Fury From Hell

by Rochelle Campbell

  The Fury blew away the tumultuous winds in the host’s mind and infused the host with a massive sleep spell.

  Jennifer turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. She wrapped up in her terry robe and walked wearily into the bedroom where she flung herself into bed praying she would sleep through Sunday. She wanted to forget everything and just go straight into work on Monday morning. Jennifer’s last thought before the Abatu’s sleep spell took effect was she would call Chad tomorrow.

  ***

  Saturday, November 10th, Night

  The buzzing was bothering her. She sat up and looked around. She was in a bland beige room devoid of personality. There was the bed she was on, two plain night tables with lamps on each stand — both of them were off. There was a dresser with a bevel-edged mirror and a TV on a simple black stand. The curtains were the tan elegant floral pattern seen in low-budget motels and the carpet was threadbare in spots. The only chair in the room had a rip in the fabric where some of the stuffing was sticking out.

  The buzzing was coming from the bathroom. Jennifer got up and went to investigate. She looked down and saw she was fully dressed in her gabardine pants and the sparkly top. Her feet were clad in the funky boots but they made not one sound on the worn carpet. She peered into the bathroom that was brightly lit and saw a vision she would not soon forget; a tall man, a little over six feet, with dark blonde hair and a solid build stood before her. He was shaving — the source of the buzzing — but he was shaving his skin off. It was coming off in narrow sheets of skin. He was slicing it as thin as good Prosciutto. Where his eyes should have been were empty sockets with blood seeping out. His fingers were almost perfectly clean against his sightless face but his movement belied what her brain knew to be the truth. Too horrified to scream, and too dumbfounded to move, Jennifer watched as the man turned towards her. He waved with a ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

  “I’ll be right in. I just wanted to freshen up for you,” he said in a refined, modulated tone.

  When he turned Jennifer could then see what she had missed before — his chest was torn asunder and his stomach cavity was just like his eye sockets…open, empty and oozing blood. With a full smile, the man turned back towards the mirror and began to shave skin off the other side of his face seemingly trying to make it even on both sides…

  Jennifer woke up screaming clutching her face and stomach alternately remembering his cavernous eye sockets still vivid in her mind’s eye.

  ***

  Sunday, November 11th - Morning

  Sunday dawned bright and clear but Jennifer didn’t revel in it. She sat on the floor in a corner of her bedroom, legs drawn to her chest, dark smudges under her eyes and an unbearable pain in her chest. Only by rocking could she subdue her disconsolate mood. The remembered nightmare not only fouled her conscious mind it wound its way through her unconscious making sleep unsustainable for long periods of time. Every time she drifted off, the dream returned with a ferocity that threatened to hold Jennifer captive in the nightmare until she asphyxiated.

  Her alarm went off for the tenth time. She blinked rapidly as a shaft of sunlight shot across the room. Warding off the yellow rays, as if they were her nemesis, Jennifer unfolded herself out of the uncomfortable position which she had held for hours and headed for the shower.

  When she emerged half an hour later, her skin was pruned and a light shimmer of heat escaped from her saturated pores. Brushing her dark brown curly hair Jennifer stared at her reflection and formulated a plan: Work. She would throw herself into solving the Barnes case and stay awake 24/7, if need be. Coffee and Red Bull would be her bosom buddies more than ever before. With luck, at night the overload of caffeine and the resulting crash should allow her to enjoy dreamless, albeit, unhealthy sleep.

  Hey…sleep is sleep!

  With a careless shrug, Jennifer grabbed her work bag. She stuffed the money from her clutch in it then went into her closet. She hauled out her gear putting on her police issue weapon and holster. She ignored the feelings of uneasiness when she spied the .38. Quickly putting away her gun case, she slammed her closet door shut and stalked out of her apartment. Her work bag swung wildly as she jabbed the air like she was beating a punching bag as she ran down the stairs faster than was her norm.

  ***

  Twenty-seven minutes later, she was seated in front of her computer in her cubicle within the confines of the precinct’s bullpen. Jennifer already felt more composed. The world made sense from her cheap rolling chair. It had a broken right armrest along with a wheel that always got stuck and made skid marks on the tile floor underneath her. A protective plastic pad wasn’t in the budget for a low-rung detective like her. The only thing good about her little spot was her new computer. It was fast, quiet and raring to go just like she was.

