Blood of Eden

by Tami Dane

  All is a riddle, and the key to a riddle ... is another riddle.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  6

  My cell phone rarely rang. And when it did, it was generally bad news. But I answered it, anyway, with a cheery “Hellooooo?!” because I’m strange that way.

  “Your mother’s run away!” Katie’s screech just about perforated my eardrum.

  After switching the phone to the other ear, the one with all vital bits intact, I reasoned, “I’m sure she didn’t run away. She just went out ... to get some food ... or something.” I checked the clock on my computer’s desktop. It was almost five already. Where was JT? Had he forgotten about me? Or had he decided I was useless and continued the investigation without me?

  “She left a note. But it’s in some kind of crazy code, and I can’t read it. Someone who’s gone out for bagels and coffee doesn’t leave an encoded note behind.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “I thought you knew my mother by now.”

  “I do.” After a beat, Katie said, “Please come home and take a look. I’m worried.”

  Argh!

  I glanced at the Clock of Doom, then at Gabe, who was still parked in the cubicle behind me. Shortly after dropping the bomb about having joined the team, he’d run home to get his laptop, and he was now gleefully tap-tap-tapping on his keyboard. As much as I wanted to believe he was playing some stupid online game, I had a feeling he was doing something else. Something that would make me look even more pathetic to the rest of the team than I already did.

  “Okay. I’ll be there in a few.” I shoved my Netbook into its case, looped the strap over my shoulder, and trudged to the elevators. On the way home, I reminded myself that my mom’s brain worked very differently from mine and Katie’s. She wasn’t missing, hadn’t run away, and would most likely be safe and sound in my cozy-but-electricity-free apartment by the time I got home.

  She wasn’t.

  Katie met me at the door, waving a piece of paper like it was a ransom note. “I just know she’s in trouble. Can you read it? What’s it say?”

  “No, I can’t read it. Not when you’re flinging it around like that.” After several failed attempts, I finally caught my melodramatic roommate’s wrist, halting its frantic motion. “Thank you for worrying about my mother. I’m sure she’s okay.” I gently plucked the paper from Katie’s hand and wandered into the living room, staring at the bizarre characters on the page:

  BEWARE THE LIGHT THAT FLICKERS IN THE NIGHT.

  I recognized the script right away. Theban—aka the Witches’ Alphabet.

  I flopped onto the couch, set the paper on the coffee table, and pulled out my Netbook. “I thought I’d told you, when I was a kid, my mom and I used to play this game, writing everything—even the grocery list—in code. We tried to stump each other. But it’s been ages since either of us has done that.”

  “No, you never said anything about codes.” Standing with one foot in the kitchen and one foot in the living room, Katie chomped into a peanut butter and banana sandwich. “If you had, I wouldn’t have freaked out. You know how I get with your mother.”

  “Sorry.” I swear, Katie worried about Mom more than I did sometimes. It was both a good and bad thing.

  “So, can you read it?” She washed down the mouthful of bread, peanut butter, and banana with a chug of diet soda.

  “My mother only used Theban once before, when I was about seven or eight. I remember the script well enough to recognize it, but I can’t read it. Not without a little help.” I powered up my Netbook. “Luckily, it’s common enough that I should be able to find it on the Net.” I connected to my fave search engine, and within seconds, I had the key to unlock my mom’s note. “‘Beware the light that flickers in the night’?” I read aloud. I sighed. My heart sank to my toes.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Katie took another bite of her sandwich.

  I sighed again. “It means it’s definitely time to make another visit to Mom’s doctor. When—if—she comes back.”

  Katie gave my shoulder a pat. “Sorry, hon.”

  “I guess you were right, after all. There is reason to worry. Damn it, I was hoping this medication was going to work.” I dropped my face into my hands, indulging in a mini pity party. This had been going on for so long. I was tired of it all. Tired of the “accidents,” which had, over the years, cost me tens of thousands of dollars. Tired of the periodic disappearances, which cost me hours, days, months of worry—not to mention time, while I tracked her down. Tired of the constant struggle to drag my mother out of the darkness, which was always there, waiting for an opportunity to steal her away.

