Nightcrawler: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 2)

by J. D. Oliva

  Katie walked into the World's Away Restaurant and took a seat at the bar. The bartender, a burly man with a thick, 80s mustache, smiled. Katie knew what that smile meant. Maybe, if no one else came along, he would do, but the night was young.

  "What're you having, miss?" He asked, clueless to how dated he sounded.

  She held up her index finger and asked, "Do you carry Ramey?"

  The bartender nodded and poured her the glass of chardonnay. Katie took a small sip and took a looked around the near empty bar. There was a man at the end of the table who looked to be in his mid-40s. He was handsome, with dark brown hair slightly graying at the temples. His blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of glasses. She stared in his direction, hoping to catch his attention. Finally, he looked up and saw her smiling. He smiled back, and she turned away.

  "What are you drinking?"

  She lifted her full glass. He picked up his Sam Adams and moved to the other side of the bar, taking a seat next to her.

  "I'm Pete," he said, extending his hand.

  "Katie," she said lightly, shaking his hand back with a warm smile.

  "What brings you to St. Louis, Katie?"

  "Business. You?"

  "Same. I sell medical equipment for a company out of Minneapolis. We've got a convention in New Orleans this weekend, and I've got a layover here in town. So, I'm kinda stuck here for the night."

  "Me too," Katie replied.

  "And what do you do?"

  "I travel. But I like St. Louis. It's home."

  "Gotcha. Excuse me, bartender. Can I get one more Sam Adams?"

  The burly bartender cracked open another brown bottle and slid it in front of the wandering salesman. He took another drink. He regaled Katie with stories of his years at Inotech and how he's one of the best and brightest salespeople they had on staff. Still, every time he came up for promotion, they seemed to pass him over. Company politics, of course. It had nothing to do with the fact that he took unnecessary layovers in cities like this in the hopes of meeting someone as desperate as him for one night of something meaningless. He didn't say the second part out loud, but Katie knew that's what he meant. Not that she would judge. She counted on meeting someone with casual morality. She depended on it.

  After ninety minutes, Pete the salesman—she never got a last name, and neither did he—was six Sam's in, while she barely touched her second glass of white wine. The more he talked about himself and his life back in Minneapolis, conveniently leaving out the reason for the tan-line on his ring finger, the closer he got to her. She didn't have to say much. Just a few words here and there to stroke his already inflated ego. That was okay because, the less she spoke the better. Talking in overly complex sentences is difficult and required a great deal of concentration. The alcohol didn't make concentration any easier, but it's part of the job. When Salesman Pete started another story about Luke Cardani, his friend from Inotech and their wild nights on the town, she decided she'd had enough. Katie leaned in and kissed him. Not an over-the-top, passionate, movie kiss. Just a gentle press on the lips. An innovation of what's to come if he ever shut his stupid mouth.

  "Whoa," he gallantly responded.

  Katie smiled again and whispered into his ear, "let's go upstairs."

  Pete the salesman turned to the bartender. "Can you charge everything to room 317?"

  The bartender nodded and printed up the bill, which Pete quickly signed. He and Katie made their way out of World's Away, hand-in-hand. She pressed the button calling for the elevator and waited for the door to slide open. Neither one of them said much, but they shared a sense of anticipation. Both of their palms were sweaty and ready for something more. The door slid open and they stepped through, with Katie pressing the button for level 3. The door closed, and this time, she planted another, deeper kiss. He embraced her back, pushing her up against the steel wall. They pawed at each other, not like lovers but wolverines, pulling on clothes and digging their fingers into each other's skin. When the door opened on the third floor, they didn't notice.

  "This is your floor," Katie finally said between kisses.

  "Oh, yeah."

  Pete grabbed her hand and carefully led her out of the elevator and towards room 317. He slid his card against the mechanical lock, and the two of them tumbled into the room like a tandem of drunken gymnasts, too numb to keep their normally perfect balance. She pushed him down on the bed and turned up the intensity of her pawing. It was almost too much for Pete.

