by L E Fraser
Stopping Incubus tonight isn’t possible, but I can put the fear of God into Jerry Lutz. After I grab my keys, I drive to Yorkville.
A red Honda sedan idles outside Lorna’s front door. Lutz has upped his game. Instead of skulking like the rodent he is, he’s making sure she knows he’s spying on her. I hang back a block away and wait for him to leave. Let’s see how he enjoys a stalker.
The car remains stationary for close to half an hour. Jerry keeps the engine running, and the interior light illuminates the back of his head. Just after one a.m., the interior light snaps off and the car pulls into the street. It turns left and I follow.
Jerry travels north to the highway and moderate traffic allows me to keep a few cars between us, not that I care if he spots me. Ninety minutes north of Toronto, he exits the highway and treks along back roads. According to my GPS, we’re moving northeast. After multiple turns, we follow an old country highway that cuts through an escarpment. The moon is full and cloud cover is light but it’s drizzling and I don’t want to be stuck in the wilderness during an ice storm. I consider turning back but I’m curious about where he’s going.
An hour later, I navigate a sharp curve. The flicker of taillights is gone. As the road straightens, I catch a glimpse of red in the woods to my right. Maintaining my speed, I peer into the bush. Brake lights shine on a narrow road. It has to be Jerry. I continue past but memorize the location of the lane.
About a half-kilometre along the two-lane road, there’s a spot to turn and I circle back to the lane. The idling car is gone.
My Grand Am bounces over potholes in the uneven dirt road. About a kilometre in, a sensation of unease engulfs me. My gut instinct is screaming at me to get the car out of sight. Without rationalizing it, I kill my headlights and pull into an opening between the evergreens. The moonlight is bright but visibility within the shadows of the towering trees is poor. I stop the car and grab a flashlight from the glove compartment. Then I remember the night vision monocular that Joyce gave me. Turning, I rummage in the backseat until I find the gift box.
I walk back to the lane and peer through the scope. A dilapidated house looms in the distance. Five minutes into the hike, there’s a drone from an approaching engine. I dive into wet forest brush and lie flat against the cold ground. The red Honda drives by without slowing.
Standing, I brush wet leaves off my jeans and walk to the house. There are no vehicles parked in the yard and no smoke from the chimney. A red light flashes above the door. Three seconds later, it blinks again. Backing into the cover of the trees, I examine the porch through the night vision lens. A CCTV camera hangs above the front door. Avoiding the camera’s arc, I round the house. The high foundation implies there’s a cellar. If it’s a hunting lodge, it’s doubtful that Jerry drags his murdered animals through the house. There must be an exterior entrance to access a butchering and curing room.
Searching for cameras, I circle the house. Flat brown cellar doors arch from the ground and extend two metres up the stone foundation. There is no camera. A centre deadbolt lock secures the cellar doors. I trot over and kneel. It’s a basic pin-tumbler design.
Pulling off my gloves with my teeth, I remove a pick set from my wallet and pop out the tension wrench and Bogota rake. Placing the wrench at the bottom of the key hole, I apply just enough pressure to let the driver pins rise before inserting the rake at the top of the lock and sliding it to the back. I feel for the right torque on the wrench and scrub the rake back and forth to set the pins. It takes a few tries but the driver pins clear the shear line. There’s a click and I tug open the doors.
Cement steps slope into a dark hole. I wiggle my fingers into the tight gloves and switch on my flashlight. Ducking my head, I descend the stairs. A fetid odour of decay fills my nose. A rodent’s faint scratching causes the hair to rise on my neck.
A narrow corridor leads to a door. It swings open when I push on it. It’s an empty space with a dirt floor. A freestanding staircase ascends to ground level. Swinging my flashlight beam around the circumference, I realize the dimensions are wrong. It’s the correct width, but there must be another chamber beside this one. Returning to the corridor, I spot a second door. As soon as it opens, a coppery reek of blood makes me gag. Staggering back, I pull the edge of my turtleneck over my mouth and nose. This must be where Jerry butchers his slaughtered animals. The strong LED beam illuminates the interior and my face slackens with shock. My brain struggles to process what my eyes insist is there. The heavy flashlight shakes in my trembling hand.
