toward the doors. Once again
I found myself hurrying to catch up to her.
“Which theory are we giving up?” I asked her. “The one that says Ariel tried to seduce Halpern? Or that he tried to rape her?”
“We’re not giving up anything,” she said. “Not until we talk to Halpern.”
T W E L V E
Dr. Jerry Halpern had an apartment less than two miles from the campus, in a two-story building that had probably been very nice forty years ago. He answered the door right away when Deborah knocked, blinking at us as the sunlight hit his face. He was in his mid-thirties and thin without looking fit, and he hadn’t shaved for a few days. “Yes?” he said, in a querulous tone of voice that would have been just right for an eighty-year-old scholar. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“What is it?”
Deborah held up her badge and said, “Can we come in, please?”
Halpern goggled at the badge and seemed to sag a little. “I didn’t—what, what—why come in?” he said.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Deborah said. “About Ariel Goldman.”
Halpern fainted.
I don’t get to see my sister look surprised very often—her control is too good. So it was quite rewarding to see her with her mouth hanging open as Halpern hit the floor. I manufactured a suitable matching expression, and bent over to feel for a pulse.
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“His heart is still going,” I said.
“Let’s get him inside,” Deborah said, and I dragged him into the apartment.
The apartment was probably not as small as it looked, but the walls were lined with overflowing bookshelves, a worktable stacked high with papers and more books. In the small remaining space there was a battered, mean-looking two-seater couch and an overstuffed chair with a lamp behind it. I managed to heft Halpern up and onto the couch, which creaked and sank alarmingly under him.
I stood up and nearly bumped into Deborah, who was already hovering and glaring down at Halpern. “You better wait for him to wake up before you intimidate him,” I said.