  "Hold on," he tried to say, but his requests were swallowed up by her ferociousness. He had to push her away just a bit, but when he did, her eyes looked hungry, ready to devour him. "You gotta gimme a second. I just gotta pee!"

  Katie erupted in laughter as Pete jumped off the bed, disrobing as he trotted to the restroom. Pete pushed the door tightly closed, figuring she didn't want to hear him piss. The last thing he wanted is to do anything to derail what was happening, but dammit, he had to go. Pete shook twice and flushed the toilet. He almost went right for the door before remembering to wash his hands. Again, god forbid he do anything she might think of as a turn-off. Pete took one look into the mirror, psyching himself up.

  "You're the man," he said to the reflective Pete.

  He opened the door, just wearing his blue boxer briefs, surprised to see Katie wasn't on the bed waiting for him.

  "Katie? Where'd you go?"

  She stepped behind him. That ravenous look still burned onto her face. She paused for just a moment, savoring the anticipation before jamming the blade into his back. Before Pete could scream, she wrapped her dainty free hand around his mouth and pushed the dagger across his throat. Pete, the salesman from Minneapolis, dropped to the floor, and the Nightcrawler was satiated.

  VIII

  Dr. Raymond Brewster is an agitated man. He hadn't slept right in over nine months. Not since Anne Casten was arrested for killing her husband. Ray and Anne dated a few times, but it was nothing serious. He fully expected to be interviewed by the St. Louis' finest after Anne was arrested, but it never happened.

  In truth, the night he last saw Anne was fuzzy. Actually, the full three weeks leading into that night were foggy. Vague memories of going through his daily routine, a morning run, ten hours at his family practice in Belleville, across the river in Illinois, then at home to spend zero time with his wife, Ronda were all he had. He went through the motions for three weeks but seemed on autopilot. The strange thing is, no one noticed. Not that Ronda would, they barely spoke. They weren't actively angry at each other, but they lived separate lives. He assumed she had a man on the side but was in no rush to break their routine, as both lived very comfortably.

  Ray always had a woman on the side, and when he met Anne Casten at a Cardinals game, he had ideas of making her the next one. She wasn't in a rush to leave her husband either, so it should have been a perfect fit. At least for a little while. That's before his three-week mental vacation and Anne's psychotic breakdown. The morning after Jim Casten died, Ray awoke refreshed and attentive for the first time in weeks. Part of him felt like he got the best night's sleep ever. Another part wondered why the hell he was so funky the last couple weeks.

  When the news report on Jim Casten broke, a sudden rush of guilt washed over him. Why? He wasn't there. He had not seen Anne in days, and even when he did, it's not like they were a real item. They only saw each other a couple times. There's no reason he should feel bad about anything. He didn't put the knife in her hand. That's the first time he got a flash.

  It was like memory played back at light-speed. Every time he closed his eyes, he envisioned another woman; he didn't know her name. A pretty blonde with brown eyes. He saw the blade piece through the back of her red dress. He heard the screams echo before the blade ripped across her throat. He saw it all, but like a passenger in the back seat, watching a wreck while the car sped on by. But it was him. He saw someone die, but watched himself do the work. This must be psychosomatic guilt. He didn't killed anyone. He'd remember that, wouldn
't he? Of course, he would.

  Ray Brewster pulled his silver, top-down Porsche Boxster into his usual parking spot in front of his practice on Lebanon Avenue. A huge, black Hummer with Utah plates reading FINSH BZNS was parked in the spot next to his. That's strange. He opened the door to find Dorie, his receptionist. The fifty-something divorcee with fake burgundy hair and thick red glasses made small talk with a large African-American man. He had a beard, sunglasses, dreadlocks, and a long, leather coat. Not hard to guess what car belonged to this man.

  "What's going on, Dorie?" He asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  "Dr. Brewster, this is Special Agent Youngblood."

  "How you doing? I'm Agent Youngblood," the man in black said, flashing a badge.

  "Ray Brewster," he shook the immense man's hand. "What's this about, Mr. Youngblood?"

  "I just need a couple minutes of your time, in private."

  "I'm not sure if that's necessary. Dorie can listen to anything I need to say," Brewster said with a fake smile.