In the centre of the room is a black medical exam table with steel legs. Brown leather restraints circle the outstretched metal stirrups. Bolted at the table’s midpoint is a second set of restraints with buckles. Beneath the edge of the exam table is a puddle of gelatinous liquid pooled on the soil floor. A gluttonous rat feeds on the substance. Its red eyes glare at me and it crouches on its hind legs and hisses, baring its sharp yellow teeth.
Beside the right stirrup is a stainless-steel trolley with wheels. On top is a case with diamond-embossed surface panels surrounded by an aluminum frame. There are two shiny U-snap latches and a sturdy handle on the front panel. To the far side of the left stirrup is a stainless-steel instrument table with four swivel casters and a crank handle to adjust the height. Shiny surgical tools lie on a blue sheet. A three-tier makeup palette rests beside it. There are two stools at the base of the exam table.
Below the right stirrup is a foot pedal with a thick blue cord winding up to the trolley. A brass connector on the end of the cable rests like a snake’s head beside the closed black case.
Air whistles out of my gaping mouth. I lurch toward the table, kicking the rat’s fat body and moaning as I crouch beneath the stirrups. A sweet, pungent odour fills my nose and the metallic stench plugs my throat. The puddle of gore is sticky beneath my fingertips.
“No,” I whisper. “This can’t be right. This isn’t right.”
I crawl to the trolley with the black case on top, knocking over one of the stools as I grapple to clutch the metal edge. My heart gallops in my chest and white noise fills my head.
Fumbling, I unlatch the two silver clips and open the case. Perched inside high-density black foam dividers are four giant silver pens with palm-sized steel frames that hold dual coils. Attached to the thick metal barrel of the pen is a tapered tube. Below the tattoo guns is a power supply. Nestled inside cut inserts in the lid are half a dozen different size steel tips. Bottles of ink stand upright in pockets at the bottom of the case.
A guttural yelp tears from my throat. Clasping my hand against my mouth, I spin in a circle, unable to compute the horrors that flash before my eyes.
Joyce’s naked body lying on the medical table with her legs secured to the stirrups. A high-pitched whine of a tattoo gun as the needle plunges into her tender skin. A fastidious hand wiping away a bead of crimson as a hideous lily emerges against the gentle curve of her ankle. The silhouette of a man hunched between my sister’s thighs. Her agonized screams as he pierces her cervix and scrapes away her uterus.
Powerless to stop the vision of Joyce’s blood gushing from her body to soak the ground, I scream until my throat is raw. I hurl a stool and shove over the trolley. The alloy box containing the tattoo guns falls and lies with the lid ajar beside the puddle of blood.
Howling, I drop to my knees and dig my hand into the bloody sludge. Did my sister pray that I’d save her before the last of her life dripped from her mutilated womb?
I move elsewhere in my mind. My hand opens and the blood-soaked dirt falls away. I no longer sense the dampness of the cellar or smell the reek of death. My sight narrows to a pinpoint of white through a hazy wash of red. My breath grows shallow and my arms fall limp against my sides. Emotional detachment washes over me.
Jerry Lutz is Incubus.
With jerky movements, I pick up the tattoo kit and secure the lid before I place it on the trolley. On deadened legs, I trudge to a stool and roll it into position by the righ
t stirrup. I set the instrument table where I first saw it and brush the blood-tainted soil from the exam table.
The torture chamber looks exactly as it did. I back out and follow the corridor to the stairs. Outside, an orange and yellow glow tinges the eastern sky. It’s sunrise. Hours passed while my soul perished in that cellar. The noise in my head fades. Kneeling, I remove my gloves and select my tools. There is nothing but the wrench in my left hand, the rake in my right, and the open lock. With laser focus, I relock the deadbolt and use my scarf to wipe away my fingerprints.
