A flicker of light.
No, a reflection.
There is something in the dark figure’s hand.
Once again I try to speak. I try to warn her. I scream a silent scream.
Her eyes grow large in sudden astonishment. Her lithe body jerks upward in a violent spasm. A crimson stain spreads savagely across her breast.
I’ve seen this before.
I can’t make it stop.
I can’t look away.
“ Why, Rowan?” she mouths wordlessly. “Why?
Indigo darkness.
A distant ceaseless scream.
“ Why don’t you make it stop, Rowan?”
I turn again. Ariel faces me, her lace gown streaked vermilion. Glassy eyes stare unblinkingly at me. Her lips are frozen in a perpetual scream, yet only silence moves past them.
“ How can I make it stop, Ariel? Tell me.” My voice halts and jerks, changing in speed and pitch as if haphazardly pieced together.
“ Please make it stop, Rowan?” Her pleading voice meets my ears.
Her lips never move.
Misty rain.
Grey misty rain.
An endless scream.
I don’t know when the nightmare started or even how long it lasted. It could have begun mere moments after I closed my eyes or for all I knew, the last slumbering seconds before reopening them. Logically, I knew that the entire sequence couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes at the most. Emotionally, I was certain it had lasted for hours.
Felicity was still sleeping soundly when I awoke bathed in sweat and tangled almost irremovably in the sheets. My heart was racing, and I gasped hungrily for air to feed it. Slowly, I withdrew myself from the damp snarl of the bed linens and retrieved my Book of Shadows from the nightstand next to me then made my way to the bathroom and closed the door. I switched on the light in an effort to chase away my sudden irrational fear of the darkness then perched myself on the cool tile ledge surrounding the tub and began the task of relaxing. Fifteen minutes and three cups of water later, my pulse and breathing finally returned to normal.
Pulling the ink pen from its loop in the cover, I opened the Book of Shadows, my diary of dreams and thoughts, and proceeded to record every detail of the vision I could remember while it was still fresh in my mind. Every single thing I saw, no matter how nonsensical. Every little nuance of my emotions, each and every sliver of information, I scribed within the pages of the book until there was nothing left to write.
Senseless fear fought to grip me once again as I doused the light and returned quietly to the bedroom. I mentally beat the emotion down and after returning my Book of Shadows to the nightstand, slid into the bed next to my wife. I cuddled next to her in search of comfort, and she shifted lazily as I slipped my arm around her. I pressed myself to relax and rested my cheek against her soft auburn hair, drinking in its sweet scent. Before long, fatigue won out over irrational panic, and I floated easily into the world of sleep.
The clock on the nightstand read 1:45 A.M. when I rolled over and peered blearily at its glowing face. I was enveloped in a fog of half sleep and struggled to grasp the concept of why I was awake at such an hour. A loud, obnoxious clamor reached my ears and then fell silent. I closed my eyes and decided I must be dreaming, then rolled over. The noise, now more clearly a ringing sound, filtered into my ears again and was followed by Felicity’s sharp elbow poking me in the ribs.
“Aye, Rowan, get the phone, then,” she mumbled from her own half dream state.
I rolled back to face the nightstand and groped for the receiver. When my fumbling fingers finally located the device, I grasped it and lifted it from the cradle, cutting off the noise mid-ring.
“Hello,” I croaked, my voice permeated with sleep.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Ben’s tired voice came rhetorically from the earpiece.
“You’re not in my driveway again, are you?” I mumbled.
“No,” he replied. “But I can have a squad car there in about fifteen minutes if you don’t feel like driving.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, quickly becoming more alert.
“Number three” was his only reply.
CHAPTER 12
I jotted down the address and nudged Felicity into wakefulness. After dragging on a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, I started a pot of coffee and proceeded to put on my socks and tennis shoes. By the time the coffee was finished brewing, my wife had dressed and was sitting at the breakfast nook with her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
“You want some of this?” I asked her as I filled an oversized travel mug with the hot black liquid.
