by Morgan Brice
Hargrove nodded. “Okay. I’d like his read on it—if he can make contact—as soon as you can.”
The dead man had hanged himself from a light fixture in his study. The body now lay on the floor, clearly dead of strangulation, with evident petechial hemorrhaging. Once Vic and Ross had seen the corpse, the coroner maneuvered it into a body bag for transport.
“Matches the profile,” Ross muttered. “Cap says the room was locked from inside, the guy stopped responding or answering his phone. Doesn’t look like there was a struggle, and there’s no note.”
They walked to the living room, where Baucom’s widow sat on the couch, crying quietly. Ross and Vic sat across from her.
“I’m Lieutenant Hamilton, this is Lieutenant D’Amato, and we’re very sorry about your loss,” Ross said, taking the lead so Vic could observe. Christine Baucom’s face was puffy and blotchy from crying. She wore an unremarkable sweater over jeans, what Vic would have expected for someone who thought she was going to have a quiet night at home. Either Christine was an excellent actress, or she was completely in shock.
“We need to ask a few questions,” Ross said in his most sincere tone. “Was your husband depressed?”
Christine shook her head. “Not that I ever noticed. His practice is busy. We have—had—a big vacation coming up.”
“Money problems?”
Again, a shake of the head. “I was just online paying bills this afternoon. The bank account was fine. We don’t have much debt, other than a loan he took out for new equipment for his office. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Drug or alcohol problems?”
“No. He was a good man, lieutenant,” she said, pulling herself together enough to fix Ross with an accusing glare. “I don’t know what happened, but this isn’t like Corey. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ross agreed. “That’s why we’re asking questions. Did he seem out of sorts, distracted, in an odd mood today?”
Christine frowned. “He had gone up to the bedroom for a nap after dinner, said he was very tired. That’s not unusual; he’ll often lie down while I clean up the kitchen, and then come back down to watch TV together. But he didn’t tonight. He went right to his office. He didn’t call out to let me know. I realized where he’d gone when I went to check on him, and he wasn’t in the bedroom. By the time I really thought something was wrong…it was too late.” Her voice caught, and she blinked back tears, then dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “If only I’d looked in on him earlier, talked to him. Maybe—”
They sat with her for a moment as she tried to collect herself. This was the part of the job Vic hated the most, because it made it impossible to avoid acknowledging the human toll.
“Thank you,” Ross said quietly. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll be in touch.”
Hargrove caught them on the way out. “Hey, there’s another situation you might want to take a look at. A body just washed up north of the Second Avenue Pier. A guy in a dive suit—with one of the stolen historic knives sunk in his back.”
“Shit.” Vic exchanged a glance with Ross. “A knife. Just like out at Socastee Manor.”
“We’re on it,” Ross said, and Hargrove clapped him on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” Hargrove said. “Heads up—the Coast Guard has a man waiting to talk to you. He was the one who found the body.”
Vic texted Simon while Ross called Sheila to let her know he’d be even later. “Yeah, not far from the pier,” Vic said when Simon called him back. He gave the address. “Probably a good idea, but drive. See you there.”
He buckled up as Ross pulled away from the curb. “Simon’s going to meet us there.”
“Sheila’s binge-watching a baking show. She won’t miss me for a couple more hours,” Ross said.
“You get anything out of the conversation with Mrs. Baucom?” Vic asked.
“Only that something changed between taking a nap and locking himself in his office.”
“Yeah, that’s what I noticed, too. If Simon’s right about this ghost possession thing, maybe it happened then. Maybe the poor guy really had no intention of offing himself when he came home from work, and it took him over while he was asleep.”
“That’s kinda terrifying,” Ross replied. “Give me a random mugger any day. Crime makes sense.”
Vic yawned. “Simon will tell you that supernatural shit also makes sense, if you know where to look for the motive. Which we still haven’t figured out for the forced suicides.”
“What are the chances that the gardener’s murder out at the manor isn’t related to the diver’s killing?” Ross maneuvered through the rain around pokey drivers.
