Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  The dream. When I died. Something about the setting in that dream had tugged at Simon’s memories as if he had forgotten something important. Now that he saw the before and after pictures of Three Triton Place and is predecessor, Poseidon Plaza, Simon remembered a party he had attended during the first year he had lived in Myrtle Beach, at the Poseidon. It was a charity fundraising dinner held in one of the upper floor ballrooms, and an unusual view of the SkyWheel and the ocean beyond had mesmerized Simon at the time.

  The same view he had seen and not quite recognized in the vision that foretold his death.

  Simon scrambled to print out a map of Myrtle Beach, and then checked news sites about the Slitter murders to find the locations of the victims’ bodies. He plotted them on the map, and then connected the dots into a five-pointed star. Five points, and five places the lines crossed. Ten bodies, including Marcus. And in the middle of the pentacle was Three Triton Place.

  Simon’s mouth went dry. He knew who the Slitter was, and where he would kill again—and who the victim would be. And the police would never believe him. Simon lost his inside contact with Vic and his credibility after today’s debacle. But if the police did corner Fischer, and the man had been able to “steal” the magic or psychic energy of his victims, then they would be walking into a deadly trap without any way to counter their quarry’s attack.

  All at once, Simon figured out the missing piece that had eluded him, the Slitter’s real end game. What was the point of bleeding off the psychic energy from other people unless you intended to do something with it, something big?

  Fischer had a history of anger management problems and impulse control. He’d gotten laid off right before the killing started. Simon wasn’t his last victim, just his final “battery charger.” Fischer intended to go out with a bang. A big, magically powered explosion, to get back at the company that had let him go. Fischer meant to go postal, and he was going to do it with stolen magic.

  Simon might be the only one who could stop him.

  He thought about his contacts, the people who depended on him to help them hunt things that went bump in the night with ancient lore and obscure translations. Seth Tanner was somewhere up north at the moment, and so was Mark Wojcik. It would take them at least two days to reach Myrtle Beach, and neither of them had psychic abilities of their own.

  Cassidy was closer—Charleston was less than two hours away. But Cassidy’s ability was psychometry, reading the history and emotional resonance of objects by touching them. Teag had some kind of Weaver magic, something about weaving spells into cloth. Neither sounded to Simon like they involved defensive skills, nothing that would be good in a fight. He did not want to bring anyone else into a situation where they could get hurt. That left the task to Simon.

  He let out a long sigh, drained his now-cold cup of coffee, and tore a sheet of paper out of the tablet. Mustering his courage, Simon wrote a letter to Vic, all the things he hadn’t had the nerve to say in person, and everything he had uncovered about the Slitter. He paused after he signed his name, and felt the ache of losing Vic. But one way or the other, it was over. If Simon faced off with the Slitter and lost, the future was moot. But even if by some miracle Simon managed to stop the killer, it wouldn’t make Vic suddenly believe in his psychic abilities. It would always be a choice between Simon and Vic’s badge, and Simon felt certain that answer was already decided.

  With my luck, I’ll stop the Slitter and get charged with his murder.

  Simon folded up the letter, put it in an envelope, sealed the flap, and wrote Vic’s name on the outside, placing it inside the folder on top of everything else. He went to the windows, glancing out from all corners of the house, but he couldn’t see any surveillance. Still, Simon figured the cops would have someone watching him. Whatever he did next, he’d need to make sure he wasn’t followed.

  He spent the next few hours gathering materials and making a plan. It wasn’t necessarily a good plan, but it was better than nothing, and the best he could manage, given the circumstances. Simon drew on all the knowledge of lore he had gained in his years of study, but William Fischer wasn’t a demon or a warlock, or a monstrous beast out of legend. He was a sick, sadistic bastard who had stolen power that didn’t belong to him for the purpose of getting revenge, a supernatural terrorist.

