The Mermaid Murders

by Josh Lanyon

“I think there’s a stairway on the east wall.”

  “Jason, listen to me. Help is on the way. You need to remain where I can see you.”

  Was the flashlight down here somewhere? Jason took a couple of slurpy steps, peering into the cold and slimy water. The sun slid away again and the room plunged back into opacity.

  Jason drew a sharp breath. No, he really could not do this.

  “Jason—”

  “I want to try the stairway. I’ll keep yelling Marco, and you yell Polo. So you know I’m okay, and I can tell how far from you I am.”

  “Are you—? And what if you’re not okay? How am I supposed to get to you?”

  “Marco.”

  “West, you’re beginning to piss me off.”

  “Marco.”

  “At the least we should be using radio voice procedure.”

  “Marco to Kennedy. Over.”

  Kennedy snapped, “Polo.”

  Jason grinned and reached out, feeling his way across the room. Even a few feet from the hole in the ceiling it was difficult to make out anything in the room.

  Just don’t let me reach out and touch a snake.

  He didn’t like anything about this. Splashing blindly around a half-flooded cellar was a bad idea. But he was worried about Kennedy still crouched up there on top of a floor that was about to come down. Kennedy didn’t want to leave his partner, which Jason appreciated, but…

  Anyway, although he would never admit this, Jason was simply too freaked out to stay put. This flooded room triggered every primal fear lurking in the back of his brain. The dark, the wet, the smell of death and decay…

  “Marco.”

  “Polo.”

  Kennedy’s voice was farther away now, and Jason was almost entirely in darkness. He reached out and felt the railing of the staircase. It felt reasonably stable, all things being relative.

  “Polo?” Kennedy called sharply.

  “Sorry. Yep. I found the stairs.”

  The sun coyly, briefly, slipped into view. Yes, he had found the stairs and just climbing out of the water was a relief. He kept thinking about falling over bodies floating in the water. The graveyard was a mile away, and there were no bodies bobbing in the green water surrounding him. It did look like there might be a couple of shark skeletons lying beneath the surface.

  Shark skeletons were definitely better than human skeletons.

  Yes, there were definitely bones in the water. Would shark cartilage last as long as human bone?

  He squelched up the rickety case.

  “I’m at the top of the stairs. Can you hear me?”

  “You’re at the top of the stairs. Can you get out?”

  “The door’s locked.” Jason jiggled the round doorknob. Definitely locked. He felt over the door’s peeling surface, picking up splinters as he went. “I might be able to…”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  He rammed his shoulder against the door. Which was unbelievably stupid, not least because it was his bad shoulder. He reeled back against the railing, cursing quietly, rubbing his shoulder.

  Kennedy was yelling again.

  “Okay!” Jason managed.

  “What’s happening down there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  Jason laughed unsteadily. “I mean, everything’s under control.” He took two careful steps back, lightly bracing himself against the railing, and launched a kick with all his strength at where he reckoned the doorjamb was. He had a split-second to wonder if he was going to break his foot on the wall.

  The wood gave a satisfying crunching sound.

  Kennedy was yelling.

  Jason ignored him. He stepped back and delivered another strong kick. The door flew back and hit the wall behind it. Watery daylight poured down, revealing a window and another staircase.

  “I’m out!”

  “What?”

  “The door is open. There’s a window above, and I can see more stairs. I’m coming up.”

  This time Kennedy didn’t answer, and Jason thought he knew why. He could hear the distant wail of approaching sirens.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Why would he leave her alive?” Jason asked.

  Kennedy shook his head. His expression was closed.

  They were in the bathroom of Kennedy’s motel room. Jason sat uncomfortably on the side of the tub while Kennedy liberally doused him with hydrogen peroxide and antiseptic cream. Jason could have done it himself. He was good at looking after himself. In fact, he had declined the on-scene attentions of the paramedics—until Kennedy had ordered him not to be a complete dumbass. Since Jason prided himself on not being a dumbass, partial or complete, he had submitted to being checked for concussion and, once given a conditional all-clear, had headed back to the motel for a very long, very hot shower.

