Together in Darkness

by Sloan McBride

  "I'd like to grab it.” She threw him a suggestive grin. “Is the room all you're looking for?"

  Jake winked. “I'm afraid so."

  "Pity,” she sighed.

  "What do I owe you?"

  "How long you figure on stayin'?"

  "A couple of days."

  "It'll be a few minutes. Would you like something to eat while you wait?"

  "Certainly. Whatever you suggest."

  "Chowder?"

  "Great."

  He watched as the woman moved efficiently, arranging glasses and calling out orders. She'd most likely be a wealth of information about people in this area, someone who knew everyone. It would be worth looking into, tomorrow. For now, he wanted to dig in and figure out a way to track down the next victim.

  Later, Jake settled into a nice, clean room with two double beds. He dropped his suitcase on one and his body on the other. Sheer exhaustion took over and begged him for sleep. Sleep. He didn't sleep much. The borders between dreams and the real world got lost sometimes, so sleep remained elusive. He should call headquarters and talk to Linc.

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  CHAPTER SIX

  Lancaster had been dragged out of bed by a phone call from the street sergeant notifying him that a homicide had been committed. He shakily stepped into his trousers, dug some socks out of his top dresser drawer then slipped on a shirt, opting out of a tie. Per procedure, Lancaster as the lead detective, contacted the medical examiner and notified the Chief.

  At the scene, Lancaster stared at the mutilated body of a female victim with long reddish-brown hair who appeared to be in her early to mid-twenties. This was the one the FBI agent had warned him about.

  "What do you think?” Rich asked, twirling his pen while he watched.

  "She has the same attributes Austin mentioned."

  "So the Fed was right and we have a serial killer in Gloucester."

  "Keep it quiet,” Lancaster hissed. “You want everyone going nuts about this? Besides, we don't know anything for sure yet."

  Rich clamped his mouth shut as he glanced around to make sure no one had heard his comment.

  "I'm not giving a Fed anything until it's warranted,” Lancaster said while moving to the foot of the bed. He studied the grim writing on the wall.

  "What do you make of that?” Rich asked.

  Lancaster shifted his weight. “Don't know yet. A message?” He pulled out his notebook and recorded the words. “When we start examining this stuff, I'm sure something will turn up."

  Rich gave a quick snort. “Yeah, we don't need the Feds crawling around anyway."

  "Right."

  * * * *

  Jake woke to the noise of fisherman getting ready for another long day. The hustle and bustle on the docks outside created a sort of tempo. He dragged his still-clothed body off the bed and flipped open his suitcase to pull out some fresh albeit wrinkled clothes.

  He had the water running while he shaved but could hear the television just outside the bathroom door. He'd switched it on for noise and for the latest news in the area. As the anchorwoman presented details of a murder, Jake nicked himself with the razor and swore under his breath. He wiped the trickle of blood with a towel and threw it in the sink as he left the room to hear the rest of the broadcast.

  "Damn."

  Sitting down on the bed, he pulled on his socks, his underwear, then stood to thrust his right foot into the pants leg. “People just don't listen,” he mumbled as he shoved his other foot in. He buttoned up the crisp shirt and quickly stuffed it into the waistband of the trousers. After hooking the belt, he ran his fingers through his still damp hair, grabbed his suit coat and headed out the door.

  It didn't take long for Jake to arrive at the scene. Brows drawn together, he stared at Lancaster who was coming out of the house.

  "I warned you this was coming. I need to walk the scene."

  Lancaster rubbed his chin, as if thinking it over. “You're not getting in the way of an investigation, Agent. Besides, no one gets near the crime scene until the State Police Crime Prevention and Control is done."

  Jake considered rushing the police line and tearing into the house, but common sense prevailed. He looked hard at the goings-on, nodded and reluctantly left. Damn, it would do no good forcing the issue.

  "What are you doing since they won't let you in?” Linc asked.

  Jake propped the tiny cell phone between his ear and shoulder to open the car door. “Taking in some of the local color, breathing fresh air. It's a great place, you know if I wasn't here because of a murderer."