“Aye, is it decaf?” she asked sleepily.
“No. Sorry.”
“I shouldn’t then,” she said with a slight yawn. “The doctor said I should be avoiding caffeine, what with the baby and all. I’ve already broken that rule a couple of times this weekend.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed. “Would you rather skip this and go back to bed? I can go by myself.”
“No.” She shook her head and stifled another yawn. “I’d rather go along and see if we can catch this guy. That way we can all go back to bed and get some sleep.”
I tucked the address into my shirt pocket and snapped the lid onto the travel mug. Upon opening the front door, we were greeted by slightly cooler temperatures than earlier in the day, though the air was still heavy with humidity. Moments later we were on our way, my petite wife behind the wheel.
The clock was just clicking over to 2:30 A.M. when we rolled to a halt on what should have been a quiet side street in the small suburb of Stone Knoll. The scene was similar to the methodic confusion I had experienced just one night before, minus the rain. Felicity was quickly mesmerized by the flickering lights and sat momentarily transfixed until I rescued her from the stupor with a gentle nudge.
News vans were already rolling in on the scene as we made our way past parked patrol cars to the crux of the activity. A uniformed officer executing his duty blocked our path as we neared the yellow tape that cordoned off the house.
“You’ll have to move back folks,” he stated evenly as he insinuated himself between us and the end of the driveway. “Press isn’t allowed in this area.”
Apparently, we had been mistaken for members of the media, and I quickly understood why when I remembered the bulky camera bag slung over my wife’s shoulder.
“We aren’t with the press,” I told him. “I’m Rowan Gant, and this is my wife, Felicity. We were called here by Detective Benjamin Storm.”
“Hold on just a second,” he returned with a nod and then spoke into his radio handset.
A few seconds later, Detective Carl Deckert came out of the front door and trundled down the driveway to the barricade where we stood.
“Rowan, Felicity,” he greeted us, nodding at the officer who acknowledged and extended a clipboard for us to sign in. Deckert waited patiently for us to finish then held up the tape so we could duck under and shook our hands quickly as we walked.
“Ben’s inside. Sorry no one was out here to meet you,” he apologized. “But it’s a little on the busy side around here.”
“Aye, that’s understandable,” Felicity told him, her voice laced with a full Celtic lilt.
“So you’re pretty sure it’s the same guy?” I asked.
“Pretty sure,” Deckert answered, pulling out surgical gloves and handing them to us as we neared the door. “But there are some changes in the M.O. That’s why you’re here.”
“What kind of changes?”
Deckert opened his mouth to reply and then paused for a moment before continuing, “I’d better let you see for yourself.”
“Do you always carry these things around in your pockets, then?” Felicity queried, indicating the gloves as she drew them over her hands.
“In my line of work…” he shrugged and then added with a grin, “Besides, my brother-in-law owns a medical supply company so I get ‘em cheap-as in free. So… if yo
u don’t mind me askin’, what’s with the heavy accent all of a sudden?”
“What accent?” my wife asked, cocking her head to the side.
“She’s the real-deal Irish,” I interjected, answering for her. “It tends to really bleed through when she gets tired.”
“O’Brien, yeah.” He nodded. “Makes sense. Just wasn’t expectin’ it.”
“You get used to the linguistic flip-flops after awhile. You should hear her when she’s had a couple of drinks.”
“Aye, will you two quit talking about me like I’m not even here, then?” Felicity declared.
“Sorry, honey,” I told my wife as I turned my attention to her. “Now, when we go in, ground, center, and be careful. You’re gonna feel a lot of stuff flying at you, and if you don’t watch it, you’ll zone out. Trust me, I’ve already been through it. If you feel like you’re headed for trouble, get out.”
“Okay.” She nodded assent, and I literally felt her falling into a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern that mimicked my own. “I’m ready.”
