by Heidi Brod
The beach is quiet and eerie in the dead of winter and the feeling almost postapocalyptic.
“What the hell?” Belle says, looking out over the dashboard.
Deep breath, hands on their guns, they enter the abandoned building. It’s empty, aside from an open laptop in the center of the room. The light streams in through the blown-out windows, making it feel even more surreal. Harper turns the power on and keeps his eyes glued to the screen. He clicks on the only file on the desktop.
When he hits enter, a cipher comes up on the screen. It looks like a classic Caesar Cipher. Easy to decrypt, each letter of the message is replaced by the letter three positions later in the alphabet.
Harper’s cell starts to ring. It’s Jessa calling. He will have to deal with her later. He silences it and takes out a paper and pen.
“Just call out the letters to me.”
“K.”
“K translates to H.”
Back and forth they go until Harper has it all down. The first clue:
Heaven has no rage like love turned to hatred, Nor hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Belle shakes his head. “A paraphrased poem? Is this some sort of joke?”
“I have no idea what this cryptic shit is all about.”
“You think it’s a hoax?” Belle remarks.
“I don’t. I think it’s a move, like chess. And we’re up.”
For Harper, there is always a flaw, even in the best-laid human plans. He just has to be patient and wait for it. He needs to stay positive and focused.
Belle’s phone rings. He picks it up and puts it on speaker.
“Where are you?” Lara’s tone is sharp.
“We are at the warehouse.”
“We’ve got a positive ID from the vigil in front of Brooke Beck’s apartment.”
“Thanks, Lara. We’re on our way back,” says Belle. “Harp, over here.”
He makes his way over to Belle, who is holding a large gel capsule with a brownish powder in it.
“What is this?” Belle asks.
“I don’t know. Let’s get it to the lab.”
Harper looks over at Belle, and suddenly his smile is gone.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not seeing the connection in all of this? You?”
“Nope.”
As they drive back over the Brooklyn Bridge, its suspension wires and cables remind him of a marionette. He hates getting played like a puppet. He feels out of control, like someone is pulling his strings.
Back at the police station, FBI Agent Walthrop stands in front of a whiteboard filled with details and bloody crime scene photos. The room reeks of coffee and sweat under the flickering glow of the fluorescent white lighting. Lara Kane has her head down on the white table, clearly trying to collect her thoughts and link together the confusing pieces of the puzzle.
“Can you get a rush on this?” Belle says, handing Lara the brown gel capsule to investigate.
Lara has the video pulled up on her computer from the night of Brooke’s vigil, frozen at the image of a red- headed male in his early twenties, leaving flowers on the steps of the brownstone.
Lara says, “Meet Johnny Finn, a registered sex offender. He’s a local contractor hired to do a renovation on the neighboring brownstone.”
Lara continues, “Finn says he was just Brooke’s friend. Johnny was at a bar less than ten miles away on the night of the murder.”
“Nice job. Is he here?” Belle says.
“We seized the laptop, and we put a digital tracker on it. He’s waiting for questioning,” Lara says.
As part of the FBI’s Next Generation Identification System, the database houses millions of photographs they can use to identify a face in a crowd and track them through the facial-recognition computer program.
“Johnny, we just need to ask you where you were on the night of Brooke Beck’s murder,” Harper says.
“I was at the Union House. Grabbing a beer.”
“When was the last time you saw Brooke Beck?”
“I went to her apartment the day she was murdered, but she wasn’t there. She was at school.”
Harper glares at Johnny and asks, “How did you get in?”
“She left a key in the umbrella stand near the front door. She wasn’t home much, so I used the place to clean up before I went out. I work in construction.”
“That’s awfully nice of her. Was she your girlfriend?” Harper asks.
“No.”
“Did she know you are a registered sex offender?”
“That was something that happened a long time ago, and it was never my intention to hurt anyone. I didn’t murder Brooke Beck. She was my friend. That’s all.”
Harper doesn’t get the feeling this kid is capable of murder. Johnny Finn lacked the intelligence and sophistication to pull off something like this.
Harper continues, “Why don’t you tell us how you ended up on the Megan’s Law registry and convicted of sex crimes against children.”
“It was a hard time in my life. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt like I had no future. So a bunch of my friends and I decided to take LSD in Central Park. We wanted a spiritual experience.”
Johnny stops and sucks his teeth in for a moment, as if he isn’t sure he wants to go any further.
He goes on, “I started hallucinating and thought I was going swimming. I took off all of my clothes and climbed into the fountain near the Boat House. A preschool class was on a field trip, and I was arrested for indecent exposure.”
Harper isn’t sure this is the truth, but anything this stupid just has to be true.
Johnny says, “People like you have ruined my life. I can’t go anywhere without that one mistake following me. I can’t hold down a job, much less get a job that’s worth anything. It’s all on my record, and it was just an accident.”
“I’m sorry. That’s a tough break. And before that you spent some time in the army?”
“Yes. I was discharged after a suicide attempt. I have PTSD. I’m sure you know that already.”