  "I'd be dying about now,” Linc said. “I'm not sure my body could take fresh air. I've lived in D.C. too long."

  Jake smiled and pulled away from the curb. “Yeah, well, this is closer to home for me."

  "Of course, you grew up somewhere in New England, right?"

  Jake waited while a mother helped her small daughter across the street before turning the corner. “Vermont."

  He was silent for a moment. “I can't remember the last time I actually enjoyed scenery. I've been too focused on catching him."

  "You will."

  "Yeah. Thanks.” Jake hung up.

  * * * *

  The morning dragged for Allison. Lethargic. She tried to work on some of her latest fashion designs, but kept breaking the tips of the pencils. She dug out old magazines and notes from the closet to give her ideas for window displays, anything to keep her mind off the visions. Not even her underlying desire to become a fashion designer could distract her thoughts, so she decided to take a stroll and clear her mind.

  The rising sun warmed the sky to a topaz glow that lit the boardwalk that crossed over the small inlet. Her house sat in a cove against a backdrop of dense pine trees. She let her thoughts wander, light as a feather, riding the wind. This time of day always calmed her.

  As the sun peeked out above the horizon, she closed her eyes. The salty breeze smoothed her hair from her cheeks. A deep cleansing breath to refocus her center left her sated.

  A faint voice in her mind whispered. “The sunrises are most beautiful here. Fate draws us together again."

  Her eyes flew open searching the boardwalk for the man who toyed with her sanity. She didn't see him. She knew she wouldn't. A frown wrinkled her forehead. What did he mean about fate?

  The dark lilac pendant hanging around her neck glowed in the dusky light. Allison wrapped her fingers around the stone and let its warmth radiate through her body to stem the chill.

  "Your powers are growing."

  Allison whirled to see Yanni smiling at her. “Don't look so pleased."

  Yanni shook her head as if understanding her displeasure, but not liking it.

  "How can I stop it?” There had to be a way. Allison tried to dislodge the feeling of violation he'd left behind. Her ragged nerves made her jittery.

  "You cannot,” Yanni said sadly. “He is right. You are destined."

  "No! I'm just going to have to work harder to suppress them."

  Allison headed for the house. What hand had fate dealt her this time?

  * * * *

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed six when Allison opened the front door.

  "Wow!” Paul said, confirming Allison had made the right choice deciding to wear the soft green sleeveless dress. “You're beautiful."

  He pulled a single lily from behind his back and presented it with a flourish. “For you."

  She stood speechless, staring at the flower.

  "Are you going to take it?” He looked confused, worried, his hand still outstretched.

  "Oh, sorry,” she said, taking the bloom from him. “Yes, let me put it in water."

  Allison hurried to the kitchen, filled a small crystal vase that had belonged to her mother, and set the flower gently inside. No one had ever given her a flower before. It looked lonely on her dining room table.

  "I have your wrap. Are you ready?"

  She grabbed her beaded purse from the
entryway table and dropped her keys inside it. “Okay.” Allison shored up her inner strength for close contact with Paul. His thoughts weren't intrusive, just worrisome.

  Ricardo's was an exquisite restaurant that invited a variety of guests to its well-known doors. They were escorted directly to a quiet table, making Allison wonder if Paul had requested that when he made the reservation.

  After they ordered, Paul asked her to dance. The band music, soft lighting and pleasant aromas brought back fond memories as Paul glided her across the floor.

  "Where are you?"

  His voice permeated her memory. “Sorry. I was just remembering."

  "Remembering?” He sounded appropriately interested.

  "I used to come here with my parents."

  "Does it bother you being here?"

  She pulled back to look in his eyes. “No. Why would you think that?"

  "Well, you have been having those nightmares."

  She shook her head. “These were wonderful memories."

  "Okay.” Now his tone held doubt.

  "You don't believe I have visions, do you?"

  "I think you believe they're visions.” Worse, he seemed to be slipping into his doctor mode.

