by J. R. Rain
He shifts my weight onto his left arm, and tugs my sweatpants off. I can’t help but laugh into his shoulder as he lowers me into the water, tugging my shirt up to keep it from getting (too) wet. Once he’s peeled me out of my clothes and I’m soaking up to my neck, Caius holds up both hands, each containing a bath bomb. The cream-colored one is apricot-vanilla, the bluish-green one, Wild Rainforest.
“Ooh. Tough choice.”
He lifts each one back and forth while wagging his eyebrows.
“I used the rainforest one last time.”
Caius drops the apricot-vanilla bomb in the water, and it promptly fizzes into a tingly foaming mass. He lights a few candles, dims the overhead, and leans down so his face is hovering over mine. “Rest. Relax. I’ll be in the den if you need anything.”
“You’re amazing,” I say in a half-whisper.
We exchange a soft kiss, and he walks out, leaving me to the soothing whisper of a rapidly disintegrating bath bomb. The fragrance of apricot and vanilla saturates the room in seconds. Caius pokes back in a short while later to set a fresh towel on the sink.
It’s almost possible to enjoy the moment. Candlelight flickers on the white tiles beside the tub. Only my head is above the surface, the rest of me covered in warm. I’m half-tempted to go under and hold my breath for a while to hide from the world, but I’m too comfortable to move.
Despite it all, serenity only lasts about a half hour before anxiety and guilt come galloping around the corner and run me over. I have every confidence my spell is going to work, but I can’t help but feel impatient about it. No witch rushes Morrigan along, so I settle for idle frustration. Bad enough I kinda-sorta threw a hex, even if I couched it in a wrapper of karmic return with a ‘please don’t cause harm.’ No matter if everything works perfectly, there’s still a rather good chance I’m going to have a spot of bad luck myself. Hopefully, with my precautions, it’ll be trivial like spilling coffee or jamming my knee on the desk. Wait, back that up. Spilling coffee would be tragic. My hex wasn’t that dark.
Since I’m already in the tub, I wind up shaving… and cut myself like seven times. At least the bath bomb keeps the water from looking like a crime scene. Ouch. Dammit. I’m not sure if this is my spell claiming its price, but… if it is, I’ll take it without complaint.
Eventually, I step out of the water and dab a bit of TP at the cuts until they stop bleeding.
…and the drain release promptly snaps off in my hand.
“Yes!” I cheer, holding the broken bit of metal up like a prize.
“You all right in there?” calls Caius from across the hall.
“Fine! We need to call a plumber.”
His chair creaks. Two seconds later, a loud bang. He yells, “shit!” and the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor follows.
Naked and still wet, I dart across the hall to the smaller upstairs den. Caius clutches his knee in pain, rolling back and forth on the ground. A mug of tea lays beside him, spilled. Cool. At least it wasn’t coffee.
“Ow, bastard,” mutters Caius. “Clipped my knee on the file cabinet drawer.”
I hold up the drain handle. “Snapped off in my hand.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am.” I show off my legs. “I cut the hell out of myself, then this breaks off… now you wipe out. The spell’s going to do something.”
He sits up. “Here’s hoping.”
“I don’t hope.” I close my eyes and offer thanks to Morrigan and the Goddess. “I know.”
***
Later that night after we cleaned up―Caius used vice grips to turn the nub and let the water drain―we crawl into bed.
It doesn’t take long for his hands to get wanderlust. Helps that neither of us have anything on. He kisses my neck while sliding his hand down over my stomach to my thigh. I try to settle into the mood, but guilt keeps getting in the way. How can I be here safe, comfortable, making love, when at any minute the man I’m responsible for catching is out there liable to kill again?
Caius senses my mood and leans up to make eye contact.
“The case…?”
I nod.
He smiles patiently and shifts to cuddle mode. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
“Yeah.” I smirk. “Give me the name and address of the killer.”
“I see.” He purses his lips. “Something small then. I’ll go put on some tea.”
