by Morgan Brice
“‘Cuz you see, there’s no way Simon had any time at all to go kill someone yesterday,” Tracey continued. “He opened that shop at nine, and the two of us, we text back and forth all day. He told me he was slammed so hard, he didn’t even get to eat except up at the register, all the way through until it was time for the tours. He’s got security cameras on the shop, so I bet there’s footage showing exactly where he was. Then he had two sold-out ghost tours, and the people from the first tour stayed to buy things, so he barely got them out the door so he could take the next group. That’s forty to fifty people who can vouch for where he was from six until nine.”
She barely took a breath. “Then I met him at the shop door right at nine ‘cuz we had plans. And I know for damn sure he didn’t kill anyone after that, because I went home with him and spent the night.”
Ross raised an eyebrow, and Vic felt a stab of confusion. Tracey rolled her eyes. “Hell, no. I don’t swing that way, and neither does he. My girlfriend would kill me. But Simon and me, we watched stupid movies and drank wine and ate junk food until two in the morning. Then he woke me up at six to get to work. I slept on the couch, between his room and the door. And lord knows, that boy is as stealthy as an elephant in oversized combat boots. He sure didn’t sneak out past me. I was tipsy, but I wasn’t blacked-out drunk.”
Vic and Ross exchanged a look. He had an alibi. And airtight alibi for the whole time. And although Vic had never seriously thought Simon was involved in Marcus’s death, his cop brain sighed in relief.
They walked into the kitchen, and Vic saw a Manila folder on the table. On top of the folder was a sealed letter-sized envelope that just said “Vic.” The sight of that envelope sent a current of fear through his body.
“Read it,” Ross urged quietly. “I’ll start on the rest of the folder.”
Ross sat at the table with Tracey hanging over his shoulder. Vic walked a few paces away and tore open the envelope.
Dear Vic,
* * *
I love you. No matter what happens, I needed to say that. I know it’s too soon, and that you probably don’t feel the same way, but I wanted to tell you.
I had nothing to do with Marcus’s death. A premonition sent me to Moonlight Bay. At least we found him.
In the folder is everything I’ve worked out about the Slitter. His name is William Fischer, he got laid off from the construction project at Three Triton Place, and I’m positive he’s stealing energy from low-level psychics to build up his power for some kind of attack to get revenge on the people who fired him. If I’m right, and the cops try to stop him with regular weapons, it’ll be a bloodbath—theirs. I might be able to do something. It’s a long shot. Unfortunately, I’m the best chance we have to bring him down.
There were several threats and attacks I didn’t tell you about, because there was nothing you could have done about them. I wasn’t keeping secrets, just trying not to strain your belief any farther than I’d already stretched it.
If I’ve gotten you in trouble or screwed up your career, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. You need someone who isn’t a liability, someone you don’t have to defend to the other cops. Please don’t stop looking for the right person.
I don’t think I’m going to come back from this. At least, that’s what the dream told me. But if I can stop the Slitter from killing more people, that’s worth it. I wanted more time with you, maybe forever, but it’s not going to work out that way. So please, Vic, take care of yourself, be careful, and think about me now and again.
* * *
Love, Simon
Vic squeezed his eyes shut tight against the tears that threatened to break loose, holding the letter crumpled in his fist. He had never cried on the job, and he wasn’t going to start now. There would be time enough for that, later, in private. He had never hoped so much for Simon’s clairvoyance to be wrong.
“Vic?” Ross called, in a tone that let him know it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken. Ross was turned around at the table, looking at him with worry in his eyes, and Tracey watched him with a wary, appraising look.
“Simon knows who the Slitter is, and where to find him. And he’s gone after him by himself.”
Tracey’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, no, no, no! That boy did not do something that stupid. Fuck!” She yelled, turning to slam her fist down on the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna kill him—” her voice broke off in a strangled choke when she realized what she said.
“You need to see this,” Ross said, pushing back from the table so to give Vic a look at the contents of the folder.