  He’d have fallen into bed at that point, but Kennedy had pounded on his door and insisted on this first-aid routine. The truth was, concussion or not, Jason still felt weirdly shaky and chilled. Shock, according to Kennedy. An idea Jason had brushed off, but he couldn’t deny that there was something sort of comforting about relinquishing himself to Kennedy’s gruff care.

  Actually, Kennedy was surprisingly careful, lightly smearing white antiseptic cream over Jason’s knuckles.

  He answered Jason’s question. “Whatever his reasons, she’s out of his hands now.”

  Candy had been airlifted out of Rexford—it turned out it was easier to fly in than drive in—and transported to a hospital in Boston where she was currently sedated and under guard.

  “It doesn’t fit the profile, right? We didn’t interrupt him. He had her for over twenty-four hours. And during that time he didn’t sexually assault her. He didn’t harm her in any way. Other than abduct her and leave her in that—” Jason had to pause for another of those huge, nervous yawns that kept interrupting him.

  “There may be other time constraints we’re not aware of,” Kennedy said.

  “He actually had more time because no one even knew Candy was missing for nearly twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s a hell of a bruise on your shoulder.”

  “I walked into the door.”

  “Hm.” Kennedy dabbed a blob of Neosporin on a cut on Jason’s neck and neatly applied a Band-Aid. “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.”

  Jason looked up and smiled. To his astonishment, Kennedy leaned in and covered his mouth with his own.

  He hadn’t been expecting it, so the kiss landed on Jason’s open and startled mouth. It was an odd kiss—maybe Kennedy had surprised himself as much as Jason—not hungry and hard, but not quite as light and sociable as perhaps Kennedy had intended.

  Kennedy’s lips were warm and firm. He tasted dark and sweet. A complex and masculine flavor, unique to him. Nice. Very nice.

  They parted, and Jason thought Sam—no, Kennedy—looked as confused as himself.

  “She’s older,” Jason said at random. “Maybe that’s a factor. She’s not a teenage girl.”

  “Maybe,” Kennedy said. And that noncommittal comment made it clear to Jason that Kennedy did not for one minute believe it.

  So what did he think had motivated Candy’s abductor to leave her unharmed?

  For once, Jason was too tired to care.

  Kennedy finished patching Jason’s various cuts and grazes and then stood back to examine his handiwork. “You’ll do.”

  “Thank you, Florence. You’ll be glad to know I’m making a generous contribution to the Red Cross this year.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Jason shook his head. “No. I’m beat. I’m going to bed.” He rose from the side of the tub, swaying as another jaw-breaking yawn caught him off guard. “I think I could sleep for a year.”

  Kennedy began to gather up his tweezers, nail scissors, and bits of Band-Aid wrappers. He said over his shoulder. “Why don’t you sleep here?”

  Jason shook his head, his smile apologetic. “Thanks, but I’m no
t going to be much fun tonight.”

  Kennedy turned to face him. “No. I really do mean sleep.” His expression was serious.

  “Uh…well, if you…” What? Don’t mind? Want the company? Jason wasn’t sure what his question was. He was too surprised by Kennedy’s offer. The truth was, he didn’t particularly want to be on his own tonight. Every time he closed his eyes he saw that weird basement with its shifting shadows and skulls and snakes. No. He wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with a warm body tonight.

  “In that case, yes,” he said. “However, I think you should know that I snore.”

  Kennedy said, “I do know that you snore.”

  “Oh? Right. Okay. On your head—or next to your head—be it.”

  Kennedy smiled faintly.

  It was a relief to stumble into the next room and flop down on the bed.

  He shivered. The temperature in here was like a meat locker. Jason made the supreme effort to kick off his jeans and crawl under the coverlet. He pulled the comforter up, vaguely aware that Kennedy moved around the room, turning off the air conditioner, turning down the lamp, putting stuff away—how much tidying up did he have to do?—Jason’s eyelids felt weighted.