  At 8:10 on a Sunday morning, the precinct was not a beehive of activity. It was just the opposite which was a balm for her battered soul.

  Peeking out surreptitiously, Abatu saw the billowing noxious clouds of Jennifer’s mood combined with the host’s caffeinated beverages. The Fury had its own emotion to contend with…heightened worry. The host was not doing well and needed a release. The Fury sent the host an image of Chad and then bided its time as it shifted into the background once more.

  Reading onscreen, Jennifer rested her chin on her palm as she read a murder report. Unexpectedly, she thought of Chad and her desire to connect with him in some way. She glanced at her desk phone and ignored the thought.

  I need to focus right now. I can always call Chad later…

  The report in front of her was similar to the one she had written for Kyma Barnes.

  “The victim’s right arm broken in three places: the humerus, radius and ulna. Two clean breaks and one jagged. The perpetrator seemed to have trouble on the last break; victim must have put up a fight at that point. Victim’s face was beaten beyond visual recognition and aggressive sexual mutilation. Both breasts bruised and mutilated. After raping victim, vagina also mutilated. Wounds inflicted prior to death. Victim suffered extreme pain and blood loss. Perp left victim to bleed to death after defecating on her.”

  Jennifer sighed and rubbed her eyes trying to get the image out of her head. Scrolling through more of the report, Jennifer found what she had been seeking.

  “Forensics found one strand of hair. No match from the database. Checking international sources to see if perp can be found. Case going into inactive case files. No further leads at this time.”

  Jennifer quickly scrolled up and jotted down the detective’s name — Castleman. Jennifer noted the precinct was in Jefferson City, Missouri. “Great, just my luck. Nice and far away.”

  Checking the time zone, Jennifer knew it was still too early to call. Missouri was an hour behind New York. Slamming her fist on her desk she suppressed a curse but pressed on. She was pacified in that there was a strand of hair in the middle of the country that might tie her case to Castleman’s which would cement her theory of a serial killer. Realizing nothing much else could be done on that front Jennifer went back to the list Gerald gave her. The two days off had given her mind a break from the case in spite of the nightmares and the vast holes in her memory that, thankfully, did not seem to extend to her work memories.

  With fresh eyes, she reviewed her notes and looked for other avenues to pursue. Kyma’s friends were a dead end. Maybe the strand of hair wouldn’t be. What if the guy was a client at the salon? Maybe the perp was a one-time visitor so that he could watch Kyma and blend in at the same time? Jennifer checked the report and didn’t see anything about the hair strand being dyed.

  Sucking in a breath she grabbed her cell and dialed. It rang twice before a sleepy voice bellowed into her ear,

  “What the hell do you want at eight-fucking-forty-five on a Sunday?”

  “Yeah well this is my way of thanking you for dolling me up the other night. So, now that pleasantries are out of the way — did my perp ever dye his hair?”

  Babs sno
rted.

  “Okay, I see how you roll, Holden. Dye job? Lemme think. The rape case, right?”

  “Yeah, the only one I’ve got…”

  “But, I — unlike you — have about seventeen other cases I’m working on concurrently. Gotta sort through the shit in my head. Hold on, wait.”

  Jennifer could hear rustling and a computer whirring into life.

  “Gonna log in and make sure I’m remembering correctly.”

  “I’m in and already logged in. Can I see?”

  “You’ve got another day off! What the hell are you doing in? Oops. Sorry — your first case!” Babs laughed. “Right, forgot that. We all did it. Okay, got the file. Yeah, forgot to put it in the report. Didn’t think it was important. Dye job. Clairol Professional High Lift Golden Blonde.”

  Jennifer whistled.

  “Pretty good. How’d you know that?”

  “I follow all blonde colors. I have to go with the look and shade that goes with my skin and age. I’m considering this Honey Blonde shade for my next color job.” A hint of pride snuck into her voice.

