“You didn’t let me finish, Anna. You need to be saved.” A knife, larger and longer than the one Anna remembered, glinted beneath fluorescent lighting.
Anna hopped to the door, unlocked it, muttering, “You bitch. I’ll never tell it’s you. I’m leaving here, just let me go.”
“But I have to save you.” And the machete blade swung, striking Anna’s neck, taking off her head with one swift movement.
21
Passengers crowded the terminal, and an empty bus waited in the lot, as police inspected all vehicles, questioning tired travelers. An elderly woman, wearing a sweatshirt and scarf, too large for her small frame, told Lacey she’d spoken to the victim. “She was kind to me. I should have told her to wait to use the toilet on the bus. She reminded me of my niece. I’m going to see her…”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Lacey told her.
John made his way through the crowd, his face etched with heartache, but determination in his stance. Earlier he’d told the captain he’d take time off after Ramsay had been put away, that he’d mourn once justice had been served. Now he spoke to Lacey slowly and deliberately, and she wondered if he’d break down before it was over. “Guys checked out everybody.”
“Nobody here did it. You know that, John.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“Bad back there, Detectives,” said Lucy Barnes, clutching her medical bag, pushing open the restroom door, allowing them inside.
Anna lay there, her jeans tangled around her ankles, one of her hands a few feet away—and her head nowhere to be found.
“Don Reiss told her to leave. He knew she was in danger. I have to call him. He…”
“Lacey, didn’t you guys hear?” Lucy looked deep into Lacey’s eyes.
“What?”
“They found Don—or what was left of him—in an underground garage down in Olneyville, just like all the others—head missing—hands severed.”
“Why?” Dizziness began to overtake Lacey.
“I don’t know, kid, but we’ve got to keep our heads…and we’ve got to get Ramsay.” John’s eyes were moist and his face lacked color.
Lacey gripped John’s hand, allowing the dizzy spell to pass, and then she asked, “You doing all right? Tell me you are.”
“No, I’m not all right, but we’ve got to keep moving.” And they went together, in pursuit of someone without remorse—someone who killed without warning…so close—too close…in a darkened tempest.
22
Rain had not ceased, thrashing the Eastern Seaboard, and unbearable humidity plagued the city. Two more bodies had been found in Fox Point, same MO, with witnesses telling the cops they’d seen a woman, fitting Ramsay’s description, speaking to the girls prior to the killings.
Unsubstantial evidence, including contaminated DNA found on Laura’s body, left the detectives with more dead ends, but all witness reports pointed to Ramsay, despite the absence of hard facts. The detectives’ only hope was to retain their undercover personas, and to catch the suspect in the act.
So on that last night—the time of reckoning—Lacey and John took a spot at the bar, surveying the crowd at Hell’s Door. Strobe lights lit up familiar faces on the dance floor, and the same canned disco music played amid clinking glasses and laughter. People disappeared into the club’s back rooms, and others made lewd propositions before exiting to the street, most likely heading to darkened lofts, or sordid hotel rooms.
Someone had propped the front door open and thick mist drifted inside, billowing and curling around dancers wearing garish outfits. Ramsay worked the bar, mixing drinks and preening whenever Lacey looked her way. She served the detectives wine and beer, telling them, “If you want to stick around after closing…maybe we can party.” She smacked her lips. “It’s now or never.”
“It sure is,” Lacey told her, returning a smile, and then shaking rain from her hair.
The night passed quickly, seemingly like a strange dream, and little by little the club emptied and the music ceased. Smells of perfume, whiskey and sex remained in the air, and beyond the door and windows, fog and rain continued to permeate the landscape.
“Nobody left but us. Tonight has to be the night we nail the bitch.” Lacey’s eyes burned with fury as Ramsay sauntered from the bar, shutting off the strobes.
She turned, spotted Lacey standing by John. She made her way through the now empty club, ashes drifting from her cigar. “Glad you stuck around. Want a drink, blondie?” She gazed at John’s hand on Lacey’s shoulder. A menacing smile spread across her face. She leaned over and kissed Lacey on the cheek, brushing her hand against her breast.
