I turned to leave when a ripple of fear raced through me. Leaning next to the door was an object I hadn’t noticed before: a large metal scythe, its blade sharp and gleaming. I couldn’t take my eyes off the curved steel, its shape a disembodied grin, almost as if it knew something I didn’t.
I skirted around it and quickly left the shed. Then I headed toward the cabin while pulling out my gun.
I didn’t bother to knock. Just as at the other house, the door was unlocked. I opened it and listened closely. There wasn’t a sound. I didn’t call out. I didn’t ask permission. Instead, I entered the cabin of my own accord.
I knew from the first step inside that something was wrong. Or perhaps it was a reaction to the fact that the cabin was also exceptionally neat. No question about it. Anyone this compulsively clean had way too much time on their hands.
But all that flew from my mind as I started to walk down the hall. The walls were filled with charcoal drawings of teenage girls. My apprehension swiftly escalated. They were nearly identical to those I’d seen in the gallery and at Carl Simmons’s apartment. Each girl conveyed the same sensual smile and bore no trace of a scar. And I suddenly realized who was responsible for the portraits. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It couldn’t be anyone other than Spencer Barnes. After all, he was the artist who designed tattoos for Big Daddy.
It’s the artist’s vision. He likes to idealize all the girls. Simmons’s words came back to haunt me.
Was this possibly Spencer’s house, after all?
I shivered, remembering how his fingers had lingered over the jagged mark stretching across my throat, almost as if he’d been fascinated by it.
I continued on, my mind awhirl, my feet taking me where they chose to go. I entered what appeared to be the living room, its walls lined from top to bottom with museum-quality cabinets. Walking around, I began to open all of the drawers. Each held a display case exhibiting the most gorgeous butterflies that I’d seen so far.
The collection was absolutely enormous. There must have been nearly a hundred thousand perfectly preserved specimens; a larger collection than are in most museums. The butterflies were presented with surgical precision. Each had four tiny tags attached to one leg, much like those I’d seen at Trepler’s place. The penmanship on the labels was precise and clear. Their scribe clearly had a penchant for collecting and organizing field data.
The only other furniture in the room were two high-back chairs, along with a coffee table. On its surface was a letter waiting to be folded and mailed. I usually had to dig through garbage cans and break into locked drawers to get my hands on private correspondence. I didn’t think twice, but scooped up the letter.
Dear Brian,
Enclosed you will find a pair of Neonympha mitchelli as requested, which are very hard to obtain. I hope you appreciate the time and effort and will send me the balance of money due immediately.
I also want to thank you for the gift of those two Apodemia mormo langei. I can’t tell you how much such little blue butterflies excite me.
A happy face was drawn after the sentence.
Concerning your request, I might consider teaching you my technique for finding and rearing Papilio indra kaibabensis larvae. Of course, I would expect a cut of the profit from any future sales. I had such a prior arrangement with another breeder. However he fell by the wayside, having been pushed out of business. The only thing I demand is that you keep secret whatever I disclose. LOYALTY IS UTMOST TO ME AND MY TIME IS TOO PRECIOUS TO WASTE.
Consider wisely and let me know.
Your friend,
Horus
It was exactly like the letters I’d found at Mitch Aikens’s place. That’s when an even stranger thought hit me. Could Spencer be the Horus for whom I’d been searching?
My question remained unanswered as my feet took me back down the hallway.
I next found myself in the kitchen engulfed by an aroma of ammonia and Lysol. The room was so clean, I could have eaten off the floor. In fact I wondered if anyone ate here at all. I decided to peek in the refrigerator and check out its contents.
I opened the fridge door only to have my heart spring clear into my throat.
Ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch!
The sound was the stuff of nightmares; that of hundreds of nails frantically scratching within a coffin. Chills ran up my spine as I stared inside and realized where the unearthly din was coming from.
Hundreds of butterflies, still alive, were stacked on the shelves, each imprisoned in their own glassine envelope. The sudden burst of warmth and light must have jarred them from their semidormant state, because they now stomped their “feet” against the cellophane walls in a futile attempt to escape.
I grew sickened by the sight. These were newly hatched butterflies being kept alive until their internal fat metabolized. That way it wouldn’t leak out and stain their flawless wings. Only then would they be thrown into the freezer to die and sold as perfect specimens, not having flapped off one single precious scale.
I now checked the freezer. No butterflies were to be found: only packages of artificial food for hungry caterpillars. Either Spencer, Simmons, or both were raising larvae to sell, as well as catching butterflies in the wild. I couldn’t help but take one more look inside the refrigerator before moving on.
This time my pulse very nearly burst through my skin. I blinked, unsure that I could actually believe my eyes. There on the top shelf were four of the most delicate little butterflies. Each was an iridescent violet blue with a crenulate black border, and the softest white fringe.
I barely dared breathe. If this was a dream, I didn’t want it to end. I’d seen this butterfly once before—as a pinned specimen kept inside a locked vault. These four diminutive beauties were still alive. There was no doubt in my mind but that they were the same exact butterfly. If so, then I’d found what many others had searched for and feared to be forever lost—one of the most sought-after butterflies in existence: the legendary Lotis blue.