  "But?"

  "Allison, I honestly think it is your mind we're dealing with, not some paranormal phenomenon."

  She couldn't blame him, but stiffened slightly in his arms. He was a psychiatrist. She'd dealt with this sentiment before—all her life. And she'd had enough.

  "How about we just drop it for now and enjoy the evening?"

  "Okay with me.” Paul agreed a little too quickly, as if he were anxious to move away from that dangerous topic.

  When the music stopped, he kissed her hand and led her back to the table. Just as they were sitting down, their salads arrived and they talked of lighter things, moving from subject to subject easily. Paul's sandy hair and West Coast looks made him devastatingly handsome. He made her laugh and did a good job of cracking the wall she'd erected long ago to protect herself. Had she been closed off too long?

  They'd stayed at the restaurant until almost midnight listening to music and talking about college. She drank too much red wine but admitted that she'd had a wonderful time when Paul took her home.

  "Are you going to come to your next appointment?"

  "I..."

  "Please do, Allison,” he said, taking one of her hands between both of his. “It would be good for you to talk. I want to help."

  She dropped her head, letting her hair shield her from him, not wanting to make a promise she wouldn't keep.

  Putting his hand under her chin, he lifted her head until their eyes met. “Think about it.” He waited for a moment, but she said nothing. With a sigh, Paul kissed her cheek and left.

  Allison locked the house and made her way up the steps to the bedroom. She removed her makeup, brushed her hair and read a magazine article before settling back against the pillows. “Please, God, be merciful. Let me sleep tonight."

  Two hours later, still awake, she peered at the clock—3:17 a.m. “Well, Nanna used to say, ‘hot milk puts you right to sleep'."

  Shoving bare feet into her favorite blue fuzzy slippers, Allison trudged down to the kitchen. Yanking the refrigerator open, she moved things to reach the milk. She filled a mug and placed it in the microwave. “I hope this works, Grandma."

  "My chai had remedies for everything."

  "Quit doing that.” Allison said, placing her fist against her chest.

  "Doing what?” The old woman looked surprised at her great-granddaughter's reaction.

  "Scaring the begeezus out of me,” Allison snapped, waiting impatiently for her milk. It probably wouldn't help her sleep now.

  "Sorry, ‘twas not my intention."

  Allison leaned her head back against a cabinet, closing her eyes for a moment. “I don't suppose you'd go away and leave me alone?"

  "Did you not miss me even a little in the years since you saw me last?"

  Allison looked at the petite woman. She hadn't changed. In truth, she had missed Yanni, who'd been a great comfort after she had gotten over the initial shock of talking to a dead relative. Yanni told Allison wonderful stories of Gypsy life, how her family never stayed in one place very long, and were always to blame if something happened, whether they were in the vicinity or not. It must have been hard, Allison thought.

  Her powers were frightening, and Yanni had helped her cope with uncertainty. Michael, Allison's father, hadn't balked when Allison discussed Yanni, but she never spoke of it to her mother.

  She sighed. “I did, Yanni. I'm happy to see you."

  The microwave dinged and Allison retrieved her mug, careful not to slosh the hot liquid. She sipped slowly. “I don't suppose there's anything in the cards that says this will just blow over?"

  "Chavvi, my girl.” Yanni shook her head. “You were so distraught over your parents’ death that I agreed to help you subdue your powers. That time has long passed. You must prepare."

  "Do you really think I'd be treated or looked at any differently now by people?” Allison smiled, but it held the sadness of long ago.

  "Rest, little one. We will talk again.” Yanni disappeared with the blink of an eye.

  Later that night, Allison's head tossed. Her white-knuckled fingers gripped the bed sheet as if it was a lifeline. A hand that wasn't hers held a small black book with names and numbers written in it. He turned the key and the engine purred to life. She sensed his appreciation for the finely tuned vehicle, knew he had modified it himself.

  He drove around familiar neighborhoods, the business district and the wharf.

  Searching.

