Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “What’s going on?” Tillerman asked. “I feel so—”

  He placed a finger to his lips. “You are being prepared for your voyage. You’re almost ready.” He picked up the second urn and removed the seal right under Tillerman’s nose. A white vapor drifted upward from the opening. “Breathe it in, Michael. Breathe in the air.” Tillerman inhaled the vapor. It had a pungent character but did not burn his nostrils as the previous substance had.

  “Am I ready now?” Tillerman asked.

  “Almost.” He removed the seal from the third urn and held a lit candle to the opening. A small blue flame ignited at the top of the bottle. He offered the urn to Tillerman. “Now drink in the fire.”

  Tillerman felt his concentration ebbing. It took a moment before he was able to focus on the opening of the bottle.

  “Drink, Michael.” He lifted the back of the urn until the fiery liquid rushed into Tillerman’s mouth. He held it in place while Tillerman gulped it all down. He smiled as Tillerman coughed from the irritating liquid. “Only one element to go. You’re doing so well.” He removed the seal from the last urn and handed it to Tillerman. “This is the easiest one. Here, a simple sip of water and it is done.”

  Tillerman’s entire body shook. He seized the last urn and chugged the water. He was barely able to force the last of it down.

  “You did very well, Michael.” He held out a candle for Tillerman to take in his hands. “Now pray, Michael. Pray for your family’s return.” He covered Tillerman’s head with the white hood. “Close your eyes and pray.”

  Tillerman could barely make out the image within the shadowy recesses of the large hood. He gave up after a moment and closed his eyes. He heard footsteps and then the sound of the cellar door closing. His mind began to drift. He saw an image in his mind, but it was too distorted for him to recognize. Before him, light began to twist and bend. The room turned into a prism of brilliantly colored lights. He heard his sons calling to him. He could hear their small voices growing louder and louder. The ocean came into view in the distance. His old house stood at the water’s edge. He grinned as his sons’ faces came into view. They were smiling as they ran to him across the grassy lawn. He could feel his heart swelling with happiness as he reached out for them. His fingertips tingled in anticipation of caressing them. They were almost in his arms when everything went black.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  I was reviewing a lab report when the handsome Dr. Nigel Twain entered the conference room. He pulled off his jacket and crossed the room to greet me. I got out of my chair and stood up to welcome him. His new diet and exercise regimen had paid dividends—his arms felt rock hard as I hugged him. He was wearing an intoxicating cologne. I think the fragrance is called Tear My Clothes Off. Okay so that’s not the actual name, but that was the first thought to cross my mind. Yes, I’m a good girl, but sometimes it’s fun to play with the notion of being bad. I guess that’s the sort of thing that makes us human. He stepped back to take a better look at me. “You look wonderful,” he said.

  That’s it, compliment me, play havoc with my libido. As if I didn’t feel wicked enough. His words were like accelerant, and I was the flame. Thank God my love for Gus was stronger than my lust for Twain. I always wondered if he knew how strong an effect he had on me. Was he toying with me? There was a time before Gus and I were together when Twain had declared his interest for me. He had been quite forward at the time. I was never really sure if his comments were intentional or coincidental, but by God, I didn’t want them to stop. I tried to shame myself into switching gears. I pictured a YouTube video in which a well-endowed pregnant woman tore the clothes off a hunky dark guy. How scandalous? How shocking? How completely Stephanie Chalice. Reset the thermostat, I told myself. Get back to work.

  “Thanks, Nigel, it’s only been a week—what did you expect to see, a blob of a woman in threadbare stretch pants?”

  Twain snickered. “No, I didn’t expect that at all. It’s just that—”

  “I know. I’m getting bigger.”

  “Exactly, love, and no need to worry—you’re every inch the vivacious beauty you’ve always been.”

  Jesus, he’s killing me. “Thanks, and thanks for taking the time to run across the bridge to meet with me.”

  “Never a problem, love. The Jaguar needed some badly needed exercise anyway. I haven’t had it out in ages.”

