"She was left-handed," commented Chang, "to write this on her right hand."
Lucas recalled that Mira Lourdes was reportedly left- handed. He wondered if it could be her right hand he now stared at.
"At least we've got fingerprints now," said Dr. Nielsen, sighing.
Chang shook his head. "Look closer. No fingerprints." Chang put a magnifying glass over the fingertips, demonstrating how they had been burnt off with some sort of chemical. "The epidermal layers of skin have been altered."
"Acid bath?" asked Nielsen.
"Carefully applied. Likely over-the-counter item. Muriatic acid would be my guess."
"Kind you get at any pool store," muttered Lucas. "What the hell does this motherfucker want from Meredyth?"
"If we knew that, we might know better who he is," said Meredyth. She had materialized from the tunnel leading to the garage, two uniformed female cops with her. "We must have really pissed him off sometime... someplace."
Lucas wanted to go to her, hold her to him, and she read this clearly in his eyes, but they had made the pact to keep their renewed romance a secret for now. "We need to sit down, go over every case we ever worked together, and find this psycho before he decides to attack with more than these sick offerings," he said.
"I couldn't agree with you more," she replied.
The unspoken questions on everyone's mind were where the rest of the victim's body was, what would be forwarded next, and what kind of connection existed between the killer, Dr. Sanger, and Detective Stonecoat.
Lucas turned back to Chang. "What can you tell us about the victim from what this lunatic bastard has left us, Leonard?"
"Not much beyond her general size and weight. She was small-boned, not large, healthy by all reckoning. Freckled. The hand came from a fresh kill, like the eyes and organ slices. I'd need equipment and tests to tell you any more than that."
"Are you guessing it to be from the same victim?"
"One might suppose so, yes."
"Bastard is poaching off pieces of his victim to taunt us. It's sick."
Captain Gordon Lincoln, having heard of the latest incident in this growing cancer, drove into the lot, climbed from his car with some difficulty, and stood in a disarrayed overcoat thrown over his casual civilian clothes, a golf shirt and pants. His size and weight made him a force to be reckoned with, and he chewed on an unlit cigar. It was past nine P.M. and Lincoln's eyes burned with curiosity, confusion, and concern. "What in hell's going on, Stonecoat? Did I hear right? Another goody bag left for Dr. Sanger? After you gave chase to some phantom who breached the security of my precinct? Are you all right, Dr. Sanger?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she replied at the same time Lucas said, "You heard right, Captain. Some creep lured her here and saw to it she was alone with this sick gift he left behind. A human hand, female."
"We suspect it's from the same body as gave up the eyes and teeth, but we'll have to run tests to be certain. Captain," added Chang.
Lincoln exchanged a quick smile with Dr. Nielsen, nodded, and bent at his hefty waist for a closer examination of the severed hand. Nielsen leaned in and spoke in his ear, explaining both the lettering and the raw fingertips.
Lincoln mouthed the words written across the palm of the severed hand. "Sad business...terribly sad," he muttered.
"Handwriting on hand...printing actually, doesn't appear the same as on package," Chang said.
"I suspect the victim was in the habit of writing messages to herself on her hand. Lot of people do it," said Meredyth, who now had a chance to examine the awful contents of the third ugly parcel.
Lincoln straightened up with a mild groan. He ordered everyone's silence on the incident, knowing it would be the precinct buzz before midnight and leaked to the press before dawn. "Chang, I know this is already first priority in your lab," continued Captain Lincoln, pacing, "but anything...anything more you can do to speed up our evidence-gathering and knowledge of this SOB will be appreciated."
"We're doing all we can to expedite matters, Captain, I can assure you," replied Chang.
"I'm sure you are. Keep me posted." Lincoln took Lucas aside, escorting him to his car, out of earshot of the others. "Do you have any inkling as to who might be behind this, Lucas? Are any of your loony street connections or snitches telling you anything? Any word from anyone fresh off the reservation? Didn't you have some enemies on theres? Wasn't there a thing between you and a woman there that got messy?"
