Wisdom's Grave 01 - Sworn to the Night

by Craig Schaefer

  “I need to see what you saw,” Savannah said as she took the box and crouched down beside Jake’s head. “Your exact memories. It’s important for my research. That woman, you see, she caused a, well, a minor earthquake in the fabric of reality. Which is wonderful. Unless she destroys the planet. Which…oh, who am I kidding? That’d be wonderful too. Do you know how much we stand to learn from this? No. Of course you don’t.”

  Jake shook his head, bewildered. Savannah reached into her coat pocket, trading the scalpel for a pair of sturdy blue latex gloves.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  She pulled the gloves on, snapping the tight latex against her wrists.

  “Yes. I’m aware of that. Which is why I need to take your memories directly.”

  She tugged open the lid of the teak box and dipped her fingers inside. Jake saw what was in her hand, held carefully between her thumb and forefinger, and he shook in her assistants’ grip like a chew toy in a dog’s mouth. They held him fast, pinning his wrists and ankles to the linoleum floor.

  “What the fuck?” Jake shouted, craning his neck to pull his face as far away as he could. “What is that?”

  Savannah gazed upon her prize with quiet admiration. It was a chunk of ash-gray rock, pitted and gnarled, like a miniature asteroid. Worms, fat and luminous and tinted vomit-yellow, poked their heads from its surface and squirmed over her gloved fingertips as they crawled in and out of the stone.

  “Highly advanced technology, Detective Moretti. Not human technology, but what can I tell you? We’re trying to catch up. These surprisingly precise instruments will harvest the tissue I require for my research.” She paused. “I should say that the aforementioned tissue has to come from your medial temporal lobe, your hippocampus, and your ocular nerves. The important thing is, which I hope you’ll bear in mind, that you’re making an invaluable contribution to science.”

  He thrashed wildly on the floor, jerking his head back as far as he could, teeth gritted and forehead dripping with sweat as she loomed over him. The rock inched closer to his face. The glistening worms turned their blind heads toward him, rippling eagerly.

  “You can trust me,” Savannah told him. “I’m a doctor.”

  * * *

  “I don’t answer to you,” Mr. Smith told her.

  Mr. Smith, Esquire, she reminded herself as she breathed in the stink of diesel exhaust. It was five in the morning, a rest stop off the New Jersey turnpike. Early-morning traffic rumbled by, cutting through a wet bank of fog. The air had a cold and greasy feel to it.

  “The ink initiative is my project,” Savannah said. “Period. I should have been notified.”

  The bland-faced lawyer, in his gray suit and gray shirt and gray pocket square, nodded genially.

  “I agree. You should have. By the Vandemere Lodge. They called me instead. You should cut them loose, Dr. Cross. They’re sloppy. Reckless. Nothing but puffed-up serial killers with trust funds and investment portfolios.”

  Savannah shrugged. “Cultists of the King of Wolves are not known for their flawless judgment. Still, they’re loyal and eager to serve.”

  “Eager to serve themselves. Fairly certain they’re getting ready to make a play for New York’s ink production facility. Inter-cell rivalry is always amusing to watch, but it makes for a lot of cleanup work. This cop, Marie Reinhart, she’s edging too close to the truth and she’s not going to stop. We should eliminate her before she can cause any more trouble.”

  “Is that your response to every fascinating anomaly? Kill it?”

  “It’s my job,” Mr. Smith replied. “The Network won’t tolerate exposure. We have endured for centuries by adhering to simple, basic rules. When the rules are broken—”

  Savannah curled her lips into a sneer. “Provincial and petty-minded. That woman caused something. Simple proximity exposure to a late-stage ink addict induced a ripple in the fabric of reality. And you’d kill her without learning why?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Hands off,” she told him. “I’m going to New York today. Marie Reinhart is mine.”

  Mr. Smith folded his arms. Studying her, taciturn, as a line of semi trucks trundled through the fog.

  “And you’ll be doing what, exactly?”

  “Science.” Savannah leaned in and slapped the back of her hand against the lawyer’s chest. “I’ll be doing science. Stand back and watch me work.”