  I loved my mother, but I hated her disease. Despised it.

  It was a faceless, formless monster, ruthless and cunning. How I wished it could be slain like the vampires I’d read about in that stupid book Chief Peyton had given me.

  Vampires could be killed with a strategically placed wooden stake or a shower of holy water. Real-life monsters weren’t so easily defeated.

  Katie’s arm wrapped around my shoulder. Sitting beside me, she pulled me up against her side. “You know I’ll help.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” After I’d pulled myself together—didn’t take too long, thank God—I glanced around the living room. “Did you notice anything else? Did she make another invention? Leave any other notes? Did she take anything with her?”

  “I don’t know... .”

  The two of us began a search of our apartment, looking for clues to where my mother might have gone. Katie started in the kitchen; I headed for my bedroom. I discovered Mom had borrowed some changes of clothing, a pair of shoes, and a duffel bag. She’d also taken her toothbrush. Katie found she’d taken a small set of tools and a can of insect repellent.

  I decided I’d check out Mom’s apartment first. With luck, she’d simply gone back there. Katie rode shotgun. Neither of us said a word. We’d been through this more than enough to know what the next step would be if we didn’t find her by morning.

  I used the spare key to get into Mom’s apartment. It was dark and quiet, the shades drawn, shutting out the gradually fading sunlight. It didn’t look like she was here now, but I saw something promising on the couch. My duffel bag. I hurried to it. “She’s been here. I’m guessing she’s coming back.”

  “OhthankGod!” Katie said, her breathless exclamation echoing my own. “I wonder why she just up and left, without saying anything?”

  “That’s Mom for you.” I unzipped the bag and searched through the contents. Everything was there, but one set of clothes and the shoes. “She changed out of her pajamas.”

  “I wonder where she went?” Katie headed down the narrow hallway leading to the small bedroom in the back. Just as I was about to follow Katie, Mom came strolling in, a pair of green canvas grocery bags hanging from her shoulders.

  “Sloan? What’re you doing here?” Mom headed toward the kitchen with the bags.

  Following her, I said, “Looking for you. Why’d you leave? Katie was worried.”

  “I got a call this afternoon. Power’s on.” Mom hit the wall switch, and the light hanging over her little dinette set illuminated. “As much as I love staying with you, I’d rather be here where I have a microwave, refrigerator, and television. You know how I hate to miss my shows.”

  I was so relieved, I could’ve cried. In fact, I kind of did this little laugh/sob thing. Katie rushed into the room, visibly biting back a rant. Together we helped Mom put away her groceries. Once that was done, my mother pulled a bag of marijuana from her pocket and headed for the couch.

  “Mom, before we head out, what did you mean by that message?”

  “Which message?” she asked as she dumped a mountain of dried leaves onto a paper plate sitting on her coffee table. I hated watching her smoke illegal drugs, but many, many years ago we’d come to an agreement. As long as she smoked in the privacy of her home, I wouldn’t interfere.

  I said, “The one you wrote in Theban. ‘Bew
are the light that flickers in the night.’”

  Mom shrugged. “I don’t recall leaving a message, let alone one written in Theban. I haven’t used Theban in years. I’m not even sure I remember it well enough to compose a message. Are you sure it was from me?”

  “If it wasn’t you, who would it be?”

  “I don’t know, Sloan. It’s very curious. A riddle.” She shrugged as she sprinkled a line of crushed leaves onto a piece of cigarette paper. “You’ll figure it out, I’m sure. You’ve always been very good at riddles.”

  I exchanged a look with Katie. “Okay. I guess we’ll head home. Mom, remember our agreement.”

  Licking the paper to seal her freshly rolled joint, she waved her good-bye.

  “Where did you find that note?” I asked Katie as we trotted out to my car.

  “In the living room, on the top shelf, you know, under the window.” Katie rounded the car, asking over the top, “Are you still worried about your mom? It had to be her, right? She must’ve forgotten she’d written the note.”