We entered and followed Deckert toward the rear of the house, carefully weaving our way around crime scene technicians who were focusing intently on their jobs. The cold aura of death surrounded us as we advanced down a narrow hallway and through the doorway at its end. The frigid atmosphere permeated the room, stabbing me with its sharpness. A quick glance at Felicity showed me she was feeling it as well.
The room was simple, basically rectangular in shape, with an antique chest of drawers dominating one corner. Against the wall, a matching dressing table resided. The makeup and perfumes that adorned the top of the table were neatly arranged to the back, and occupying the center were two hardened puddles of candle wax, one white, one black. Next to them, a wine glass was wrapped around its volume of crimson liquid. An ornate, pivoting frame, supported by similarly carved wooden arms, was canted slightly against the wall. The mirror it had once held now lay shattered, spilling like silvery gems across the floor. The once hidden wall behind it now bore the pastel-shaded image of a Pentacle and three familiar words inscribed in a dripping scrawl.
A queen-size bed, stripped of the top layer of linens, jutted out into the middle of the room from the wall opposite the dressing table. Occupying the center of the bed was a long mass covered with a white sheet. Hands protruding from beneath the edge of the fabric and bound to the headboard with duct tape gave clear evidence as to the identity of the mass. The pungent odor of burned sage and rose oil still hung cloyingly in the air.
Ben was talking to the medical examiner when we walked in, and he looked up as we ventured farther into the room. The forensics team had recently finished dusting for fingerprints, and the dark grey powder coated any likely surface they had checked.
“Keep it up and the department is going to have to issue you a badge.” A grim-faced Dr. Sanders greeted us as we stopped at the foot of the bed.
“Dr. Sanders,” I said and motioned to the medical examiner. “This is my wife, Felicity O’Brien. Felicity, Dr. Christine Sanders. The doc here is the one that stitched up my head.”
“O’Brien, huh,” Dr. Sanders said as she canted her head in my wife’s direction. “Maiden name?”
“Aye,” she answered.
“Good for you,” the doctor approved. “I kept mine too.”
Felicity smiled and then returned her own nod. I’m sure she was relieved at not having to explain the difference in our last names for once.
“Thanks for comin’ down, you two,” Ben said, once the introductions were over.
“No problem,” I replied and then motioned to the covered body. “Same as before?”
“Not entirely,” he answered. “That’s why I called you.”
“What’s different?” I queried.
Ben nodded to Dr. Sanders, who skirted around us to the other side of the bed and grasped the corner of the sheet.
“You gonna be okay with this?” He directed the question at my wife. “The real thing’s different than pictures, ya’know.”
“Aye,” Felicity drew in a deep breath and let it out heavily. “I’ll be all right, then.”
“You must be really tired,” he observed aloud.
“Well it IS the middle of the night.”
“Yeah, and yer doin’ the accent.”
“I don’t have an accent,” she replied. “You do.”
“Yeah, right.” He nodded then turned. “Go ahead, Doc.”
Dr. Sanders threw back the covering to reveal the nude corpse of a young blonde woman. The victim’s glassy, dead eyes stared up at the ceiling, frozen for all time in sheer terror. Her torso had been flayed but not completely as with the previous two. This time the killer had removed only patches of her skin, carefully arranged in a geometric pattern that formed a Pentagram.
“The killer removed the heart in a fashion similar to that of the Barnes woman,” Dr. Sanders began, “but the removal of the skin was much more precise than the previous cases. I would venture to say he’s getting better at it.”
“I was wrong,” I said, kneeling down to have a closer look. “Karen Barnes was just lesson number two for him.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Ben asked.
“He’s still practicing,” I explained. “Lesson one was Ariel Tanner. He taught himself to skin a living human. Lesson two, Karen Barnes. How to remove a still beating heart… Now, lesson three… He’s refining his technique. Making it more complex… More exacting…” My words trailed off as my eyes roamed over the mutilated remains of the young woman. My stomach revolted against the sight, and I forced it back down, fending off the nausea.