  Simon glanced at his phone. No calls or texts from Vic. He hadn’t expected any. Well, he might have hoped, but he didn’t really expect any. There were at least twenty missed calls from Tracey. He couldn’t face talking to her right now. Simon imagined that she’d heard he’d been led away in handcuffs this morning, and seen the sign on the shop window. He listened to the increasingly shrill messages and knew her anger covered fear and concern.

  Another glance at the time, late afternoon already, assured him that Tracey would be in the end of day rush and not answering. His call went to voice mail as he planned.

  “Hey Tracey. It’s Simon. Hasn’t been my best day. I figured you heard. No matter what anyone says, I didn’t hurt anyone. But I’ve got to take care of something, and no one else can do it. If you don’t hear from me in twelve hours, I need you to call Homicide Lieutenant Vic D’Amato and let him into my apartment. There are papers on the table that he’ll need. I hope I’ll see you tomorrow for coffee. But if I don’t, take care of yourself. And, thanks for everything. Gotta go.”

  He paused, then touched another contact in his list. After a few rings, Miss Eppie answered. “Sebastian? Is that you?”

  “I need a favor,” Simon said, hoping his voice sounded normal because his heart seemed to be in his throat. “Do you remember when you told me you didn’t curse people unless they really, really deserved it? I found out who the Slitter is. He’s after me next. Can you curse him?”

  “How do you know he’s after you?” Miss Eppie’s voice was sharp and worried.

  “He told me so.”

  “Son, you just can’t help stepping in it, can you? What kind of curse did you have in mind?”

  “What can you do? I think he’s been stealing power from low-level psychics, and I’m afraid that’s going to make him hard to fight. I don’t want the police to get slaughtered, and they won’t listen to me if I warn them.” It was close enough to the truth, for now.

  “You have anything that belonged to him? Hair, clothing, that sort of thing?”

  Simon looked at the envelope. The only things there that had belonged briefly to the Slitter were important pieces of evidence. “No, not really.”

  “That’s going to make it harder, but I will try,” Miss Eppie said. “Tell me his name, his address, anything personal you know about him. I’ll do a crossing spell. It’s more potent if I have personal objects, but information will do in a pinch.”

  Simon gave her all the details he knew about William Fischer, while Miss Eppie listened attentively. When he finished, she was quiet for a moment.

  “Sebastian Kincaide, I don’t think you’ve told me everything. I’ll do as you ask because he does deserve it. But you listen to me, son. Whatever you’re gonna do, you be careful. You carry those charms I gave you, and don’t think my curse is going to make a snake like that less dangerous all by itself. It’ll help—I do good work—but he can still bite. You hear me? Best way to fight evil is with what you have inside you. That’s the strongest magic you’ve got.”

  He thanked her, ended the call and turned it to silent. Simon gathered his small cache of weapons—three knives and an ice pick—as well as his protective charms. He added a paintball gun and some extra clips. Those all went into a small gym bag, along with a couple of flashlights, a length of rope, and a few other odds and ends that might be useful. His entire plan lay in surprising the Slitter in his lair, and facing off with him, pitting his scant magic and inborn psychic energy against what the killer had managed to steal from his victims.

  No matter what it cost, Simon intended to make sure the killing ended tonight.

  18

  Vic

  “Slow d
own,” Ross urged, jogging to catch up with Vic.

  “I’ve lost enough time already,” Vic replied, not altering his pace. I’ve lost Simon, but I’m not going to let him get charged with a murder I know he didn’t commit.

  After Simon’s lawyers had freed him—and simultaneously put the Myrtle Beach PD on notice that they’d better have a damn good reason to continue bothering Kincaide, Vic had thrown himself into the case for the rest of the afternoon. He wasn’t ready to face the heartache of the fallout from Simon’s arrest. Simon had clearly been looking for Vic, and Vic wouldn’t fault him for considering his absence a betrayal. On top of Vic’s unsteady belief in Simon’s psychic gifts, it was probably the last blow to their budding relationship.

  Vic and Simon had barely gotten started, so why did it feel like Vic’s chest was being crushed? He kept his phone out, hoping against hope for a text. He’d picked up the phone to send his own a dozen times or more, and put it back down, at a loss for what to say. All he knew was that he wanted far more time with Simon than they had spent together, and he had hoped for a future that now looked highly unlikely.

