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New Concepts Publishing
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Copyright ©2008 by Sloan McBride
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Epilogue
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Together in Darkness
By
Sloan McBride
© Copyright by Sloan McBride, April 2008
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, © copyright April 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-109-9
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Although Gloucester, Massachusetts and some of the businesses and landmarks therein mentioned are factual, all characters and events portrayed in this work are from the Author's imagination. Any resemblance to living persons, places or events is merely coincidence.
Author's Note: I would like to take this time to thank Lt. Joe Aiello from the Gloucester, Massachusetts Police Department, who helped me with the accuracy of the police procedures and policies, and with factual information regarding the City of Gloucester for the writing of this book. I would also like to thank those friends who read the story and gave me critical input. As always, a big hug goes out to my family for their support.
CHAPTER ONE
Schenectady, NY
He pressed his ear to the cool paneled door inside the dark, under-stairs closet to hear what they were saying. The scent of her out-of-season clothes surrounded him. He'd been there for hours, and only now, his legs were beginning to cramp. But the wait would be more than worth it.
Calculated. Precise. That's how his plans were laid out.
"I know it's been rough lately, but twenty-four is a good age for new beginnings,” he heard an unfamiliar female voice say.
That's what she thinks.
The distant sound of a door closing indicated, he hoped, the last of the party guests leaving. The sound of the dead bolt in the front door sliding home, and the click of the foyer light switch made him close his eyes and take a deep, anticipatory breath.
It was almost time.
He heard her mount the stairs above his head and listened until running water told him he could safely leave his hiding place to watch her as she prepared for bed. The curves of her body beckoned him. He waited while she brushed her teeth, rinsed with mouthwash and wandered into her absurdly feminine bedroom, brushing her long hair.
She had her eyes closed, and he moved quickly, a silent shadow, a whisper of sound, grasping her around the waist with a hand clasped over her mouth. Throwing her on the bed, he followed her down, stretching across her prone body as she struggled. He wouldn't let her suffer long. He wrapped his fingers around her neck and squeezed. The fight drained out of her along with the oxygen. Oh yeah, he loved the end when the prey gave up to the darkness and his body felt the rush.
"Twenty-four won't be a good year after all,” he whispered.
His kiss inhaled her final gasp and he stayed there a moment longer, his lips holding hers as the warmth began to fade. Then he stood and, moving slowly down her body, he ran his hands over her breasts and flat stomach, luxuriating in the softness. He straightened her long legs and tugged the cotton nightshirt lower to cover the tops of her tanned thighs. The glowing amber numbers of the bedside clock read 2:10 a.m.
He loved it when a plan went off without a hitch. Slipping his black leather jacket off, he folded it neatly over the back of her vanity chair, brushing a non-existent speck from his clean white t-shirt before heading back to the bed where she waited. Carefully, he pulled a shiny straight razor from his jean pocket, its blade freshly sharpened for just this occasion, and went to work.
He slit the flowery nightgown down the center. Flowers suited her. Now that her soft, bronzed skin was exposed, he paused to study her, and brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her face. God, she was beautiful, probably as beautiful on the inside as on the outside. So perfect for him.
The razor sliced easily through the skin and underlying tissue, but the thick muscle took a moment to carve through. The flaps of skin formed a jagged ‘x’ across her abdomen and, when peeled back, made it easy for the organs to be removed. Coddling each piece protectively, like a newborn infant, he laid them gently on her chest, pausing every time to inhale the sweet sickening smell of the blood coating his hands.
Standing back to admire his work, a grin itched at the corner of his mouth. Red Rover, Red Rover, send Jakey right over. He suppressed the laughter and dipped a forefinger into the pool of dark red blood which settled in her abdominal cavity. On the bare wall above the headboard, he meticulously spelled out his message.
Satisfied, he walked into the bathroom to rinse the blood off his skin. Looking into the mirror, he smiled. He lost more t-shirts this way. Didn't matter, it was definitely worth it.
Picking up the razor from the side of the sink, he ran the blade under the sparkling flow several times, then dried it and his hands on a fluffy pink towel before sliding it back into his pocket. Not a spot on his jeans. Damn, he was good.
Walking out through the big, airy kitchen, he snagged a piece of birthday cake from the box she'd left on the bar. “Yum. Chocolate, my favorite."
At the French doors in the back, he zipped his black leather jacket to cover the blood-stained t-shirt and slid out, moving across the lawn within the comforting shadows.
In that instant, the fine hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end. He sensed a womanly presence, sweet and ... familiar. He stopped, just at the back gate, and inhaled, trying to draw it closer, but she was gone. He looked back at the house once more, and opened the gate. Without a doubt, his next destination would bring new, exciting developments.
