by C. J. Sears
Finch shook his head, then shut off the projector and motioned for the lights to be flipped back on. “That’s just it, sheriff; McAlister couldn’t have killed this woman.”
“Why not?”
“McAlister was caught early last year. One of his victims broke out of their drug-induced stupor the night of her intended sacrifice and ran to the police. He’s been behind bars ever since. Or, more accurately, he was behind bars.”
“Are you saying he’s dead?” The sheriff caught on quick, as sharp as he’d hoped.
“He was killed by his cell-mate about six months ago. Or he hung himself. The coroner never was certain as to the exact cause of death.”
“So the prime suspect is dead. Are you telling me that our killer is a frickin’ ghost?” Mason asked, taken aback by how absurd Finch’s story was.
Finch didn’t knock the idea. “A ghost, yes. Or a copycat. Or, and this is my personal belief, the low rumble of a growing problem.”
“You mean this Church of Divine Promise?” It was a rhetorical question. Sheriff Donahue was putting together the facts with a level of precision that surprised him. “You think he was just another cog in a larger machine?”
“Precisely.” He took a moment to survey each of the officers in turn, noting the incredulous look on Deputy Mason’s face and the pointed concern in the sheriff’s eyes. “When you cut off the head of a snake, the snake is dead. But if the snake grows back its head, plus ten more, then it’s no longer a snake. It’s a hydra. That’s what the Church is.”
He took a sip of his coffee, then cast an appraising glance at the sheriff and said, “With your help and a little luck, I’m going to bury them. Now, who do I see about a toxicology report?”
LOCAL COLOR
Jane Harley’s body didn’t resemble a human, much less was it recognizable as female. Charred flesh left bits of gristle on the autopsy table. The face was scraps of black tissue caked on a rounded skull. The woman’s arms were folded across her chest as if she’d been making a wish. Her legs were rigid, her toes curled upward by the rigors of death. As best Finch could tell, she’d been nude at the time of her sacrifice. She hadn’t been raped; that wasn’t McAlister’s modus operandi. He doubted the cult’s operations differed.
The room itself was dimmed; the best source of illumination was the lamplight trained on the body. Beside the table were three bags containing personal effects found at the scene: a wedding ring, necklace, and a scorched driver’s license. The latter didn’t surprise him; McAlister ensured that each victim was identifiable. Whether that was out of arrogance or part of the ritual Finch couldn’t be certain.
He’d angled for an extensive one-on-one interview with the man after the arrest but the Bureau had denied him. Shame; he would’ve liked the opportunity to understand what was at the root of the man’s apparent psychosis. Finch suspected that there had to be something more to get a man to jump from misappropriating church funds to full-on occult leader.
Albert Kruger was a man of considerable repute. He’d been a coroner for most of his adult life, never married or had kids. Known throughout the tri-county area as a superb member of the field, he’d helped solve multiple murder investigations over the years. Finch could see that despite his age the man carried himself with a youthful vigor. Promising, considering the nasty details of his career and this case in particular.
They shook hands as Sheriff Donahue closed the door to the morgue behind her. His grip was strong though a bit sweaty. Or that could be embalming fluid. Finch preferred to think positive.
“Well, Agent Finch, what are we looking for?” Kruger straightened his lab coat then pulled the bags of evidence and his clipboard closer to Jane’s remains. Finch noted that he did this with his right hand though he’d shaken with his left.
“Doc, give us a preliminary report. I assume you found trace amounts of cocaine? Maybe heroin?”
Kruger nodded. “I did. Copious amounts, actually, more than a lethal dosage.”
That was new. “Interesting. Anything else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He sat the clipboard on a tray, then produced a vial from his pocket. Inside was an unidentifiable organism approximately two inches long. It resembled a black shrimp with miniature tentacle appendages near the mouth. That is, if the small triangular hole at the head of it could be called such.
“What is it?” Donahue asked, hanging her heavy green raincoat on a rack nearby.
“A parasitic organism. I discovered it attached to the victim’s spinal cord. It had been feeding on her spinal fluid.”
