Red Tide

by Peg Brantley

  He held his scotch up to the light in front of him and watched the way the gold color bent the shadows. He could control the entire design of the contents by moving his wrist a fraction of an inch. His party.

  He rifled through the possibilities in his mind. If he could draw out the moment of death, maybe he’d connect with the human being just about to cease his or her existence. A little brutality might be good for his soul. He’d tried the torture route before, but you never knew about these things.

  He imagined different methods he could employ. He hoped for a quickened heartbeat as he vividly pictured what he might do to a body, but nothing happened. He pushed his imagination some more, filling his head with the pain and tears and agonized screams of his victim. He searched his mind, his body, for anything that indicated a human response, but he got only the void he’d always gotten. Even in the moment, he would feel detached.

  Still, it was something to do while he waited.

  What if I picked someone a little nearer to my own circle, someone whose death would be devastating to people I know? Then I could observe the devastation first hand. He drew up a mental list of candidates and checked them off one by one. No, too easy. No, not that one either. Her friends were marginal at best. He considered two men, but rejected them because of the increased danger of exposure. He didn’t want to risk not achieving the emotional ejaculation he’d been searching for his entire life. He pulled up one more name, turned her from side to side in his mind, like positioning a mannequin in a store window. He didn’t know much about her, but maybe it was enough. Yes, she’s the one. The woman was at a good point in her life, well loved, and she made a difference in the lives of other people. For her friends to learn she had died a painful death might be worth the effort.

  He slid his feet into slippers and moved to the bar to pour himself another drink. He reviewed his choices of music, selected a playlist, then walked back to his chair near the fireplace to continue formulating his plans.

  Less than thirty minutes later, he got up and put two more logs on the fire. The wood spit and flared, sending sparks up the chimney and shooting coals onto the planked floor at his feet. He considered it a form of private applause.

  Tomorrow night would be perfect.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  An unobstructed view existed between the building he was watching and the parking lot, but to sit and wait in his car would surely draw attention from someone. Better to sit at one of the nearby picnic tables.

  People passed back and forth, but no one paid him any attention. Being out in the open meant he had nothing to hide.

  It was a good decision not to sit in his car. She must have had a meeting, or some extra work, or something to keep her inside the building longer than usual. He flipped open the magazine he’d brought along, leaned back against the table from the bench and crossed his legs. He smiled at a few of the people who bothered to acknowledge his presence.

  Finally she walked out to her car, a briefcase in one hand and a soft drink in the other. He watched as she twisted her wrist to hold the leather satchel and the drink in one hand, slipped the key in the door, then loaded up her front seat. Such routine movements for someone who doesn’t have long to live.

  Fading sunlight glinted off her hair. She must have taken extra time with it during the day. It doesn’t look droopy or frazzled. Maybe she isn’t going straight home. He casually rolled up his magazine and stood. Might be a long night.

  He slipped into his parked car and tailed her out of the parking lot. He took his time, ready to make a turn if she acted at all suspicious. He enjoyed this part. He’d never stalked a victim before. They’d all just been handy.

  But this one. She had been chosen. Not by some random god, but by him. Would he feel something? Would it make a difference that he knew her? A tingling ran up his spine and he waited for more. Nothing. Still, he hadn’t actually done anything yet, so he could still hope.

  The smell of French fries filled his car from a corner restaurant and he realized he hadn’t eaten for hours. Afterward, he’d celebrate and indulge in a huge steak and maybe a small bowl of perfect lobster bisque.

  She pulled into the parking lot for E-Lev 2. He thought about the fabulous menu and cursed her for making him wait. He couldn’t go in. There was too much risk he’d be recognized. He imagined the fine food being prepared and presented to people who barely had a moment to appreciate its perfection. People who paid entirely too much attention to each other. People who were there to see and be seen. Cretins.

  He settled in to wait. Part of the intrigue was knowing what was going to happen to her when she didn’t have a clue, or at least not a clue she paid attention to.

  He pulled out his iPad, found some free WiFi in the area, and logged on to his brokerage account. He placed a series of puts and calls, then took some of his earnings. He bought as much gold as he could, then put the rest in oil. Even though he had plenty of money and financial gain played no part in his ultimate goal, he thought he might as well take advantage of the situation since it was a situation he controlled.

  She was leaving the bistro. He signed off and stowed his iPad. After a few blocks he relaxed. She was going home. As long as no one else joined her, his game plan was on.

  He parked well away from her house and stepped out of his car. The night air carried a chill and the promise of winter. He pulled the collar of his jacket up and picked up his pace.

  Soft light shone in the windows, but there was no outside light. Good. She isn’t expecting anyone. The front steps announced his presence moments before loud barks came from the fenced back yard.

  He rang the bell and stepped back so she could see him at the door when she turned on the lights. That would be her pattern... a little cautious, on the smart side, but still a person who operated out of basic trust. She’d open the door for him.

  And she did.

  He registered the look of surprise on her face. Before she could question him, he said, “I know this is an interruption of your evening, but I really need to talk to you.”