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CHAPTER TWO
Gloucester, Massachusetts
Allison Brody stepped out of R&N's Department Store. A brisk night wind whipped around the buildings and slapped her face as she surveyed her latest masterpiece in the window. She'd dug an antique desk out of storage, borrowed a blackboard from the custodian at Fuller Elementary School, and let her memories take over. “Not bad."
Her limbs ached and a huge knot settled between her shoulder blades. Groaning, she rel
uctantly headed back in to stash away her tools, bolts of fabric and hot glue guns.
Later, while pushing through the door, she noticed two things reflected in the glass. First, how beautiful the streetlights glittered in the night sky like diamonds on black velvet and how her hair spiked up in several places.
"Warm cocoa and soft bed, here I come,” she murmured as she locked up and headed for her car. She could just hear her brother laughing at her new hairdo and teasing her about being lunar motivated. She didn't rebuke the claim. Her creativity shined at night so the late hours had never been a problem. A dull throb at the base of her skull warned of an impending migraine.
The night air blowing through the open car window did little to alleviate the pounding headache, making the drive more difficult. Allison slammed on her brakes to avoid the red pickup truck that pulled out in front of her. “Jerk,” she muttered, doing her best to ignore the shooting pain in her head.
Finally, she reached her sanctuary. She pulled up in front of the quaint Colonial two-story house. “Home, sweet home."
Allison made a beeline for the kitchen to put a kettle of water on to boil. She sifted through her mail hoping for something from her brother. “Nothing.” Again. Burying her disappointment, Allison reached into the cupboard for her favorite mug and filled it with cocoa.
Like a vice, squeezing her temples, pressure and pain from the migraine zapped her well of energy. It had come on too fast and so strong. She dragged herself up the staircase and into the bedroom, peeling her clothes off and leaving them where they fell.
The slightest movement set her ears ringing. She fumbled around the medicine chest for the Fioricet her doctor had prescribed and ran a washrag under cold water. Leaning on fluffed pillows with the cool rag over her eyes, she sighed. Thank God for modern medicine.
She hadn't been asleep long when horrid images woke her. Through blurry eyes, she saw bright red numbers on her clock shine 2:10 a.m. in the dark. Shivers crawled across her heated skin.
"A dream, just an awful dream.” She squeezed her closed eyes tighter, ignoring how it upped the pressure of the headache behind her eyes and whispered, “Please."
After endless tossing, Allison pounded her hands on the bed. Women's faces, silent screams and a shiny object just out of focus tugged at her consciousness. She concentrated on warm sandy beaches and palm trees playing in the wind. Memories of another time, an innocence she'd locked away after her parents died came crashing through.
She must have dozed because when she glanced at the clock again it was 4:58 a.m. On wobbly legs, she staggered like a drunk into the bathroom, bumping her toe on the small wooden table by the door and stifling a yelp. Bent over the sink, she cupped her hands to catch the cool water which dripped down her chest as she splashed her face. Several deep breaths later, she raised her head. A man's reflection stared back at her in the mirror. She screamed and spun away. When she looked again, she saw only her disheveled image. Not again.
The intensity of the headache had increased and she couldn't get rid of the chill or the picture of those soulless eyes in the mirror. It had been a while since she'd been nauseous from a vision ... a long while. She didn't like it. She sat in her favorite lotus position and tried to calm herself.
A short time later, Allison went downstairs to make her morning cup of tea and honey, hoping that would take care of the cold sensation lingering on her skin. She flipped on the television, welcoming the noise.
"This breaking story just in from...."
Allison barely heard the anchorwoman on the news. Her eyes were open, but saw nothing around her. She collapsed into the plush chair, the room darkened. Suddenly, she was in a car speeding down the highway. Rock-n-roll blasted on the radio and the hands that felt like hers, but weren't, tapped the beat on the steering wheel. The white lines on the road sped past.
A shrill sound like the whine of an engine brought Allison back to her surroundings. The newswoman had moved on to the next story. Shaken, the taste of bile rose in Allison's throat. She ran to the roll-top desk in her office and tore through some papers until she found a small scrap with a name and phone number scrawled on it.
Paul Kincaid, M.D., Psychiatrist.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THREE
Sunrise. Jake Austin had already been awake for three hours. The shower spray tapped against the vinyl curtain, reminding him of a summer rainfall. He stood with hands flat against the wall and his head hung forward while hot water pounded his neck and back until the flow turned cold.