“Shit,” Vic murmured as he took in the pictures with the threatening note, the map with Simon’s own pentagram and Three Triton Place in the center, and all the rest of the evidence.
“This is persuasive,” Ross said. “Even without anything from his visions or the ghosts’ testimony, he took that ‘Billy Bass’ clue and ran with it.” He held up a sheaf of printouts from the background search site. “This fits with what you suspected, and the placement of the bodies.”
“And Fischer wants to kill Simon because he was afraid Simon would find him?” Tracey asked.
“Maybe,” Vic replied. “Or maybe he changed his mind when he realized Simon’s abilities were real, and he’d be a big juicy psychic battery for whatever workplace murder spree he’s planning.”
“You better do right by him,” Tracey said, meeting Vic’s gaze. “He believes in you.”
“I will. I promise.” Vic tried to take deep breaths and slow his pounding heart. “We know where he was headed. I’m going after him.” He couldn’t say out loud that it might already be too late.
Ross rose and blocked his way. “No, we’re going,” Ross corrected him. “And we’re taking a SWAT team with us.”
19
Simon
In the time it took to walk from the blue bungalow to Three Triton Place, Simon’s nervous jitters and sweaty fear shifted to cold certainty. He wondered if this was what soldiers felt going into battle, a sense of purpose, and no assurance that they would come back alive.
Sweet Jesus, he didn’t want to be a hero. He just didn’t see any other way that the police could act on his information without walking into a trap. And he knew that if the cops thought they were closing in on the Slitter, Vic and his partner would be right there in the line of fire.
Vic might have made his choice, but so had Simon. There was no way in hell he would put Vic’s life at risk, not if he could do something to prevent that scenario. Which meant it was all up to him.
The information he’d left in the folder would provide context, no matter how tonight went down. By the time Tracey called Vic, it would all be over, one way or the other. And if Simon was successful, and the Slitter was stopped, then even if Simon didn’t survive, Vic would have real evidence that would help him close the case. Simon suspected that if this was indeed the Slitter’s falcon nest, he would have trophies and hard evidence the police couldn’t overlook.
Simon stopped beside the parking garage where one of the bodies had been found and peered up at the abandoned hotel across the street. Iryena’s clues had described the pool area of a different motel to Simon’s left, from where there was a perfect view of Three Triton Place. The abandoned high rise wasn’t the place the killer was going to hide a body; it was the Slitter’s secret lair.
How many nights had Simon glanced up at the hotel as he passed and noticed a single light burning and a ceiling fan rotating in a high window in the otherwise dark building? He’d noticed it, but figured that it would just be someone working late or an oversight of the cleaning staff. He hadn’t stopped to think that wouldn’t be the case in a building that had been gutted but not remodeled, where even the construction crews hadn’t set foot in six months. The Slitter had been taunting them all along in plain sight.
Simon tilted his head back for a better look and counted the floors. Twenty stories above Myrtle Beach. No way would Simon trust the elevators, even if the power
to them had been turned back on. That meant a long hike in a building that probably didn’t have air conditioning. He peered up again at the single lit window, trying to work out its location on the floor of the tall, round tower. Once Simon was inside, he couldn’t afford wasting time searching for the right room.
He headed across the street toward the chain-link fence, as ready for the confrontation as he’d ever be. Simon had brought a pair of wire cutters, thinking he might have to make a hole, but the gate near the parking garage swung open at a touch, although it appeared locked at a distance. Moving cautiously, Simon headed into the black maw of the garage beneath the building that looked more like a darkened cave.
Once inside, he turned on his flashlight and wondered whether the Slitter had left the gate unlocked—another taunt—or if some of Myrtle Beach’s homeless had found shelter inside the deck’s deeper levels. The flashlight had been a last-minute purchase at a convenience store whose window display advertised “stun gun flashlights” to a populace frightened by a serial killer on the loose. He had no idea whether it would work as advertised, but he figured he needed all the help he could get.
