She glanced around, double-checking, making sure that no one had followed them, that the security cameras were not on, then quickly pulled open the door and walked inside.
He followed.
He was not sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t mis.
Sensors had turned on overhead tights the second they had walked through the door, and they stood with their backs to the entrance looking at Nothing.
It was a lab in name only. There were no machines, no beakers or test tubes, no tables. There was no furniture at all. The walls were empty, the floor was spotless. There was only a circular hole surrounded by a low stone wall in what appeared to be the exact center of the room.
Dion wanted to leave. If before everything had been too vague, too nebulous, things were fast becoming far too concrete. The fact that Penelope’s mothers had for years been spending time in here, telling her that they were working in a lab on stains of grape and varieties of wine when in reality there had been nothing in here but this well, scared the hell out of him. The seeming irrationality of it, the fact that he could make no sense of the situation, was what frightened him the most, and he was suddenly afraid for Penelope. He wondered if his mom would let her move in with them, if he could Penelope squeezed his hand, moved forward.
“No!” Dion said.
“What?”
“Don’t go near it.”
She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “You think a monster’s going to pop up and grab me?”
That wasn’t exactly what he thought, but it was close.
“I have to know,” she said softly.
He held her hand tightly, and the two of them walked forward into the center of the room. They looked down into the well, expecting to see a black, bottomless pit, or an empty shaft with bones on the bottom. But instead they saw, a foot or so below the stone rim, their own reflections staring back at them from the deep, glassy burgundy surface of wine.
“What is this?” Penelope asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, but on some level, he thought, he did know. For the fear he’d felt before, the worry, was gone, replaced by calm. The feeling that things he didn’t understand were spinning out of control was not mere anymore. This room, this well, this wine, all of it felt reassuring to him, comfortable, as though he was now ensconced in familiar surroundings. He breathed deeply. The smell of the wine reminded him of the counselor’s office, of Mr. Barton drinking from the bottle in his desk, and he thought back to the fight with Paul. On one level he was horrified by what had happened, disgusted witi himself, but a deeper part of him approved, and as he re-.J played the fight in his mind, as he thought of the small ^ changes that would have resulted in Paul’s death, hef smiled.
“What are you smiling at?” Penelope demanded.
He opened his eyes, looked at her, blinked. What had^ he been smiling at? The thought of killing Paul? He shook his head. “Nothing.”
The two of them looked down at the well of wine.
“What now?” Dion asked.
“The woods,” Penelope said.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I knew I’d have to go there ever since I caught Mother Margeaux sneaking into the kitchen the other night. I tried to pretend otherwise, tried not to think about it, tried to tell myself that—that there was an explanation for it, but I knew there wasn’t.”
“Maybe—”
“No maybes.”
He nodded. “Let’s go, then. Let’s see what’s out there.”
Horton stood against the wall as the computer checked the prints against those in its files, watching as the split screens flashed by, the left half containing the print off the bottle, the right showing the prints against which it was being compared. The process was automated but not instantaneous, and he knew that it was going to take a long time to go through all of the prints stored in the machine’s memory. In addition to complete sets of fingerprints for all perps arrested in the county during the last ten years, the computer stored the prints of children fingerprinted at birth, individuals who’d undergone voluntary printing, and unidentified prints from other crime scenes. The computer also had the capability of accessing the print files of other departments across the state who were online.
The search had already been underway for nearly twenty-four hours, and according to Filbert, the technician monitoring the machine, it could take twice that long before all fingerprints were compared.
Hell, Horton thought, with his luck the print would probably end up being of someone not even on file.
He took a sip of his coffee, was about to walk back to his office when suddenly the screen stopped moving, the image locking in place. A red light flashed on and off, a small beep sounding. “Lieutenant?” Filbert said, turning around.
Horton moved forward, looked over Filbert’s shoulder as the technician pressed a series of keys. The identification of the print owner was superimposed over the bottom Portion of the screen.
Margeaux Daneam.
His mouth was suddenly dry, and he finished off his JJ coffee. He hadn’t suspected this, hadn’t expected it, but f somehow it did not completely surprise him. He stared at the name and the winery address beneath it. A ripple of cold passed through him.
“Print it,” he told Filbert.
The technician pressed a key, and a copy of the screen began printing on the Laserjet adjacent to the terminal.
Daneam.
He rubbed the goose bumps on his arms. It was not the fact that a prominent local businesswoman had been implicated in the brutal rape and murder of two teenagers that spooked him. I was everything else. The peripherals. The rise in DUI’s, D&D’s, the other murders, his own drinking and everyone else’s.
The fact that it was all related.
That was it exactly. He’d been a cop for a long time, had been involved with crimes big and small, but the crimes had always been self-contained. A crime was committed by a criminal or criminals, the case was solved, the perps put away, end of story. But this was different. The drug problem, he supposed, would be the closest analogy to this, but though drugs were related to myriad crimes, the crimes were all separate. Related, perhaps, to a root cause, but individual. They weren’t … like this.