  With the air conditioner off, he could hear the summer rain hitting the windows, making a soothing, shushing sound. Nice. Funny how rain had a different sound in the summer.

  And Kennedy’s presence was comforting even if he was taking forever to come to bed.

  “Are you checking email?” Jason mumbled.

  “I’ll be right there,” Kennedy replied absently, fingers clicking away on his laptop.

  At last the lamp on the desk snapped out. A moment later the mattress dipped. Kennedy’s long, solid frame slid between the sheets next to Jason. Jason had slipped into an uneasy doze, but that brought him back to wakefulness.

  “Are you warm enough?” Kennedy asked. His voice was low and intimate, a bedroom voice.

  “Oh, yeah. Boiling.” It wasn’t the truth though. There was a cold knot in his core, and every so often a shudder rippled through him. Maybe he was suffering a little from shock, as ridiculous as the idea seemed.

  Kennedy slid an arm under Jason’s shoulders and drew him over. He wrapped his other arm around Jason. Normally Jason didn’t care to be held while he was trying to sleep, but tonight Kennedy’s heat and bulk was a comfort. Jason closed his eyes and relaxed.

  After a time he stopped shivering and fell into a state of comfortable drowsiness. But he could tell that Kennedy was awake, could feel him thinking.

  Jason murmured, “Everything all right?”

  “Of course.” Kennedy kissed Jason’s temple. “Just relax.”

  “If I was any more relaxed, I’d be drooling on your chest.”

  He felt Kennedy’s smile. Kennedy nuzzled him, but it was an absent caress. His mind was a million miles away.

  Well, not a million miles away because he was consciously quieting Jason, keeping him warm and comfortable, but the focus of his thoughts was not on Jason.

  “How did you get into profiling?” Jason asked sleepily.

  He felt Kennedy wrench back to alertness. After a moment, Kennedy said with a strange lack of inflection, “I like to hunt.”

  “What made you want to hunt serial killers?”

  The silence stretched so long he didn’t think Kennedy would answer.

  “It was a long time ago,” Kennedy said finally. “I don’t talk about it.”

  Jason considered that slammed door. “Okay.”

  Kennedy kissed him with that same out-of-character gentleness. “Maybe sometime I’ll tell you about it. It’s no bedtime story.”

  “Sure,” Jason said. He kissed Kennedy back. “If you want to.”

  Until that moment he had not considered that he and Kennedy might continue any kind of relationship beyond their current assignment. Most probably Kennedy did not mean that they would literally discuss his past at a later date, was just softening the rejection. Not that he was overly prone to politeness.

  Was there potential for him and Kennedy to…?

  What?

  They lived in different states, to begin with. Then again they both traveled extensively. It was not inconceivable they might hook up again.

  And that was probably all Kennedy meant. The sex was good with them, so why wouldn’t they, er, socialize if they happened to find themselves with free time while in the same city. And maybe in that unforeseeable future Kennedy might even be in a more confiding frame of mind. That’s what he meant.

  Right?

  And that would be fine with Jason. Either would be fine. He liked Kennedy, but he wasn’t making long-term plans either. He wouldn’t mind reconnecting at some future date. And if that were to happen, he wouldn’t mind if Kennedy confided in him—but he also didn’t mind if Kennedy kept his secrets.

  Everybody had secrets.

  He woke to fragile sunlight and the knowledge that he was alone. Again.

  Jason opened his eyes, peered at the clock and then at the indented pillow on Kennedy’s side of the bed.

  Five thirty on Thursday morning. Jesus Christ, Kennedy was an early bird. Did he not understand the pleasurable possibilities of waking up with someone in a warm bed when you had a few quiet minutes to greet the day?

  No. He probably did not. Given the fact that he had, as far as Jason could tell, barely slept the night before. For Kennedy, the night was more about accommodating the scheduling needs of others than requiring sleep himself.