  Now was not the time to grieve, not when the Slitter remained on the loose and Simon had as much to risk from a killer as he did from the police. The best way Vic could show his love was by getting to the bottom of this mess and hoping there might be a chance to fix things between them later.

  By five, Vic’s eyes blurred, and he had reached a dead end with the files. That’s when he had announced he was going down to interview boardwalk regulars, in case anyone had seen something out of the ordinary. So here they were, working door to door, while Vic tried to come up with what he planned to say when they got as far as Grand Strand Ghost Tours.

  They had already been in and out of four shops, with no luck. The staff hadn’t come in early enough that morning to notice anything at Moonlight Bay before Simon got there or hadn’t worked late enough the night before to get a glimpse of the murderer.

  “The timing is all wrong,” Vic grumbled. MBPD already had an approximate time of death—between 6 p.m. and 11 p.m. the previous night. Vic bet on the later time since the boardwalk would be quieter then, making it easier to slip into the old hotel unnoticed.

  “You know we have to look closely at whoever finds the body,” Ross replied, sounding aggrieved. Vic knew he shouldn’t be pissed at his partner for bringing in Simon, but watching Simon’s interrogation had been one of the worst experiences of Vic’s career.

  “If he’d been the one to leave the body there at midnight, he’d have no reason to go back at eight the next morning,” Vic responded. It was unfair to be angry with Ross, but right now the storm of feelings he struggled to repress had to come out somewhere.

  “I’m on your side, remember?” Ross said. “And on his.”

  Vic sighed. “I know. Sorry. It’s just—”

  “Yeah. I get it. Come on,” Ross said. “Next up is a tattoo parlor. You need to add anything to your collection?”

  Fuck, that just made Vic remember how it had felt to have Simon’s tongue trace the swirls on his shoulder, the pattern of his sleeve. He’d been ready to get new ink in the cleft of his hip just for Simon. Now, those memories just made the ache sharper.

  “This is where I got the others done when I moved here,” Vic replied. He walked in first, and Jay, the owner looked up.

  “Vic! Great to see you. Looking to add to your collection?”

  Before Vic could answer, Jay’s expression darkened when Ross walked in. “What are you doing here?” Jay’s voice was suddenly cold.

  “This is my partner, Lieutenant Hamilton—”

  “I know who he is,” Jay said, crossing his inked arms over his chest. “I saw you take Simon away from the old Moonlight Bay hotel this morning like he was a goddamn criminal. But where the hell were you day before yesterday, when some asshole dumped blood all over his doorstep? What did you do about the threatening phone calls?”

  Vic felt light headed. “What blood? What calls?”

  The friendliness that had greeted Vic earlier had chilled to wary regard. “Day before yesterday, I was walking to my shop and I passed Simon’s place. He wasn’t in yet. Looked like someone had dumped a bucket of blood all over his doorstep. Stank like high heaven,” Jay said.

  “Simon got there a few minutes after I did. He went in through the back, washed it all down with bleach, and hosed it off. Said he’d had a threatening phone call, too, but there was nothing for the cops to do about it because the number was out of service.” Jay looked at Vic and Ross like he’d just thrown down a gauntlet.

  “He never told me,” Vic said. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

  Jay looked unconvinced. “I think there’ve been other threats. That’s why he started the neighborhood watch. And you know what? I bet whoever’s behind all this didn’t much like having the rest of us on notice. So maybe you need to arrest the right guy, and give hardworking guys like Simon some protection.”

  Out on the boardwalk once more, Vic walked to the railing and braced his arms, looking at the ocean. Ross came to stand next to him.

  “Talk to me, D’Amato. I know the wheels are turning.”