  Thirty-Five

  Marie paced her sliver of open bedroom floor and got dressed while she talked. Her phone lay on the rumpled bedspread.

  “Thank you for taking my call, Dr. Cassidy.”

  “Of course.” April’s faint Irish brogue drifted over the phone’s speaker. “Have there been any new developments in your case?”

  Buttoning her blouse, Marie grimaced. A flavor in her mouth more bitter than the aftertaste of her morning coffee.

  “The woman I was trying to rescue…I was too late. But we have a lead. Last time we talked, you said something—that the one and only time you’d seen serial killers teaming up together was a cult situation. Can you tell me about that?”

  April spoke slowly, carefully, like a poker player holding her cards close to her chest.

  “It was a murder-for-hire arrangement,” she said, “with the participants bound by shared religious beliefs. They consecrated their kills as sacramental offerings.”

  “Doctor, I don’t think we’re looking for one killer anymore.”

  “Then my earlier profile may be entirely incorrect,” April said. “What changed your mind?”

  “Are you familiar with this new designer drug, ‘ink’?”

  “Very. As it happens, I’m currently consulting with a Bureau investigation into the source of the malady. We’re on our way to New York as I speak.”

  “Can we meet?”

  “If time permits. Tell me about your lead.”

  “Nobody believed me when I tied Baby Blue to that stash house in Monticello,” Marie said, sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping into her slacks. “But her driver confirmed she was there. Beau Kates, her pimp, was bribed to hand her over. They didn’t pay cash; they paid him with ink. That’s two points of connection to the ink cartel. The stash house was a Roth Estate Holdings property. We’ve also got two dead bodies with the same tattoo and ties to the Five Families, and the second corpse was found down the block from another one of Richard Roth’s buildings. You know what that says to me? Turf war.”

  “You believe these murders are drug-related?”

  Marie clipped her shield onto her belt.

  “Street gangs use criminal acts as initiations. You know the routine. Recruits are told to pick out a stranger and commit an assault or a murder while the higher-ups watch. Proves the new blood is loyal and willing to get their hands dirty, and just as importantly, it proves they’re not an undercover cop. What’s throwing me is the pattern. The victimology, the holding period, and every murdered woman dies the same way. I mean, different weapons, but the overkill is the same. This doesn’t read like an initiation. It’s the same person—people—doing the deed every time. It feels…ritualized. Religious.”

  “Pack bonding,” April replied.

  “Like wolves.”

  April fell silent.

  “Doctor?” Marie asked. “Are you still on the line?”

  “Humans,” April said, “are incalculably crueler than actual wolves, metaphors aside. But yes, bonding over shared criminal acts has been known to happen. Also, there are often commonalities between religious cults and tight-knit criminal organizations. Are you familiar with Santa Muerte?”

  Marie scooped her wallet and keys off the dresser.

  “She’s like a…goddess of death or something, right? Down in Mexico?”

  “A folk saint,” April said. “Venerated by the poor and disenfranchised. It’s a generally benign following—if heretical, according to the Catholic Church—but an increasing number of narcotics traffickers make of
ferings to her as well. There have been cases of Sinaloa Cartel associates performing human sacrifices to win the saint’s favor, hoping for protection from the authorities.”

  “You think that’s what we’re looking at here?”

  “Not that particular saint,” April said, “but it could be a related phenomenon. And you need to be very, very careful, Detective.”

  “You got quiet when I mentioned wolves.”

  “So I did.”

  Marie frowned. “Dr. Cassidy, if you know something—”

  “Out of curiosity,” April said, “were any of the victims…cannibalized?”

  Marie stopped in mid-pace.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “As I said, curiosity.”

  Marie narrowed her eyes. “Strangely random thing to be curious about, Dr. Cassidy. Which tells me it isn’t a random question at all.”

  “It’s premature to offer my assessment.”

  “Well,” Marie said, “they weren’t, that I’m aware of, but the bodies were all in pretty bad shape.”