Simon headed for the stairs, once again wondering whether he would find the door locked. He’d thrown a legal lock pick kit into his pack just in case, something he’d purchased after the fifth time he had to pay a locksmith to let him back into the shop when he’d locked himself out. He was hardly good enough with the tools to get a door open—no risk of becoming a cat burglar—but he figured they might come in handy. The stairs door was unlocked, and Simon didn’t know whether to feel relieved or suspect he was being drawn into a trap.
He reached out to the spirits and felt their presence. The Slitter’s victims were watching him, supporting their champion. None of the ghosts offered advice, and his visions did not provide insight, so Simon kept on going, hoping he had surprise on his side.
As he feared, the building’s main air conditioning was turned off. But once he got above the second floor, the security lights burned in the concrete-enclosed stairwell. There had been none on in the garage or the first floor. Then again, if the Slitter had made the half-finished hotel his hideout, he had the skills to know his way around a construction site. A smaller company might have noticed electric bills for a shut-down building, but Simon guessed that in the midst of its financial chaos, the holding group owners never caught the questionable expense.
Simon made his way up the stairs, moving as silently as he could. Tracey often teased him about his lack of stealth and her humor was justified; Simon wasn’t athletic or naturally graceful, and he had a tendency to trip even on bare pavement. I’m so not a superhero, he thought, figuring that if fate had chosen him, then it was betting on a dark horse. But by moving slow and keeping his mind on what he was doing, he managed to keep climbing in relative silence.
His shirt plastered to his skin with the sweat that ran down his back and soaked his hair. His pepper spray hung from a carabiner on his belt, and a knife was in a sheath beside it. He had his phone in the pocket of his jeans, and before he burst in on the Slitter Simon intended to turn on its recorder so that if he didn’t survive to testify, the police could replay what he hoped would be Fischer’s confession, and if not, then proof that Fischer had killed him.
By the fifteenth floor, Simon was breathing hard, glad he’d thrown a bottle of water in his pack. He stopped to rest, knowing that if the Slitter somehow anticipated his arrival, Simon would be no use in a fight if he was too winded to catch his breath. The pause gave him a chance to go over his options once more. There wasn’t much of a plan, except to go in strong and hit the Slitter with everything Simon had. If by some miracle he managed to get the killer down, he had zip ties in his pack. That had been an optimistic addition on his part, but he’d tried to cover everything.
As he let his breathing and heartbeat slow to normal, Simon couldn’t help wondering what Vic was doing now. Was he still at the station, plowing through data? Had he made any of the same connections Simon had found? Nearly four hours had passed since he’d left the message on Tracey’s phone, so if she followed his request, that left another eight before Vic would know where Simon had gone. By then, it would all be over.
He wished he’d had a chance to tell Vic good-bye, wished that he’d at least caught a glimpse of him in the squad room that morning. But it was probably better this way. A clean break—at least for Vic.
Mustering his courage, Simon started up the last five flights of stairs, with the same grim resolve he’d felt the day he defended his Ph.D. thesis to an unwelcoming committee. That hadn’t been a life and death situation, but it felt like it at the time, and Simon told himself that he needed to put up a confident front, no matter that his insides quivered like jelly.
He paused again in the stairwell of the twentieth floor to finish the bottle of water, and get his breath before the confrontation. Simon had wracked his brain to recall the long-ago party at the former version of Triton Place, trying to remember the layout of the ballroom or at least where the walls and doors had been. Of course, with the renovations, that all might have changed, but since the light visible from the street appeared to be confined to a single area, Simon guessed that some of the room might be as he pictured it. If so, the stairwell and elevator lobby would open into a circular central reception area with doors to different pie-slice shaped ballrooms that had curved window views onto the city and the ocean.