  Twain drove a gorgeous supercharged XJ-R. More importantly, I loved the way he pronounced Jaguar (Jag-yu-warr). I could listen to Twain’s deep English baritone for days. Okay, maybe not days—at some point the idea of ripping his clothes off would surface again. Oh dear. “Got time for a little shop talk?”

  “That’s why I’m here. Fire away. More questions about that family that was murdered in Staten Island?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “The Jacoby case seems to be related to another string of murders I’ve been investigating. I feel pretty sure that the same guy is involved in both.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Aren’t they always?” We both sat down at the conference table. “Let me know what you make of this. Separate and apart from the Jacoby case, there were four murders that the FBI brought me in to help with. After each murder, a tablet-shaped medallion was recovered.”

  “Tablet-shaped?”

  “Like the tablet Moses used to inscribe the Ten Commandments, a rectangle rounded on one side.”

  “Intriguing. Go on.”

  Twain has a strong religious background. He’s deeply interested in religious history and the effects that religion has on the workings of the human mind. As I mentioned before, he even experimented with LSD, using it as an entheogen to better understand God. If anyone could help me with this case it would be Twain. “The top and bottom incisor teeth were removed from the victims and used to form the numerals one through four—they were inlaid into each of the medallions.”

  “And you need to stop said villain before there is a number five, correct?”

  “Once again, I’m not sure. The suspect is a man named Michael Tillerman. I’ve tied him to one of the murders. I also believe that he may be involved with the Jacoby slayings.” I stood and beckoned for Twain to do the same. “Come with me, Nigel, I want to show you something.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Over to the crime lab.”

  He smiled. “Sightseeing—I love it.”

  Twain and I strolled down the corridor together. I walk briskly, but Twain had no trouble staying with me; his strides were long and purposeful. “So what’s new in your life, Nigel? We always talk about me. I haven’t been a very good friend.”

  “Nonsense, Stephanie, you’ve been a splendid friend.”

  I smiled at Twain. “Seeing anyone?” Damn, girl, did you have to ask? Prying a bit?

  Twain searched my eyes as if to say, are we playing that game again? It seemed we were doomed to an eternal game of cat and mouse: testing, teasing, and probing our thoughts and desires. Too bad it couldn’t go anywhere. “I date.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “I’m seeing this young woman from Barbados, but it’s just a fling.”

  “Why just a fling?” Thank God it’s nothing serious.

  “She’s fifteen years my junior. The sex is phenomenal, but that’s where it stops. She wants to be a recording artist . . . the next Rhianna, I think. We don’t have all that much in common.”

  Jesus, did he have to say that? Now all I could think about was Twain tossing it up under the sheets with a gorgeous young thing who looks like Rhianna. Shit, I’m so jealous. Maybe I can get her name, friend her on Facebook, and see if she’ll tell me what sex with Nigel is like. If it’s good and juicy, maybe we can coauthor a book and call it Fifty Shades of Twain. “So you’re just using her for the sex?”

  Twain gave me a devilish smile. “Maybe she’s the one using me. Anyway, my heart belongs to another. Alas, it can never be.”

  Twain neve
r said that I was the one he longed for, but I took it that way. I turned away so that he didn’t see that I was blushing. Thank God we had arrived at the lab.

  I showed Twain the two six-sided vases. The lab had already processed them; the dried lilies had been removed, and the vases were clean. I pointed to the first vase. “This vase was found in the Jacoby home.” I pointed to the second vase. “This one was found in Michael Tillerman’s abandoned home.”

  Twain looked closely at both vases. “Can I touch them?”

  “Yes, they’ve already been processed—help yourself.”

  Twain took a few moments to examine each vase, checking them from every conceivable angle.

  “What do you think, Nigel?”

  “They’re lovely, lead crystal, I believe, and beautifully manufactured.”

  I gave him a playful elbow in the side. “C’mon, seriously.”