  She cocked her head to the side, smiled and opened the door wider. “I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine. Would you like one?”

  “Thanks. That would be nice.” He closed and bolted the door, then followed her deeper into the house.

  Two hours later, when he’d grown bored with torturing her and could think of nothing left to do to her, he walked into the kitchen and selected a long, sharp knife. Within moments, he had slashed her throat in a strange smiley-face cut. While blood pulsed into the air, then slowed to a dribble, he cleaned up. No fingerprints, no obvious DNA, none of her blood on the clothing he’d worn under the travel-raincoat he’d stashed in a pocket and which he would dispose of before he went home.

  He posed the body in what he thought was an interesting configuration, did a thorough walk-through, turned off the lights, then left, leaving the door wide open.

  He wanted her found sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Jamie’s house once again filled with people, quiet and absorbed. They spoke in hushed sentences, as if a normal tone of voice would be disrespectful. A normal voice would call attention to the speaker and damage the equilibrium everyone was fighting to maintain.

  People moved in whispers. Doors opened and closed, opened and closed. The sound of hugs was carried on each little rush of air.

  Ciara’s training, which incorporated graceful gestures, allowed the model to reposition from greeter to server to hugger, yet remain within the muted protocol. She acknowledged everyone who entered, shared their grief, and morphed into the next required role. She performed the necessary tasks, but her eyes were vacant. She grieved, but at the bottom of it all, she was a professional.

  Jamie sat, pulled into herself in the corner of the couch, and registered everything in a vague sort of way. Reality was yesterday, not this. Today was some sort of a kick-in-the-gut, badass dream, and like many dreams, this one d
idn’t make any sense.

  Ellen? Tortured and then murdered? It was beyond any nightmare. It was the corroded, fetid underbelly of some monster in another world. It couldn’t be true. She wanted to wake up.

  She thought about the new love she’d seen in Ellen’s eyes. They’d been lit with a kind of promise. She remembered the times she’d seen her friend in action in a classroom. Put the naturally reticent woman in front of a group of inquiring minds and she turned into a force to be reckoned with.

  Fresh tears spilled onto Jamie’s cheeks and she needed to blow her nose. Arnold was around here somewhere. She should probably go find him. But the minute his name floated into her mind, it floated out again, replaced by memories and loss.

  Teague knelt at her feet. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  She cried a little more at the thought of his concern. He had been with her when she received the news. He had made the call to Ciara, and he had talked to Ellen’s parents in Iowa, her brother in Colorado Springs, and Ellen’s principal, Irma Moses. Irma’s here now, somewhere.

  Glad to have Teague’s support, she could do with a little less hovering. He was holding her, watching over her to make sure she made it through this horrible, life-changing event. Even when he wasn’t right next to her, she could feel him watching her.

  “I’m okay, thanks. Could you try to find Mrs. Moses and talk to her? Maybe set up a time when we can get together? She’ll want to set up some kind of memorial for the kids. I want to be a part of that.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’m on it. But if you need me back here, all you have to do is call.”

  Jamie almost laughed. She sank deeper into the corner of the couch. How could anything ever have the same meaning it had before?

  She watched as Arnold Abner slouched over to sit by himself on a barstool in the kitchen. Her heart went out to the FBI agent. No one knew what to say to him. Shoulders drooped, head hung low, he clearly didn’t care.

  Nicholas Grant pulled up another stool and positioned it mere inches from the grieving man. He didn’t touch Arnold or speak. He just sat on the stool, eyes hooded and hands clasped.

  McKenzie shifted on her lap, steady and there for her, willing to soak up some of her heartache if only she’d let him. She absent-mindedly stroked his fur. Socks made the rounds looking for dropped food items of any kind. He loved people, but treats, especially unplanned treats, were something to revel in. Hank and Shelby lay together by the fireplace, looking sad and lost. Where’s Gretchen?

  Ciara came and sat with her. Usually brilliantly lit both inside and out, she sat in a kind of dullness. Jamie reached for her hand.

  “Please,” Ciara said. “Please give me something to do.”

  Jamie pulled Ciara close. The grief Jamie felt loomed bigger than anything even she and Ciara had shared. She squeezed the woman’s hand. “I haven’t seen Gretchen. I think she must be out back. Would you please find her and bring her to me?”

  Jamie watched her friend make her way to the back door. She closed her eyes. Removed herself from the circle of people who had formed their own shape of sorrow and her own grieving body. She removed herself from thought.

  Someone touched her shoulder. Teague. He moved a pillow on the sofa so he could sit close to her. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. Thank you. Ciara went to find Gretchen. I kind of need my dogs around me.” A moment passed, and Jamie felt bad. “And you too, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  The door opened and closed in the rear of the house. Cool air rushed over Jamie as Ciara walked in. “Hey, Honey, Gretchen won’t come for me. She’s well into some scent by your moss rock.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll go get her in a few minutes. I could use some fresh air anyway.” Jamie stretched her lips in what she hoped would pass for a smile.

