The head was lovingly placed in a gaudy plastic bag, bought in the ten-dollar arcade—as always—to admire when loneliness came, a souvenir to be showered with kisses, with promises spoken softly in stygian night—and loved forever. In life those girls had only known twisted passion, instant gratification—doomed to walk alone in a merciless city—redeemed by an elusive slayer.
And a disconsolate figure walked hunched over, huddling close to buildings, eyes cast downward, carrying a macabre trophy—a beautiful reminder—locks of raven hair clotted with blood, and severed veins dangling, where once rhinestone jewels from downtown arcades shimmered.
There would be others, so many to choose from—so many to adore with sharpened knives and kisses of blood. Soon childhood memories emerged—those filled with murky nights, spent kneeling on a wooden floor, hands bound tight—and eyes blindfolded, as Sister read from a book, generations old—stained and torn. Telling him his birth had been a cruel joke—an aberration of nature.
“You are cursed,” Sister told him. “But I know you have a purpose.”
Her name had been Margaret, and her eyes shined when she ran a finger over yellowed pages, and her voice cracked when her words echoed throughout an attic room, “And the redeemers must slay the sinners so they can be saved. Their flesh will be eaten, and blood will be licked from their wounds. And there will be shrines created with bone and hair in their memory.”
6
Lacey entered a diner on Waterman Avenue, on the East Side of Providence, a place where art students gathered on stools before glass windows, eating sandwiches stuffed with deli meat and thick cheese. Girls, with faces devoid of makeup, wearing jeans and oversized cotton blouses, mingled with boys, carrying notebooks, textbooks and chugging bottled water. They all looked so clean—innocent—compared to the clientele at Hell’s Door.
Lacey ordered a turkey sandwich and a bottle of green tea, and then sat at a table by a side window. She checked messages on her cell, and then her watch. At that moment, Gino Caldini entered—a man who’d recently retired from the homicide squad. He’d taken Lacey under his wing when she first arrived in Providence, showing her the ropes and introducing her to the area…and to John Demmings. She retained respect for Gino, and cherished his advice.
She called his name as he brushed past a group of young girls, chattering nonstop about the local art scene. He waved, then joined her.
He sat across from Lacey, and she realized how tired he looked, with dark circles under his eyes; his face devoid of color, looking older than a man in his early forties. He’d worked some of the city’s most high-profile cases. He’d arrested a killer dubbed The Arcade Hacker, who’d decapitated several working girls.
Gino spent months in therapy after he’d caught the killer sawing off the head of his latest victim outside a bar on Westminster Street. The Hacker was homeless, mentally ill and sent up to the state facility for the criminally insane, claiming Gino had framed him, but DNA proved otherwise. Gino had recently returned to the homicide division, but people whispered behind his back, saying he’d take early retirement, and that he’d lost his edge.
“You doing all right, Gino?”
“Not so good, kiddo. Haven’t been sleeping well, but I had to come see you. I heard about the case you’re working on, with John.”
“Hey, man, eat something. I’ll get the waitress.”
“No, I’m fine. You want my take?”
“Yeah, I’d appreciate it.”
“Ramsay Wolfe needs to be taken off the street.”
“I know. Think the evidence against her will pile up?”
“Yeah, just keep after her. There was a similar case…around thirty years ago. In Fall River, Massachusetts…woman, named Robin Murphy, was a pimp who used the same props as Ramsay for dominance…bogus devil worship and threats…for power over her girls. She scammed the district attorney and the state police. Beheaded a girl, and that was after she chopped off her hand…after she put her through hell. And there were others…bitch killed every one of those girls, but ended up with a second-degree rap, because she made a bargain with the DA. Ramsay is a carbon copy of Murphy—highly intelligent, without remorse and a manipulative bitch. Guy named Carl Drew got first-degree, and some people swear he’s innocent—claiming Murphy manipulated everything.”
