by Karen Rose
Now they were on victim three of his six, halfway through the game already.
Because they had God complexes, they would blame themselves. They would know that if they’d been smarter, quicker, competent, they would have seen victim number one hadn’t killed herself. That they might have prevented the deaths of the others.
They’d begin to second-guess themselves, and each other. And as the body count climbed, all that they believed they were, the mirage of strength they’d built of their own hubris would disappear. Because their strength had never been.
He would move on, stronger through their weakness. And he alone would know the truth, because they’d never find the one who’d brought demise to their public façade.
But enough of that for now. They’d finally discovered Martha Brisbane, aka victim number three of his six, aka Desiree. The game had officially begun.
On to victim four. He opened his laptop and logged in to his new hunting ground. There was a great deal to be said about the supposed anonymity of Shadowland’s virtual “world.” His victims were there to play, their guard down. In the virtual world they could say and do things they’d never dream of doing in the real world. He could earn their trust more easily because they believed he didn’t know who they really were.
But he knew. It was why he’d chosen these particular six out of the millions online.
He knew their names, addresses, occupations, marital status, and—of great personal value—their phobias, their worst fears. He’d tailored each experience to the victim, so although he hadn’t put his hands around their throats or allowed himself release, he’d been able to stoke the first three to more intense terror than he’d ever achieved with his hookers.
In the past, the fears had been only in his victims’ minds, a byproduct of the ketamine he’d used to sedate them. Not so with these six. They played in the virtual world, but he’d make certain they died terrified in the real one.
His first of six had been so terrified of small spaces. After minutes in a box, Amy had been hysterical. Pulling that twine around her neck as her heart had thundered, her body unable to flee… It had taken real discipline to keep from losing control.
He’d managed to conjure the memory of her terror later, when he was back at home, alone. But his climax was only a pale shadow of what it would have been had he taken it as his first of six gasped her last. But one had to make sacrifices for the greater goal.
Samantha, his second of six, had been afraid of being buried alive. He’d had a bad moment when he thought she’d passed out, lying under feet of dirt, a snorkel her only access to air. He wanted her conscious when he killed her, completely aware. To his relief she’d struggled like an animal when he’d unearthed her. It had been magnificent.
Martha… not so much. She hadn’t been that afraid of water. So he’d made her pay in other ways. One had only to look at her apartment to know she was obsessive about the stuff she’d accumulated. Excepting her computer, nothing was of value, but its loss induced nothing less than sheer panic. So he’d forced her to throw it all away.
And she’d loved her cat. Those threats had resulted in extreme disturbance.
When he put Martha back in the water, he finally achieved terror. By the end, she’d begged him to kill her. He rolled his eyes. By the end, he’d been happy to oblige.
Christy Lewis would be number four of six. He had high hopes for Christy. Oh, yesssss. He chuckled aloud. Christy’s phobia was especially intense.
“Gwenivere, are you online tonight?” Of course she was. She always was. Christy wasn’t Gwenivere any more than Martha had been Desiree. But Shadowland’s motto said it all. Sometimes you want to go where no one knows your name. “Except me.”
Gwenivere was at Ninth Circle, the virtual club she visited every night. Here she was a former Miss Universe, a pianist as well as an avid dancer and witty conversationalist.
Shadowland was truly a fantasyland. Gwenivere, he typed. I’ve missed you.
Christy’s avatar smiled at him. Her avatar had one of Pandora’s nicer faces. He also had invested in a quality face and body-builder physique for his own avatar. Pandora’s Façades Face Emporium had good stock and wasn’t nearly as expensive as some of the other avatar designers.
After all, one had to look one’s best when hunting shallow, narcissistic fantasy addicts. But one also had to save a little cash for expenses. Like his Ninth Circle bar tab or his account at the Casino Royale’s most elite poker table.
Long time no see, Christy typed back. Where have you been?
Waiting for someone to find Martha Brisbane, he thought.