  Inviting Jason to crash here had been kind. Jason recognized now he had been more shaken than he’d realized by his fall. He remembered jerking awake at one point—one of those instinctive, spasmodic reactions to the sensation of plummeting down—and Kennedy’s arm had tightened around him.

  “You’re okay,” he’d said softly. Just that, but even half asleep, Jason had heard and believed.

  It gave him a weird, wobbly feeling in his belly to think of it. He was either close to falling for Kennedy—or desperately in need of breakfast. Desperately in need of breakfast, hopefully.

  And right on cue, the motel room door opened, and Kennedy, in sweats, T-shirt, and sunglasses, carried in coffee and a bag of something that smelled promisingly of breakfast sandwiches. Jason’s stomach growled.

  “I heard that,” Kennedy remarked.

  Jason sat up. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

  Kennedy threw him a quick, faint smile. He set down the paper bag on the desk and handed Jason his coffee. Jason checked under the lid that no pollutants had been added—Kennedy doctored his own coffee with sugar and cream—and took a life-saving swallow.

  “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “How’d you sleep?”

  Jason nodded. He said a little self-consciously, “Thank you for that too.”

  “Sausage and egg or bacon and egg?”

  “Sausage.”

  Kennedy tossed him one of the breakfast sandwiches.

  “Did you sleep at all?” Jason asked.

  “Me? Sure.” Kennedy unwrapped a sandwich and took one of those gigantic bites. He grinned sharkishly at Jason.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Jason delicately picked paper out of his mouth. He had been a little too enthusiastic tackling his own sandwich. “Boxner is our guy.”

  “I see. This again.”

  “You notice he didn’t want us to search Rexford.”

  “He said it was a waste of time. I didn’t get the impression he was trying to stop us.”

  “He stopped by Rebecca’s house that night. Something happened. They arranged to meet later. Something.” Jason sipped his coffee.

  “You’re like a dog with a bone on this. And it’s pure speculation.”

  “It’s not pure speculation. He did stop by her house. They did speak. And there are no witnesses as to what was said.”

  “But there are witnesses to the fact that Rebecca returned to the party afterward.” Kennedy, in the process of doctoring his own coffee, didn’t even look
up.

  “And a short time later, she vanished without a word to anyone. That could indicate an attempt at secrecy. Which means mine is a reasonable assumption.”

  Kennedy laughed. “Is it? I don’t agree. I don’t find that a very likely scenario.”

  “You’re the one who first suggested it.”

  Kennedy made a sound. Not quite a growl and not quite a groan, but one hundred percent aggravation.

  “All right,” he said. “Explain to me the lapse in killings. If your theory is that Boxner was Pink’s disciple—”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think Pink had a disciple.”

  “Then what are you saying? What triggered Boxner’s slip into homicidal mania? There hasn’t been a murder here in ten years. So what set Boxner off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was something specific to his relationship to Rebecca.”

  “Which appears to be largely nonexistent.”

  Jason said stubbornly, “I know I’m on to something with this.”

  Kennedy closed his eyes as though in pain. Or in a visible attempt to hang on to his patience. “You don’t think maybe you’re a little biased when it comes to Officer Boxner?”

  “You were the first one to bring up the possibility that our unsub might be someone involved in the original investigation.”

  “On the periphery of the investigation. Not directly involved. I was not accusing a member of Kingsfield PD. And I certainly wasn’t accusing Officer Boxner who was only slightly older than you at the time of the first homicide.”

  Right. Because demographics indicated that the majority of serial offenders were most active between the ages of twenty-seven and forty-five, with first kills originating typically in the early twenties. There were plenty of exceptions. Hell, there were even exceptions in Kennedy’s own impressive list of successfully closed cases. Female serial killers, child serial killers, geriatric serial killers. If anyone should be familiar with the colorful varieties of serial killers, it was Kennedy.

  So yes, maybe Jason was predisposed to suspect the worst of Boxner, but didn’t Kennedy also have a blind spot in being unwilling to even consider the involvement of law enforcement in this case?

  “You really think I can’t separate my personal feelings from the job?” Jason asked.