Lacey unbuttoned the front of her dress. Her nipples were hard beneath the see-through bra. She licked her lips, her fingers stroked John’s chest, moving slowly down to his belt, and then she slipped a hand in between Ramsay’s legs.
Ramsay smiled again—slow, evil. “Let me lock the back, and make sure everyone is gone. I’ll be a few minutes.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” John whispered as Ramsay disappeared behind the doors. “Does the term entrapment mean anything to you? Going undercover—observing—is one thing, but you might be going too far here.”
“It’s the only way we’re going to catch her. I’ll call for backup on my cell phone.” She opened her oversized leather bag, removed the phone and dialed quickly. “They’ll be here in time. I’ll be the bait—you just have to make her take it.”
John nodded and watched the door. “We’ll have hell to pay if you’re wrong, kid. I guess I’ve got to trust you.”
“You won’t be sorry.”
Ten minutes later Ramsay returned. She turned down the remaining lights, left candles burning on tables, pushed open curtains, covering a large picture window by the bar. Wind ruffled lace draperies, slammed bamboo shades against panes. The smells of candle wax, stale cigarettes, and pot permeated the room.
John drummed his fingers on the bar, lit a cigarette, and then crushed it out.
Ramsay handed each of them a joint, leaned over to kiss Lacey on the lips. She looked at John. “No offense, big boy. She turns me on more than you do. But it don’t mean we can’t share.”
John pulled off his shirt, his muscled arms wrapped around Lacey. He kissed her on the cheek. “I always share my women, Ramsay. It’s the thrill of love—don’t you think?”
John played the game well. All was going according to plan.
Ramsay strolled over to a vintage jukebox; a poster of a woman, chained, legs spread and awaiting torture from a grimy biker type, hung above it. Ramsay looked up at it and her lips curled into a lustful grin. She plunked some change into the machine, hit a button.
Billy Myers sang “Kiss the Rain” as thunder boomed. Lacey began to dance, moving slowly. Candle flames flickered, shadows dancing in macabre fashion on the wall, intertwining, blending with paintings and photographs of nude women engaged in various poses and sexual acts—weaving in eerie rhythm with Lacey’s enticing performance.
She swayed—fluid, graceful—over the wooden floor, occasionally draping her body across a table, rubbing her hands over red silk tablecloths, and then herself.
Ramsay and John stared—transfixed—as she slowly lifted off her dress, unhooked her bra. Full, firm breasts spilled forward.
“It’s so hot in here,” Lacey purred. She grabbed her bag, swung it over a bare shoulder, moved to the side door and turned the knob. Rain rushed into Hell’s Door, wetting the floor, extinguishing candles that burned nearby.
Lacey swayed to the music, stepped into the alley—into the storm.
Ramsay and John followed, watched as the sultry blonde continued her dance of seduction. She cupped her breasts, and then moved deeper into the darkness.
Lacey turned her back. Thunder rumbled as she slid her half-slip down velvet thighs. Her lace panties followed.
Ramsay took a step closer, taking in Lacey’s body, and then asking, “Where’d you get those nasty bruises, honey? Did your boy
friend get a little rough?”
“How—?” John’s voice was dimmed by the storm’s fury.
Lacey giggled, throwing her head back, teasing with her eyes.
Ramsay walked toward her, as if in a trance, arms outstretched, as John slid a hand inside his jacket pocket and gripped his revolver.
Slowly, hypnotically, Lacey turned.
Ramsay pulled a knife from her belt, licked the blade. Crimson, rain and spittle trickled from her mouth. She made a tiny cut on her wrist, held her arm out to Lacey. “Taste my blood, love.”
As Lacey faced Ramsay, John withdrew his pistol and held it down by his thigh. Lacey’s hands moved between her legs, hiding what she knew others wanted. Moving both hands slowly up and down—back and forth—she seemed to writhe with pleasure. She moaned as Ramsay reached out—stroked her breasts. Blood—Ramsay’s blood, blending with rain—dripped across her nipples.