His avatar took the bar stool Christy had saved, his long legs easily allowing his feet to touch the floor. He’d chosen Pandora’s tallest, most muscular model because that’s what would most easily attract his prey. As the hunter, he had to choose the best bait, even when it sickened him.
Off on business, he typed. You know, bought an island, built a resort, made a million. Can I buy you a drink?
Christy’s avatar smiled again. Oh, maybe just one.
He’d chat with her awhile, get her talking. It never took more than a few minutes for Christy to abandon her Gwenivere persona and become herself. Once he’d “slipped,” telling her he lived near Minneapolis. She’d been surprised, revealing that she did, too.
Of course she did. That’s one of the reasons he’d picked her.
She’d suggested they meet several times, but he’d always put her off. He’d still been waiting for Martha to be found. Tonight he’d suggest they meet, just for coffee.
Just to talk. They always fell for it. Every single time. So why change what worked?
Sunday, February 21, 9:55 p.m.
“Normally we don’t allow visitors this late,” the nurse said.
“We’re sorry. It took longer to find Mrs. Brisbane than we expected,” Jack said.
“If Mrs. Brisbane is asleep, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Department policy.”
“We understand,” Noah said. Martha Brisbane had chosen a nice place for her mother, he thought. Must’ve run Martha a pretty chunk of change.
Noah thought of his own mother who wintered in Arizona because of her health. Between his dead father’s police pension and a sizable percentage of his own salary, he’d settled her pretty comfortably. It was a financial sacrifice, but she was his mom and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He imagined Martha had felt the same.
“Will getting this news about her daughter’s death affect her heart?” Noah asked.
“It might, if she had one,” the nurse said, then sighed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She opened the door, revealing a woman who nearly disappeared against the white sheets. “Mrs. Brisbane, these men are detectives. They’re here to talk to you.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “What about?” she demanded sharply.
Noah had lost the toss. “I’m Detective Webster and this is my partner, Detective Phelps,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. “We’re here about your daughter, Martha. She’s dead, ma’am. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Brisbane’s mouth pinched as if she’d eaten something sour. “How?”
They’d agreed to keep Martha’s death a suicide until the ME filed his report. That said, they were questioning witnesses assuming Dr. Gilles would confirm a homicide.
“It appears she killed herself,” Noah said.
“Then she got what she deserved. The wages of sin is death, Detective. It’s as simple as that.” And with that Mrs. Brisbane closed her eyes, dismissing them.
“Whoa,” Jack mouthed silently, then cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” Mrs. Brisbane snapped, not opening her eyes. “Make them leave. Now.”
“You have to leave.” In the hallway the nurse shrugged. “That was pretty mild.”
“ ‘She got what she deserved,’ was mild?” Jack asked, incredulo
us. “Hell.”
“Mrs. Brisbane didn’t approve of Martha,” she said, “and I have no idea why.”
“Was this disapproval something new?” Noah asked.
“No. It’s been that way since she got here, about six months ago.”
“When was the last time Martha came in to visit her mother?” Jack asked.
“At least a month ago. Martha would leave looking like a whipped pup. I tried to help but Mrs. Brisbane complained. I got a warning not to ask again. I wish I knew more.”
“ ‘The wages of sin is death,’ ” Jack mused when they were back in the parking lot.
“The Bible, book of Romans,” Noah said. “My uncle was a minister.”
Jack frowned. “Your uncle’s a retired cop.”
“That’s Brock’s father, on my father’s side. My minister uncle was my mother’s older brother.” He’d been dead five years now and Noah missed his guidance. Missed him.
“Whatever. Brisbane’s mother knew something. We have to try her again tomorrow. Assuming whoever did this did it once before, it stands to reason they’ll do it again.”
“So let’s see what Martha and Dix’s vic had in common before he has a chance.”
Sunday, February 21, 10:55 p.m.