He flung the floral curtain open and grabbed a towel to dry off. Wrapping a fresh towel around his waist, Jake swiped his hand across the mirror to get rid of the moisture.
Grave. Yeah, that was the perfect word for his reflection. Wet hair hung in long dark strings around his neck, hard soulless eyes stared back at him.
Who would be the next to die?
Jake stretched experimentally. Every inch of him felt as though he'd been trampled by an elephant. Okay, a herd of elephants.
In blue jeans and a Polo shirt, he tossed his bags in the trunk of his 2002 Grand Am before sliding behind the wheel. Strain and fatigue burned his eyes as he drove down Highway Seven in the early morning hours, heading out of Schenectady. Next to him on the seat sat an open map, his destination circled in red.
Emergency and police vehicles blocked Winchester Drive. Watching the lights flash in the dawn, he felt like he'd just dropped into an episode of some television police show. A uniformed officer stopped Jake and told him to turn around. Jake pulled out his badge and asked to speak with the detective in charge.
Jake could tell Detective Johnson wasn't pleased to see a federal agent. “Hello, Detective."
"What's this about, Austin?” Johnson's manner projected authority.
"I'd like to take a look at the crime scene."
The detective gave Jake the once over. “Dressing down today?"
"I didn't want to call too much attention to my presence here."
Johnson looked skeptical.
"I'm not going to interfere, Detective. I'm working a federal case and would like your permission to check for similarities."
Jake noticed the uneasy glance the uniformed officer shot Johnson.
"How'd you get here so quickly?"
A valid question, so Jake said, “Police scanners."
"I don't like it."
No kidding. “I just need a quick look.” Jake shifted his gaze toward the house. “I'll know if it's the same guy."
Johnson's brows creased. Jake tamped down his impatience. He needed to get inside now.
"Fine,” Johnson finally agreed, “but I want this kept quiet."
Jake couldn't agree more. “You've got it. I'd just as soon not be plastered all over the front page."
In another fifteen minutes people would be coming out to get papers or go to work. By tonight, this murder would be on prime time news.
"Have someone move my car around the block.” Jake tossed the uniformed officer his keys.
"Sullivan, do it,” Johnson said. The young officer jumped in the car and backed it up before the detective turned to him once more. “Come on."
Forensics was still collecting and cataloging, so Jake stopped off for a jumpsuit and shoe covers to prevent contamination of the scene. Jake pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket.
He followed the detective through the front door, but stopped the men carrying the body bag as they moved past him. Detective Johnson nodded once, indicating they could let Jake view the body. Slowly, he unzipped the bag, revealing a young woman with pleasant features and shoulder-length brown hair tipped in auburn. She was approximately five feet five, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old.
He didn't need to uncover more, but he pulled the zipper lower. He saw what he knew he'd find. Even more carefully, Jake closed the black bag and waved them on.
The bedroom would have told him everything he needed without even seeing
the body. The Surgeon had been here.
He snatched a pencil from a passing technician and flipped open his small notepad. “Any prints?"
"None other than the victim's so far,” another plain-clothed man answered.
"This is my partner, Detective Martin.” Johnson nodded toward the man who'd answered. “Martin, this is Agent Austin."
Jake acknowledged the other man. “You won't find any other prints. He's careful."
Jake walked over to the foot of the bed and stared at the wall above the headboard. There, written in the young woman's blood, was another verse. She stood half-dressed in the doorway.
Detective Johnson,” someone yelled. “This is strange."
Jake followed the detective out into the living room.
"There's a video in the machine, but all the prints have been wiped away."
This drew Jake's attention. “What's the video?"
"The Storm,” the tech said.
He scanned the crime scene until it became etched in his memory. Inch by inch, he walked the path the killer had taken, the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. He stared at the chocolate birthday cake. A vague sense of deja vu stole over him, but vanished like a wisp of smoke. Watching a group of officers canvass the yard, he'd almost swear he'd seen The Surgeon's dusky form casually stroll away.
"There's no doubt this is the same killer,” he told Johnson. “Get everything into the NCIC as soon as possible."
"We always do,” Johnson replied indignantly.
The NCIC, National Crime Information Center, is a computerized index of criminal justice information available to all criminal justice agencies twenty-four seven.
"My team is right behind me. Special Agent Peter Carmichael will contact you soon to offer assistance."
"As if we need it.” Johnson frowned.
"You will.” Jake smiled bitterly.
Climbing into his car, Jake grabbed the phone on his belt and punched in a number. “Linc. Yeah, I know what time it is. Listen, I need you to find out all you can about the movie, The Storm.” The man on the other end of the line mumbled.
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