"That was my cousin's wife, Tsali, and it hasn't a thing to do with this, no."
"Any connection possibly to Zachary Roundpoint?"
"Sir, I can assure you there is none whatsoever."
"Then you do admit to knowing Roundpoint well enough to know he has nothing to do with this shit?"
"IAD's cleared me of all those charges, Captain. You got the report. I do not have any personal relationship with Roundpoint or anyone in his organization."
"But FBI approached you and suggested you help them to infiltrate Roundpoint's operation, to wear a wire."
"I turned 'em down. I got no juice with Roundpoint."
"All right...all right, don't get testy. I'm just throwing out ideas here, brainstorming. When you brainstorm a case, no idea is too radical for consideration. Nothing personal, and when and if the Feds start up anything with you, Detective, remember, you're under my command, and I stand by men under my command. Kee-mo-sabe?"
Lucas could feel his jaw tighten. He had a good idea where Lincoln would be standing if and when a federal grand jury were convened and Lucas were called to point a finger at Zach Roundpoint, one lone lieutenant of Native American descent against the power of the U.S. Government. An old story, Lucas told himself.
Lucas told his captain, "Meredyth and I suspect that whoever's behind these foul mailings will be someone we have a history with."
"Both of you?"
"Yes, both of us. It'll be someone we may've put away, or a relative of someone we put away. Remember the vengeance Jimmy Lee Purdy took out on Judge DeCampe after his death? Through the twisted thinking of his deranged father?"
Lincoln breathed deeply of the stale parking lot air and fumes, considering the horror of the case that had brought Lucas Stonecoat so much federal attention, the case of an abducted and cruelly tortured appellate court judge and personal friend of Lincoln's. Maureen DeCampe had been abducted in a municipal underground parking lot, not unlike this one, forced into a coffin, and transported across the country to a deserted farmhouse. The sentence against her was carried out by a maniacal old man thinking himself a prophet of God or some such nonsense. Isaiah Purdy, hearing his executed son's voice in his head, believing his son to be God or God's angel, had followed Jimmy Lee's orders to fulfill his last request. Isaiah lashed her to his son's decayed body, holding her hostage to a slow death for a week before Lucas and Meredyth had helped to discover her and put an end to her misery. The old man's plan was to kill her via rotting her flesh as it came into contact with the rotting flesh of his dead son. The poor woman still had lingering psychological scars. Cooperating with the FBI, Lucas and Meredyth had helped save the judge's life. However, Lucas had come under suspicion by the Feds himself when they targeted Roundpoint for a series of killings in North Dakota, all related to a hate crime involving a young Native American. Someone had seen to it that the boy's killers met their end when federal prosecutors announced they hadn't enough evidence on anyone to bring charges.
"Canvas the old cases you've worked together," said Lincoln now. "Beyond that, shake loose the talk on the street. Somebody somewhere has to know something."
"Currently, we're working up a victim profile, awaiting more information from our dental forensics man, Davies."
"Yeah, the teeth...good idea...good work."
"Narrowed down three recently reported cases of missing persons who fit Chang's assessment of the age range, size, and weight estimates."
Lincoln climbed back into his car, waved Lucas off, and drove up the ramp and out of
the garage. Lucas's eyes followed his car until it was out of sight. He and Lincoln hadn't always been in agreement; they had had their battles. Still, the captain was genuinely concerned about the awful thing happening to him and to Meredyth.
Lucas returned to Meredyth, and he saw that Chang was through with the evidence-gathering and photo-taking at the secondary crime scene. In the back of everyone's mind was the question of the primary crime scene or scenes, where the killer had first abducted his victim, and where he had chopped her into multiple pieces.
"Come with me," Chang told Nielsen, "and we'll get a closer look at that."
"At what?" asked Lucas.
"Dr. Nielsen asks a good question. She wonders how the hand can look so fresh if the victim is the same. It has been twenty-four hours difference and still not a single spot of decay."
"What does that suggest?"
"I suspect under the electron microscope, we will find ice crystals beneath the skin."
"So he's keeping the body in a freezer now?" asked Lucas.
