by Mark Lukens
Perry studied the woman and the table. There was a set of Tarot cards laid out and a revolver at the other end of the table out of her reach. She was face-down on the table, her arms hanging down limply at her sides. The back of her head was a gory mess, her hair matted with blood and brain. The wall behind her was a spray of blood with a few chips of the woman’s skull embedded in the drywall.
“She didn’t kill herself,” Perry muttered as he stared down at the gun at the other end of the table.
If she had shot herself, Perry thought, the gun would most likely still be clenched in her hand on the table with her finger on the trigger, the finger possibly snapped when the gun and her lifeless hand flopped back down to the table. Or the gun would be on the floor near her, dropped from her hand as soon as the bullet rocked her head and body back into her chair.
But the gun wasn’t in her hand or on the floor or on the table beside her. It was at the other end of the table, right near the edge, almost balancing there on the edge.
“Forensics will test her fingers for gun residue,” Jackson said.
“They won’t find anything,” Perry muttered. “Someone killed her. Someone came to her house, entered through that front door, sat down and shot her in the head while she sat there.”
Perry moved quickly through the house and Jackson followed him.
“Nothing looks like it was taken,” Jackson said. “Nothing even looks disturbed.”
Perry walked from the woman’s bedroom back down the hall to the kitchen. His eyes roamed over the counter, and then he opened one drawer after another.
Jackson watched as Perry looked at him.
“All the kitchen knives are gone,” Perry said. “It’s the same guy.”
Perry closed the drawer and looked around the kitchen, and then he walked back through the wall of beads to the front parlor and stood near the table, looking around.
“The knives are gone, but he must’ve taken something else,” Perry said.
Jackson glanced around at the parlor they were in, trying to see everything in a new light. Nothing seemed disturbed in the house. He looked at Miss Helen’s body a little more closely. Maybe the killer had taken something off of her body, from somewhere underneath her clothes. But he didn’t think so. Her body didn’t look disturbed. Forensics would study the body, and then it would be studied even further at the morgue. If something was taken from her, they would find out what it was.
Perry stood in the middle of the front room, still looking around. “I think he came here to take something from her house. Something specific that he wanted or needed.”
“What?” Jackson asked.
Perry shook his head, and his eyes still had that faraway look in them as he studied the floor, the walls, and the archway to the kitchen. “I don’t know what it was, but I know he took something else.”
4.
Tara listened to the ringing on her cell phone as a horn honked behind her. She looked up at the traffic light – it was green.
She gunned the gas and the Jeep’s engine roared as it took forever to build up speed. She drove as she listened to the ringing, thinking that she would get Agent Woods’ voice mail soon.
But then he answered.
“Agent Woods here.”
“Hello?” Tara said. “Agent Woods?”
He just said that.
“It’s me,” she continued quickly. “Tara Simmons. You came by to -”
“I remember you, Miss Simmons.”
“Do you still want to talk with me about some things?”
“Yes, Miss Simmons. Very much so.”
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
“Meet me at a place called Sal’s Bar and Grill. I’ll tell you how to get there.”
5.
Tara sat at a corner table in the upscale bar and restaurant. It was a slow night; there were only a few people at the bar and three couples at the tables. None of the customers sat near her table – she had asked specifically for a table out of the way; she even promised a big tip for the inconvenience.
She was on her second glass of wine when she saw Agent Woods walking past the empty tables towards her.
He sat down opposite from her.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Tara told him.
“Thank you for calling me.”
A waitress approached their table and she gave Agent Woods a lingering eye and a seductive smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Tara watched the waitress, and she suddenly felt a little ignored. David Woods was a handsome man, there was no doubt about that, but there was more than that to him, there was a kind of power and confidence that oozed from his pores. She had to admit that she felt much safer just being near him right now.
“I’ll have some water,” Agent Woods told her and gave her a small, seductive smile of his own. “Bottled water, please, if you have it.”
The waitress was about to turn away to fetch Agent Woods’ order, and Tara had to hold her wine glass up to get the woman’s attention. “Excuse me, ma’am. Keep these coming please.”
The waitress gave Tara a curt nod and then turned on her heels and sashayed away.
Agent Woods watched the show the waitress put on for a moment, but then he turned his gaze back to Tara – he was all business again. “What happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened?” Tara asked, taken by surprise for a moment. How did he know that something had happened?
“I don’t think you’d be calling me if something hadn’t happened,” he explained. “You were pretty adamant before about not wanting me in your home.”
Tara felt a sudden blush of embarrassment on her face. She finished off her glass of wine. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
Agent Woods gave her a tight smile as he waited for her explanation.
“My apartment,” Tara finally said. “Someone was in there.”
Agent Woods sat up a little straighter and he folded his large hands together in front of him on the tabletop. He stared at her with his dark eyes. “Someone? What, like a burglar?”
“No. I don’t think anything was taken. I don’t know, really. I didn’t stick around long enough to check.”
