by Nic Saint
“But I love how Americans like to live dangerously,” he said. “Snakes in the kitchen. I simply love it!”
“This isn’t a game, Fonzie,” I said. “These snakes are real!”
At this, he blanched visibly, and uttered a startled yelp. “They’re real?”
“Of course they are, you idiot,” said Sam. “Can’t you see they’re under attack?”
A steely look came over the prince’s face, he tucked his phone away, and he stepped up to the snake that was crawling up my chair and had almost reached my leg. I was wearing jeans, so it was unlikely it would be able to sink its teeth through the material, but since these were no ordinary snakes, I wasn’t so sure.
The prince grabbed a knife from the kitchen sink, then a second one, and the next thing I knew he was cutting up my snake like an expert sushi chef! Chopping it into pieces!
Then he turned to the snake that was attacking Stien and followed the same procedure, handling the knives like a regular pro. Before he could cut up the snake that was snapping at Strel’s legs, Gran’s spell finally kicked in, and the snake suddenly jumped up into the air as if it had been scorched, and then vanished into thin air with a loud hissing sound.
“There,” said Fonzie coolly. “That’s how we handle snakes in Khameit.”
Strel uttered a loud yell, and then promptly jumped into Fonzie’s arms, giving him a big smackeroo on the lips! “Oh, Fonzie, you saved my life!”
Actually, Gran had saved Strel—but this was not the time to quibble.
There was a soft whimper behind me, and I noticed Pierre had slung a hand over his mouth at the sight of Strel kissing Prince Fonzie. Always hard to see the woman you love passionately kissing another man. Then again, Strel was merely expressing her gratitude.
Suddenly there was a commotion behind me, and to my horror I saw that Gran had collapsed to the floor!
I quickly jumped from the chair and moved to her side. “Gran, are you all right?”
Her eyes were fluttery, her face white as a sheet. “I-I don’t feel so good,” she said.
“It’s those snakes,” said Strel, joining me. “She exerted herself.”
Suddenly Helmut streaked in and placed a wet towel on Gran’s brow, the water sluicing down her temples. It seemed to do her some good, though, for her expression cleared, and some color returned to her cheeks.
“Give her some space,” I could hear Sam demanding.
“Call an ambulance,” Helmut said.
“No ambulance!” Jerome warned. “They’ll feed her who-knows-what kind of drug. And before you know it she’ll be in Vegas, losing her shirt at the Craps table, humping the female croupiers.”
“No ambulance,” said Gran weakly. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
“Oh, Gran,” said Stien. “What’s going on?”
Gran smiled her sweetest smile. “I knew I shouldn’t have had that vanilla custard. My stomach doesn’t like it when I mix custard and pot roast.”
She made an attempt to sit up, and with the help of Strel and Stien and me we managed to get her in a chair. Soon she was herself again, waving away any concerns and assuring us that she’d simply suffered from indigestion.
I exchanged worried glances with my sisters, though. We knew what had really happened: Tisha had somehow conjured up those snakes, and Gran had been incapable of stopping them. And when finally she did, the exertion had caused her to collapse.
Something very terrible was happening to Gran, and I for one was suddenly feeling more than a little scared. If Gran couldn’t handle these snakes without conking out, someone was practicing some very dark magic indeed.
Chapter 18
Carl Rove yelled after the woman, “Hey, what about a kiss good night?!”
The woman turned and yelled back, “Go to hell, Carl.”
He shrugged and watched her stalk off along the street, teetering on high heels, pulling down a skirt that was practically riding up to her bum.
He grinned and turned back towards the club they’d just left. The door opened and the sound of a heavy beat spilled out into the street. A couple exited, the woman leaning heavily on the man. They both looked pretty wasted. Then again, Carl was pretty wasted himself. Still, he was ready to go back in there and try his wicked charms on his next target.
Obviously those charms hadn’t worked on his last victim, who’d slapped him across the face and told him to buzz off. Or words to that effect.