"That would be my guess."
"We found a cloth fiber and hair inside the box too," said Nielsen.
"The fiber and hair are likely the victim's, but we could get lucky...they may belong to our killer," Chang added.
Lucas thanked the two M.E.'s for their extra effort on the case, and then he took Meredyth aside. "I'm taking you home now, Meredyth. No arguments."
"I'd like that. Thank you, Lucas."
Lucas escorted her to his car and opened her door, but she stopped, looked into his eyes, and began relating the story of exactly what had happened to her.
"Save it for the ride. Mere. Let's get out of this place." She climbed in and he closed the door, came around the car, entered, and pulled out.
"Whoever this creep is, he came up from the garage to my office," she said. "He wanted to leave the package in my office. He was sneaking around up there when I heard a noise, and I stepped out to the outer office to investigate. From there, he beat it back down to the garage. Not seeing my car in the garage, he'd thought I wasn't in, so he'd brought the package up the elevator or stairwell with him to leave on my desk."
"But he panicked."
"I think so, yes."
Lucas darted in and out of the traffic of the bustling city, listening attentively for the details while the lights, horns, sirens, and shouting of people bounced off the rolled-up windows. It had become darker still, a faintly chilly nip in the air, and the promise of rain had gone unrealized. "Nice night for a desert drive. You want to get out of the city for a while, find the stars?" he asked.
"Damn it, Lucas, you're not hearing me. This guy has been watching my every move. He knows my habits. I wasn't supposed to be in the office this late."
"All right, I hear you. We've got some sort of wacko stalker on our hands. But you need to get some respite from it. I'm not leaving you alone again until this bastard's caught, so where to? Your place or mine? I gotta warn you, though, that—"
"What were you saying about the desert stars?"
"I know a place where we can spread a blanket."
"You got a blanket?"
"In the trunk, sure."
"Stars...maybe some moonlight? Sounds good, yeah."
"Great choice." Lucas took the Interstate west, exiting onto a small highway, finding a still-smaller two-lane on which they found a family-run restaurant where the proprietors and their children—Mexicans—all knew Lucas and welcomed him like an old friend, while Meredyth stood back observing, smiling, nodding as Lucas chatted in Spanish with them.
In a matter of minutes, the father held out a fully packed picnic basket with cold cuts, bread, cheese, and wine, and Meredyth took it while Lucas pushed money into the man's hands.
A few miles down the road, Lucas turned onto a deserted desert road, tall cactus looking on like silent sentries while Lucas's car sent up a flume of particles and sand. A dirt cloud followed them like a dervish as they raced for the lavender-hued rocks beneath the moon and stars in the distance.
The moonlit night painted the hills and corresponding gulches with a variety of colors, deep and abiding, yet changing from moment to moment, like the breeze itself. Meredyth was caught up in the sights, the peace, and the feel of this hideaway he wished to share with her. "I come here alone a lot," he said. "When I have more time, I go out farther, all the way to the Diablo Spinata—Devil's Spine. Now there's a mystical place, filled with ghosts and spirits of the past."
'Take me there sometime," she replied.
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
From the trunk of his car, Lucas produced an Indian blanket, beautifully woven, and with the basket of food and drink in hand, he escorted her to a favorite spot, spread the blanket, and welcomed her to partake. Together they lay for a time beneath the twinkling lights of the firmament.
Pointing back in the direction of Houston, she asked, "What's that strange light in the distance?"
"That'd be Houston."
"Houston, really?"
"Lights of the city."
"I thought it was a kid's ball field all lit up."
"Nope...trust me, it's the dome of light over Houston." He then pointed to the crisp, clear sky directly overhead. "No show like this in Houston," he said, falling back on his elbows and going into a deep silence.
After a long moment of listening to the desert sounds, she said, "Thanks, Lucas, for bringing me here."
"You must be hungry. Let's eat."
She reached over and grabbed hold of his shoulders, pulling him down over her, kissing him passionately. For the moment, the food was forgotten.
"Ever spend the whole of a night in the desert?" he asked.