The waitress returned with a cold bottle of water for Agent Woods and another glass of red wine for Tara. She stared at Agent Woods a little too long, smiled a little too wide.
But it didn’t look like Agent Woods had any interest in the woman anymore – he was focused on Tara now.
“Anything else I can get you?” the waitress asked.
“No, thanks,” Agent Woods said without looking at her.
“He was in my apartment,” Tara said after the waitress left them alone. “I mean, somebody was in my house, but I know it was him.”
“Him?”
Tara sighed. “You know who I’m talking about.”
“I just want to be very clear here, that’s all.”
“The killer. The one who’s been killing people lately here in Tampa.”
Agent Woods nodded like he was satisfied. He cracked open the plastic cap on his water bottle and took a long sip, his dark eyes still on her the whole time.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“No, I didn’t see him. But I could feel his presence in there.”
Agent Woods just stared at her.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I can feel him sometimes, but only when he wants me to. It’s like he left a trace of himself behind in my apartment, like a scent, but also like a feeling in my mind. It feels like a dark and suffocating presence. It’s hard to explain.” She shook her head. “I know this probably sounds crazy.”
But it didn’t seem like Agent Woods doubted her in any way.
Tara sighed. “He left something for me in my apartment.”
That got Agent Woods’ attention. “What?”
She finished off her glass of wine and stared at him. “It would be better if I showed you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
1.
Tara leaned against the counter in her kitchen as she watched Agent Woods screw in the light bulb over her stove. He had replaced all of the other light bulbs for her already. She drank another glass of wine, this one from one of the two bottles that she bought at Publix earlier. She was feeling a little tipsy from all of the wine, but she was also feeling a lot better now.
She watched Agent Woods work. He’d taken off his dark suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt like a man getting ready to do some physical work. She watched the muscles of his forearms flex as he screwed in the light bulbs. She had a chance to really study him, and for once (maybe it was the wine) she didn’t scold herself about it.
He had offered to replace the light bulbs – she hadn’t asked him to do it.
“Shouldn’t these be left where they are as evidence?” she had asked him.
But Agent Woods didn’t feel like these light bulbs were much evidence. He had saved one of them in a baggie so he could send it to a lab later and check for fingerprints. Before replacing her light bulbs, he had checked all of the doors and windows for signs of forced entry, but he didn’t find any evidence.
Tara looked at the single light bulb in the plastic sandwich baggie on her countertop – it was a light bulb from the closet in her office, one she didn’t need to use much. And she always had extra stocks of light bulbs along with the batteries and flashlights. She set her glass of wine down on the granite countertop and picked up the baggie. She stared at the light bulb inside.
“I don’t think you’ll find any prints on this light bulb.”
Agent Woods was finished screwing in the light bulb over the stove. He even wiped his hands together like he was brushing off invisible dust after a job well done. He watched her.
“I think he wears gloves,” Tara explained. “Dark, slick gloves, like latex. Black ones.”
“It won’t hurt to try,” Agent Woods said. “And I have to check for prints, it’s kind of like part of my job.”
Tara almost laughed out loud, but she stopped herself.
Agent Woods stared at her with his unwavering dark eyes. “There’s been another murder,” he said.
“I know. I saw it in a dream. Some of it, anyway.” She felt a little strange talking so openly about her psychic abilities to someone she barely knew.
“She was a fortune teller,” Agent Woods continued. “She called herself Miss Helen. I was on my way to check out the crime scene when you called.”
“Oh,” Tara said. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Do you need to go?”
Agent Woods gave her a tight smile and shook his head no. “I’ll read over the detectives’ reports. Then I’ll go and check out the scene by myself tomorrow. I like to be at a crime scene by myself. Helps me concentrate better.”
Tara just nodded. She didn’t know what to say.
“Besides,” Agent Woods continued. “I think I might find out more information here from you.” He stared at her for another moment. “What did you see in your dream?”
Tara took another sip of wine as she let her mind wander back to the dream she’d had earlier. She nearly closed her eyes as she tried to remember the fuzzy details.
“Miss Helen knew the killer was coming. She was ready for him. At least she thought she was. But he was one step ahead of her. I just remember gloved hands, slick black gloves, and they were closed in a fist. And then the hands opened and six bullets dropped down onto a purple, velvety table cloth.”
Tara opened her eyes and stared at Agent Woods. “That’s all I really remember. I see things through his eyes, so I never really see him. I saw Miss Helen’s face. I saw her eyes. She was so frightened, but there was also this … this resignation, like she knew that she was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. When I woke up, there was this …” Tara took a deep breath and thought for a moment, “…this kind of depression and sadness weighing me down.”
Agent Woods nodded. He leaned against the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen.
Tara took another sip of wine, feeling braver by the moment. She stared at Agent Woods, locking eyes with him. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“What do you know about this killer so far?”