  “It might be worth looking into. I’ll call you when I’m on the ground in New York, Detective. Our investigations may be running on parallel tracks.”

  April ended the call. Marie dialed the medical examiner’s office.

  “Yeah,” she said, “it’s Reinhart. You still have my vic on the slab?”

  “Which one? The human jigsaw puzzle or the one who had her face painted with her own blood? You’re racking up mutilated bodies all over town. I’m getting carpal tunnel from writing all the reports.”

  “You want to compare your paperwork with mine? Trust me, mine is worse. Anyway, I’m calling about Baby Blue. Have you done the autopsy yet?”

  “No, but I’d hope the cause of death was self-explanatory.”

  “Do something for me,” Marie said. “Look for bite marks.”

  “Bite marks. You do realize that just notating the lacerations is going to take me all afternoon, right? There’s barely a square inch on her that isn’t cut or contused. On top of all that damage, a bite mark would be a needle in a haystack.”

  “Would you rather I put in a request to have the previous victims exhumed, and make you reexamine all of them?”

  The medical examiner sighed. “You know you’re a pain in the ass, Reinhart?”

  “Yep. What would you do without me?”

  She eyed herself in the mirror, ran a half-hearted hand through her bangs—her hair already a rumpled mess before she’d taken one step out into the springtime wind—and pulled a blazer over her shoulder holster. Out in the living room, Janine was finishing off the dregs of a pot of coffee. She looked Marie’s way and whistled.

  “Damn, look who’s all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. My cinnamon rolls are magic.”

  “They are,” Marie said. “Don’t wait up. I’ve got a lead to chase.”

  “Gonna go slay a dragon?”

  Marie paused at the door. She looked back, flashing hard, determined eyes and the slightest trace of a smile.

  “That’s my job,” she said.

  * * *

  A C-130 Hercules carved a path through the stormy sky. The cargo plane was bulbous and fast, a whale with shark’s teeth. Inside the belly of the beast, a chunk of seating space had been replaced by a command-and-control suite. Banks of screens flashed with map data, triangulations, scrolling reports, and up-to-the-second news feeds.

  April ended her call and gazed at the screens as she sat back in her wheelchair. Jessie Temple stepped up behind her. The plane rumbled, bouncing on a gust of turbulence. She put her hand on April’s shoulder.

  “Cannibalized?” Jessie asked. “That’s a pretty big thing to let slip. And considering you’re the woman who never lets anything slip…”

  April pulled on her wheels, turning in place to face her.

  “Ritual murders tied to organized crime? We’ve seen this before. And considering we already believe this new drug is a product of the Network, I think you can follow my reasoning.”

  “You think she’s hunting a wolf cult,” Jessie replied.

  “As I said, we’ve seen this before.”

  Jessie tugged down her dark glasses, studying April over the rims. Her eyes, inhumanly turquoise, glimmered like radioactive gemstones.

  “They don’t always eat their victims,” Jessie said. “My parents didn’t.”

  “But they—and your mother’s ‘pack’—indulged whenever it was convenient. Devotees of the King of Wolves share certain commonalities. Among them being a compulsion toward group murder—the more brutal, the better—and cannibalism. Detective Reinhart is a civilian, so obviously we can’t tell her the truth about what she might be walking into, but hopefully I can give her enough pause that she takes added precautions. She’s one bad step away from walking into our world, and that would be a tragedy.”

  “You think she’ll back off?”

  “I think,” April said, “that she’s driven, devoted to duty, and displays personality traits I would characterize as obsessive. No, she won’t back off. She’ll follow this case to the gates of hell and beyond if it means capturing her quarry.”

  Jessie took a step back. She kept her eyes on the screen, watching neon blips flash across a wire-frame map of the nation as crisis reports filtered in.

  “She’s a good cop,” Jessie said. “Let’s get in there and see what the situation on the ground looks like. Maybe we can keep her from finding out just how real those gates are.”