  “I can only state the obvious; they appear to be identical. The basic design is of a hexagram, which may have religious and spiritual connotations.”

  “Both vases contained the same small lilies.”

  Twain smiled. “Let me guess . . . the Seal of Solomon, Polygonatum multiflorum?”

  Jesus, and they call me a witch. I nodded. “That’s a pretty good goddamn guess.”

  “I was just following the religious connection. It’s unlikely to be coincidental. Polygonatum multiflorum is rarely used by florists.”

  “Zugg said the same thing.”

  He shrugged. “The chance of two identical vases filled with the same uncommon variety of lily in both homes is so remote as to approach zero.”

  “We now have DNA evidence reports on all of the unidentified victims. The three male victims were Jewish. It’s likely the female was Jewish too but we can’t be certain. Somehow I need to find something in this that will help me to track down Tillerman.”

  Twain was quiet for a minute. “Tell me, Stephanie, how were these four victim’s murdered?”

  “We don’t know how the first victim was murdered but the medallion with numeral one was made of mortar from the victim’s bones.”

  Twain closed his eyes. I could see that he was straining to recall something. “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return. Genesis 3:19. And the next?”

  “The second body was found in Kowsky Plaza in lower Manhattan. The medallion was around the victim’s neck. The victim died of hypothermia. He froze to death.”

  “Go on.”

  “The third was recovered from a funeral parlor. The victim had been burned alive in a cremation furnace.”

  “Ouch! And the last?” Twain’s eyes were still closed.

  “The last victim was a woman. She was found in the Staten Island Narrows. She was wearing scuba gear. Her lungs had exploded due to rapid ascent.”

  Twain opened his eyes. “I may have something.”

  “Tell me,” I said excitedly. “What?”

  “'The Seal of Solomon is not so much a star as it is a pair of inverted triangles. The Jewish Kabbalists called Solomon's Seal the Mystery of all Mysteries, a geometric synthesis of the entire occult doctrine.”

  Oh great, not the occult doctrine. The occult doctrine was the bible for every lunatic and serial crazy on the street. Just what I needed to hear. “Explain please.”

  “The mystery of all mysteries, Stephanie, the connection from life to death . . . and perhaps from death back to life.”

  As I listened to Twain the light bulb went off in my head. I thought about each of the four victims—we knew how three of them were murdered. “Victim number two was frozen, in effect killed by water. Victim number three was burnt, killed by fire. Victim number four was killed when her lungs exploded . . . air.” Twain smiled at me with pride as I expanded upon his line of thinking. “We don’t know how victim number one was killed, but his body was reduced to dust. As you kind of said, to the earth you shall return.”

  “That’s right. According to lore, the interlaced triangles represent the four earth elements,” Twain said. “The top point of the triangle represents fire. The bottom represents water. The left represents air and the right represents earth.”

  “Tillerman made four sacrifices, one for each of the four earth elements. Do you think?”

  “I do.”

  The idea was so bizarre, and yet in some demented way, it actually made sense—Michael Tillerman was trying to bring someone back to life.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  We followed the K-9 dogs twenty yards into the greenbelt until they found the spot. The digging began immediately. Gus and I waited while shovelful after shovelful of earth was removed from the ground. A biker had seen what he described as “a giant digging a hole.” He had seen Tillerman’s wanted poster on TV and called the Most Wanted hotline.

  “Who do you think we’ll find down there?” Gus asked.

  “Honestly, I hope they dig up an old pair of boots. I am just so tired of finding bodies. I don’t think I can take any more.”

  “Old boots? You mean as in old war boots?”

  Actually the image of a pair of Christian Louboutin boots popped into my head, but I wasn’t going to admit that to Gus. Besides, the ground was muddy, and I just couldn’t contemplate soiling a gorgeous pair of fine leather boots like that. “Yes, like old war boots. Discarded boots that no one wants.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “I know, but my legs are cramping so I can’t think about a pair of Joan Crawford F-me pumps right now.”

  “How about later?” Gus displayed an impish smile.