  “And get away from the platinum blonde that doesn’t age you a bit? Whatever for?”

  “So you’ve got jokes about my hair color now? Really? You don’t wanna go there with me, Holy Holden. If I could get a hot comb through those naps of yours I’d be one damned lucky bitch.”

  Grinning, Jennifer leaned back in her chair and put her hands behind her head.

  “See how easy it is to push your buttons, Strickland? That’s nothing but music to my ears. Now, back to my case — Babs, you may have given me something to go on! I appreciate you checking it out for me so quickly. Now go back and finish your beauty sleep.”

  “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

  “For what? Oh! For giving ‘ole boy my number? Yeah, we’re good.” Affecting a deep Brooklyn accent she said, “Fuhgeddaboudit!”

  “Good. I’m going to get back into bed but first, I’m going to put my two cents in. If you haven’t already, call Chad. He’s a keeper.”

  Babs clicked off before Jennifer could retort.

  With her lips pursed in an aggravated snarl, Jennifer put the phone back in its cradle while shaking her head.

  Why am I fighting this? I want to call him. Babs wants me to call him, but I don’t want to call him

  Refusing to pick up the phone yet again Jennifer abruptly shut thoughts of Chad’s firm chest and strong arms out of her mind. She came in to channel her energy into work.

  Now to figure out where my perp got his hair primped and preened.

  Jennifer had yet another reason to hate metrosexuals.

  Well maybe except one… She smiled as thoughts of the sexy Chad raced across her mind’s eye.

  Dang it! There I go again. WORK!

  Jennifer pulled out Castleman’s report and poured over it again to make sure she didn’t miss anything before she called him in forty-five minutes.

  ***

  “Detective Castleman here.”

  “’Morning, Detective Holden, from New York, here. Wanted to check a detail from one of your inactive cases from two years ago. The rape/mutilation case?”

  “Damn shame ‘bout that girl. Wasn’t but twenty-four or twenty-five years ole. Ain’t no way to die. Damn shame.”

  Hearing the pain in his voice, Jennifer pressed further. “Did you know the girl?”

  “Well, we ain’t a big place like New Yawk. We’re over forty-three thousand and growing each year. But, in my job, I kinda touch a lot of folks. I knew the girl’s family. She went to school with my daughter. Even went to the funeral. Casket was closed. Her damned face was too messed up. Bloody shame.”

  She could hear him blowing his nose.

  “Castleman, I’m sorry. I know how tough it is for this kinda shit to touch your life personally.”

  It took a moment for his composure to return. “Yeah, thanks. How can I help, Detective Holden? Anything I can do to put that bastard away, I’ll do. It hurt really bad when I couldn’t find anything; made me feel like I let my own little girl down.”

  Thanking Lady Luck, Jennifer made her request. “I caught a case that may be linked to yours. My victim’s a bit older, late twenties, but fits the MO that your perp seems to like. There’s mutilation like yours but no defecation. The thing is we’ve got a match on the hair. My victim had a strand of hair that matched the strand in your case.”

  “Same perp.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You ID him?”

  “Just like you — nada. Didn’t see it in your notes, but did you find him in international?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So, we’ve got a ghost?”

  “Seems like. Wondered if it’s a wig. That was my theory.”

  “Pretty sure it’s human hair. My forensics person is a fanatical fashionista. She’s already ID’d the dye color; something from Clairol in the blonde family.”

  He guffawed. “It is New Yawk. You guys would probably be more up on that kinda stuff than us down here. We don’t get that many runway shows flocking to us.”

  The two detectives shared a moment of camaraderie.

  “Castleman, anything else come to mind that might help us to catch this guy?”

  “Yeah, I remember he’s got an unusual foot size. His shoe imprint was left in the snow near the body. We measured it as an eleven narrow, uh double narrow, AA I think.”

  She heard papers rustling, him grunting and a chair protesting being moved.

  “Okay, no — eleven C. Musta thought of my little wife’s foot. She’s a double-narrow and wears a 6 and a half AA. This guy’s got a longish foot but its skinny, you know?”

  “I’m picturing it. Any idea of his height? We know he had to be on the big side because of the injuries our victims sustained.”