Teetering unsteadily, he decided first to relieve himself in the alley next to the Funky Beat. And as he staggered over, his fingers struggling with his fly, he heaved a loud belch.
This was a regular night for Carl. A day trader by day, he spent his evenings chasing women and having a good time. His silky tongue and charming smile usually did the trick, though tonight he wasn’t having much luck. Then again, the night was still young, and he hadn’t even visited half his usual haunts yet.
He pressed a hand up against the wall, which was slick and slippery, and began to relieve himself. The stench of rot and urine didn’t bother him. On the contrary. It reminded him of those nights when he’d taken a date back here for some impromptu hanky-panky.
With a contented groan, he glanced up at the graffitied wall, wondering if the drawing of a man walking a dog was a Banksy. If so, he might want to tell Johnny, his buddy who owned the Funky Beat. A real Banksy might add value to the place. Attract broads.
And he was just thinking about the elusive Banksy’s real identity, when suddenly he felt more than saw that he was no longer alone. Had his date returned? Had she changed her mind? He didn’t doubt it for a minute. She probably realized he was a great catch.
With his trademark cheesy grin plastered across his slick features, Carl turned.
“Hey, doll,” he began, only to find himself staring at some dude with a mask.
Dressed in black from head to toe, the dude was staring at him intently for some reason. Did he want money or something?
“Carl Rove, it’s time to atone for your sins,” said the guy with a remarkably soft voice.
He gestured at the black outfit. “I like your costume, buddy. But you’re a little early for Halloween.” He laughed at his own joke, then remembered his fly was still open.
He zipped himself up, and was surprised when the stranger suddenly took out a large knife. It gleamed in the light from a streetlamp that slanted its diffuse light into the alley.
“You’re a sexual predator, Carl, and I’m here to tell you your sex pest days are over.”
“Sex pest? Predator?” he asked, his foggy brain having trouble processing what the other was saying. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude.”
“Yes, you do,” said the stranger.
Carl found himself staring at the knife, and suddenly a tinge of panic penetrated his hazy mind. “Um, you might want to put that knife away, bud. That thing looks real.”
“Oh, but it is real. All too real, as you will soon discover.”
He was starting to realize that maybe this stranger didn’t have his best interests at heart. “You’re not going to stab me, are you? That would be totally uncool.”
“I’m most certainly going to stab you,” said the guy, shockingly. “Until you’re dead.”
“Hey, if you want money—I-I can give you money. I even have an iPhone. The latest model.” He didn’t care about handing over his phone. It was his work phone, so his boss would simply buy him another one. Company expense. He took the phone out of his pocket. The moment these thugs saw an iPhone they were usually satisfied and buzzed off. “Here you go. Just take it, buddy. It’s all yours.”
“Is that the phone you use to film your victims?”
He frowned. “Huh?”
The stranger sighed. “Look, I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Carl, but I can’t do this all night. I’ve got places to see, people to meet. You know how it is. So let’s wrap this up and be on our merry way, shall we?”
He smiled. “Sure, buddy. I’d sa
y it was a pleasure but I’d be lying.”
“Likewise,” said the man in black, and suddenly lashed out and slashed Carl’s gut.
Chapter 19
Sam stared at the scribblings on the wall. They appeared to be written in the same hand as the message the Slasher left at the Gus Brown murder scene. It was hard to be sure, though, as the letters were crudely drawn. The killer had probably been in a hurry—since at any moment someone could have stumbled into him and discovered his crime.
This alley was just around the corner from a busy nightclub, which the victim, one Carl Rove, had frequented just before being brutally knifed down, his gut slashed to ribbons.
“’Neighborhood Watch—I’m watching you. You’ve abandoned all women. Why?’” Pierre read as he carefully jotted down the words in his notebook.
Sam, always the more current one of the two detectives, had snapped a shot with his smartphone, just like he’d snapped numerous shots of the scene and the wider area.