  Nick and Arnold Abner left, neither saying a word, but Nick had given her a look that unsettled her, even in the midst of despair. She felt a strange kind of embrace from his gaze, one that infused her with the certainty of what Ellen would have wanted. Forward steps. Don’t wallow.

  Irma Moses was standing at the sink rinsing the dishes as fast as they piled up. Ciara was loading up trash bags and Teague was pulling the drawstrings taut, ready to go to the bear-proof garbage bins in the garage.

  Irma folded the dishcloth and approached Jamie, who was still sitting on the sofa. “Honey, I’m heading home.” Irma leaned over and hugged her. “Can I do anything else for you before I go?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you for everything. I’ll see you next week to make plans for the school memorial.”

  Ciara came into the room next and settled in as close as possible. She reached an arm around Jamie and they both pushed back into the cushions.

  “I have to leave for Santa Fe tomorrow morning. If there was any way I could get out of this contract I would but—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know you don’t have any choice. And you’ll be home in a few days. You just get home and get some rest. It’s what Ellen would want.”

  Ciara nodded, then gave her one last hug and walked out.

  Jamie had never felt so alone, even with Teague in the kitchen.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Jax shoved her key into the lock. She didn’t want to be in her lab this afternoon, but she had paperwork to do. Before she left Jamie’s, they had made plans to get together later. She didn’t want to go home, either. That would mean Phil, and she wasn’t interested in dealing with that element at the moment.

  The cleanup from the vandalism revealed that it had been more form than substance. No major damage, just a huge mess. Whoever wrecked the lab had used stuff from the employee refrigerator. All of the collected evidence remained locked up and secure; the equipment not as damaged as she’d feared.

  Maybe some results had come in. She didn’t expect them to tell her much, but they represented one more step in the process. Some cases, like the recent ones here in Aspen Falls, only got answers through the process of elimination. Other cases never reached a satisfactory conclusion.

  Some tea would settle her and help her focus. She grabbed a mug, filled it with water and stuck it in the microwave, then pulled one of her favorite teas out of her personal stash: Mighty Leaf’s Chamomile Citron. A few minutes later, she was savoring the aroma. It would be better with a proper kettle and all the traditional hoopla, but the county wouldn’t give her a stovetop to work with.

  In her office, she tossed her coat and purse on an unopened box of supplies sitting in the corner. As she swung her chair around, she grabbed files from her inbox and sat down heavily, a sigh escaping her lips. She checked her computer to see whether any of the tests had come in. None had. She opened the file on top and started to read, then dropped her head into her hands, her fingers pressed against her scalp.

  Ellen had been murdered. That was bad enough, but she had endured torture and pure horror before dying.

  An ME was coming up from Denver to do the autopsy. Jax would be in the room to assure herself the Denver ME was thorough.

  She pushed her hair back from her face and focused on the file in front of her. If Jax could just get through a little paperwork, she could leave and get back with her friends. Focus.

  Her private line screamed into the silent office. She took a moment before she answered. “Taylor.”

  “Dr. Taylor, it’s Scott Ortiz. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.”

  Why would the local vet need to talk to me?

  “First, let me extend my condolences. I heard about Ellen Grimes. I know she’s... well, was a friend of yours.”

  She nodded, then realized she needed to provide a verbal response. “Thank you.”

  “I know this isn’t a good time, but I’ve discovered something you should know.”

  “Go ahead.” What in the world would a vet have discovered that an ME should know? Unless Phil’s gone and done something stupid, like giving steroids or a cocaine derivative to rac
ehorses. She shook her head. I really am tired.

  “I’m aware that several people have died recently of unknown causes and—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dr. Ortiz.”

  “Please, it’s Scott. And Aspen Falls is a small town, with a tight-knit professional community.”

  She took a sip of her tea.

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Taylor. I found out about the apparent murders from official sources and I haven’t spoken about them to anyone else.”

  “I appreciate that. And it’s Jax.”

  “Okay, Jax. Here’s the thing.” He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “People started bringing me carcasses of wild animals a few weeks ago. It’s unusual to see so many dead animals with no sign of plague or trauma, so I decided to run autopsies.”

  “Autopsies are expensive.”

  “Tell me about it. My bank account might never recover. But I needed to know what was going on. Most of the animals that were brought to me were too decomposed to get good tissue samples for analysis, but the more recent ones weren’t.”

  “And?”

  “Most of the animals were emaciated, with little to no food in their stomachs—”

  “That can be explained by a lot of things.”

  “Agreed. But some also presented with evidence of respiratory problems and others had brain lesions.”

  “I’m listening.” She had seen a slight indication of respiratory issues in the bodies she’d examined, but nothing conclusive. Asphyxiation had played a role in the last two victim’s deaths.

  “I retrieved enough good tissue samples on the last three rabbits and one fox to run tests. I think I’ve discovered what killed them.” He paused. “I know this is going to sound crazy, and you’re the first person I’ve spoken to about this. I guess I need to get some kind of corroboration that I haven’t dived off the shallow end of the pool, which at this moment sounds much more feasible than what I’m about to tell you.” He took a deep breath. “I tested for toxins, and saxitoxin came up the winner.”