"Well...no...not till now."
DR.ARTHER BELKUIN couldn't stop shaking. He was almost caught inside a police station with a box containing the severed right hand of Mira Lourdes. It had been the second package he had delivered to Dr. Meredyth Sanger, while Lauralie had delivered a second package to Detective Lucas Stonecoat. And still she had not explained why they were doing this.
He thought of his practice, his livelihood, his clients, and the multitude of animal patients he helped each day, and he thought of how it would play in the newspapers if it should ever come out that he, Dr. Arthur Belkvin, Professor of Animal Surgery at the Dean King School of Veterinary Medicine, had been arrested for misusing his surgical skills to pick apart a dead woman's corpse for sexual favors from a woman half his age, one of his students. Being a murder accomplice somehow did not bother him so much as the humiliation he'd brought down on his profession, a profession that had its own Hippocratic Oath— to do no harm.
He shivered at the thought of being found out. Of being called out. Of being labeled a man who had once been a fine upstanding practitioner in the art of saving life, but who now dealt in death. But I've killed no one, he told himself. She's done the killing. I couldn't even swing the ax hard enough. Anyone can see that I'm not the monster here. No, he told himself now, I'm not a monster... just an Igor to her twisted Frankenstein.
As Arthur drove home, anxiously checking his rearview for the flashing lights in pursuit, certain that at any moment they would come, he wondered at his own hold on reality. Common sense told him that most certainly someone had taken down his license plate, but another voice kept saying he could—if caught—end it all here and now! Flag down a cop and put the blame where the blame belonged, square on Lauralie, whose very presence turned him into a spineless lapdog. God, someone had to know why he did what he had done.
How certain he felt that someone had recognized the make and model of the car. He pulled down the street on which he lived, for the first time calming as he saw his apartment come into view. He could see his two greyhounds in the window grown big with excitement on seeing his approach. Smart boys, they knew his car from sight. Lauralie was somewhere inside the apartment as well, likely watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which he hated.
L
auralie awaited him inside, but he hesitated going any further toward the steps. "Am I crazy? This isn't me! I don't behave like this. I'm not a psychopathic maniac, but what I'm doing...that's psychopathic, man! What the hell else do you call going about the city delivering parcels stuffed with the remains of a dead woman! Maybe 1 am mad. And to what purpose? And to whom do I owe this deviant behavior if it's not to please Lauralie? And what is her purpose in all this?"
A neighbor, walking a dog, having watched him talking to himself in such animation, embarrassed at now being seen, waved and called out, "Howya doin', Dr. Belkvin? Nice night, huh? Not too many good ones left before that old East Texas cold's going to set in."
"Doing fine, thanks." Lauralie's shadow was doing a sensual dance behind the blinds, music blaring. The neighbor watched her form gliding about for a moment before saying, "Well...got to walk dinner off. Later, Dr. Belkvin."
"Later. Harvey."
Harvey would have something to talk about when he got home, Arthur thought.
Lauralie now peeked elflike from behind the drapes, having put the dogs into the back bedroom. So lithe and beautiful a prize Lauralie represented, a symbol of an ideal of sorts, something of a joie de vivre that raced around in his brain—a Tinkerbell, always fragile, always just out of reach even when you had her in hand, Arthur thought. Joy, yes, but she was also an annoying ethereal scratch across Arthur's soul, because Arthur knew that he denied the truth that lay in wait, that Lauralie would never be possessed by anyone, and could never truly be his. She was like the lover who sang in the song, We'll sing in the sunshine, we'll laugh every day-yay...and then I'll be on my way. That folk-song character promised a year before she had to leave, and Arthur knew that he'd have even less time before Lauralie flew away, despite her protestations and promises and declarations of love.
She gestured for him to hurry up, her large lips puckering into a teasing kiss against the glass. No doubt she was anxious for his report on tonight's success. She'd want to know all about it, every detail of how he had infiltrated Sanger's world. He'd have to make it good; he must keep her happy, but what about his own happiness? He was far from happy, he told himself as he made his way to the front door.
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