“John and I are undercover at Hell’s Door. We’re hoping—”
“She’s smart, Lacey…as smart as you. She notices things most people don’t. She’ll remember every word you tell her—every move you make. Be careful.” His hands trembled as he spoke. “Ramsay…she’s been here for years. Girls turned up missing before. Some got beat up so bad they’re not any good. Saw it happen to a woman who used to work the Elmwood area. Lost her eye, ended up at the state mental facility—took too many blows to the head. Get enough on Ramsay…use every trick you know…and nobody is going to blink when she goes down.”
“You sure it was Ramsay who beat that girl—and is responsible for other crimes?”
“Could never prove it.” He looked to the street, glancing at a girl skipping by, kicking up water, seemingly carefree. “It goes that way sometimes, but it doesn’t mean Karma won’t kick her in the ass.”
“You sure you’re all right? I mean, if you need to talk again…about anything…”
“I’m good. You need anything else, give me a yell.”
“Gino, do they keep you awake at night—the dead?”
“I tried to give them justice…I tried. I see their faces when I close my eyes…people killed in every conceivable way…I…It’s what we do…it’s in our blood…so be it.”
He pressed his hands to the table, and then slipped out of his chair. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. You good? I’ve got business downtown.”
“Yeah, your insight is priceless. Thank you.”
He nodded, then left without a word, moving into the rain.
Lacey finished her sandwich and tea, paid her tab, and then left behind the happy girls with bright futures.
“You’re so lucky,” she whispered, when a red-haired girl with a sprinkle of freckles passed her on the walk. Lacey watched the girl cross the street, falling into the arms of a young man, as the rain fell in torrents.
“So lucky.”
She’d send Ramsay to jail…if it was the last thing she did. She’d get through it…just like always, knowing somewhere in the city someone else might be in danger…and would be the next to die.
7
Belinda felt someone checking her out as she lifted a third glass of sangria, but she merely stared into the red liquid, feeling the nerves at the base of her neck tingle. Men had always stared since she’d been a teenager back home. Longing glances and lewd suggestions became second nature as she got older, especially when she dressed for work, donning tight miniskirts, high heels and low-cut sweaters.
She’d drifted into a small café near the cathedral, craving drink and music. She hadn’t bothered to remove the red wig, nor thick mascara, but she’d grabbed a long black raincoat from the seedy hotel room, where she’d left a sleeping trick, making sure to empty his pockets and wallet, before she ventured into the rainy night—with the coat belted and wrapped around her curvy body. And someone watched, despite her attempt to conceal her sexuality.
She’d been tired, done for the time being, and didn’t want to encourage anyone. She’d finish her drink, take a walk, make nightly wishes, and then go back to the fourth-floor flat on Ring Street; one of many within a monstrous building, with four floors, and tiny apartments nestled side by side. She hated it there, and no matter how much she cleaned, spiders crawled out from the baseboards—and rain, from cracked windows, spattered on worn tiles. In the winter the old basement furnace knocked and grimaced, and the ancient radiators leaked.
“One day I’ll get a good job, make a decent living and have a nice place…” she thought.
She finished the drink with one long chug, slid off the bar stool and made her way out the door, head do
wn, eyes on the walk; then a prickly feeling moved down her spine—but when she looked over her shoulder, no one was there.
She didn’t mind walking in the rain. It felt good against her face; as though it washed away things she’d done in the crumbling hotel room. She moved past an old-world cigar shop, a billiard supply place and a string of Italian eateries. She stopped to buy chocolate from a Spanish man who leaned over a counter, watching the nightly news on a small TV, racks of trail mix, hard candy and condoms towering above him.
He told her, “Careful. News says somebody is killing girls.”
“I will,” she said softly, remembering her youth and her toughness. “I’m invincible anyway.”
The man chuckled. “I said the same thing when I was your age. You’ll learn…”
“Maybe,” she said, tossing a chocolate kiss into her mouth.
She glanced over her shoulder—making sure nobody followed. And she made her way to the river—a sacred place—where she became a small child again, throwing pennies into shimmering water, wishing for a better life, and brooding because she could never go home.