  “I’m not sure what to think. Like I said before, it’s been a long time since she’s used Theban. She might be telling the truth.”

  Katie slipped into the passenger seat, giving me a bug-eyed look. “If she is telling the truth, then what?”

  “Then I guess we’d better figure out what the message means.”

  On the way home, Katie and I generated a list of lights that flicker in the night. By the time we’d walked into our apartment, we’d concluded I needed to beware of everything from fireflies to stars ... and the neon sign in front of the party store down the street, and the lamp in our living room that sputtered when it was bumped—when we had electricity—and candles, and campfires, and ... at least fifty more things.

  Danger was all around me.

  Being the daughter of a paranoid schizophrenic, I knew being afraid of everything was no way to live.

  The first thing I did when I got home was to check the window in the living room—the one above the shelf where the note had been found. It was shut, but the lock didn’t work; there was also a very suspicious rip in the screen. I wedged a big book in the frame to keep an intruder from opening it, ate a peanut butter and potato chip sandwich—I was running out of ideas for new and exciting peanut butter–based sandwich ideas fast—guzzled my lukewarm caffeine-free cola, brushed my teeth, and settled into bed. Katie slept with a tire iron and a battery-powered soldering iron. I drifted off to dreamland with nary a thought of dangerous flickering things.

  It was back, the dark thing. It had sucked the life out of the air in the room, the warmth, the oxygen, leaving it a cold, empty vacuum. Pretending to be asleep, she silently prayed for it to leave her alone this time.

  Why did it keep coming back?

  An icy gust drifted over her face, neck shoulders. Goose bumps prickled. The stench of death burned her nose; the scent of rotting flesh growing so strong, her throat closed. Fighting the urge to gag, she rolled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her bent legs. Something sharp touched her shoulder, piercing the skin.

  No. Not again. Please.

  Hootie & the Blowfish’s “Only Wanna Be with You” woke me at 5:00 A.M. The snappy tune almost wiped out the lingering images in my mind, of a little girl trembling in her bed, a shadowed form standing over her. It was exactly the same as the nightmare I’d had the other night. Creepy. Unsettling. I’d thought the first nightmare had been caused by all that talk about vampires, and that book, The Vampire Encyclopedia. But last night, there’d been no mention of bloodsuckers of any kind.

  Very strange.

  Sluggish, and needing a hefty dose of caffeine, I went through my morning ritual—minus the blow-drying of the hair. Instead, I gathered it, wet, into what I hoped was a tiny knot on the back of my head and used enough pins to keep it in place in a hurricane. After fluffing on a little blush and slicking some lip gloss on my lips, I put on a bland pair of black pants, a white blouse, and black pumps and stumbled out into the early morning a good two hours before Katie would resume consciousness.

  Today I wouldn’t be the last one in the office.

  After making a quick stop at a 7-Eleven for a coffee, I headed into work.

  Gabe was already there. Worse than that, he was having a friendly chitchat with Chief Peyton. Even from a distance, I could see he was using his mojo on her ... and it seemed to be working. Since I’d started with the PBAU, I hadn’t ever seen the chief smile. Not that she’d looked unhappy or mean—she’d just always exuded discipline and authority.

  Not now.

  Was that an eyelash bat?

  I threw up a little in my mouth. This was wrong on so many levels.

  I dumped my stuff on my desk, plopped into my chair, and quickly consumed my pathetic excuse for a breakfast while waiting for my computer to power up. I eat fast; my Netbook runs slow. By the time I had my fave sites loaded on my browser, JT was strolling in, looking fresh and scrumptious and ready for work.

  The chief paid me a visit while I was reading an article on infectious diseases on ResearchGate.com. “Good morning, Skye. We’ve had some interesting developments in our case. How did you and JT make out yesterday?”

  Interesting wording—“make out”?