Finch crossed his arms. “Wouldn’t that have killed her, given enough time?”
“Absolutely,” Kruger answered. “She was a dead woman walking, fire or no fire.” He popped open the vial, then poured the parasite onto a paper towel. He reached down and grabbed an empty jar from underneath his desk. Finch bent closer, keen to examine the thing further. When he did, it leapt at him.
He resisted the urged to scream as he backpedaled and fell backward, landing hard on the tiled floor. Kruger, spry for his age, slammed the jar on the parasite. It smashed against the glass, attached itself to the jar like a suction cup. If it had eyes, Finch would stake his life it was glaring at him.
Donahue helped him up. He brushed off his suit, glad to see he hadn’t landed in anything unpleasant. “So,” he started as his heartbeat crept back to normal, “this thing is still alive? What exactly are we looking at here? An alien?”
Kruger laughed. “No. As I said, it is a parasite. Not a known one as far as I’m aware, but that’s not my area of expertise.” He narrowed his eyes at the creature. “Nasty little miscreant, though.”
Donahue snapped her fingers. “I think I’ve got an idea as to why they gave her that dosage.”
Finch turned to face her, a small smile forming on his face. Her eyes were bright, her passion insatiable.
“They were trying to cover up the existence of this thing, somehow. My guess is, they put this thing in her as part of their beliefs and then tried to smother it with drugs and kill it with the fire so that it couldn’t be discovered.”
Impressive deduction. “Could be,” Finch said. He grinned again, glancing between Donahue and Kruger. “Are the two of you familiar with Occam’s Razor?” Without waiting for an answer, he explained. “He argued that the simplest answer was usually the correct one. In this case, I believe that the answer lies with this, uh, organism we have here. Though I suspect this situation is anything but simple.”
“Meaning…?” Sheriff Donahue questioned as Kruger leaned forward in his chair.
Finch stepped toward the jar, this time with a noticeable amount of caution. He tapped the glass. The thing inside pulsated, its tentacles wriggling in a manner that was almost hypnotic. The triangle mouth was open wide. Near as he could tell it had no teeth. A clear liquid secreted from it, reminding him of a drooling babe.
“Sheriff, Albert, I believe we have found our McGuffin. We just don’t know the plot yet.”
* * *
Pine Needle Pit Stop was famous for its cheeseburgers and malts, but as far as Finch was concerned the real treasure came from the overheard conversations of truckers and townsfolk. By his count, he’d learned of three unplanned pregnancies, five affairs, and at least one hit-and-run, all after opening the door and lending his ear to the crowd. The racial makeup of the diner lacked diversity, but this was a small town in the boonies. The jukebox played Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” to the quaint appreciation of patrons.
As they sat down at a table, Finch noticed that the badge on Donahue’s uniform was both unusual and contradictory. The golden, shield-like emblem represented the role of the police in their duty to protect and serve. Beyond that it bore little resemblance to what he might have expected. A wilted sycamore tree bending over a clear blue lake formed the background of the logo, over which the words “Lone Oak Police” were superimposed in bold silver lettering. The printed typeface reminded hi
m more of a fancy Italian restaurant than any police service. Confused, and intrigued, he asked the sheriff to explain while they waited to be served.
“It’s kind of an in-joke,” she said, adding that it, “goes back before I was born.” She told him that when the town was founded in the 1800s, there was a great debate about what the name should be. Some of the settlers had argued that it should be called ‘Twin Pines’ on account of a grove near the lake where a ring of sycamores surrounded a pair of pine trees. “Others wanted to name it after themselves, create a kind of portmanteau of their names,” she said, “but when a forest fire burned the grove down, the only thing left standing was a single sycamore tree. People didn’t like the way that looked, thought it was a bad omen. So they uprooted it and planted an oak tree where it had been.” She shrugged as if to say that was typical behavior. “My ancestors were against it−at least, that’s what dad told me−so we took on the sycamore as a badge of honor, preserving its memory even as the town was named in spite of it.”
“And what do the locals think of that? Anyone ever pester you for not respecting the town’s namesake?” He’d meant it as a joke, but she seemed to think he was serious.