  “From his foot imprint our forensics guy, Billy Sherm, surmised…uh…six foot one, at least. Billy says he can’t be sure without more data to go on, though.”

  Jennifer noted it down. “This is more than I had so thanks! Take my number and let me know if you remember anything else, all right? I’ll make sure to keep you in the loop. Fair enough?”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, and Holden..?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You find this guy and make him pay, hear me?”

  Something caught in her throat that made her sit up straighter. “Yes, sir. I will.”

  With a harrumph Castleman hung up.

  Jennifer looked at the receiver for a long time wondering how many years Castleman had been on the force. His concern had come through loud and clear. Even in the short conversation she knew that if she had any issues at all she knew she who she could turn to.

  She replaced the phone only to have it ring again.

  “Detective Holden.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Feinster, I don’t answer to you.”

  “You should answer to somebody. You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

  “What calls? I don’t remember my phone ringing.”

  She grabbed her cell off her desk and flicked through to her missed calls log. Sure enough there were eight calls from Betty, two from Babs and one from Chad in the past twenty-four hours. Closing her eyes, Jennifer willed away the nausea that threatened to come back. She had no recollection of these calls; didn’t hear the phone ring nor felt it vibrate. There wasn’t even a hint of a memory of ignoring the missed calls. The low level panic she had pushed to the background rushed to the fore with a vengeance.

  “Betty, we need to talk.”

  “Surely you don’t expect to do so at work?”

  “Aren’t you in today?”

  “This is my one day off and I’m not stepping foot in that precinct. Not all of us are so lucky to score three days in a row. And not many of us would forfeit it and come in a day early.”

  Ignoring her jibe Jennifer racked her brain.

  “You live in…”

  “Queens — Bellerose Park, to be precise.
”

  Hearing the smirk Jennifer immediately got mad. “Fuck off. I can’t remember every damn thing.”

  “I see your two days off put you in grand humor…”

  “How the hell do I get there?”

  “I didn’t ask you over.”

  “Cut the crap. Train?”

  “You’re not driving?”

  “I don’t own a vehicle. Isn’t that something you should remember?”

  “Oh, thought you did.”

  “Your turn to eat crow. Train?”

  “Railroad.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “It’s not that bad; only a thirty-five minute ride. I’ll pick you up at the station. Just text me your arrival time and I’ll come get you. Seeing its only 9:30 in the morning we can have lunch. Sound like a plan?”

  In response, Jennifer grunted.

  “Plan accepted. Lovely. See you later.”

  Jennifer slammed the phone down and could have sworn she heard laughter before the connection was cut.

  Jennifer’s next move was to look up the top men’s hair salons in the New York City area. She checked TimeOut magazine first for their picks and found several but none in Brooklyn. Widening her search, she found Body by Brooklyn in Clinton Hill on Park and Washington. No hair care but a load of spa services and sauna crap. She added it to her list. Gerald hadn’t mentioned this one. She wondered if Kyma had a bad girl streak and stepped out on her devoted puppy dog that was Gerald. Maybe Kyma could have met the perp at a spa; good cover for her normal self. It was also easy to hide seeing another man if Gerald was the needy kind that wanted to know his woman’s whereabouts at every turn. Jennifer had a distinct feeling Gerald was just precisely one of those.

  In the next hour she found High Horse Salon in Williamsburg, The Heights Salon of Brooklyn — Kyma’s salon in Brooklyn Heights — Cocoro Hair in Carroll Gardens, Boy Luv Girl in Brooklyn Heights and about 5 others. Her head reeled from the sheer number of salons all around her that she had never seen nor bothered to visit. She flopped back in her flimsy seat and went to a new browser tab to check the railroad schedule.

  She’d never make the 10:42 and planned on the 11:42. She sent Betty a text with her arrival time and made some more notes about her salon findings. The best, most sought after ones were in the City, but there were some respectable ones with good followings in Brooklyn, especially in the Williamsburg area. With no clue as to her perp’s origins it was hard to get a feel for where he’d go. Sighing she knew what she had to do; check them all. With her meager description she doubted she’d get anywhere but it was a start.