  * * *

  Tony and Marie had a new ride, courtesy of the motor pool, an unmarked prowl car with all the bells and whistles. On the outside it was a rust-spotted Ford that looked one good kick away from collapsing into a pile of scrap. Under the hood, it hid a turbo-charged V8 engine. Marie bought the coffee—one cream and no sugar for her, decaf for him. Tony drove.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I just needed a day. Had to do some thinking.”

  He flicked the turn signal and eased into a clogged intersection.

  “Are we good?”

  She glanced sidelong at him, sipping from her cardboard cup. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “Because the last time we talked—the last time we really talked—was after you beat ten shades of crap out of Baby Blue’s pimp. I wasn’t all puppies and hugs about it.”

  “You weren’t wrong,” Marie said. “And you had my back at Kates’s place. You’ve always had my back.”

  “No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

  They drove in silence, the dashboard squawking now and then with radio call-outs, while Marie waited for him to explain.

  “I didn’t believe you about the link between Baby Blue and the house in Monticello, about Richard Roth. Every time you pushed us to focus on this case, I pushed back. I didn’t listen. Bitch of it is, I couldn’t even tell you why.” He hesitated, biting one corner of his lip. “That’s not true. I thought you were going off the rails a little. Obsessing. You do that sometimes, you know? Like a terrier with a bone. Makes you a good detective, but sometimes I think…I think you’re just dealing with a lot of shit. And maybe struggling a little.”

  “You mean you think I’m fucked in the head,” she said, her voice flat.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never thought that. Just that you’ve got a lot on your shoulders. And I was wrong, anyway. After what happened, looking back, I see it clear as day. You’re my partner. I should have listened.”

  The air between them felt clogged, curdled by Tony’s need for forgiveness. Marie shrugged and gave it to him.

  “That’s because you’re always thinking about your wardrobe, you damn peacock. Every time I open my mouth, you’re a million miles away, shopping for new clothes.”

  The tension shattered under her partner’s grin. “At least I don’t dress in a closet with the lights off. Let me ask you something: the clothes you’re wearing right now? Do you really think those colors go together?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry
.” Marie’s eyes were wide with mock reproach. “See, while you were attending fashion school, I was at the police academy. You know, that place where we go to learn how to solve crimes?”

  “Is that where it happens? I knew I was missing something. Fortunately, the bad guys just can’t resist confessing when they meet me, ’cause I’m so damn suave.”

  “You’re my secret weapon,” Marie said. “I’m like, ‘Think you’re a tough guy, creep? Prepare to meet my partner. Oh, he’s not going to lay a hand on you. He’s just gonna date your mom.’”

  “They always start crying when I show them the pictures. Then I tell them to call me ‘dad.’ Breaks ’em every time.”

  “You know,” Marie said, “we’ve still got this case. It’s a homicide now, not a missing-persons, but it’s still ours.”

  Tony drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “That we do,” he said.

  “And now we know Baby Blue and the other victims have a connection to whoever’s been spreading this ink crap all over the city.”

  The sedan coasted to a stop at a red light. Tony looked over, meeting her eye to eye.

  “Whatcha thinking, partner?”

  “I’m thinking,” Marie said, “we hit the pavement hard, kick down some doors, and terrorize street dealers until somebody gives up a name. And if that name is Richard Roth, we take a ride over to the West Village. Sound like fun?”

  The light strobed green. Tony looked to the road ahead.

  “Sounds like Christmas and my birthday all rolled up in one. Let’s go make some trouble.”

  Thirty-Six

  By lunchtime, Marie and Tony had picked up a passenger. The kid in the back seat looked like he’d picked his clothes out of a dumpster and smelled two days ripe. He shifted, wriggling, his eyes as restless as his body.

  “I can’t be seen with you people,” he whined for the twentieth time. “You know what happens if people on the block start thinking I’m a snitch?”

  The prowl car rolled slow down a side street in Flatbush. Tony shot a look at the rearview mirror.

  “What? They won’t invite you to go bowling anymore? We nabbed you with twelve grams of ink, plus a set of measuring scales and a box of plastic baggies. You know what that is, kid? That’s intent to distribute.”