Rain beat on brick buildings, on a Dumpster, on Ramsay’s car parked nearby. Wind swooped newspapers and beer cans down the alley. Sirens howled in the distance. Musty, foul smells rose up to greet them.
Lacey’s hands moved in time, still covering the place between her legs. Ramsay took another step closer.
Lacey removed her hands.
“What the fuck!” her seducer spat.
With nearly inhuman speed, Lacey grabbed the knife from Ramsay and plunged it into the woman’s chest.
John froze, shock and confusion etched across his face.
She lunged at him before her actions had time to register. Like the swift, jarring lightning, she slammed the knife deep into his belly, pulled it free and stabbed him again.
As he slumped to the ground, his gun skidding harmlessly across the pavement, her voice sounded through the din of the rain.
“I never called for backup.” She grinned. “I left when the place closed…you came back here on your own…you didn’t make it. The investigation continues. Without me, of course. You were my partner. I’m too close. The investigation will go unsolved, I won’t be able to handle the strain, not seeing my faithful partner’s murderer brought to justice…and eventually I’ll move on. Then, it begins again. In another city, another department. Another cop…another killer.”
“Lacey,” he whispered, voice slurred as blood and bile exploded up into his mouth. “My God, what…what the fuck are you?”
Lightning streaked the sky; the alley glowed. “The same as you...the same as her. One or both…or anything you want me to be. Anything I need to be.”
She straddled him, slashed his throat, and then began sawing at his neck as blood and rain splattered them both.
* * *
Lacey burst into the darkness of her home. With her leather bag draped over her shoulder, she pushed aside the curtains, unlocked a door. Quickly, she flicked on a light to reveal countless heads, arranged in a macabre circle, a stand displaying a short black wig—similar to Ramsay’s cut and style—stood nestled in between.
She smiled at leering eyes painted black, lips red, cheeks smeared with blood. “Dead lovers,” she spat. Her laughter vibrated with rumbling thunder.
She removed Ramsay’s head from her bag, placed it near her last victim, then reached inside and put John’s head in the middle of the others.
Holding her hands to her ears, she drowned out the sounds of the storm for a moment, and admired her collection.
“I’m Gabriel tonight, but sometimes I’m Michael, Sammael or Sariel…or a photographer—a painter—a cop.” Blood dripped from her hair, smeared her face as she painted her victims’ eyes with dark liner; covered their lips with crimson.
Rain continued to fall in driving rivulets, pounding against Lacey’s picture window as thunder shook the old Victorian house, nestled high on Prospect Street.
Lightning lit up the night, and for an instant, the city of Providence flashed below like a surrealistic postcard.
Gazing at her reflection in the window, she cupped her breasts, then moved her hands between her thighs, feeling the erection grow. Squeezing, massaging until semen exploded against the window.
Lacey looked down upon the city, imagining future encounters—lovers awaiting her touch.
About the Author
Sandy DeLuca has been a painter since 1985. Her worked has been exhibited in college galleries, hair salons, tattoo parlors, bookstores and traditional galleries. Her art has been purchased throughout the United States, Canada, Asia and Europe. In addition, she has painted cover art and interior art for publications that have reached worldwide audiences.
She has been a writer since the late ’80s, penning nonfiction articles and photography for magazines and newsletters—throughout the ’90s. One of her claims to fame is writing under the pen name Autumn Raindancer. Two of her poetic chants were published under that pen in the popular New Age book To Ride a Silver Broomstick (Silver Ravenwolf).
She created Goddess of the Bay Publishing in the late ’90s, producing several anthologies and a string of small-press magazines. From 2001 to 2003 she edited and owned December Girl Press, producing novels and short-story collections.
She was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for poetry in 2001.
At present she is a full-time writer and painter. She’s written and published five novels, two poetry collections and several novellas. She is assistant curator at New Hope Gallery, in Cranston, Rhode Island, and continues to exhibit her art in local venues.
To learn more about her current projects, please visit SandyDeLuca.com.
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