“A few of the older folk shoot us dirty looks from time to time. The editor at the local rag paints a less than pretty picture of me. But it’s a tree, not a cross. No reason to get holier than thou, in my opinion,” Donahue said, shifting in her seat. “And when something like this happens, we’re all they’ve got.”
Sensing her discomfort, he dropped the subject and resumed listening in on the habits and misdeeds of Lone Oak’s citizens.
“That’s one Pit Burger, cooked well, no mayo, one side of tater tots, and strawberry malt. Is that all correct, sir?”
The waitress, a pretty brunette no more than twenty years old, didn’t feign her anxiety as she took his order. Her pink apron, stained with grease, suggested that there had been an incident in the kitchen. The girl had applied her makeup in a rush, smearing her eye shadow and caking lipstick around the edge of her mouth. She reminded him of a depressed clown. The tag on her uniform hung sideways. Her name was still clear: Susan.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said with a smile. “Thank you, Susan.” He gave her a wink. She blushed.
“I’ll be back with your order in fifteen minutes, Mr. Finch.”
“Call me Llewyn.”
She nodded, then spun on her heel and walked back to the counter, notepad in hand. Finch watched her go then moved to face Sheriff Donahue whom sat across from him. “Not her first day, but she’ll get the hang of it.”
The sheriff rolled her eyes. “Right. Agent Finch, would you care to share more about this McAlister? Or the Church? It feels like we only scratched the surface.”
“The surface is about as deep as anyone has ever gotten, sheriff,” he said, folding a napkin into paper airplane. “McAlister wasn’t much of a talker; what little we gathered about him and the cult is everything that I have been able to tell you.” He unfolded the airplane, reshaped the paper into a form that became familiar. “You should recognize this shape.”
“The one you said signified the cult, yes. Is there more to it?”
“No,” said Finch, “I don’t think there is. In fact, I have a theory. This is not the symbol of the cult at all.”
Intrigued, Donahue peered at the symbol as Finch drew in the X’s and the divisions that created the mark. The mark itself was crude yet a close approximation of the image branded into the floor of the crime scene. Nothing about the icon otherwise stood out to her. It excelled in its unremarkable simplicity.
“What makes you say that? You already told us that the Church had used this with previous victims. What makes this different?”
Finch sighed. It was really rather obvious. “The Church did use a symbol, but this one is wrong. The X is too uneven. McAlister always laid his in a precise manner, probably used a ruler. The blood on the crucifix didn’t match Harley’s either. Whoever did this, if he is a part of the cult, he hasn’t been for long.”
“You mean they made this up to throw off suspicion? How do you know?”
“All religions and ceremonial dogmas, well-meaning or brainwashing, have a figure or a notion that lies at the foundation of their society. When the Nazis chose a swastika for their Reich, they did so to represent their supposed Aryan heritage. When the Crusaders made their journey to Jerusalem, they believed they did so under the well-wishes of Christ, thus the crosses they bore on their clothing. But this? It’s just off.”
“So you’re saying that one of our leads is not even an actual lead?” The sheriff grew irritated at the thought; that much Finch could decipher from the gruff in her voice. Her exasperation wasn’t unexpected. He’d smacked his own forehead when the realization occurred to him a few nights ago. The concept of an icon, of a mark, of a sigil is that it has meaning; what purpose could a nine-pointed ring of candles bisected by twin X’s have for the cult? Whatever their beliefs, there had to be an undercurrent of thought behind their call sign. Finch suspected this to be the work of a neophyte.
“The Church is involved, of that there’s no doubt, as McAlister had no reason to lie regarding his crime. He was a proud lowlife, that man, and I trust that my superiors garnered everything they could from him. These details, however, must have slipped his mind. The fact is the Church knows that if an icon of their actual beliefs is used, it will point us to them. But if they tweak it or send their newest acolyte to perform the deed, it casts doubt. They want to throw us off the trail.”