This was spooky.
He thought of Hammond and his wacky theories.
Maybe the detective hadn’t been so far off base after all.
Filbert tore off the printed sheet and handed it to Horton.
“Print off a couple more of those,” Horton said. “And give ‘em to the chief.”
Filbert nodded.
“And thanks.” Horton opened the lab door and walked into the hallway.
The station was in chaos.
He stood there, stunned, as men ran past him in both directions down the corridor. Those policemen who were not already armed and in riot gear were in the process of becoming so. Several men were shouting at once, and something unintelligible was being broadcast over the RA.
“What is it?” Horton demanded, grabbing a rookie by the arm.
“A riot over on State Street, sir.”
“What happened?”
“No one knows. A group of fifteen or twenty people from one of the bars suddenly turned violent and started attacking people who were outside marching in the Halloween parade. Five are reported dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus shit.”
“There might be an officer down.”
Horton let go of the rookie’s arm. “Go!” he said.
The officer hurried away, and Horton strode through the activity to Goodridge’s office. He had a hunch about this, a weird feeling in his gut. He didn’t think that the Daneams had started the riot because they knew the police had a fingerprint and had identified k and were about to come after old Margeaux. Not exactly. But he had no doubt that they were involved. He’d stake his career on it. He had never trusted those lezzies. He didn’t know if they were putti
ng something into their wine or were practicing witchcraft, but they were somehow behind all of this violence, and he was damn sure going to put a stop to it.
He walked into the chief’s office, showed him the printout, told him about the match, and said that he needed a warrant and some men.
“I can’t spare anyone,” Goodridge said. “Why don’t you hold off until tomorrow. Margeaux Daneam’s not going anywhere.”
Horton stared at him, stunned. “What?”
The chief looked at him coolly. “You heard me. It’ll wait.”
“We found her bloody fingerprint on the bottle that was used to penetrate and rupture Ann Melbury, and I’m not supposed to arrest her?”
Goodridge opened his bottom desk drawer, drew out a Daneam wine bottle.
“Relax, Horton. You take things much too seriously. Have a drink. Loosen up a little.”
Horton stared at the chief, cold washing over him. He turned without speaking and walked out of the office. ?|
“Horton!” Goodridge called after him.
He ignored the chief’s cry and continued walking. He spotted Deets in front of the supply room, waiting to be issued riot gear, and he grabbed the young cop. “You’re coming with me,” he said.
“But I’m supposed to—”
“We matched the print from the bottle. We’ve got our murderer. I want you in on the collar.”
Deets was suddenly at attention. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Horton frowned. “How many times have I told you about that ‘sir’ shit?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I just got—”
“Get a black-and-white,” Horton said. “Bring it around front. I’ll meet you there.”
“Yes, si— Okay!” He sprinted down the corridor, against the traffic.
Horton reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it. So they wouldn’t have a warrant. No big deal. Phillips would get him one after the fact and back date it. What the chief would do … That was another story.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaled deeply, then pushed his way past a line of uniforms toward the front door.
They pulled up in front of the winery, parking in one of the visitor spaces. He had expected someone to meet them, since they’d had to announce themselves and somebody within one of the buildings had had to open the gate for them, but the place appeared to be deserted.
He didn’t like that.
He was nervous enough already, but Deets seemed not to notice anything amiss. The young officer got out of the car, straightened his belt, then started toward the front door of the main building, stopping only when he realized that Horton was not following.
“Lieutenant?” he called.
Horton lumbered around the back of the vehicle, caught up to Deets. His cop sense was working overtime. He had never before been as flat-out spooked as he was right now, and he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
He didn’t want to be here after dark.
It was pathetic but it was true. His uneasiness had nothing to do with Margeaux Daneam or even the unnatural gruesomeness of the murders she was going to be charged with. It was something more instinctual, more primal, and he did not want to be here when night fell.
Cop’s instinct or drunk’s paranoia?
He didn’t know. But whatever it was, it wasn’t shared by Deets. The rookie was striding purposefully toward the main building: a Greek-looking structure facing the parking lot and the drive. Horton followed his footsteps.
“Here!”
The woman’s voice came from somewhere off to their left, and Horton turned to see where it was coming from. He thought he saw movement in the late-afternoon shadows that shaded the area between the main building and the structure immediately adjacent to it, but he was not sure.
“Ms. Daneam?” he called.
There was a chorus of wild female laughter, the high, manic sound of several women cackling at the tops of their lungs, and a cold shiver of fear passed through him. Again, he saw movement in the shadows.
“Ms. Daneam? We’re from the—”
The door to the adjacent building opened, and for a second, against the interior light, he saw a group of naked women shoving their way inside.
Then the door closed, and the wild laughter was silenced.
