Wait for Dark

by Kay Hooper

  “It’s a peaceful little town, usually,” Mal answered. “Until these . . . accidents . . . began, we hadn’t had a death not disease- or age-related in about fifteen years. And crimes are definitely on the milder side. Some vandalism usually traced to high school kids trying to be badasses when they aren’t. An occasional burglary attempt that never ends well for the perp.”

  “Dogs?” Hollis said.

  Mal nodded. “Just about every house has at least one, especially the outlying farms and ranches that use working dogs. We’ve had on-again, off-again drug problems with some of the older kids, and that’s usually what sparks the half-assed burglary attempts.”

  “Dealers?”

  “Not in town. As far as I can tell, the few kids that I know are using meet up with dealers in the next county over. Even so, we don’t have hard-core junkies. The schools and the parents in Clarity are extremely proactive when it comes to drug or alcohol abuse, so any kid leaning that way tends to get help before the problems get too bad. The guidance counselors at the high school and middle school both got extra training on how to spot problem kids, what kinds of problems they likely have, and what to do in order to head off worse trouble. So far, it’s worked pretty well.”

  It was Hollis’s turn to nod. “No real criminals to speak of. So, chances are pretty damned good that whoever did this to Mrs. Cross is also behind the supposed accidents, assuming they’re also murders.”

  “I can’t see Clarity having two killers operating at the same time. In fact, I can’t see there being one. Except . . .” He gestured toward the window still several feet away from them.

  Hollis glanced back at her fellow agents, then moved forward just a few steps, skirting the red shoe, far enough to see outside.

  Mal, watching her closely, didn’t see her expression change except that her features tightened a bit. Otherwise, her gaze was simply intent.

  “I see what you mean,” she murmured. “Hard to imagine how that could have been done by just one person, even an exceptionally strong person.”

  DeMarco stepped forward as well, his gaze even more dispassionate as he studied the body of Perla Cross impaled high up in an old oak tree. “The limbs were hacked to points beforehand,” he noted. “So premeditation.”

  “Yeah. And it took time, because it was carefully done; we didn’t find any wood shavings on the ground below, not a single chip.” Mal wasn’t looking at Perla’s body. The sight had, he suspected, been permanently imprinted on his brain when he had first found her. “Also no signs of a ladder or anything else to show how a person got up that tree with a saw or hatchet or whatever the hell it was he used. We may see more in daylight, but I’m not counting on it.”

  “So he wants you to know this was deliberate and not an accident, but doesn’t want to leave anything behind to point to him.” She looked at DeMarco, frowning. “Four accidents and now this? A simple escalation, or something more? It seems like an awfully sudden change in his MO.”

  “Maybe he wanted more attention.”

  “Maybe, but . . . With most of the accidents, he could have been nearby, watching it happen, watching the response. Getting off on the tragedy he caused, either when it happened or afterward. Except maybe the elevator, that one kind of sticks out as being more isolated.”

  “Actually,” Mal said, “there were quite a few people present when that elevator failed. The tallest building in town is eight stories, an office building holding, among other things, our main bank. The bank takes up more than half the ground floor, with most of the rest taken up by the building’s lobby, housing the elevators and a short hallway with public restrooms.

  “There’s a big open space on the top floor, a sort of ballroom where local businesses and charities host board meetings, seminars, corporate meetings, fund-raisers—and where quite a few wedding receptions have taken place. Great views through floor-to-ceiling windows, and a restaurant specializing in catering one floor down.”

  Hollis waited, watching him.

  “Double elevators in the very public lobby, with one of the cars larger to serve as a freight elevator when necessary; it creaks and groans like crazy, so most everybody takes the other elevator, designed for passengers. Ironically, it’s the one that failed.”

  “With only one person inside?” Hollis said.

  “The lobby was full of people because they’d been upstairs decorating for a planned wedding reception. Large group of friends and family helping out, partly because cost was an issue, I think. As to what happened, the way I got it was that Karen Underwood realized she’d forgotten her purse and went back up alone in the elevator while a number of others in the party waited in the lobby. The elevator car got almost to the top floor, paused . . . and then it dropped.”

  “No emergency brakes?” DeMarco said.

  “According to the elevator company I had out there the next day, all the brakes failed, never even partially engaged. One of the guys was convinced there had been a small explosives charge set off, but even he admitted there was no evidence of any kind of explosion, and our fire chief agreed with him. Not that there was a whole lot left of the car by the time it fell eight stories and onto a concrete base.”

  Mal paused, then added evenly, “When the car crashed on the ground level, the doors were partially blown outward. Nobody in the lobby was hurt, but . . . they saw. The car had dropped so suddenly and with such force that Karen Underwood got tossed around like a rag doll. By the time the thing stopped, it did look like a bomb had gone off in there. Karen . . . Part of her skull was crushed, and her neck was broken. There was a lot of blood.” He paused again, then finished, “She was the bride-to-be. Her fiancé was in the lobby.”

  —

  HE WAS BOTHERED more than he wanted to admit that Joe had managed to bring the sheriff out to the house so quickly and in the darkness. In the night. Joe had moved too quickly, reacted too quickly.