Incubus will never know anyone found his lair. When the final flicker of light extinguishes in Jerry Lutz’s eyes, Joyce will have her revenge. I will be free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Eli
MUNCHING ON A Jamaican patty, Eli strolled through the condo to Danny’s workstation. He wanted her advice about Reece. Over the years, Eli had memorized hundreds of social rules and had learned to simulate somewhat normal eye contact. It was exhausting to act the way society expected, but he did okay. His challenge was that the subtext and hints hidden within average speech confused him. If a person beat around the bush, Eli missed the point. Deciphering facial expressions and body language was tough for him. If everyone talked plainly, life would be simple.
This afternoon at the office, Reece had told him that he was disappointed over Eli’s lie. He hadn’t fired him, so Eli considered the subject closed. But people seldom said what they meant. Human communication required the receiver to read nuances, which Eli couldn’t do.
Danny was an introvert and hated everyone, but she was great at decrypting emotionally saturated code. Eli possessed verbatim recall and could recite any conversation that troubled him. If Reece had concealed a secondary message, Danny would recognize it.
“I talked to Reece,” he told her between bites of his patty.
Danny ignored him. Her expression was grim as she studied one of the five HD monitors above her desk. Eli popped the last bite of meat-filled pastry in his mouth and peered over her shoulder. The display showed a satellite map. A blue dot flashed inside a pale red circle.
“Who are you tracking?” he asked.
Her eyes never left the screen. “We have a problem.”
It took a minute for him to recognize the aerial view. Woodland surrounded two clusters of buildings and a body of water was across a main road.
The muscles in his arms loosened and his legs turned to jelly. His jaw dropped and his cell slipped from his hand. “Who is it?” he croaked.
“Sam.”
Eli clenched the headrest of the chair. A sharp cramp bit into his stomach. “What? She should not be there. Why would she be there? This cannot be happening!”
“Well, it is. I hid an SMS tracker on her cell when she was here.” Danny tapped the blue dot. “That is Sam McNamara and we are in a world of shit.”
Eli flapped his hands and spun in a tight circle. “No! This cannot be happening. She cannot be there.” He wrapped his arms around his waist and rocked his body.
“Well, she is there.” Danny swivelled her chair so she could study him. “She’s been there for the past hour and a half.”
“What!” he screeched. “That cannot be right. This cannot be happening.” He tried to sort through a thick haze of confusion and panic. “Hack her phone. See if she texted anyone or made any calls.”
“I did,” Danny replied. “She made one outgoing call this morning to a lawyer’s office. It went through a main number. I have no way of tracking where reception transferred her call.”
“A lawyer?” Eli squawked. “His lawyer?”
Danny’s grim expression turned darker. “Stay calm. Yes, she called the firm. But they have dozens of lawyers. It could be a coincidence.” She stood and took a step toward him.
“A coincidence?” Eli shrieked. “Are you stupid?” He tugged on his hair, struggling to control his anxiety. “This is not good. This is very bad.”
“She’s working on a PhD in abnormal psychology. She might be there because of school.” Danny took a second step in his direction.
“Because of school?” Eli echoed. “You are an idiot. You were supposed to prevent this. You did not prevent this. This is your fault. You did this on purpose. You foiled my plans. You never wanted me to work with her. You have never understood why I had to do this.”
“Eli—”
“There is only one reason Sam McNamara would be at Millhaven. She knows.” Eli marched in place, his arms flailing. “How did this happen? You said this would not happen! You promised. You said she would never find out.”
Danny grabbed at one of his flapping hands. He swatted her. Emotions collided in his head. Flashes of colour distorted his vision. An insistent buzzing in his ears made it impossible to focus. His chest tightened and he gasped for breath.
“Eli, calm down. We’ll figure this out together,” Danny said.
“Calm down?” He clamped the heel of his hand over his twitching eye. A light of inspiration dawned. “She cannot get in unless she is on his visitor list. That is a long process and—”
“She’s a PI,” Danny interrupted. “With his lawyer’s support, she could bypass regulations and visit in a professional capacity.”
“This is not good. This is very bad.” Eli tugged at his T-shirt, crumpling the fabric between his fists. Hot rage choked him and he pummelled his forehead with his fist. Danny’s life was in jeopardy. Sam could not be investigating him. All his hard work and planning could not disintegrate while he stood helpless and dimwitted on the sidelines.