“Slim to nil,” Vic replied, staring out the passenger window. “And while we try to figure it out, the bodies keep piling up.”
Simon was waiting in his car when they arrived, parked right behind the first responders. He got out and joined them, hunching his shoulders against the rain despite his hooded jacket.
“Thanks for coming,” Vic said, feeling better because Simon was with him, though that meant they both were miserable in the lousy weather.
“Sure. Why should you get all the fun?” Simon bumped his shoulder. The three walked together toward where headlights from patrol cars driven onto the beach lit the cordoned area. Vic saw the cops talking with Bret Timmons, a Coast Guard captain Vic had worked with before, and another man he didn’t recognize.
“Simon!” The stranger called out when he spotted them. “How did you know to come?”
Simon shook the man’s hand. “Josh, this is my boyfriend, Homicide Lieutenant Vic D’Amato and his partner, Ross Hamilton. Vic, Ross, this is Josh Williams—the guy in charge of the Annabelle dive.”
That clicked as Vic remembered what Simon had told him. “Did you know the man who died?” Vic asked as the four of them headed toward where the wetsuit-clad corpse lay sprawled face-down on the sand. There was no missing the handle of the knife sticking out of the dead man’s back.
“Unfortunately, yes. He wasn’t one of mine. Sean Bradley. He’s a dive poacher.”
“A what?” Ross interrupted.
“There’s a complicated process for getting permission to dive and reclaim objects from a historic wreck,” Josh explained. “I’ve done that for the Annabelle, and I’ve got the licenses, permits, and sign-offs to prove it. We’re supposed to be the only ones allowed near the ship. Bradley has a reputation for watching where other dive researchers post a find and then sneaking in and trying to loot the site.”
“That’s a pretty serious claim. Can you back it up?” Ross asked.
“Ask anyone reputable in the underwater recovery business,” Josh replied. “Bradley’s been brought up on multiple charges, but he always managed to skate free of the most serious ones.”
“Had you noticed him near the wreck?” Vic tried to get a read on the explorer. He’d already admitted to having what might be a powerful motive. People had killed for lower stakes than a sunken treasure when professional jealousy was involved.
“No. But we can hardly post a guard,” Josh said. “My team pulled out early today because the surf was too rough. If he went down after we left, he was insane.”
“How much is the wreck worth?” Ross seemed to be sizing up the man as well. “Is there a treasure?”
To Vic’s surprise, Josh barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding? You guys watch too much TV. There’s no chest of doubloons on a wreck like this. Odds are, the Annabelle was smuggling rum, maybe cotton. Its cargo disintegrated long ago. The only treasure on this dive is knowledge.”
Vic looked to Simon, needing him to translate from academic. “The Annabelle is famous because its crew included the Gallows Nine,” Simon said. “There’s always been some debate on whether that legend was based in fact. Being able to document the Annabelle and prove it was a real ship goes a long way toward verifying parts of the state’s history. For some of us, that’s a big freaking deal.”
Vic couldn�
��t say he totally understood, but then again, people had been killed over baseball cards. The crime scene photographers were battling the rain and darkness, and the coroner stood off to one side in a yellow rain slicker with reflective stripes, waiting his turn to take the corpse away and be done with it.
“Don’t leave town,” Ross warned Josh. “We’ll have more questions for you.”
“I figured,” Josh replied. “I’m not going anywhere. I did my dissertation on the Gallows Nine. Protecting the wreck and the reputation of the survey means a lot to me.”
Ross took down Josh’s contact information, and then the diver walked back toward the street and, presumably, his car. Vic turned to Simon. “You getting anything?”
Simon frowned, concentrating. “From the dead guy? Surprise. Sadness. He didn’t see his attacker. From Josh Williams? Less than usual. For some reason, I have difficulty reading much from him.”
“Does that happen a lot?” Ross asked, turning his back to the wind.
“Occasionally,” Simon admitted. “Some people have natural shielding. The other possibility is that he’s got enough of a psychic gift that he’s intentionally keeping me out. I don’t know enough to guess right now.” Simon went silent, and a strange expression crossed his face.