I stretch out after he gets up and heads for the door. One minute drags into the next. The sound of my breathing in and out becomes distractingly loud. Again, no matter how deep my stare burrows into the ceiling, it offers no information.
Caius returns perhaps fifteen minutes later with a pair of pinkish-purple mugs, the extra-thick ones that look like they should hold a lot, but don’t. “Wexford.”
“Huh?” I ask, sitting up and putting a pillow behind me.
He hands me a mug of chamomile tea and crawls in to sit beside me. “The name just hit me out of nowhere. I was thinking about your case while waiting for the water to boil. ‘Wexford’ drifted across my thoughts.”
“Hmm.” I’ve seen too many things most people would call inexplicable to dismiss the name he was given. “I’ll check on it. Maybe one of those Ford Rangers is registered to a guy named Wexford.”
He flares his eyebrows. “Never know.”
“And yes, you can do something.” I lean against him. “Just be here.”
Caius transfers his mug to his left hand and threads his right arm around my shoulders. I might not get much sleep tonight, but at least I couldn’t be more comfortable. Physically, anyway.
In my head, not so much.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Slip in the Veil
Monday Morning – July 24, 2017
The first thing I do upon arriving at the station Monday morning is filter the registration data by the name ‘Wexford.’ Unfortunately, it’s a non-starter. Not a single Ford Ranger is registered to anyone with that name, first or last. Damn. I’m almost disappointed, but did I really expect Caius randomly blurting a name would work out that easily?
Rick’s decided to give the surveillance video from the Nissan dealership another look. Maybe he’ll spot something I missed. Parrish and Quarrel, a few desks to my right, start snapping at each other over their own case. They sound like an old married couple who really do love each other but say stuff that sounds mean to anyone who doesn’t know them. That clown case is driving them both up the wall. I know exactly how they feel.
Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I need the little girl’s room. So far, none of the registration records I’ve checked on pan out to fit anything close to potential suspects.
I get up with a groan―I should’ve done this a half hour ago―and limp down the aisle toward the hallway with the bathrooms, passing Ed Parrish’s desk along the way.
He glances up at me. “Wims, do me a favor? Hit our guy with some of that magic, huh? Or just shoot me.”
“I’m not going to shoo―Ow!” I yelp as my hair snags on something. It’s only a couple strands, but that’s why it hurt. A pushpin stuck on his cube wall loses the tug-of-war with the mighty red floof. The pin falls to the ground, causing a piece of paper to flutter after it. “Ack. Sorry.”
Parrish and Quarrel both snicker. Linda looks up with an amused grin, but doesn’t make a noise.
I crouch to retrieve the paper, which has a picture of a man in clown makeup. Hmm. I hand it to Parrish instead of pinning it back up. “Focus on this guy. Call it a hunch. My hair’s never wrong.”
Ed turns only his head to watch me as I keep going, in no small rush, for the bathroom.
A few minutes later, I feel much better. I leave the stall and head over to the sinks to wash my hands. That done, I look up at the giant mirror in front of me for a quick makeup/hair check.
My reflection disappears; the view of the bathroom stalls behind me melts away to reveal the interior of a house, a short hallway to a kitch
en archway. Before I can even think ‘whoa what the hell?’ a small boy with brown hair, no shirt, and pajama pants steps into the archway―and raises a shotgun at me.
“Gah!” I yell, and jump aside, flinching like I’m really about to be shot.
A second later when I look at the mirror, all I see is myself in a pose straight out of Karate Kid: The Drunken Years, balanced on one leg, my arms wrapped around my head, leaning back and to the side.
“Oh. Just a vision.”
I stand straight before anyone walks in and catches me acting like an idiot. By the time I get back to my desk, my hands are shaking from how real that felt. Shit. Am I going to wind up chasing someone into a house and getting shot by a little boy? The house didn’t look at all familiar. Despite seeing it only for seconds, I can picture myself standing in that hallway. Beige carpet, white walls, the kitchen had dark-grey faux-stone tiles. The window was dark. That kid had PJs on. I can’t think of any situation where I’d go charging into a house after a suspect, since I’m not a patrol officer anymore. The boy looked maybe nine, and terrified. Over and over, that scene replays in my head. I flinched before he fired. Maybe he doesn’t shoot? What’s a little boy doing with a shotgun anyway? Don’t his parents know guns have to be locked up?