Harper trusts his gut feeling that Brooke’s murderer is still out there.
“Yes. I think we’re done here. Thanks for coming in. We’ll be in touch if we need to ask you anything else. You can pick up your computer on the way out,” Belle says.
“Harp, this pill is Ibogaine; it’s a psychoactive alkaloid from the root bark of the central West African shrub, iboga.”
“What’s it used for?” Belle says.
“Well, it’s illegal in this country, but it’s used in other countries to treat heroin or any other long-term opiate addiction. The side effects are brutal: nausea, vomiting, and violent, mind-warping hallucinations. Either you detox or the hallucinogenic trip will kill you. It’s legal in some countries, controversial but effective.”
“How did they get their hands on it here?”
“You can still get it on the dark web. They may have busted Silk Road, the drug bazaar of choice, but there are a dozen more vendors just like that where you can still go.”
“Anything else?” Belle asks.
“It does have another use, as a shamanistic ritual. It’s a traditional African spiritual practice that induces what they call an awakened dream state. It provides insight into past traumatic events that can lead to addiction and negative thinking. It’s sort of a psychological reboot.”
“You mean I can fast-forward years of psychotherapy with this one little pill?”
“It’s a very powerful drug and hard to regulate, based on a traditional African spiritual practice that focuses on ancestor worship and a direct connection to God.”
“Do you think we’re dealing with some sort of ritual crime or secret society?” Lara asks.
“No, I think we’re dealing with a ps
ychopath who works alone, and one that seems to know a lot about botanical poisons and psychedelics.”
Harper has heard enough. He doesn’t know what to make of the psychedelics and wonders if they are being used as some sort of herbal date-rape drug. There is no way that tool, Johnny Finn, could commit murder.
Harper is having trouble focusing on anything other than Jessa. His mind is racing, obsessing over her lies. His anger, like lightning, strikes hard and fast.
By the time Jessa texts Harper, he’s already parked across the street from her apartment in SoHo, smoking a cigarette out the window of his car, just watching her.
He tries to calm himself as he walks across Greene Street. He tends to lose control when he is this angry. He can feel his teeth grinding, his whole body tense, and his eyes bulging with rage. As he gets into the elevator, he is reminded of their affair.
He starts to breathe slowly, in and out, and by the time the doors open into Jessa’s apartment, he is more at peace.
Jessa is waiting for him, arms folded, hair tightly bound in a sexy braid, and her white silk shirt is just a hint transparent.
“Hi, Harp.”
“So what is your real name? Jessa or Jessica?” Harper says. “Maybe you can start by telling me who I was with last night?” he asks, using a carefully controlled tone.
“My real name is Jessa. My escort name is Jessica, but I’m guessing you figured that out.”
“What does ‘real’ even mean to a girl like you?” he says with derision.
“Is that what you wanted last night, to see the ‘real’ me? Because men like you are so narcissistic they see whatever it is they want to see.”
She is trying to provoke him. This girl has no fear. Now he’s angry again, eyes like steel, lips curling into a snarl.
“Do you accept money in exchange for sex, Jessa?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” His eyes are cold and flinty. “How about I give you a free pass just like you gave me one when you fucked me in the elevator last night.”
“Fuck you, Harper.”
He grabs her face roughly in one hand and brings it close to his. “Don’t test me, Jessa. You will lose. I promise.”
Her breath hitches. She pushes back, her nails digging into his skin.
The heat between them is growing. He hates himself, but he still wants her, despite her bad choices. He watches her, now vulnerable, walls down. She is biting at the bottom of her lip, holding back tears.
“You’re scaring me, Harper.”
He can feel the blood course through his veins, mind lost and twisting. The lack of sleep is wearing him down, still haunted by last night’s vivid dream.
The open moon shining its silvery light over quicksand, the surface of it shimmers and shakes. A hand rises up from the center; he reaches in, fingers slipping away like grains of sand.
In his dream, as he moves in closer, a head rises from the quicksand. He sees himself drowning in silent terror.
He catches himself and lets go of Jessa, breathing, trying to relax. Without words, he moves slowly toward the living room, taking a seat on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” she says honestly. “I felt a real connection to you, and I didn’t want to ruin it with the truth.” She sits down next to him.
He lets out a bittersweet laugh.
He looks at her curled up on the couch, like an exotic animal, well worth his capture.
“You’re so beautiful,” Harper says. “I just don’t understand why you do it?” His gaze is distracted by the glow from the streetlights outside. It should be so easy for him to walk away.
“I like the adrenaline rush of it, I guess. I like sex.”
His eyes search hers, wanting so much to understand, to possess her, but knowing he never will.
“Aren’t you worried you’re going to end up dead?” he asks.
Even with her darkest secrets exposed, she is confident, fierce, and dangerous.
“I don’t know, Harp. Aren’t you worried that you’re going to end up dead? Are we really so different?” Jessa says this with a radiant, crooked smile, her eyes blazing through him. The heat between them is charged and electric.