“Are you okay?” Vic asked.
A few seconds later, Simon shook off the distraction. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thought I saw something.”
Ross walked over to talk to the coroner and the patrol officers. With the wind, rain, and surf, the scene would deteriorate rapidly. Still, the autopsy might yield some information, Vic thought. He glanced at Simon, who looked thoroughly miserable.
“Sorry to drag you out on this.”
Simon shrugged. “It goes with the deal. I think the wreck has something to do with all of this—I just don’t know what, yet.”
“Let’s go home,” Vic said as Ross headed back their way. Vic and Ross agreed to pick up again in the morning, and Vic headed to the Toyota with Simon. He was happy Simon was driving.
Inside the car, with the heat turned on and the knowledge that he was finally off-duty, Vic’s exhaustion hit him hard, and despite being a short drive back, he started to nod off almost immediately.
Something evil watched him in the darkness. Vic found himself alone, in a place he didn’t recognize. It felt like the inside of a huge, unlit warehouse, but no light broke the gloom to give him his bearings.
Primal instincts warned him that he was being stalked. He should run, but where? For all he knew, he might go straight toward the thing that hunted him or fall to his death if the floor suddenly opened to an abyss. Vic’s hand fell to where his gun should be, only to find he was unarmed. Then his fingers went to where he usually kept the spelled kerchief, woven with protective magic, only to remember he’d left it in his other coat that morning. The bracelet on his wrist afforded some safety, but Vic wasn’t sure that it was a match for the power that chased him.
He thought about crying out for help. Simon was nearby, wasn’t he? Then he stayed silent, unwilling to give away his position. Vic had played a deadly game of hide-and-seek once with a suspect he had chased into a rail yard, but at least there, he’d been able to take cover behind boxcars and stacks of materials. Here, Vic was completely exposed, weaponless, and alone.
The creature attacked from behind, landing on Vic’s back with enough force to drive them both to the floor. Vic fought, kicking and punching, but the thing on his back stayed out of reach, though it tightened a gnarled hand around his throat, slowly cutting off his air.
I’m going to die. Vic rammed his elbow back, taking satisfaction in the grunt earned as the sharp bone hit his attacker’s ribs. Fingers dug into his neck, and Vic wheezed for breath. He bucked and twisted, managing to flip himself onto his back so he could land with all his weight on the thing that clawed at him from behind, stealing his breath. Bony legs locked around Vic’s waist, making it impossible to throw the creature off, making it even harder to breathe.
In the distance, Vic thought he could hear shouting. Simon. Simon would come for him. But pinpricks of light danced in Vic’s vision, and his lungs burned as he grew woozy from lack of oxygen. Simon was coming, but he was going to be too late.
No, Vic vowed. He’d only just found Simon, they’d barely begun a life together. This creature would not tear him away from Simon, not while Vic still had consciousness to fight back. Vic used all his waning strength for a final, defiant move, rising up and slamming down hard, using his weight and strength against the attacker, trying to buy time.
Simon’s voice was louder now, along with another voice Vic didn’t recognize, chanting in a foreign language. The monster from the darkness raked its claws across Vic’s neck and chest, and he thought it might tear out his throat rather than just starve him for breath. It clamped down, squeezing his neck, cutting off his air, and Vic knew he had lost. He clung to the sound of Simon’s far-away voice as everything faded to black.
7
SIMON
One minute, they were driving back from the murder scene at the beach, with Vic dozing in the passenger seat, and the next minute, Vic was gasping for breath and tearing at his throat.
“Vic! Vic, wake up!” Simon reached over and jostled Vic, but the awful wheezing sounds continued as Vic jerked and shook as if he were fighting for his life.
Should he pull over right now, although they were only a few blocks from home, or keep driving? Simon’s Gift recoiled when he stretched out his senses toward Vic. He sensed a dark energy surrounding Vic, strong enough to overcome the basic wardings and protective charms Simon kept in the Toyota. This was a supernatural attack, not a physical problem, and Simon’s gut told him to get home as fast as he could.