This must be how it would feel to find the Holy Grail, I mused, my hand reaching inside the fridge.
I was sorely tempted to take the winged treasures and vamoose. Only there was more yet to do. I couldn’t leave without first conducting a thorough search for Lily. Instead I closed the refrigerator, reluctantly shutting the butterflies back in their tomb, vowing to return as soon as I could. Continuing on, I entered the bathroom.
A delicate bouquet filled the air, making me wonder if a woman might not also reside here. A quick glance revealed the room was stocked with a fragrant array of bath soaps. There was lavender, lily of the valley, and honeysuckle, as well as scented candles and body lotions.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and leaned in for a better view. What do you know? My skin actually appeared to be slightly dewy. Either I was sweating or my fifty-dollar moisturizer was beginning to work. Then I took a closer look at the bathroom mirror. Something about it seemed unusual. It wasn’t attached to a medicine cabinet, but set directly into the wall. I acted on a hunch, and placed my finger against the reflective surface.
Damn it to hell! My finger directly touched its image. If the mirror had been genuine, there’d have been a gap between my finger and its reflection. A two-way mirror had apparently been installed. The next logical question was, from where was the bastard watching? I walked back out into the hall.
A closet next to the bathroom was filled with jackets and sweaters, all in men’s sizes. I pushed them aside and entered. Then I ran my hands along the cedar panels, trying to determine where the mirror on the opposite side of the wall would be. A peg on which an umbrella had been hung seemed to mark the spot. I figured it was at least worth a shot. I gave the peg a hard tug, and part of the cedar panel popped out. A window was exposed, just as I had suspected.
I closed the closet door and peered through the window to obtain an unobstructed view of the bathroom. It was the perfect peephole for a Peeping Tom. Either Simmons could add voyeur to h
is list of transgressions, or Spencer wasn’t as angelic as I’d imagined.
Creeeaaak!
The sound reverberated across the floorboards, through the closet door, and straight into my heart. My stomach contracted into a tight knot. I gripped my gun tighter and tried to determine from where the noise had come. But the only sound to be heard was the noxious thrum of fear in my ears. Then the house let loose a low moan, followed by the closing of a door. I waited until I heard nothing more before poking my head out. The cabin was empty, as it had been on my arrival.
For chrissakes, Rachel. Stop scaring yourself to death, the braver part of me chided, knowing there was still one more area left to explore.
I walked down the hallway toward the last door, fully aware this must be the bedroom. However, nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting inside.
The first thing to catch my eye were the wooden beams running lengthwise across the ceiling. Eureka! I’d finally found a room that wasn’t totally clean. Hanging down from the rafters were oddly shaped dustballs. However, far more curious was that they were all positioned directly above the bed.
I continued to stare, my curiosity gradually giving way to stunned disbelief, as the realization began to sink in. A shiver gleefully squealed, gliding up and down my spine on a surreal roller-coaster ride. I’d never seen anything so bizarre in all my life.
What looked like miniature cadavers wrapped in shrouds were taped onto the wooden ceiling beams. Only these little “corpses” were actually dozens of maturing chrysalides. This way, Spencer—or Simmons—could keep watch and pop the butterflies into the fridge as each emerged, before they had a chance to flap their wings.
I lay down on the bed and looked up, knowing that within each was a larva morphing into its final stage. Though unable to eat or move, they were undergoing the most amazing transformation, much like a fairy tale in which mice turned into footmen and pumpkins into gilded carriages.
A closer look revealed that some of the chrysalides had already become transparent. Inside were fully formed butterflies, their wings curled around their bodies, patiently awaiting the moment of rebirth. I dragged myself away, aware that I was also hoping for an epiphany of sorts—something, anything, that would tip me off as to where to find Lily. I glanced around the room, knowing that my search still wasn’t complete.
A bureau stood against one wall, and I jerked open the drawers. They were filled with socks and shirts, all perfectly ironed, folded and stacked in pristine piles. I took out my frustration by ripping apart each batch. But it was when I reached the last drawer that my heart turned into a jackhammer, my eyes falling upon the contents. Inside were what could only be called trophies. There was a pink camisole top, a necklace with a wooden cross, bangle bracelets, ladybug earrings and dozens of panties and bras, along with other assorted souvenirs.
I flashed back to Dr. Mark Davis’s profile of an obsessive butterfly collector. He’d characterized my target as a white male, unmarried, with a need to control—someone who takes pleasure in holding the power of life and death in his hands. It was the exact same portrait as that of a serial killer. I gazed in growing horror at the trinkets and keepsakes all neatly laid out like precious relics.
My apprehension accelerated into terror at the possibility of what I might be facing. I whirled around, having felt a breeze on the back of my neck. It was almost as if the house were alive and enjoying my predicament.
While turning, I caught sight of a slight movement and glanced back up at the ceiling. A chrysalis had split open and a butterfly was starting to emerge. It slipped out like a letter from an envelope and, unfolding its shriveled wings, began to pump them full of blood. A breeder would have thrown it into the fridge at this point. Instead, I watched in awe as the wings continued to expand with liquid protoplasm, knowing that the butterfly would soon take off and fly away.