“Maybe I’m an accident of nature, but I prefer the rush of the unknown,” she says, her breathing rhythmic and shallow. She leans in, her body lightly touching him, and whispers softly, “In another time, I could be your royal mistress and you my king, and there would be no scandal. It would be my job to pleasure you.”
She provokes him with her mouth, her eyes, her breasts. The strength of his desire is no longer under his control.
He touches her face gently and strokes her cheek. She pushes him away, not wanting his tenderness, wanting him for his strength and to dominate her.
He can tell she wants to be punished, so he points to the bedroom. “Crawl to it.”
She smiles and gets down on her hands and knees, enjoying the game.
He watches her body move, graceful and voluptuous. He bends her back over the bed, unbuttoning her shirt, removing her lace lingerie. He runs his hands over her breasts, thighs, and torso, covering her body with his. She trembles at the strength of his touch. He rips off her skirt as if it is made of paper.
He bites at her nipples, twisting her as if she is made of elastic, until she begs for him.
“Not yet,” he says, ruling over her like a king, and she takes great pleasure, as if it is her responsibility to honor and revere him.
“Look at me,” he says, every kiss adding to the warmth of their bodies, until slowly he eases into her, the rhythm of her pleasure mounting until her need to be taken and satisfied is her only unconscious desire.
He watches her, worships her as she rolls onto him, undulating, bodies fused together, both ravenously hungry for each other.
They climax together, a blaze of ecstasy ripping through his body.
She takes his hand and puts it to her cheek. He runs his fingers through her hair and brings her close with light kisses all over her body.
He is still aroused; the excitement pulses through him, but this time he pulls away.
“Stay. Just for the night,” she says.
She rolls over next to him, twisting every inch of her body around him, as if he needs more than her body to convince him.
“If we lived in a different time, your marriage would only be a matter of politics and preserving bloodlines,” she says.
“What do you really think can happen here, Jessa?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m open to anything,” she says, clearly talking about her body.
“Listen, I wanted to get away from my parents. I just didn’t want to have to depend on anyone for money. I only do it once or twice a month. I enjoy it. For just one night, I get to be whoever I want to be. It’s not my—forever plan. It’s just for right now.”
“Well, you better rethink your major, because I don’t see medieval studies as the off-ramp you’re looking for,” he says, with laughter dancing in his eyes.
“Look, I’m not sure I can protect you, Jessa. I need to know who else is involved. Did someone put you up to this? I can keep your name out of things, if you can give me more information about Brooke and the night of the murder. We think she may have had information as to who the Renaissance Killer might be.”
“Renaissance Killer?”
“Yes, a serial killer responsible for murdering women in the sex trade in Boston. The case went cold, but the poison used in Brooke’s murder makes us think the cases are connected.”
“Don’t you think I would tell you if I had any more information?” she asks innocently.
“I think you’ve got a mind of your own. I think you do what you want, and you’ve convinced yourself you’re in control and you can handle the pain, maybe even enjoy it.
Any pain other than the one that comes from living an ordinary life,” he says.
He can see her mind working, trying to come to terms with some choice she has to make.
Harper isn’t proud of this trait. His greatest professional strength makes him a flawed and deplorable human being. He always knows how to push people, just hard enough to make them break.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Jessa. Trust me, I’ve seen how it ends. The story will break, and you will be exposed for prostitution. If not tomorrow, then the day after that, and I can’t protect you.”
They dress in silence.
To Harper, truth is the only thing that matters because it almost always leads to justice; more than his feelings for Jessa or the guilt and anger he feels toward himself for losing Seraphina a little at a time.
Justice matters above all else, or at least that’s what he tells himself.
It makes it easier for him to contain his emotions as he walks out the door. Jessa walks him to his car. She surprises him with a kiss. He pushes her away gently and instead holds her tightly, as if he may never let her go. He feels alive with Jessa.
Harper’s eyes fill with tenderness. He is intoxicated by her and can’t handle the thought of leaving her. The passion takes over, and he kisses her in the middle of the street before getting in his car and driving away.
If only Harper had looked back.
Ten
SERAPHINA AND JESSA
I’m standing on a corner in SoHo, watching Harper kiss his whore, really leaning into it, giving her every inch of him. She has that sexy, tousled, already-came-hither look about her—the one that I used to have when Harper and I first started sleeping together. The worst part is, he looks happy, young, and carefree. She flips her head back, and I can almost hear her girlish giggle, a sprinkle of laughter like a bullet through my heart.
She doesn’t look like a home-wrecker or porn star. She just looks like a girl, the kind you would see walking into any trendy gallery or upscale restaurant in SoHo, having a drink at the bar. She is very much a girl like me—or at least, the girl I used to be.
I start to shake and shiver from the feeling of rage as it courses through my suburban veins. The light from the streetlamp exposes all of their sins. His whore sighs, releasing a small, steamy cloud into the night air. If she thinks she’s tired now, just wait until she spends her days trying to live up to me. Any attempts to send him back will be marked “return to sender.”