  "Really? Fantastic," Mr. Youngblood said with a grin. "I want to talk about Anne Casten."

  Ray's body slumped over, and he was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor.

  "Maybe we should go to my office."

  "Maybe we should."

  Youngblood put his thick hand on Ray's shoulder and escorted him to his own office. The door closed behind them, and the man called Youngblood dug his fingers into the nerves in Ray's neck. His feet buckled, and he dropped to the ground.

  "Five nights before Anne Casten killed her husband, she had dinner with you and disappeared. Where did she go?"

  "Ahhh! I have no idea!"

  "Why don't I believe you?" The agent asked, twisting his fingers so that the nerves in his neck spiked and twitched.

  "I swear, I don't know!"

  "A rich woman that you're dating kills her husband and vanishes. Now you're gonna pretend you don't know nothing. You're playing with the wrong man, doc."

  "I'm gonna file a report with your—" Brewster never got a chance to finish his threat. Youngblood's hand crashed into the back of his skull. It's like being smacked with a hammer. His toes went numb.

  "I don't play by those rules."

  Youngblood pushed him to the floor, finally releasing his grip.

  "If you can't tell me about Mrs. Casten, maybe you can talk about Kelly Markowski."

  "Who?" That name meant nothing to Ray.

  Youngblood, sunglasses still covering his face, pulled something out of that long leather coat. Jesus, is it a gun? No, only a cellphone. He unlocked the home screen and showed him a picture.

  "Take a closer look."

  It was a young woman. Probably twenty-five, maybe thirty, with blonde hair and brown eyes. She was pretty, but Ray never had—Oh no. Jesus, no. It's her. The girl so burned into his memory she showed up every time he closed his eyes. The figment of his imagination, a manifestation of guilt, was smiling inside of Youngblood's phone. But it can't be.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought. Now we can have a nice little chat."

  "Everything okay, Dr. Brewster?"

  Dorie cracked the door open to check on her boss. Ray caught a glimpse of daylight and made his break. His shoulder plowed into the woman who'd been his receptionist for fifteen years. Brewster was like a running back meeting a linebacker at the goal line. But Dorie Alavardo isn't a linebacker. She's a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman, and when Ray's shoulder caught her solar plexus, she went flying through the hall. Ray never broke stride, sprinting past her desk and out the door. He hopped into the Boxster and tore off down Lebanon Avenue.

  IX

  "Fucking dammit," Jericho said, watching Dr. Raymond Brewster tear off through his own office.

  It did answer the question of whether or not he had anything to do with the late Miss Markowski's demise. Jericho took off after the runaway doctor, confident that he was stronger and faster than a fifty-year-old with a pooch belly. When the Porsche Boxster ripped out of the parking lot, Jericho realized he underestimated Brewster. Jericho slid behind the wheel of the Humvee and turned over his street-legal monster truck and gave chase.

  The silver Boxster tore southwest on Lebanon and ripped a sharp right on Illinois 159. The Boxster's back tire skidded through the Farmer's Market parking lot on that tight corner. The Humvee couldn't make that sharp a turn, so like Grave Digger, it rumbled through the Farmer's Market lot, barely missing the people and cars in its path.

  After their meeting, Alyse and Jericho compared notes. If Anne had an accomplice, the first suspect would naturally be whoever she was seeing on the side. For some reason, she never mentioned the guy in any of her testimony. Alyse knew how to dig the information from her mother and came up with the name Ray Brewster. There were seven people with that name in the St. Louis Metro area. Still, only one, a doctor from across the river in Belleville, Illinois, would travel in the same social circle.

  Jericho decided to play low-key, and do the old fake FBI agent thing, figuring the badge would freak out any rich guy afraid to lose it all. If the guy weren't involved, he'd talk freely, and Jericho would be on his way. The guy's clearly hiding something, but after he showed him the pic of Kelly Markowski, homeboy freaked.

  Again, great work on Alyse's part. She found the story of the girl who died three days before her father. Same kidney stab/throat slash MO. She should be a cop when she graduates. Maybe she needed an extra nudge in that direction.