My hands keep shaking as I work the mouse, clicking through my sub-list of registrations. But that vision haunts me, and I wind up losing chunks of time staring through my computer screen. In all my thirty-five years, I’ve never once had a vision like that before. I’m sure it means something significant, but I can’t think of how to use it. Not like I can plug a USB cable into my ear and download that boy’s face into the system in an effort to figure out who he is. The house looked nice but not distinctive. It could be any of a thousand places nearby.
I do know one thing: I won’t forget the look in that kid’s eyes, or that hallway. If I did get a prophetic vision, I’m going to be ready for it. I refuse to shoot a child―or be shot by one. It takes all the focus I can summon, but I compartmentalize that poor little kid off to the side of my brain and open the next registration file to begin the laborious process of peeling open someone’s life and recent whereabouts.
One of these records has got to contain what I’m looking for.
If only I can find it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Luck Shot
Monday Night – July 24, 2017
Rick and I spent six hours after lunch driving around several chemical suppliers looking for records of private citizens purchasing industrial-strength sodium hypochlorite within the past several months. We didn’t have much luck, though we did collect a bunch of names and addresses. More stuff to sift through. At least the ‘mega-bleach’ is rarer than a hobby knife.
The ME did get back to us and confirm Benjamin Gibson’s wound most likely came from a surgical scalpel and not a hobby knife like an X-Acto. I never realized you could find scalpels on Amazon. I wonder if serial killers get handy things in their ‘also-bought’ categories: shovels, duct tape, giant plastic bins…
Only, this guy doesn’t seem to care at all about hiding the bodies. On the ride home, my brain fills in dialogue from some nameless FBI profiler on a drama series talking about how the killer wants to be caught. He’s waving the bodies in our face like a dare. I don’t think that’s the case here. This guy isn’t daring us―he feels untouchable. Okay, maybe that’s almost a dare, but it feels more like a huge middle finger. Our killer is leaving them there like a cat that doesn’t bury it’s poop in the box, a show of dominance. He’s saying, “I’m doing this and you are powerless to stop me.”
I walk in on Caius putting the finishing touches on something orange and seafood-y. My nose pulls me into the dining room. “What is that? I hate to say it, but it’s kinda frightening looking―but it smells amazing.”
“Shrimp étouffée over rice. Found a recipe online.”
“Right…” I smirk for a second before we kiss. “Most people find meatloaf recipes online.”
He heads off for a moment and returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Cerdon du Bugey. Should work well with the spice. Fairly low alcohol content actually helps.”
“Interesting.” I hold up my glass and he fills it about a quarter of the way with a fizzy red.
Oh, I’m going to need more than that to fall asleep, I think. But not now. I don’t want it to hit me until I’m in bed.
The étouffée is outstanding―but also a skosh too hot for me, spice-wise. I compensate with rice.
“Little too much?” asks Caius, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Your face is almost the same shade as your hair.”
“You’re a cruel bastard,” I say with a wink. “It hurts, but I can’t stop eating; it’s so good.”
He waves his hand in a rapid twirl while bowing at the waist. “I aim to please.”
The wine’s got a bit of sweetness, and I’ll give him credit, it does pair well with the flaming shrimp of death. Okay, maybe I’m overstating that. I’m a spice wimp. Hey, I’m Irish. He’s trying to ease me along, but it’s a slow process to build up tolerance.
Right as I slide my glass toward him for more, my cell phone goes off. Shit. It’s the official ringtone.
“Damn. Well, at least I didn’t change yet.” I pull it off its belt holster and answer. “Wimsey.”
“It’s Greer. I just got a call from patrol division. They’ve got a scene that sounds an awful lot like your guy.”
Guilt starts to crush my airway.
“Only, something went wrong. He didn’t finish.”