“Yeah, looks like the Slasher is amping things up,” he commented. “The second murder in two days? And how long did it take him between the first and second and third?”
Pierre consulted his notebook. “A week between victims number one and two and then another week before Gus Brown.” He glanced up. “I think you’re right, Sam. He is ramping up his game. At this rate…” He made some quick calculations in his head. “At this rate he’ll be committing a double murder soon. And then a triple murder…”
Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “If he’s really going after predators, like these messages seem to indicate, he’s going to have his work cut out for him—pardon the pun. Plenty of bad men out there.”
“But why target the girls? They’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No idea, buddy. Absolutely not a single clue.”
He thought back to the previous night and the snake attack. When he talked to Edie, she had admitted this wasn’t the first time snakes had made their way onto the property, though previously they’d restricted themselves to the backyard. He found the whole thing extremely disturbing, especially the toll the incident seemed to have taken on Cassie.
He now wondered if he shouldn’t have done more. He’d waved a wooden spoon like an idiot, while Pierre had slapped at the snakes with a kitchen towel, for Pete’s sakes. It had taken Prince Fonzie, or whatever his name was, to cut up the snakes and make them see the light. He shook his head. What a guy. He had to hand it to him: he came across as a complete moron, but when the shit hit the fan, he didn’t twiddle his thumbs but did what had to be done.
“Do you think we should give a statement to the press, Sam?” Pierre asked, stirring him from his thoughts.
“Mh?”
Pierre gestured to the media scrum that was straining at the leash at the mouth of the alley to talk to the two detectives in charge of the investigation. Sam gave the reporters his best glare. How he hated the specialized press, as they liked to call themselves.
“No way we can keep the story from the headlines now, Sam. And if they find out there’s been two murders before Gus Brown, they’ll come after us next.”
“They already have, buddy,” he said, and slapped a copy of the Post across Pierre’s chest. He’d picked it up before coming down there.
Pierre unfolded the paper and gawked at the headlines. “’Butcher Carves Up Baker—Haymill Slasher at it Again.’ But how?”
“Someone at the precinct must have blabbed,” he grunted. He stabbed at the article. “They know everything. The three victims. The Slasher’s MO—the whole caboodle. If I get my hands on that blabbermouth…”
“Talking about a blabbermouth,” said Pierre, gesturing with his head to a dowdy-looking woman who now came walking up, clutching her purse and easily crossing the police barrier by giving the officer in charge a radiant smile.
“Oh, Christ,” Sam muttered. “Just what we need.” When the woman was within talking distance, however, he quickly changed his tune. It wasn’t that he disliked Renée Reive—she often had some great insights to share—he just didn’t want to deal with her right now.
“Sam!” she cried. “Oh, hello, Pierre. So nice to see you back in the saddle.” She briefly checked Pierre’s scar. “That looks really nasty—though it seems to have healed properly.”
“I’m fine,” Pierre acknowledged. “Thanks for the flowers, by the way, Renée.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for my favorite police detective.”
A blush spread across Pierre’s stolid features. “Thanks. That’s very sweet of you.”
“Is it true the Slasher claimed another victim?” She glanced down at the spot of crimson that was still marring the pavement. “Oh, my goodness. There must have been an awful lot of blood. Are you going to ask the fire department to clean it up? You must, Sam. Imagine children playing here and seeing this horrible scene. I can’t bear to think about it.”
He didn’t think children ever came near this dingy alley, but decided to humor the woman. “Yes, Renée. We’re going to clean everything up. This alley will be spotless.”
He saw how her keen eyes swiveled to take in the message written on the wall. “Another warning to the girls. Oh, Sam, you must catch this horrible man. He’s going to come after the triplets next, isn’t he? You must protect them at all cost, you hear? Promise me.”
“We’re doing everything in our power to catch him, Renée,” Pierre assured her.
“Carl Rove was a pervert. I want you to know that. He was a genuine sex pest. Always chasing and harassing women and trying to get into their panties if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what a sex pest is,” said Sam wryly at the vivid picture she painted.