One last penny rested in her palm, as she watched the river churn, and then the full moon emerged from a cluster of blue-black clouds. A soft voice sounded, asking, “Do you have some spare change?”
She turned quickly. “I—” Instantly someone was on her, pushing her onto wet brick and cement, tearing open the stolen raincoat, and then quickly slashing—knife blade speckled with rain and her blood.
* * *
The girl fought, kicking with pointed shoes, scratching with clawed nails. She stopped after Gabriel severed her hands, merely looking to the sky with lifeless eyes. Such a pretty one, with short curly hair and Cupid lips, but she’d been bad, turning tricks in cars and at an unkempt downtown hotel. Sometimes she partied at Hell’s Door, doing things she wouldn’t dare if she hadn’t been high—if she hadn’t been alone and lost.
Her blood tasted sweet to Gabriel—maybe it’d been the sangria she sipped, or the dark sugary chocolate she’d stopped to buy at the all-night drugstore. She’d stood beneath the shop’s canopy, chewing slowly, those Cupid lips speckled with sugar crystals. She’d pulled up her coat collar, making her way to the river, a place where she often tossed coins into roiling water, making wishes in the rain.
She’d cursed when she’d been pushed to the pavement, rain splattering on her; face, legs and arms moving furiously.
But she’d been saved, and would be cared for, her head placed carefully on the sill, candles and incense burning in her honor. Her eyes cast upward, no longer searching for unrequited love, but existing in a place of everlasting devotion.
* * *
August 28, 2012
Belinda was young and I told myself she had time to change, to mature and realize her goodness and worth, but months went by, and things got worse. I saw the look on her face when she spread her legs—enjoying what those men did to her, never seeming to be satisfied.
Yet, I allowed her to live, because I remember how Sister changed when she got out of jail—still young and pretty—but shunning men who pursued her, dressing in baggy clothes and letting her hair grow limp and unkempt. Her only concern was saving the lost.
I recall the day the police took her away, handcuffed, face spattered with the blood of a woman she’d met in a county bar. And I knew on that day I’d have to take her place.
And she told me, “Gabriel, remember your destiny…”
And I remembered when I killed her.
8
Unrelenting rain plagued the city with power outages, flooding streets and damaging old tenement buildings and businesses located in low-lying areas. The full moon’s effect was felt at high tide, when water from the Providence River gushed onto sidewalks and streets. City crews worked relentlessly to alleviate the damage, as the temperature dipped, causing fog to move in.
At midnight, Lacey entered Hell’s Door. Spotting John standing in a corner, she nodded. He looked like a Gothic knight; his dark shoulder-length hair wilder than usual, dark eyeliner beneath his brown eyes and a hint of white powder on his face. On his T-shirt was the image of the popular fictional vampire Fandazzo. A wide-eyed nymph beneath him, her legs wrapped around his back.
Lacey moved through the crowd, clad in a black lace mini dress, her hair piled high on her head, loose tendrils cascading down her shoulders. Men and women turned as she passed, and she smiled, noticing John’s stare—mesmerized. She looked up at the ceiling; painted figures engaged in various sexual acts loomed—rendered with bright neon colors. Something new had been added—a visceral scene of a hooded figure, standing in a trash-littered alley suspended above the bar—a killer clutched a bloodstained blade in one hand, and held a severed head in another. The canvas was seemingly painted in frenzy, with bright impasto reds and various shades of black and gray. The artist’s signature sprawled over a headless body—Ramsay Wolfe.
“Twisted bitch,” Lacey whispered, as her gaze flickered throughout Hell’s Door. And she realized that night after night the same people gathered there. Goths, hookers and druggies mingled with bored housewives who slipped away from the burbs for thrills. They flirted and preened for businessmen, enthralled with decadence, and for women who performed illicit acts with strangers—flirtation often leading to trysts in the aberrant back rooms of Hell’s Door. Ramsay cashed in on customers, drinking overpriced booze and eating greasy burgers, served by skimpily clad waitresses. And working girls from all corners of the city turned over a percentage of their earnings to remain on darkened street corners and deserted storefronts. Others enjoyed the safety of a nightclub or restaurant bar, perpetually in danger, but bound to an inescapable way of life.