My heart pounds. “What?” Morrigan! Thank you!
“I don’t have a lot of details yet. The scene is still hot.”
“On my way. Where?”
Captain Greer gives me an address on Wexford Loop.
“Shit!” I shout.
Caius almost drops his fork.
“Something wrong, Wimsey?” asks Greer.
“No, ma’am. I’m out the door. Thanks!”
“All right. Be careful.”
“Will do, Captain.”
“That bad?” asks Caius after I hang up.
“I gotta go. The killer might have attacked again…” I stare at him. “A house on Wexford Loop.”
Now, he really does drop his fork, which hits the plate with a clank.
“I’ve been looking for a guy named Wexford. Not an address.”
Caius leans back in his chair, swiping a hand up and over his head. “Whoa. That’s just… wow.”
“Yeah, that. I will finish that shrimp later.”
I run over, hug him, and dash out the door.
***
With the help of my flashing red light, I make it to the address in about sixteen minutes. Rick’s not here yet, but he’d have a longer ride. Seven patrol cars line both sides of Wexford Loop. Uniformed officers swarm all over the lawn of a modest two-story house with an attached garage at the end of a driveway on the left.
They haven’t set up crime-scene tape yet, so I pull into the driveway behind two patrol cars, the rear end of my Silverado jutting into the road. Squinting at all the police lights, I start across the lawn toward the front door. A caw pulls my gaze onto a small tree to the left of the entry, where an enormous raven perches. The bird looks straight into my soul.
Morrigan. I bow my head in reverence.
The raven emits a squawk of acceptance, then flings itself into the air, disappearing into the night sky.
“Whoa,” says a nearby cop. “Did you see the size of that crow?”
“Yeah.” I walk up to him. “I did.”
“Detective Wimsey,” the man says by way of greeting.
I blink, glance down at the ID on my belt, and blink at him a second time. “Good eyes.”
“Not many detectives with hair like yours.” He smiles. “You’ll want to check with Medina, he’s the senior on site.”
“Thanks. My partner’s on the way. Send him inside when he gets here?”
“Sure thing,
detective.”
I step through the door into a living room. A faint presence of cordite hangs in the air, telling me someone fired a gun in here recently. Three wooden chairs, like from a dining room set, stand in front of a big grey sectional. Two, side by side with their backs to the front door, face a third. All three have traces of white cord on them, suggesting people had been tied there recently. A coffee table lays upside down against the wall under the bay window, obviously thrown aside.
Spritzes of blood mark the carpet a few feet to the right of the chairs.
Careful not to step on any of it, I edge further into the room. The instant I look deeper into the house, my muscles lock up. I’m staring right at the same scene that happened in the bathroom mirror. Any second now, that little boy’s going to step out into the archway by the kitchen and point a shotgun at me.
I leap to the left and take cover behind the wall at the corner.
“Detective?” asks a woman from the right.
“Yes,” I say, glancing in that direction.
A Hispanic woman in a patrol uniform, shortish and on the upper end of forty, puts a hand on her sidearm and pivots to face the archway I’m hiding from. She whispers, “Someone there?”
Not wanting to be considered insane, I say, “Thought I saw something move.”
“The house should be clear.”
A shadow falls across the archway.
“Don’t shoot,” I say. “Police.”
“Ha. Ha,” replies a male officer on his way out of the kitchen. The guy’s so tall he has to duck the top of the arch.
“Ugh. Don’t mind me,” I say. “This case has been keeping me up late. Guess I’m jumpy.”
The woman lets go of her weapon and approaches. “You got here pretty fast, detective. I’m Sergeant Medina. Guess I’m handing the site off to you.”
“What are we looking at here?” I ask.
Medina shakes her head and exhales. “One hell of a bad night. What we’ve been able to establish so far, a man gained entry to the home via the rear patio door. He ambushed the female homeowner, tied her to one of those chairs there… then he goes upstairs, grabs two kids, ties them to the other chairs. Somehow, by the grace of God, the suspect missed the youngest child.”