“Just like Gus Brown, and just like Rudy Hosband and Michael Cane—the first two victims.” She gave Sam a slightly reproachful look. “You never told us that there was a serial killer on the loose on the streets of Haymill, Sam. The Slasher? Really?”
He rubbed his neck, where a sudden pain had sprung up. “We didn’t want to alarm the public.”
“I’m not the public, Sam. I’m your friend,” she pointed out. “You should have told us.”
“Us?”
“Well, me and Cassie, of course. And the girls. We are the neighborhood watch, Sam.”
“I thought Edie, Strel and Stien were the neighborhood watch?”
“They made me an honorary member. And Cassie is the honorary chairwoman of the board, of course.”
“Of course.”
She placed a hand on his arm. “We can help, Sam. Make no mistake—we’ve done this before and we can do it again. Anything to protect the good people of this neighborhood.”
“I thought you said that the men killed were all sex pests?”
“Yes, they hardly qualified as good people,” Pierre chimed in.
She pursed her lips. “They may be sex pests, but they don’t deserve to be carved up like a piece of meat by this Slasher person. This has got to stop, Sam. People are afraid.”
He gave Renée his best cop smile. “I can assure you we’re doing everything in our power to catch this guy. So please tell your fellow watch members that we’re on it.”
Renée gave him a skeptical look. “Yes, well, if you need our help, just ask.”
“I will, Renée. I most certainly will.”
At this, she stalked off, but not before fixing him with a look that spoke volumes.
“I don’t feel the love, buddy,” he told Pierre when Renée had left the alley.
“Yeah, I don’t think she trusts us to solve this case anytime soon,” Pierre agreed.
For some reason, he had a sneaking suspicion Renée might be right. They were nowhere near solving this case. All they knew was that the killer wore a mask, liked to carve up his victims, spoke with a lisp, and seemed to hate sex pests and the neighborhood watch.
Not all that much to go on.
“Maybe we should tell Renée that we accept her he
lp?” Pierre now suggested.
“Don’t you remember what Chief Knox said? No neighborhood watch anywhere near this case. It muddies the waters of the investigation and might jeopardize a conviction.”
“Right,” Pierre muttered. Great. He obviously wasn’t convinced.
The Slasher watched as more and more people gathered outside the alley where Carl Rove had met his match last night. Standing back from the crowd, the Slasher saw Detectives Barkley and Farrier engage in a heated discussion with Renée Reive and smiled. Of course Renée would try and insert herself into the investigation. It was to be expected. Renée liked to stick her nose where it didn’t belong, which in this case served a purpose. The more people were involved, the farther the news would spread, which was exactly the idea.
The Slasher took out a small disposable phone and typed in a number.
“Is this the New York Post hotline? This is the Slasher. I want to give you some background on the recent killings. Yes, my name is the Slasher. I killed those men, and I’m going to tell you exactly why. Please listen very carefully and don’t interrupt me again.”
Chapter 20
I nursed my cup of coffee, wondering when I’d last slept so bad. To my mind, I hadn’t slept a wink last night—though that was probably not the case. I had bags under my eyes that could easily be used to produce an entire roll of black trash bags, and if I’d been a vain person I would probably have put on a pair of sunglasses as I prepared breakfast.
I watched as first Helmut then Jerome strode into the kitchen. Of Fonzie there was no trace. He was probably hogging the bathroom again. Sharing a bathroom was not something that came natural to him, and we’d had to teach him not to spend three hours in there, as the rest of us also enjoyed the prospect of taking a shower in the morning.
Jerome took a seat at the table, his face a thundercloud. Helmut, by comparison, was looking fresh as a daisy, humming the latest Charlie Puth hit and checking the fridge for his favorite breakfast: freshly squeezed OJ and fruit yogurt. When he caught sight of the basket filled to the rim with bakery goodies, he squealed with delight. “Brown’s came through!”