Agent Woods sighed. He hesitated like he wasn’t sure how much detail he should share with her.
“I mean, if you’re not allowed to talk about that kind of stuff, I understand,” Tara added quickly.
He shook his head and looked away like he was wrestling with something in his mind. Then he looked back at her. “It’s not that.”
“Come on into the living room,” Tara said. She felt more at ease with the agent now, which was unusual for her; she was usually nervous around strangers, especially men, especially attractive men.
Agent Woods followed Tara to her couch and recliner.
“You sure you don’t want a glass of wine?” she asked him.
“No, thanks,” he said as he sat down on the recliner, on the edge of it, like he was tense.
Tara sipped her wine, waiting to see if Agent Woods was going to tell her anything.
“I’ve been tracking this killer for the last two years now,” he finally said. “Tracking him across several states. On the surface the murders seem random, unconnected. The victims are often killed in different ways. Sometimes they’re killed quickly. Other times they’re tortured. Some have been stabbed, some shot, some beaten.”
Tara nodded and sipped her wine.
“But I’ve noticed two things about each murder.”
“What?” Tara asked.
“Recently, at each murder scene, the killer started taking things from his victims. He took one person’s eye. From a few others he removed their ears. Teeth from another one. A finger from another. But it’s not always body parts; sometimes he takes a possession of theirs, something they own. Items that don’t seem to make much sense.”
“He took blood from Jen,”
“Yes,” Agent Woods agreed. “And skin from the next man.”
Like he’s collecting things, she thought.
“What’s the other thing you’ve noticed about the murders?” Tara asked. She was hunched forward now at the edge of her couch, almost mimicking Agent Woods’ pose, and she clenched the stem of the wine glass tightly in her fingers without being aware of it. She watched the agent, waiting for him to continue.
“This might sound a little crazy,” he said.
“Try me,” Tara said and snorted out a sarcastic laugh – she’d experienced crazy lately; she was an expert at that.
Agent Woods took a deep breath and then spit it out. “Many of the victims, as far as I can tell anyway, may have possessed some degree of sensitivity to psychic phenomenon.”
Tara stared at Agent Woods.
He got up and paced around the room. He seemed more energetic now as he continued, more passionate.
“I’m not even sure if some of the victims realized they had any psychic powers at all. But the killer knew. I think that’s how he locks on to them. I think that’s how he always stays one step ahead of them.”
Agent Woods stopped pacing and he stared at Tara. “And now I think he’s locked on to you.”
Tara averted the agent’s dark eyes. Yeah, she already knew the killer had locked on to her.
“Or maybe you’ve locked on to him somehow,” he said, a little more excited now. “Maybe he can feel your … your psychic power … or your ability, or whatever you would call it, and he doesn’t like it.”
It may work both ways, Tara thought, but she knew that the killer had locked on to her, not the other way around. She still couldn’t help believing that this killer was the same man, the same monster, who had slaughtered her parents. The Shadow Man. These night terrors she’d experienced lately, these oppressive feelings of dread, they were the same exact feelings she’d felt right before her parents were killed. He had gotten away after killing her paren
ts, and then he had possibly been searching for her all these years as she moved around, trying to pick up her signal again – and now he’d found her.
And now it was time she told Agent Woods about it. “When I was sixteen years old, my parents were murdered.”
Agent Woods nodded, but he didn’t seem surprised.
“You knew that already,” Tara said after seeing his expression. Of course he would know that already. It was public record, and apparently he’d already done enough of a background check on her to know that she had tried to help the Tampa Police Department with her psychic abilities, so he probably knew everything available about her history.
But the agent’s eyes were softer now, and she could see the compassion in them for her.
“I think this guy is the same person who killed my parents,” Tara went on quickly. “I don’t have any proof; it’s just something I feel.”
Agent Woods nodded like he had the same feeling.
Then a thought occurred to Tara. “If there’s a connection between psychics and this killer, then why don’t you just have a psychic try to lock on to this killer?” As soon as she said the words, she realized why the agent was here in her apartment, why he had come to her for help.
“We’ve tried,” he said as he paced back across the wood floor, his shoes somehow barely making a sound. “But he’s always blocked them out. The ones who tried said it was like nothing they’d ever felt before, a sense of evil and darkness like they’d never imagined. None of them offered to try again.”
Agent Woods sat back down on the recliner and watched Tara.
“And that’s why you came to me for help,” she said and took another sip of her wine.
“I came across reports of you helping the Tampa police. You tried to work with a Detective Perry and a Detective Jackson.”
Yeah, Tara thought, and they thought I was a nut.
Agent Woods leaned forward and stared at Tara, his eyes seemed to pierce her. “We need to stop this guy before he kills again. Before he gets to you.”
He was right. At some point she had to try and fight back. She couldn’t keep running. She drank down the rest of her wine in a few swallows and set the glass down on her coffee table (a little harder than she had intended) and she stared at Agent Woods.