  His mind, full of hate, lust and death, reached her so easily, so unwelcome.

  Daybreak. He'd parked to watch the sunrise. Allison's damp skin chilled. He studied the victims, learning about them without their knowledge.

  From behind some trees, a black-gloved hand marked down a young woman's height, hair color, date and time, and then the number seven. She drove a minivan and had children with her. It looked like a birthday party with bright-colored balloons and presents. Celebrating another year of life seemed foolish to him when she'd be dead soon. He turned to the next blank page in his notebook and laughed. The sound made Allison's stomach roll with nausea.

  Allison bolted up in bed.

  The food she'd eaten at dinner threatened to choke her, and she shivered, so damn cold. On the bedside table, she kept a bottle of Fioricet. Thankful her glass still held some water, she downed two pills. Sitting up, she crossed her legs in Indian-fashion and took deep breaths. A lifetime of images flashed through her mind, faster and faster until everything exploded into a collage of blood and death.

  For some reason the skin on her arms felt creepy-crawley so she hurried into the bathroom and slipped off her pajamas. Hoping to stop the tremors, she stepped into a scalding shower, which turned her skin a deep pink. Muscle spasms jerked her body even after she'd dried off and wrapped up in a fluffy yellow bath towel.

  "What am I going to do?” she asked her pale reflection.

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  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two slow, agonizing days passed before Detective Lancaster got a call from C-PAC. The faxed reports on the murder victim provided details of her last days. As the lead detective, he took all the heat from the media and City Hall. It didn't reflect well on him and the department when they still had no leads after two days.

  Detective Bob Thompson, a veteran who'd grown up in Gloucester, stuck his head in the conference room after Lancaster finished the call. “So what'd they say?"

  Lancaster frowned, motioning Thompson to come in. “Nothing good."

  "I just got a call from Rich.” Thompson settled himself into a chair.

  "Did he talk to the rest of the neighbors?"

  "Yeah, but they couldn't help,” Thompson said with a shrug. “They were asleep and didn't hear anything, like the others."

  "Shit.” Lancast
er pulled Jake Austin's card out of his pocket and turned it corner to corner.

  "What are you thinking?"

  Lancaster shrugged. “Maybe I should call him. If this is the killer he's been after, he'll probably have information that can help us."

  "You gonna run it by the Chief?” Thompson asked with a frown.

  "In good time,” Lancaster answered, pushing his chair back from the table while flipping open his cell phone. “We don't know yet if this is the same killer. If not, Austin will move on,” Lancaster said as he dialed Austin's number.

  "The Chief won't like it."

  No surprise there, Lancaster thought. But no matter what the Chief said about it, they needed to find out what Austin knew.

  On the fourth ring, Jake picked up. “Austin."

  "This is Detective Lancaster from the Gloucester P.D."

  "Hello, Detective."

  "Can you come down here? We need to talk."

  Jake sighed. “Sure, I'll be there shortly.” He hung up.

  Lancaster went into the detective division, just down the hall from the conference room. “Carl."

  "Yeah,” Carl Schaefer, a short, crew-cut rookie, looked up from his over-crowded desk.

  "I'll make this conference room the command post.” He pointed to the room he'd just vacated. “Can you see that everything about the murder is brought in?"

  "Sure,” Carl replied, hurrying to Lancaster's desk to gather the material on the case.

  A while later, Detective Lancaster sat staring blankly at gruesome photographs and reports spread over a table in the small airless room.

  "Have a seat,” Lancaster said without looking up when Jake stepped into the room. “So where's your team?"

  Jake sat down in an empty chair across the table. “They're close behind.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Look, Detective, this is your jurisdiction and my capacity in the investigation would be advisory, unless otherwise requested.” Jake knew he couldn't afford to alienate the locals.

  "Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way,” Lancaster replied dryly. He tossed a file on the table in front of Jake.

  "Here's what we've got so far, but it's not much."

  Jake didn't touch it. “Let me guess. You don't have any fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, and no witnesses who heard or saw anything because it happened so late at night."