“Lindsay?” Liza Barkley locked the front door. No one answered. She so hoped Lin would come tonight. It was only a high school play, but she’d worked hard on her role.
But Liza knew her sister was working her ass off to pay the rent. And the gas and the groceries, all the while insisting Liza spend her time studying. Keep your grades up. Get a scholarship. They had no savings left for college, every dime gone to doctors who hadn’t been able to save their mother anyway. After a year, it still hurt. I still miss her.
Now Lindsay had cleaned office building toilets all night, every night so they could survive. One day it’ll be my turn to pay the bills.
She shivered. It was so cold in their apartment she could see her breath. But heat cost money, so she pulled on two more sweaters and snuggled under a pile of blankets, setting the alarm for five-thirty. She still had a little homework to finish and Lindsay would just be getting home by then, tired and hungry. I can do trig and fry eggs at the same time, she thought sleepily and drifted off.
Chapter Three
Sunday, February 21, 11:30 p.m.
Eve curled up in her favorite chair, grateful Sal had let her off early. She’d come home, logged into Shadowland, and sent her avatar straight to Ninth Circle, the bar and social center. It was, as usual, dark, smoky, and teeming with avatars.
Desiree, be there. Be in your normal spot, doing whatever it is you do. Or did. It had been a week since Martha Brisbane’s avatar had been seen in Ninth Circle. Maybe Martha was on a real-world vacation, but Eve didn’t think so.
If Martha didn’t show up soon… I’ll have to do something. But what?
Eve could see herself now, filing a missing person report on an imaginary person who dwelt in a Fantasy Island computer game. The cops would think she was nuts.
For now, she could only keep a virtual eye on Martha and the others, and she wasn’t supposed to be doing even that. She wasn’t supposed to know the names of her subjects. Double-blind tests were not to be broken. But she had, and wasn’t sorry.
Just worried. And wincing from the cacophony blasting from Ninth Circle’s stage where a computer-animated band “performed.” Ninth Circle’s “band” was probably one middle-aged man with a synthesizer, but he wasn’t hurting anyone. Some objected to his cover of AC/DC, but those snobby rock purists could turn down the volume.
Eve muted the sound. She was one of those purists. When did I become… old?
Five years, eleven months, and seven days ago. That she’d remembered it twice in one night made her angry. But she’d put it behind her. Mostly. Sometimes.
No, you haven’t, Evie, whispered the voice in the back of her mind, annoyingly logical. Smug bitch. And she wasn’t Evie anymore. She’d left Evie behind in Chicago.
“I’m Eve now,” she said aloud, just to hear the sound of her own voice. It was too quiet in her apartment tonight. With the Ninth Circle band muted, the only sound was the constant dripping of water into the pots she’d placed below the leaks in her roof.
I’ve gotta get that fixed before I lose my mind. But her scum-sucking landlord ignored her repeated requests for roof repair. Myron Daulton had inherited the house from his mother, but none of her responsibility for her tenants, all of whom had finally had enough and left. Eve was the last holdout.
If Myron forced her out, he’d be able to sell. Developers were buying these old houses, refurbing them, then flipping them for big bucks. Myron didn’t deserve a dime. He’d never visited his mother. Never called on her birthday. Sometimes made her cry.
Eve had loved old Mrs. Daulton dearly and she’d be damned before she let Myron make even one penny off his mother. Eve had fixed the plumbing, dealt with the mice problem, and even replaced the garbage disposal. But a roof was a much bigger deal.
I’m not going to move. So she’d have to figure out how to fix the roof herself, too. She turned the volume of the band back up to drown out the constant dripping. Get to work, Eve. Find Desiree and Gwenivere so you can concentrate on your day job.
Sal’s filled her evenings, but her day job was not failing grad school. She had a ten-page Abnormal Psych paper due in ten hours. I shouldn’t be in Shadowland, spying on my test subjects. But she felt a responsibility to Desiree, Gwenivere, and all the others.