What the hell was going on here? He looked over at Deets. The rookie was standing in place, mouth open, an expression of dumb surprise on his face.
“Come on,” Horton said, unholstering his gun, his confidence returning with the feel of the heavy revolver in his hand. “Let’s go.” He started jogging toward the door, gratified to hear Deets’ boot steps behind him.
The two of them reached the door simultaneously, automatically positioning themselves on either side. Horton reached over and knocked loudly. “Ms. Daneam?” he. called.
There was no response from inside, not even laughter, and Horton looked at Deets and said, “On three.” He nodded at the rookie. “One. Two.
Three.”
Deets turned the doorknob and Horton swung out, pushing open the door.
Nothing.
Before them was an empty lighted hallway. There was no sight of anyone, no sound, and they looked at each other and proceeded forward slowly, guns drawn, trying doors as they passed them, though all appeared to be locked.
“They could be behind any one of these,” Deets said.
Horton nodded.
“They were … they were naked,” the rookie said.
Horton nodded again.
“Why were they naked?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t like this.”
That makes two of us, Horton thought, but he said nothing, tried another door. From somewhere ahead, down die hall, he heard a scream, and he looked at Deets and the two of them started running toward the sound.
The hallway turned, forking to the right, and ahead, on the left, one of the doors was open. Horton stopped, hugging the wall next to the open doorway. “Police!” he yelled. “Step out with your hands on your head!”
There was no response, and he moved in front of the doorway in classic firing position.
There was no one in the room.
He quickly walked inside, and the smell hit him almost immediately. It was overwhelming, a powerfully noxious mixture of old wine and older blood, stale sex and violence. He retched, instinctively doubling over, puking on the floor in the corner next to the door.
“Jesus,” Deets said behind him, gagging.
Horton wiped his mouth, straightened up. The room was windowless, furnitureless, and in its center was a gigantic empty wine vat, built into the floor and sunken like a hot tub. He walked forward. As he reached the edge of the vat, he could see that it was not empty after all. Glued to the bottom with dried blood were assorted bones and the carcasses of rotting animals.
“Holy shit,” Deets said.
Horton started for the door. “Come on. Let’s get out to the car and call for backup. I don’t like the setup here.”
“There is no backup. They’re all at the riot.”
“They’re not all at the riot.”
Deets followed him out the door. “What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know,” Horton admitted. He looked down the hall the way they’d come.
And saw the women.
They were crouched near the turn of the hallway. They were dirty and disheveled, some holding spears, others wine bottles, covered with what looked like mud and blood. He stood, unmoving. He was scared. But he was also aroused, and as frightening as the women looked, as threatening as their appearance was, he found himself looking between their bent legs, trying to see their shadowed crotches. This was not the right reaction, he told himself. This was not the way he was supposed to feel. But there was something sensuous in their stances, something provocative in their complete lack of modesty and the pride they seemed to take in their filth.
He smelled alcohol, wine, and he breathed d
eeply, inhaling the fragrance. He imagined what it would be like to throw himself into that gaggle of women, to feel them strip him and take advantage of him, kissing him, licking him, stroking him, sitting on his lap, sitting on his face. They were all sisters too, weren’t they? That would make it even better.
They screamed as one and rushed him.
He was slow to react, nearly stunned into immobility. He staggered backward, pointing his gun at the women but not ordering them to halt, the way he should have.
Deets’ reactions were quicker. He moved in front of Horton, both hands on his firearm. “Stop right there!” he demanded.
They took him down.
It happened fast, too fast, and Horton wasn’t even sure what exactly occurred. He knew only that tfiey were instantly upon the other officer, screaming, laughing, stabbing with spears, clawing with nails, biting with teeth. How they had reached him so quickly,, why he hadn’t fired upon them, how they disarmed him, which one was the first to reach him, he didn’t know.
Horton fired a shot over the heads of the women, not wanting to fire into their midst for fear of hitting Deets. The report was thunderous, and he saw a puff of plaster explode outward from the far wall, but the women did not even seem to notice. They continued to claw crazily at the man buried beneath them, and Horton saw blood flying: drops at first, then splashes.
He realized that he could not hear Deets screaming at all. He could only hear the women.
He knew instinctively that Deets was dead, and part of him wanted to stand there and shoot, empty his gun in the women, kill as many of them as he could. But he was more afraid than he had ever been in his life, and his gut told him that if he didn’t haul ass now, he probably wouldn’t make it out alive.
He ran.
He wished the women had come from the opposite direction so he could’ve run out the way they’d come in. He had no choice now but to run deeper into the building, hoping that he’d reach the other end and find an open exit.
They were coming. He could hear them, above his breathing and the slapping of his shoes on the concrete, laughing wildly and jabbering in some foreign tongue. He wanted to try some of the doors lining the corridor, see if they were locked, but he didn’t have time, and he kept running, following the hallway as it turned and turned again.
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