  Wishing I had something earthshaking to tell her, I shook my head. “We didn’t get much. There is an ex-fiance who’s—”

  “Hold off on the update until we’re all together.” She lifted a hand, halting me midsentence. “We’re all here. Conference room. In ten. For a briefing.”

  “Okay.” The minute the chief had wandered off to talk to someone else, I headed for JT’s cubicle. He was on the phone; I pretended I wasn’t trying to listen in, and watched the rest of the team going about their morning rituals. I didn’t rap on his divider until after he’d ended the call. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.” His smile made my insides do cartwheels. Would I ever get over this crush? “Did you get anywhere yesterday?”

  “Not really, but Brittany dug up something interesting on Chapman. McRoy also uncovered some information on Deborah Richardson. Which first, Richardson or Chapman?”

  “Chapman,” I said.

  “He has a sealed juvenile record and a more recent conviction for stalking a coworker.”

  That was interesting, indeed. “Okay. He’s no Boy Scout, but we don’t have any concrete reason to believe he had anything to do with his ex-fiancée’s death ... yet. Now, what about Richardson?”

  “She just wrapped up a very messy divorce a couple of months ago.”

  I was confused. “Divorce? Didn’t Chapman say they’d been engaged for over two years?”

  “Yep. Evidently, she was engaged to Chapman while she was married.”

  And my mother wondered why I was in no hurry to get married? Although I wanted to believe two people could fall in love and stay in love for the rest of their lives, I had yet to see it. Was anyone happily married these days? “Okay, so we have a potentially pissed-off ex-husband, an ex-fiancé who wasn’t ready to be an ex, a dead woman who hasn’t been sick a day in the last several months but died from dengue hemorrhagic fever—”

  “And hasn’t ever traveled out of the country,” JT added.

  “About that. This morning, I checked the statistics of dengue hemorrhagic fever infections in the United States. According to CDC data, contact between the Aedes mosquito and U.S. residents is so limited that the vast majority of cases of dengue in the States is acquired elsewhere by travelers and immigrants. The last documented outbreak of dengue in the continental U.S. was in Southern Texas in 2005. A small outbreak occurred in Hawaii in 2001. No other outbreaks have been verified since. However, dengue is a significant problem in parts of South America. Do we know if our victim has traveled to Texas recently? Or Hawaii?”

  “We don’t, but we can find out. I’m sure the CDC is working the case. They may know the method of transmission already.”

  Noticing the other team members were moving toward the co
nference room, I glanced at the clock. “I guess we’d better get in there.”

  “Yep.”

  “The chief said there were some interesting developments in the case last night. Do you know anything about that?” I asked.

  “Nope.” He motioned for me to go first. I led the way to the conference room, checking the Clock of Doom on my way to a seat. Two hours, thirty-eight minutes.

  Would somebody else really die when that clock ticked down to the last minute?

  Chief Peyton cleared her throat and gave the room a somber-faced sweep with her eyes. She really did have a flair for the dramatic. Despite my cynicism, I found myself sliding to the edge of my seat.

  “First, we have identified all three victims. Their names are Debbie Richardson, Hannah Grant, and the most recent victim is Laura Miller. In addition, we have determined in the last few hours that all three deaths are indeed murders,” she announced gravely. “We are dealing with a serial killer. There are some issues with the DNA analysis, but the lab found foreign saliva on the victims’ necks, and they were able to extract DNA. It matches in all three cases.”

  Identical DNA. Huh. That was hard to dismiss.

  But did it prove inconclusively that the victims were murdered?

  “In addition,” she continued, “upon further examination of the bodies, proof of a struggle, specifically skin and blood under the fingernails, was discovered. The DNA from that material matched the samples found at the neck.”

  I glanced at the clock.

  If what the chief was saying was true, in exactly two hours, thirty-one minutes, and seventeen seconds, someone else was going to die.

  Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.

  —Albert Einstein

  7

  Try as I might, I could no longer deny the fact that the three deaths we had been investigating weren’t simple cases of virulent diseases. Somehow, someone was using infectious agents to kill women. Brunette women, in their early thirties—two out of three residing near a park.