I wished I could do the same, but there was still one last place in which I had to look. My only consolation was that the faster I finished, the sooner I could get out of here. With that in mind, I hurried toward what I felt sure was a clothes closet and flung open the door. Two items stood ominously facing me—a large hourglass and a pedestal holding a bible.
The same quaking that I’d felt in my dream last night now took hold. Only this was no tremor, but my legs shaking beneath me. I remembered the scythe leaning near the shed door. That, the hourglass, and pedestal were all part of the same statue—the winged figure looming behind the weeping maiden. Big Sam had referred to the statue as Horus. Simmons had called it the Angel of Death. The one thing I now knew for certain was that I was inside Horus’s lair.
I took a deep breath and began to approach the pedestal when the floor grew oddly pliant beneath my feet. Another step and the wooden boards emitted a loud creak. Whipping the flashlight from my back pocket, I ran its beam along the ground. Revealed was the outline of a trapdoor that had been neatly cut and fit into place. I leaned down and pulled on the handle. It emitted a low moan as though a covey of tormented souls were being released.
All was silent after that, the quiet so acute that it reached up and clawed at my throat. I slowly began to descend a set of rickety wooden steps, my feet taking me where I didn’t want to go—down, down, down into a crude dirt cellar.
I should have known there was bound to be a place like this hidden away in the cabin. Nothing is ever completely immaculate, and the upstairs had been far too neat. The world just isn’t that orderly. The thought was punctuated by a sour reek as I reached the bottom step. It was an odor that I’d smelled before—the stench of decomposition.
I pulled out a tissue and held it over my mouth and nose, keeping the flashlight firmly gripped in my other hand. My eyes remained glued to the ground while I took a step forward and Wham! My head slammed smack into a beam. Wouldn’t you know? I was in a crawl space with a ceiling so low that I was forced to bend over.
I took another step and a cobweb wrapped itself around my face, conjuring up visions of big hairy spiders. I could feel them crawling up my clothes and slipping inside my head to spin their odious webs. But all such thoughts fled as the flashlight’s rays illuminated a dark corner.
On the ground were a number of cigar-shaped bundles eerily similar to the chrysalides upstairs, only much larger. They were industrial-sized rolls of shrink wrap. Even from this distance, I could tell there was something contained in each one. I dropped the tissue, tucked my gun away, and clutched the flashlight tightly in both hands. Then I tremulously approached, aiming its beam at the nearest roll. The light landed on a pair of wide-open eyes that stared back at me in stunned horror.
A scream raced up my throat but never made it out of my mouth, blocked by sheer terror. I wanted to race up the stairs and never come back. It was my demons that made me stay.
I took a deep breath and ordered my shaky hands to continue running the light beam down along the rest of the roll. Inside was a man’s body that had begun to decompose. The remains looked remarkably like a butterfly pupa, already liquefying into a strange primordial goo. Only there’d be no rebirth in this crawl space. Death was the final stage for all of these bundles on the hard dirt floor.
I broke into a cold, clammy sweat and the room began to spin around me like a carousel ride.
Oh, dear God, don’t let me pass out now, I prayed with all my might, wondering if these were possibly the remains of the Fish and Wildlife consultant, John Harmon.
I lowered my head and took another deep breath. Then I went back to the grisly process of shining my light on the rest of the plastic-wrapped occupants.
The bile rose in my throat as I caught sight of the first young girl. The same sense of terror filled her eyes, along with baffled confusion. It was as though she couldn’t understand how her life had come to this. I’d witnessed enough death and killing of both animals and humans to know the answer. There’s such a thing as pure evil in this world.
What sounded like the rustling of dry leaves on pavement sudde
nly sent my blood pressure soaring, disrupting the vacuum of silence. I jumped, so filled with fear that I tried to bolt for the stairs, only my feet refused to run. Then my eyes witnessed the impossible. One of the bundles had begun to move, as though its contents were shifting.
I held the flashlight as steady as I could, trying to ignore the rush of liquid dread that pulsed through my veins, afraid of what I was going to find. Forget about werewolves and vampires. I was surrounded by something far worse: a chamber of the living dead.
My flashlight landed on yet another young girl who stared back at me in unspeakable fright. Only there was something different about these eyes that made me linger. They weren’t yet frozen in death. At the same time, I spied the ugly red scars marking her neck. The pent-up cry inside me now came rushing out, fueled by the desperate hope that I had found Lily.
Afraid I’d reached her too late—that I’d failed yet again, that someone else would be lost because of my inadequacies—I flicked open my Leatherman and began slashing through the sheets of shrink wrap covering her face tight as elastic. Finally I pulled off the very last layer. Her body was warm, yet I couldn’t feel a pulse. Equally strange was that Lily’s eyes remained open, though she seemed to be unconscious and barely breathing.
I quickly gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and pounded on her chest. But neither managed to revive her. Instead she stared straight ahead like a zombie, as the flicker in her eyes grew dimmer. I set back to work, frantically redoubling my efforts, damned if I’d lose the girl now that I’d found her. I continued until I thought I’d pass out.
Blue Twilight Page 24