  “Really? How can you think of sex at a time like this? Eight people are dead, maybe nine, and a maniac is running around killing people, hoping to bring someone back to life. That doesn’t stymie your libido?”

  “I can picture you in a pair of thigh-high boots and a lacy, black teddy. Nothing can slow me down when it comes to the thought of ravaging your body. I honestly don’t give a tinker’s damn.”

  “A tinker’s damn? Do you even know what a tinker is?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.” I whispered in his ear. “Catch Tillerman, and I’ll wear anything you like. Now pay attention and focus on the case.”

  “Thanks for the incentive.” Gus smiled and pinched my butt. Men! My God. There’s a time and a place for everything, isn’t there?

  “So who do you think Tillerman might be trying to reanimate?” Gus asked with a smirk. “I can’t believe how fucking crazy this guy is.”

  “His family is unaccounted for; they’d be at the top of my list.”

  “Don’t you think there would be a record of three murders?”

  “You’d think.” I shrugged. “You and I both know there are bodies buried everywhere. There are lots of victims the police don’t know about. It wouldn’t surprise me if this goofball kept their deaths a secret. The questions are: who killed them and how did they die?”

  I saw Sonellio approaching from the corner of my eye. He wore a warm-up suit, but his appearance was anything but athletic. It looked as if his stamina was at a minimum. He walked lifelessly and carried a small oxygen tank. His complexion appeared ashen. I walked over and put my arm through his. “Hi, boss, out for a stroll?”

  He smiled at me but did not reply because getting around was obviously such a struggle for him. We walked back to where Gus was standing. Gus rubbed Sonellio’s shoulder, and we waited as the hole was excavated. Sonellio’s posture frightened me. He looked so feeble, as if he might fall over at any second. I pulled him close to me and with that gesture said what I wouldn’t dare say aloud. I’m here for you, my old friend. Lean on me.

  Again he was silent, but his eyes said, thank you.

  They stopped digging. My heart stumbled as a body was lifted out of the hole. It was the very last thing I expected to see: a medical examiner’s black body bag. They unzipped it and there staring up at us were the lifele
ss eyes of Bruce Jacoby, husband, father and murder victim. My eyes widened. I turned to Gus to express my disbelief. Just then I felt a tug on my arm. Sonellio was going down. I grabbed him to soften the fall. Gus moved quickly and prevented him from hitting his head.

  Gus began to work on him. “Boss, boss, stay with us . . . boss!” My eyes met Gus’—in that glance, we understood each other’s concern. “Call an ambulance,” Gus called out to the other policemen at the scene.

  Time seemed to stand still. I felt the breath catch in my lungs, and my heart began to race. My throat tightened, and then when I least expected it, I felt the baby kick.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I walked into the pub across the street from the hospital and sat down at the bar. The bartender greeted me with the ever popular, “What’ll it be?”

  “Bourbon neat and a dozen Quaaludes.”

  He was reaching for a bottle of Maker’s Mark when it hit him, “What? Did you say . . .?” He angled his head. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “The bourbon is for my boyfriend. He’ll be here in a minute. I was just kidding about the ‘ludes.”

  He glanced through the pub front window across the street to the hospital. “Bad day?” the bartender asked with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to hear it. And for you?”

  “Just sparkling water. The child developing in my womb gets bent out of shape when I imbibe.”

  He leaned over the bar and glanced at my belly. “Congratulations! Hey, I make a killer frozen piña colada—virgin, of course. Let me make one for you. It’s on me.”

  “Piña colada, you say. I don’t know—that’s an awful lot of sugar.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s amazing. I used to make them for my wife when she was pregnant.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I was in dire need of a brain freeze, anything to numb my mind to the painful news we had just heard. Sonellio’s cancer had spread. It was in his liver, blocking the portal vein. I didn’t know if he would live long enough to see Tillerman brought to justice. Toni had called her daughters to let them know the end was near. Sonellio’s girls were making plans to fly in from out of town.