  Watching the Boxster rip at 80 mph north on IL 159, Jericho accepted he misplayed this one. He didn't think Brewster would freak like this. But with a sports car moving at 80 mph on a regular suburban road, it's only a matter of minutes before the real police get involved. Then Jericho would lose his leverage. He needed to end this immediately.

  Jericho looked down at his GPS tracker. There's a small wooded area coming up just south of Douglas Avenue. If they continued for another mile north, they'd pass the police station, at which point Belleville's finest would take over.

  Jericho jammed on the gas and downshifted. The Humvee couldn't outrace the Boxster, but he could smash into it. As the Humvee moved in, Jericho jerked the wheel left, which clipped the backend of the Porsche, sending it into a tailspin. The Boxster spun-out into the woods, where it eventually smashed into a large oak tree. Jericho jumped out of the Humvee and ran over to the Porsche. Ray Brewster is no good to him dead.

  "Okay, okay, okay!" Brewster shouted with his hands over his head.

  Two deep cuts ran across Brewster's face, and his glasses were broken. His hands trembled, with his face locked in fear.

  "I give up!"

  "Shut the fuck up," Jericho said, driving his fist into the doctor's jaw. The knockout punch. Something he picked up in his golden gloves days. Now he had a chance to move the doc before five-oh showed up.

  X

  Alyse Casten hadn't been to class in three weeks. She was a sophomore at Washington University, majoring in managerial economics. She normally did a great job keeping her life balanced between classes, running cross country for the Bears, and being active in the Alpha Omicron Pi sorority. She debated running for treasurer. Her life was a series of lists and spreadsheets. It's how she kept on top of everything and never fell behind. Alyse lived as disciplined and organized as her mother, even if she'd never admitted it.

  That was before the murder. She kept on top of her studies for awhile, but cross country became a thing of the past. Running lost its fun. Her sorority tried to be there for her, like any good sisterhood. But she shut those girls out after moving out of the sorority house and back into her parent's. She justified it as being there to take care of her fourteen-year-old sister, Jamie. The truth is much simpler. It's much easier to plot revenge from home.

  Alyse saw her mother's crime, but when she looked into the killer's eyes, she saw something unrecognizable. A detached, emotionless creature held the knife that ended her father's life. Mom was always a little cold, but something about this was different
. Almost inhuman.

  People used words like "psychotic breakdown" around her, but Alyse didn't buy it. Something else was in control of her mother. She couldn't explain how she was so sure, but nothing could convince her otherwise. That's how she discovered the Nightcrawler.

  Alyse did travel back to campus every now and then to use the Wash U library. The types of things she researched aren't exactly what authorities like seeing in people's search history. At least back on campus, she could use another student's login info to do her dirty work.

  Late one night, Alyse took a trip to the Olin Library, a white, cylindrical building with what almost looked like an air-traffic control tower sticking out. She read about the 1987 murder of Kenneth and Carla Dvorak of St. Charles, MO. She thought she was alone in the computer lab.

  Alyse tapped away at the keyboard when a sicking quiver in her gut rumbled. She had not been eating much, and Jamie thought Alyse lost too much weight, but she's just a kid and didn't know shit. If Jamie were there, Alyse would gently explain to her sister that whatever's going on in her stomach isn't hunger. Eating's the last thing she wanted to do.

  The quivering in her belly felt more like when she was a little girl and got caught stealing tic-tacs out of her mother's purse. Stealing candy didn't get her in trouble. Going through her mother's belongings is what brought on a spanking. Mom, usually so cold and distant to her and Jamie, was neither that day.

  Alyse got the same feeling when she found an old woman with heavy creases in her face. It wasn't that she got caught reading true crime on a school computer. What she planned to do with the information made her feel like the house cat eyeing up the little mouse scurrying on the floor.

  The old woman's face looked stern with a solum scowl. She didn't say a word. She just stared at Alyse, but with a look neither accusatory or judgmental. Alyse couldn't use any word other than intense. The old woman pulled something from her pocket and slid it over to her. It was a black business card with an embossed silver J.