Many of them were older than she. Chronologically, anyway. All had signed releases before participating in her study, but Eve felt compelled to keep them safe. She figured she came by the compulsion honestly. It wasn’t possible to grow up with a bevy of meddling social workers without some of their nurturing overprotectiveness rubbing off.
Eve guided her own avatar through the virtual dancers, searching for the ones she’d come to find. Her heart sank when, once again, she saw Desiree’s corner table. Empty.
She moved to the next “red-zone” case—slinky, sexy Gwenivere, aka Christy Lewis, real-world secretary by day, dancer extraordinaire by night. Hours and hours every night and lately, during the day as well. Christy had been escaping into the game from her computer at work. Christy had confessed it last week, on one of her frequent visits to Pandora’s shop. If her boss found out, Christy Lewis would be fired.
Eve did not want that on her head. She was worried enough about Martha Brisbane. Martha’s Desiree had been a regular both at Ninth Circle and at Pandora’s Façades Face Emporium, Eve’s virtual avatar shop. Desiree had come every week to check Eve’s inventory of “Ready-to-Walk” avatars as well as her assorted mix-and-match body parts. Martha had upgraded her avatar’s face six times in the last three months.
Up until a week ago, Martha Brisbane had been a resident of Shadowland an average of eighteen hours a day. Eighteen. Considering the woman had to sleep sometime, that didn’t leave much time for anything else. Martha was an ultra-user, one of the many who comprised the negative control group of Eve’s study.
They’d had so many applicants they’d had to turn gamers away. Too many people lived their lives in Shadowland. Like I did, Eve thought. She desperately wanted to bring those people back to the real world. Into the sunlight. Like I did.
Hey, honey, can I buy you a drink?
Eve stopped scanning the crowd and frowned at the message at the bottom of her screen. She maneuvered her camera, staring into a nice face. Quality merchandise, if she did say so herself, and she did. She had, after all, designed it herself.
But the gamer wouldn’t know that. Tonight she wasn’t Pandora, the avatar designer who only hung out at Façades. Tonight she was her new character, Greer, the private investigator. Tonight Greer was searching for Christy Lewis and had no time to play.
Sorry, but I’m not interested, she typed back.
Then why are you here? he asked logically. This was, after all, the place to hook up.
Really not interested. Good night, she typed. She turned away and resumed scanning the crowd, hoping rudeness was a language he better understood.
Ah, there she was, Gwenivere, aka Christy Lewis. Christy was five-two, and while her real-world face was pleasant, she wasn’t gorgeous. Not true for Gwenivere, a six-foot blonde with a very expensive face. One of Eve’s, or Pandora’s, finest designs.
Gwenivere was dancing with a very handsome avatar, one of Claudio’s designs. Claudio was the best. Which was fine. Eve had started Pandora’s Façades to observe her subjects without them knowing she did so.
Without anyone knowing she did so. Especially Dr. Donner, her graduate advisor.
She winced. If Donner found out… That didn’t even bear consideration because if it ever happened, all her research would be nullified. She would probably be kicked out of the grad program. Expelled from Marshall University. And that could not happen. She’d worked too hard to come into the sunlight, to establish a real life for herself.
But at what cost? She’d believed in this research when she first started.
Now… Now she wasn’t so sure. But that wasn’t something she could resolve tonight. Christy was okay, flirting as usual. Eve had five more red-zone cases, three here in the Ninth Circle bar. Two others hung out in the Casino Royale, dancing and playing poker. She’d check up on them, then get busy on her Abnormal paper, the topic of which was the pathology of serial killers.
Eve flinched when she realized she was tracing the scar that she could now barely see, but still couldn’t feel. She didn’t need to research. She had all the background any professor could ever want. It was always in her mind, that voice that still taunted. It was, after five years, eleven months, and seven days, still written on her face.
Sunday, February 21, 11:55 p.m.