“Hang on, Vic,” he said through gritted teeth, maneuvering the rain-soaked streets as quickly as he dared. Vic bucked and twisted, while his breathing became more labored, the long, rasping drags that made Simon think of a dying chain-smoker.
Whatever energy or entity attacked Vic had tried to get at Simon, back on the beach. He’d shut it down, holding it at bay with his abilities and his psychic shielding, driving it off with imagined white light infused with a banishing spell. Simon felt sick that in pushing the attacker away from himself, he might have put Vic in harm’s way.
Simon chanted the banishing spell as he drove, his voice rising so that by the time he pulled up to the blue bungalow, he was shouting. For a few seconds, he thought the incantation might be working, but then Vic’s whole body shuddered, and he went limp, making Simon panic.
“Vic!” Simon parked the car and ran around to Vic’s side. He opened the door and struggled to get Vic out. Vic was solid muscle, taller and heavier than Simon, and while Vic had often supported Simon’s weight when he wrapped his legs around Vic’s waist, Simon had never even considered trying to pick his lover up. Now, Simon decided he needed to spend more time lifting weights.
He got under Vic’s arm and half-carried, half-dragged him to the door, barely keeping both of them standing as he worked the key in the lock, and then he hauled Vic’s limp body across the threshold and slammed the door behind them.
Simon dug for his phone and hit a number on speed dial. “Travis?”
“Simon?” The voice on the line sounded sleep-blurred, and Simon realized it was past midnight.
“I need help,” Simon said, fighting down panic. He ran to the kitchen for a container of salt and pulled a bottle of holy water from his go-bag, then came back to where Vic lay, barely breathing, and sprinkled both over his prone form. “Something supernatural’s attacking Vic. My banishing spell won’t make it go away. Salt and holy water aren’t working. He’s got one of Teag Logan’s woven bracelets, but it’s not enough. He’s breathing a little better since I got him inside the house with the wardings, but he won’t wake up.”
“What do you need?” Ex-priest Travis Dominick fought demons up in Pennsylvania. He was one of several hunters who relied on Simon for arcane lore. Now,
Simon needed a favor in return.
“An exorcism,” Simon replied breathlessly, as he continued to shake Vic and pat his face, but to no avail. Vic’s pallor and his shallow, labored breathing scared Simon, especially since every intake sounded like a death rattle. “You’re on speakerphone. Now!”
Thankfully, Travis didn’t argue. “Exorcizamos te, omnus immundus spiritus…” The Latin exorcism flowed easily from Travis, and even across the distance, Simon felt the power in the words.
Simon sensed the dark energy fluctuate, and added his own banishment spell to the effort, pushing with all his might against the entity that trapped Vic, unashamed of the tears running down his face. When Vic drew in a deep breath without struggling, Simon felt a wave of relief.
“It’s working!” he shouted at the phone. “Keep going!”
Travis’s voice continued, steady and sure, and Simon felt the hostile energy fight to keep its hold. He took Vic’s hand, twining their fingers, making sure his own protective silver bracelet came in contact with Vic’s skin. Simon dug his jack ball and gris-gris bag out of his pocket and pressed them between the flat of his palm and Vic’s chest, sending all of his protective magic into his touch.
Simon knew the instant the dark entity released Vic. He felt it tear free, like a cloth carried away on a storm wind, and Vic came to with a start, jerking upright and heaving for breath like he’d been trapped underwater.
“It’s gone!” Simon called out to Travis. “Thank you so much!”
Travis finished the last of the exorcism litany, then cleared his throat. “Any time. Glad it worked. Call me at a decent hour and fill me in on what’s going on. I’m going back to bed.”
Vic had a wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights look as he sat, trembling and breathing hard. Simon couldn’t blame him for freaking out.
“It’s okay. You’re safe. We’re home. I’m here.” Simon reached out to lay a hand on Vic’s shoulder. Vic jerked away, pale and shocky, as if he still wasn’t sure that the nightmare was over. Simon remembered his own dark visions and how Vic had patiently talked him down.