He had his stun light and his knife handy. The pepper spray was a last resort since it had nearly incapacitated Simon as well as the Slitter the last time he used it. Simon had the spells Miss Eppie and Gabriella had taught him well-rehearsed, and he was hopeful that his scant magic could do something against the power the Slitter had amassed from his victims. And for good measure, he had the jack ball and conjure root charms in his pockets. Clutched in his right hand was his paintball pistol, with a fresh CO2 cartridge and a full clip of orange paintballs. He had more clips in his bag, but he doubted he’d get the chance to reload. Simon had marshaled every resource available to him, and it would have to be enough.
When Simon stepped into the central rotunda, security lights cast a dim glow. He reached into his pocket and started the recorder on his phone. Under the door to one of the rooms, a much brighter light shone, and Simon felt his heart thud as he closed in on the killer.
In the movies, the hero always knew just what to do. Simon had never felt less heroic in his life. Then again, wars are fought and won by scared farm boys, he reminded himself. He could do this. He had to do it because no one else could.
He reached for the door and gambled it would open since Fischer had been so sure of the safety of his eyrie that he hadn’t locked anything else. It swung wide, and Simon had seconds to register William Fischer inside a room with paper-cluttered walls before he started firing his paint gun.
Aim for the chest, he told himself. Broader target, hurts like a muther.
He squeezed off four shots. Two hit their target; two more went wide. Then something cold and powerful shoved him, hard, sending him stumbling. He had three balls left in the clip, and he got his footing and fired again. One shot hit Fischer in the shoulder, and another winged his side, while the third missed entirely.
The cold force struck again, throwing Simon against the wall hard enough to make his head spin and knocking the empty gun from his hand. When the power released him, he fell to a crouch.
“Simon Kincaide. You saved me the trouble of coming for you. How…convenient.” William Fischer was no Anthony Hopkins. He lacked Ted Bundy’s charisma and good looks. His face and build were unremarkably average, but the intensity in his eyes sparked with madness. Fischer stalked toward Simon, ready to claim his spoils.
Simon concentrated, muttered one of the rote spells he’d learned, and hoped for the best. Before Fischer could reach him, an iridescent circle of light surrounded Simon, cutting him off from his would-be attacker.
“Stay back,” Simon warned.
“If you wanted me to stay back, you wouldn’t have come here,” Fischer replied, stopping several feet from Simon. “We both know how this is going to end.”
“With you in jail,” Simon growled.
Fischer laughed. “Oh, I doubt that. How long can you hold that pretty little parlor trick? I can wait.”
Simon didn’t know how strong Fischer’s power had become, or what he could do with it other than throw someone around. His whole strategy lay in getting close enough to Fischer to stun him, then maybe clobber him with the heavy flashlight and tie him up. Then again, Fischer didn’t know what Simon could do, and his smug certainty might give Simon an advantage.
“You’ve been stealing energy from people with minor gifts,” Simon accused.
Fischer did a slow clap. “Give the man a prize.”
“Then why try to run me over or shoot me?” The Slitter’s obvious change of plan had puzzled Simon.
“I thought you were a fraud at first,” Fischer replied. “Then I realized you weren’t.”
Up close, Simon realized Fischer didn’t look so good. He had the pinched expression of someone with a bad headache, or indigestion, or both. Simon wondered how quickly Miss Eppie could put a root on someone, and how fast her curse would work.
The curtain of light was draining Simon fast. Fischer was only a few feet away. “You picked J-ones because no one would notice.” Simon wanted to keep Fischer talking, distract him and record him if his next move had any chance to work.
Fischer looked pained, and whether Eppie had sent him a migraine or stomach cramps, Simon realized that if Eppie’s curse was working, maybe all he needed was to run down the clock, eluding Fischer’s grasp until the root work brought him down.
That might be tricky because Simon was feeling the strain of expending his magic. He’d held the protective curtain longer than he’d ever done in his scant practice, and he wasn’t sure he could produce it again without more time to recuperate. Unlike Fischer, Simon had only his own energy to draw from, and it was finite.