  Vic never took his eyes off the sea. “Simon didn’t trust us—didn’t trust me—enough to tell me about either the blood or the phone call,” he said, his voice rough. “We probably couldn’t have traced them. But if we’d been notified, it would be in the record—”

  “And it would count in his defense if anyone seriously looked at him for the murders,” Ross added. He turned to lean his back against the railing so he was facing Vic. “There’s got to be some connection, some reason for the threats.”

  “Simon thought he knew what it was,” Vic replied tonelessly. “And it wasn’t one we’d believe.”

  “Hey! D’Amato!” Vic turned at the shout, and Ross stood, warily moving up beside him. A tall woman with dark brown skin and long braids tinged in crimson came striding toward them, glowering. She stopped in front of Vic, and he noticed she was about Simon’s height, so she didn’t have to look up much to meet his gaze. Something about her looked very familiar, although he couldn’t place her.

  “You’re Vic? Simon’s Vic?” she demanded.

  “Yeah,” Vic replied, hoping that was still true.

  “Who are you?” Ross had shifted a half-step ahead, expecting trouble.

  “Tracey Cullen. I own the Mizzenmast. And I’m Simon’s best friend.”

  Now Vic knew why she looked familiar, and he had an inkling as to why she was also so angry. But before he could say anything, Tracey held up her phone.

  “Do you know what’s going on with him? Jay calls me to tell me he’s been arrested, and that the cops found a dead man in that fleabag motel. I called Simon twenty times since this morning, to find out why he never showed up at the shop. And what’s with that ‘death in the family’ notice on the door? He ignores my calls all day, and then he leaves me this,” she said, cycling through screens on her phone until she played a voicemail on speaker.

  “Hey Tracey. It’s Simon. Hasn’t been my best day. I figured you heard. No matter what anyone says, I didn’t hurt anyone. But I’ve got to take care of something, and no one else can do it. If you don’t hear from me in twelve hours, I need you to call Homicide Lieutenant Vic D’Amato and let him into my apartment. There are papers on the table that he’ll need. I hope I’ll see you tomorrow for coffee. But if I don’t, take care of yourself. And, thanks for everything. Gotta go.”

  She lowered the phone and stood, hands on hips, staring at Vic. “That was three hours ago. He called during the late rush when that boy knew I wouldn’t be able to pick up. I heard that message, and I said, ‘fuck no, I’m not waiting twelve hours,’ but then I didn’t know what to do. And now Jay calls me again and says you’re down here asking questions, and I’m wondering why the hell you aren’t out looking for him.”

  Vic’s whole body had gone cold, numb. He heard sadness and resignation in Simon’s reco
rded voice, as well as a grim determination that chilled Vic. Somehow, Simon had cracked the case, and he’d decided to make the next move on his own. That scared Vic down to his bones, but even worse was the assumption in Simon’s wording that he wouldn’t live through whatever he had planned.

  “Can you get me into his house? So I don’t have to break down his door? Do you know what he left there?” Vic had always been able to lock a mental steel firewall on his emotions when the going got rough, but the iron willpower that usually came easily from long practice eluded him tonight.

  “Yeah, I can get you in. No, I don’t have any idea about what he left.” Tracey turned and walked away, then stopped a few paces later. “What are y’all waitin’ for? Come on!”

  They hiked the few blocks to the blue bungalow at a brisk pace. Sweat plastered shirts to skin and sent rivulets down their faces and arms. The air conditioning hit them like a sledgehammer of ice when Tracey unlocked the door.

  “I figure you know your way around,” Tracey said, and her tone carried a hint of censure, making Vic’s face warm. Had Simon discussed their fledgling relationship with her? Obviously so, and from Tracey’s protective attitude, Vic guessed that Simon might have also confided misgivings about Vic’s depth of commitment.

  “Yeah, I can find the kitchen,” Vic replied, refusing to meet Ross’s gaze. Ross followed as he led the way, with Tracey trailing behind.

  “You know, I saw on TV that they took someone into custody for maybe murdering that guy this morning, and then Jay said it was Simon, and I thought for sure his detective boyfriend would take better care of him than that.” She sounded just like Vic’s disapproving aunt. Even Ross flinched.