  Too uncharacteristically.

  And that had not been part of the plan.

  Joe was his. Joe was . . . controlled.

  Or so he’d believed.

  Joe was . . . Joe needed a lesson, he thought. Joe needed to remember. Not speak of it. Never speak of it.

  But remember.

  As long as he remembered, as long as he had to live with the memory of what had been done and why, he would be unable to do anything else to disrupt the plan. His was a weak mind, and there was always the possibility of breaking something weak.

  If one knew just where and how to apply pressure.

  Besides, there were others.

  He had spent a great deal of time selecting. Preparing all his tools. And in deciding to use the night. He wanted the darkness to be a thing, of course, that was part of the plan. Night was perfect. Because people were more afraid in the dark.

  And because it was more difficult to see a threat coming.

  Even so, he had worked hard on this particular scene, going back and forth several times from the Cross home to the curve in the road where an overlook less than a hundred yards away presented a spectacular view of the valley. And where in daylight it would have been impossible to miss Perla Cross dangling like a fly in a spider’s web, especially once he had carefully trimmed back some of the tree limbs, and since she was a vivid redhead and would in addition likely be wearing her signature bright red, either the blouse or the cropped pants she flaunted all over town.

  He thought the sight would have drawn quite a crowd.

  A shocked and horrified crowd.

  Would have. But instead of making the rounds of local motels looking for Perla until it was too late to do anything else, Joe had gone straight to the sheriff.

  Considering the matter, he supposed he should have thought less about Joe’s paranoid and easily panicked nature and more about how well he knew his wife. Or, at least, how familiar he was with all the signs of Perla running off.


  Either way, the timing hadn’t worked out as he’d planned. He was surprised to find that angered him. But since he had long ago learned to use constructive outlets for his less positive emotions, he chose to channel the power of his anger into something that would both repair the rent in the pattern caused by Joe—and teach him a clearly necessary lesson.

  Joe had been taken away by the police, but Joe lived here, had lived in this place his whole life, so the energy of his spirit—such as it was—was stronger here.

  He had his supplies ready. Because one never knew, after all, when they would be needed.

  And he’d had to be very cautious getting into position. There were entirely too many people milling about, but the house really did sprawl, and once they’d checked the perimeter as best they could in the dark, most of the people were either inside or else grouped fairly closely together near the tree.

  The slope of the roof was a bit of a bother, but all the lights around the other side meant this was his only option. And he was nimble, his balance good. The backpack contained everything he would need, and he set about his task immediately.

  He drew out the fat piece of chalk, blessed it, and carefully drew out the Symbol on the asphalt shingles. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness; his lines were straight and true. When that was done, he again blessed the chalk and put it away, then began setting out the candles, one by one, blessing each as it was placed precisely as it should be.

  That done, he sat for several moments, head bowed. His own blood had sufficed before, but he knew this ritual required more. Because Joe had to be either punished or else better controlled.

  And because she was here.

  He had felt her the moment their dark vehicle left town, and had spent precious minutes shoring up his protection so that she would not, could not, become aware of him.

  It all had to unfold as he had planned, one step at a time.

  The goblet was in its special pocket in his backpack, wrapped as always in respectful red silk. He folded away the gleaming cloth to reveal the cup. He drew it out, held it aloft, chanted softly for a few moments, then placed it reverently in the center of the Symbol.

  He reached for his backpack again, pulling out the dove, beak and legs taped and wings bound to its body so that it could neither struggle nor make a sound.

  Well, it made a sound, a terrified little sound.

  But he pushed that out of his mind. Sacrifices had to be made, he had known that from the beginning.

  And he was strong enough to make those sacrifices.

  He placed the dove very carefully so that it was draped across the wide mouth of the goblet that was in the center of the circle provided by the candles.

  In the center of the Symbol.

  He drew out the silk-wrapped dagger, held it aloft while he chanted softly. Then he unsheathed the gleaming blade.

  It was a pity.

  He liked doves.

  He spoke the words, and then cleanly sliced through the neck of the dove, watching as its warm blood dripped into the goblet.

  No one was ever going to forget what he had done.

  No one would ever forget him.

  Ever.

  —

  HOLLIS WINCED AS much at the image her imagination had conjured as at Mal’s description of what had happened when the malfunctioning elevator had killed Karen Underwood. “That almost sounds . . . staged. I’m sure you checked into the backgrounds of the victim and her fiancé?”

  “Yeah. No violent exes on either side. In fact, they’d been sweethearts since grade school. A local romance story everybody knew. They were completely devoted to each other but waited to finish college and get their careers started before they married. Went to the same college, shared a condo here just half a block from that building. Neither one had life insurance. Why would they? They were young and healthy.” He heard a tinge of anger in his own voice and made an effort to control himself.

  He hated senseless deaths.

  “So nobody benefited financially from Karen’s death. And I couldn’t find a whiff of any other sort of motive.”