Susan returned with his food, all in order, with the added bonus of her phone number written on the bottom of the tab. Finch thanked her, told her he wanted to keep in touch. With a giggle she slipped back to the kitchen.
He took a bite of the burger, savored the taste, and struggled to suck the malt through his straw. It was rich, perhaps too sugary, but Finch knew that this was what drew yokels from around the country. That and the pretty girls.
He chowed down the tots like they were candy, then gestured over his shoulder at a blonde-haired man wearing glasses two rows behind them. “You might want to ask that man where he was two nights ago on the night Danny Lieberman was struck by a car. I expect he has direct knowledge of it.”
She shook her head in astonishment. “You’re pretty good, Agent Finch, I’ll give you that. But what exactly made you decide that the cult was producing this false symbol?”
The last remnants of the burger entered his gullet, a sensational assortment of broiled meat, toasted bread, and fresh veggies that hit the deepest recesses of his hunger. Topped off with the burgeoning flavor of the malt, the Pit Stop had made him a believer. He placed a twenty on the table, pocketed the bottom half of the tab, and left a fiver for a tip. When he finished, Finch reclined to let the meal digest and soak up the sweet scent of bacon grease and Susan’s lingering perfume.
When he spoke, his voice carried a sense of sincerity. “Sheriff, I saw it in my dream.”
Donahue blinked, not convinced she’d heard him correctly. “You saw it in your dream? What does that mean?”
For a moment, the racket of the diner quieted to a dull roar. Finch contemplated giving her the run-around. Over the years, the reactions to his gift had been as stable as a house of cards; telling anyone in his personal life had always resulted in an impromptu game of 52. His superiors, though they didn’t understand it, tolerated his abilities with a kind of “at least he’s on our side” mentality. With a swirl of his straw inside the malt, he gave his reply.
“Sheriff, I will tell you plainly that I am not crazy. I don’t claim to have powers. I’m not a medium. What I can do is make deductions. I can reason and deduct with impunity when my mind is at its sharpest. There are times, however, when that just isn’t enough. Sometimes, I need a little inspiration.”
“You’re not with the FBI, are you?”
She’d arrived at the truth. “Strictly speaking? No. Never said I was. More like an offshoot. As far as
we’re concerned, my organization doesn’t exist. We’re like the x-files with a better dental plan. But if you need my credentials, they’ll be happy to send them along.”
She watched him stir his drink, backwards and forwards. A part of her wanted to reach out and slap it out of his hand; Finch could see it in her eyes.
“I’m guessing I’m not meant to tell my boys any of this?”
Finch shrugged. “What you do with that information is up to you. There’s no trail that you can follow back to my people, if that’s what you’re after. I’m here to help, sheriff, and I think that’s all you care about.”
The barest hint of disbelief filtered through her voice as she spoke. “You said that you get inspiration from your dreams? How does that work?”
The corner of his mouth turned upward. “It’s not always a dream. It can be from a billboard or a broken-down car. Once an old woman in the park screamed profanities at me and it led to me closing a case involving a perpetrator with Tourette’s. The point is the answers to questions can come from the most unlikely of places.”
Donahue relented. “Okay. What’s the dream?”
“In my dream, I was walking along a lonely dirt road. The sky was overcast and fog shrouded the path in front of me. In the distance I noticed that the haze was creating a message, a definite symbol, but the shape was fluid. It had form, but it wasn’t permanent, almost illusory. I tried to grab it and the symbol vanished. When I connected that concept to this case of the cult, the truth was clear.”
Throwing up her hands in exhaustion, the sheriff had to admit that there was some measure of logic in the inner workings of his theory. “Okay, let’s say what you have decided is real. The cult is killing its victims and placing a false symbol of their beliefs at the site of sacrifice to throw us off. Where does that leave us?”
“With the parasite, of course,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I told you, the key to this mystery, the man behind the mask so-to-speak, is that thing that tried to eat my face earlier this evening. Whatever its origins, the endgame will lead us to the Church. Tomorrow morning, we hit the library.” He pointed to the patrol car outside where Deputy Mason waited, cigarette in hand. “Invite Scooby along too, he could be useful.”