“We don’t know why she’s there,” Danny said. “Don’t act rash.”
Her continued calmness dispersed some of his spiralling anxiety. “Hack into the prison’s database. Find out who she’s visiting.”
“Eli, I can’t do that quickly,” Danny said. “I have to go around the firewall with a client-side attack. Without a foothold in the network, I can’t set up encrypted tunnels through the firewall.”
“Try again!” he shouted. He grabbed her arm and dragged her over to the computer.
“If she is visiting him, what will he tell her?” she asked. “He has much more to lose than we do. He might play with her, but he won’t tell her anything about us.”
Eli gyrated, aghast that Danny couldn’t recognize the threat. “Do you understand what will happen?” he hollered. “He’s going to—”
“The car’s moving.” Danny twisted in her chair and examined the monitor.
Tripping over his feet, Eli stumbled to her desk. The blue dot moved with steady pulses, heading west along a road that hugged Lake Ontario.
“She’s returning to Toronto,” Danny murmured.
Eli’s cell rang. He stared at it in horror.
“Shit,” Danny whispered, glaring at the phone. “She might not know anything. You can’t have a meltdown.”
Eli took a deep breath and answered, “Hi, Sam.”
“Hey, I need you to do something for me.” Her voice had a nasal quality, as if she had a bad cold.
“Okay,” he squeaked.
“Incubus owned a cabin. The address is in the file. Can you find out if it’s still there?”
Danny began typing in frantic staccato motions.
“Uh… yes,” he said. “I will call you back.”
“Can you do it now?”
He glanced at Danny. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. An aerial view of a dense forest filled the screen. She zoomed in but a canopy of trees hid the ground.
“The forest is too thick. The satellite does not show anything,” he said.
“I tried that. Is there any way you can find out if the cabin is still there?” Sam asked.
Danny licked her lips and glanced up at him, an expression of stark terror on her face.
Eli wrote on the whiteboard DO SOMETHING!
Her eyes darted between the five monitors. In rapid succession, she pulled up lines of code on one monitor and documents flashed on a second and third.
“What is going on?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” Sam said. “But I need to know what happened to that cabin.”
Danny poked his arm and waved at the screen, gesturing at him to read to Sam what she’d typed. Eli put the phone on speaker and put his finger to his lips. Danny scowled but remained silent.
“Well, Jerry Lutz’s lawyer filed a Statement of Claim against Toronto Police Service,” Eli told her. “He accused the forensic team of burning Lutz’s cabin.”
“Is there a fire marshal’s report?” she asked.
“The complaint says that the lawyer visited the property after Lutz’s conviction and found it burned. The fire department was not called at the time of the fire.”
“Possible. It was isolated,” she said. “Did police investigate?”
Danny typed on the screen. Eli leaned over to read. “No. Lutz withdrew the Statement of Claim two days after he filed it. That was the end of it.”
“So the cabin is gone,” she said.
Eli swallowed. “Where are you?”
“Outside Kingston. Did you talk to Reece?” she asked.
“Yes. He went back to the university.”
“But you guys are okay?”
“I have trouble interpreting people’s feelings,” he admitted.
“Reece says what he means,” she replied. “I’ll see you later.”
Sam disconnected and Eli stared at Danny, hoping he had read that conversation right.
“She doesn’t suspect anything,” Danny said. “For now,” she added ominously.
He released his breath in a rush. Things were getting much more complicated than he had planned. “We just need a bit more time,” he said.
“If you say so.” Eeyore’s pessimistic whine matched the woebegone expression on her face.
“You can’t live this way.” He clasped her hand and the warmth of her flesh against his skin calmed him. “And I can’t lose you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sam
SAM CUT ACROSS downtown Toronto toward Incubus’s old neighbourhood. During the trial, forensic psychologists had theorized that Jerry’s wife, Natasha, was his trigger. Watching his wife die had awoken a pathological need to inflict death. All his victims were similar in age and appearance to his wife. If the experts’ hypothesis was correct, then the lily calling card had something to do with Natasha.