“There’s another twist to the whole thing,” Ben told me then turned his attention to the medical examiner. “Doc?”
“There is trace evidence of semen on the sheets,” she explained. “I’ll have to check her back at the morgue, but the preliminary exam indicates that she was subject to sexual intercourse very recently.”
“Maybe the asshole is startin’ to get off on what he’s doin’ to these women,” Ben spat.
“I don’t think so,” I told him. “The killer is too involved with the ritual. To defile his sacrifice would make no sense.”
“Skinnin’ people alive then rippin’ their hearts out doesn’t make any sense either.” Ben was becoming angry with the situation, and it showed in his voice.
“To you and me, no it doesn’t,” I calmly stated. “To him, I think it does.”
“Well, when I find this son-of-a-bitch, it’s gonna stop makin’ sense to him real quick,” Ben returned. “As for the semen, I have to assume he raped her, and that might let us ID his blood type and maybe narrow the field down.”
“I know,” I answered, “but I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“Who is she?” Felicity, who had been silent until now, asked somberly. “Do you know?”
She was facing the wall, avoiding the hideous display. I could see that the color was just returning to her pale cheeks.
“Ellen Gray, per her driver’s license and work ID in her purse,” stated Detective Deckert who had been observing quietly. “According to the neighbor, she’s separated. Her old man moved out about two weeks ago.”
“Does he know yet?” she pressed.
“No. Not yet.”
“I take it the door was propped open like the others?” I questioned.
“Yeah,” Deckert answered. “Lady across the street works the three-to-eleven and noticed it when she got home. She came over to see if something was wrong and found her. Luckily, she had enough wits left to dial nine-one-one. By the time the paramedics showed up, she was so hysterical they had to sedate ‘er and take ‘er to the hospital.”
“Any ideas about how the killer got in?”
“Sliding doors on the basement,” he returned. “Looks like someone popped the latch with a pry bar or something.”
“Then she probably didn’t know him,” I submitted.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Ben announced. “She wa
s a nurse at County Hospital.”
“Where R.J. works,” Felicity almost whispered.
“‘Zactly,” Ben replied.
“Did you talk to him like you planned?” I queried.
“He wasn’t home. And it was his day off, so he wasn’t at work.”
“That still doesn’t prove anything, Ben,” Felicity told him.
“Maybe not, but he sure as hell just moved another coupl’a bricks over to the other side of the scale.”
“Has anything turned up to indicate that R.J. knew Karen Barnes, then?” she asked.
“No, not yet,” Ben answered, “but we’ll be talkin’ to the husband and neighbors again in the mornin’.”
“Ahem,” Dr. Sanders cleared her throat, and we all turned to her. “I hate to interrupt, but if you’re finished with the body, I need to get her to the morgue.”
“Sorry ‘bout that, Doc,” Ben told her. “Go ahead. We’re done.”
“Any revelations, Mr. Gant?” she said, looking at me.
“Excuse me?”
“You were correct about the fingerprint on the Barnes woman, even if it was smudged,” she explained. “I was just wondering if you had any new ideas.”
“Not at this point in time,” I answered. “Sorry.”
“Just checking,” she said with a thin smile.
We moved off to the side and allowed Dr. Sanders and her assistant to carefully place the lifeless young woman into a body bag and zip it shut. They expertly placed her on a gurney and proceeded to wheel her out.
“I guess she’s been reading what the papers have had to say about me,” I stated after they left.
“She’s okay with it,” Ben told me. “She doesn’t necessarily believe in it, but she’s okay.”
Felicity was still looking a bit pale, but she seemed to be holding up well so far. She had retrieved a camera from her bag and was going about the task of photographing the back area of the room where the killer had performed his atonement ritual. We knew the pictures would be redundant, but cameras were like a focal point for her, probably due to her profession. Simply peering through a lens brought an entirely different clarity and dimension to the world around her, and she used it to her advantage.
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