  “Hey, Sheriff—can I get her down now? It’s a little awkward trying to examine her in this damned tree.” Dr. Jill Easton’s voice was brisk and matter-of-fact. And fairly close to the window, since the top of her ladder put her up high enough to see inside the attic.

  Hollis took another step closer to the window and said, “You got plenty of pictures, Doctor?”

  “It’s Jill. Or Doc, if you want to be more formal. And, yeah, we got shots from every angle.” She seemed perfectly comfortable on the ladder, even with the close proximity of the horrifically impaled body of a young woman.

  “I’m Hollis Templeton, FBI. Just Hollis is fine.” She turned her head to look at the sheriff. “I don’t think we need to keep the body in place, Mal. Unless there’s some reason you want to?”

  “Hell, no.” He leaned far enough to be able to address the medical examiner. “Do you need any of my guys to help, Jill?”

  “At least one, with muscle and not too squeamish. Two would be better. We’ll need to hold the body in place while we saw off the limbs behind her.”

  Mal didn’t know which thought he found more upsetting: pulling Perla’s body off the limbs impaling her, or leaving them in her body as she was removed from the tree.

  Hollis glanced at him, then turned to face her team. “We might as well go through the house while we’re out here. I’m sure Mal and his deputies found whatever there was in the way of evidence, but there may be signs of behavior we need to take note of. Especially if this killer knew Mrs. Cross.”

  “It’s mostly empty bedrooms on the second floor,” Mal said. “Longtime empty, if I’m any judge. They lived pretty much on the first floor, and that’s where the master is. Can’t miss it. It’s the one with the huge closet with a shoe store inside.”

  “So shoes were her vanity,” Hollis said.

  “Yeah,” Mal answered, then added, “but you didn’t need to know her personally to get that. These red heels are fairly tame compared to some she wore just shopping on Main Street.”

  “So no help in narrowing a suspect list.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Look, I’m going to go get a couple of my guys and help Jill get the body out of that tree. You guys need anything from me to help you go through the house?”

  “No, we have flashlights and gloves,” Hollis replied. “It won’t take us long, especially if they spent most of their time on the ground floor.”

  “Okay. I’ll come back in after we’ve helped the doc. I don’t plan to let Joe come back here anytime soon, so we’ll probably just lock up the house when we’re done. Unless you think I should post a deputy to stand guard.”

  “Doubt you’ll need to. But if we find something, we’ll let you know.”

  “Good enough.” He headed for the stairs, wearing the determinedly calm face of a man about to do something he would have very much preferred not to do.

  Hollis looked after him for a moment, then lifted her brows at her partner.

  Answering the silent question, DeMarco said, “He picked up on something but wasn’t sure what when Cullen was talking. Then he spent a few seconds trying to remember when he’d told us about Perla Cross’s obsession with shoes. It distracted him a bit, but I couldn’t tell if his reaction was negative or positive.”

  With a slight grimace, Cullen said, “Damn, the shoes. I felt it so strongly I didn’t think twice about saying it. It really is a verbal minefield, trying to relay information you picked up psychically.”

  Despite being alone in the attic, they were all keeping their voices low.

  “Well, let’s keep it up for the time being,” Hollis said. “Whether he’s open to psychic abilities or not, Mal is definitely shaken by what’s been happening in his town. He’s bound to be more
concerned about that than any momentary distractions from us. So as far as he and his deputies are concerned, any information we can offer without a solid basis we’ll base on behavior. We’re all profilers.”

  Kirby said, “I haven’t even taken any of the courses yet.”

  “Sheriff Gordon doesn’t have to know that.” Hollis smiled briefly.

  “He knew downstairs you were tense,” DeMarco told Kirby, not unkindly. “Didn’t try to figure out why, just assumed even his brief description of this crime scene hit you harder than you wanted to let on.”

  Kirby drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Well, except for the ME out there, and probably her assistant, the others are pretty damned freaked out. I’m just guessing, but I don’t think many of his deputies were all that suspicious of the so-called accidents before tonight.”

  “Probably not,” Hollis said. “And this is not the sort of crime scene you can keep quiet, not in a town this small. It probably would have been worse if her body had been discovered in daylight, but I’m still betting a pretty accurate description of how Mrs. Cross was found will be all over town before breakfast.”

  “Great,” Kirby said with a sigh.

  “You’re doing fine,” Hollis told her. “And looking so young is just another tool; use it. People who look at you don’t expect a trained fed, far less a highly trained and psychic fed. It’s an ace up your sleeve. Just concentrate when you can, but try not to close up completely. You never know when what somebody’s feeling might be the key you need to point us in the right direction.”

  Kirby didn’t look too happy to hear that but merely nodded, and it was Cullen who asked Hollis the obvious question.

  “So that’s the three of us; have you seen any spirits?”

  “It’s an old house, and a lot of people lived here.”

  “That wasn’t an answer,” he observed dryly.

  With a slight shrug, Hollis said, “I’ve caught a few glimpses. Not the victim out there, but others. They’re hanging back, though, sticking to the shadows. I get the sense nobody has anything they feel the need to share with the living.”