Lacey moved close to John. The smell of his cologne wafted forward—so sexy—so inviting—too dangerous. She threw back her shoulders, ignoring his slow smile and the way his gaze took in her body. “What’s up? Have you seen Ramsay tonight? Seems she’s quite the artist. Did you see—?”
“Yeah, chatted with her a bit. Found out she’s got a degree in Art Education, but decided academia wasn’t her cup of tea. She asked about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Told her you’re always late. She said she looks forward to seeing you again.”
“Not my type.”
“What is your type?”
“Don’t have one right now. Where is Ramsay now?”
“She’s partying in the Pleasure Chambers, had three other women with her. They’ve been back there for about an hour now. I doubt she’ll try anything. Too many witnesses…”
“Want to take a stroll?”
He put his arm around her slender waist. “Sure, we’re just another couple looking for thrills.”
She looked at him, anger—confusion—in her eyes. “Don’t hold me so tight,” she whispered.
He loosened his grip. “You’re a moody one. We need to talk when this is over.”
She ignored him as they made their way into the chambers.
Another world—much darker—more sinister—opened up before them.
Smoke clouded a maze of chambers, where men and women were naked, high on drugs, most oblivious to anyone who watched. Those who noticed Lacey and John motioned for them to join in their sexual tête-à-têtes—faces contorted with macabre expressions. Many of them were chained, tied—writhing in pleasure and pain—as their masters whipped, cut, defiled them.
They found Ramsay in the last room.
A petite brunette lay beneath her, naked, with wrists and ankles chained to bedposts. Two redheads—twins—were on either side of her, their legs spread wide. The brunette let out a scream as Ramsay opened and closed breast clamps on her nipples. On the bed lay a knife, blood-slicked, crimson trickling from a small wound in the brunette’s neck. Several other ornate blades, of various sizes, lined the shelves.
Sensing their presence, Ramsay turned. “Care to join us?” Spittle dribbled down her chin. “The more the merrier.” Her gaze rested o
n Lacey, green eyes smoldering.
John spoke slowly, “We’re off to find a private room.”
Ramsay seemed to stare right through Lacey. “I’ll be here if you need to expand your horizons.”
When they were out of earshot, Lacey hissed, “We’ve got to keep an eye on that sick bitch. I know those knives are legal, but any one of those girls could end up dead—maybe all three of them…”
“I know, and she’s set on you,” John told her as he nudged her arm with his elbow.
“Well—like I said. I’ll use it to our advantage.”
They passed by rooms where exhibitionists performed on beds draped with silk; plush pillows and odd candles (horned creatures and red-eyed demons) flickered on lace-lined shelves. Voyeurs lined the hallway, smoking dope, smiling wickedly.
“Vice would have a field day,” Lacey whispered.
“It’s their baby when we’re done.”
“Yeah, they’ll be on it.” A vague image of a dark figure, wielding a knife, stabbing a woman in an alley, flashed through her mind. It quickly flickered away, leaving her with feelings of dread and eminent darkness, as they completed their tour of aberrations, and then took spots at the bar, nursing drinks, and waiting for Ramsay to emerge.
An hour later, the red-haired women made their way out the door—unharmed—but still high on drugs and drink. Ramsay kissed the brunette good night, sliding her hand up the younger woman’s skirt as she whispered in her ear. She watched as the girl made her way into the rainy night. Ramsay flattened her palms on leather-clad hips, a thin cigar dangling from her mouth. “Be careful, sweetie, there’s a weirdo lose in the city.” She waved, then spun on her heels, grinning when she spotted Lacey and John standing by the bar.
A couple of girls, young, dressed in black, seemingly fascinated with Ramsay’s persona, stopped to chat with her, their laughter soft, and their faces flush with excitement. Ramsay waved a waitress over, ordered her to bring the girls wine, and then she made her way toward the detectives.
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