Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  “So, Mr. Bennett.” The detective dropped into his seat and rolled up to his desk, the wheels grinding over the linoleum flooring. “How can I help you today?”

  “Well.” Jamie glanced around the room then back at the detective. “I think my roommate might be involved in a murder. Or something.”

  “Or something.” Other than his keen gaze, the detective’s face was unreadable. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you here today?”

  “Now that I’m sitting here, I’m not so sure.” Jamie shook his head. “It sounds kind of crazy.”

  The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Bennett?”

  “I’m a trauma nurse over at Emory.”

  Detective Dauscher raised a brow. “A job like that would require someone who was pretty well educated, levelheaded.”

  “Yeah. I suppose.” He’d worked with the coroner while completing his education. Thought the experience would do him good. Man, he’d been wrong about that.

  “So, tell me. Why do you think your roommate is involved in a murder?”

  “Well.” Jamie drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “For starters, his room is immaculate. I don’t mean clean and neat, I mean obsessive. Bed tucked so tight you could bounce a quarter off it, shoes lined up in the closet, shirts and pants pressed and hanging on the closet rods.” He shook his head, held up a hand. “I know. Cleanliness isn’t a crime. But this isn’t just tidy. It’s freaky clean. He even has a pad and pen set parallel to one another on the desk, and they’re always positioned perfectly in the center.”

  The detective nodded. “Like you said, ‘not a crime.’ Hey, my mom’s got a bit of the OCD.”

  “Does she have a gym bag with a bloody shirt stuffed under her bed?”

  Eyes wide, the detective leaned forward. “Come again.”

  “Okay, so I poked around in his room. He’s a new roommate.” Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know the guy. Figured if he has nothing to hide, then no big deal. Right? Well, I was turning to leave and tripped over a gym bag poking out from beneath his bed. I think he stole it from me.”

  “Why would you think that?” the detective asked.

  “It looked just like mine. From the broken zipper to the missing logo on the front pocket.”

  The guy picked up his pen, tapped it on the desk pad. “Did you consider maybe he borrowed it?”

  “Yeah. But he didn’t ask, and it kinda pissed me off. So, I opened it to dump his stuff out on the floor so he’d know I’d found it. I mean, if he steals my stuff, what’s he gonna say about me going through his room? Am I right?”

  The detective gave a slight nod.

  Jamie took a breath in preparation to share what he’d found. No way in hell he was going down for something his roommate did. Better to have it all on record. “When I looked inside, I found a shirt with blood spattered all over it.” He shook his head. “At the time, I thought maybe he did some boxing at the gym. Bobbed when he should’ve weaved and took one to the face. You know? But now I’m thinking different.”

  “Why so?”

  “He works at a bar in Savannah, though at the moment I don’t remember the name. Don’t hardly ever see the guy. You’d think that’d be great.” Jamie rubbed his chin. “Kinda strange. My neighbor across the hall, Ms. Gretzner, thinks he’s nice enough. Of course today I learned her pup’s missing.”

  “Her dog’s gone?” The detective’s brow furrowed, and he made a note on a pad. “Run off a lot?”

  “First I’ve ever heard. The little old lady loves that mutt. Moochie.” Jamie snorted. “Some kinda tiny poodle. Like a fuzzball on a leash. Yaps at everything. Seems like it’s all she has left in the world.”

  The detective made another note.

  “Okay.” Jamie peered out the window. Should I say anything about the rubber band on the bathroom floor? He clenched his jaw. No. Brent probably just missed the trashcan. Jamie turned back to the hulking detective. “So, I had a headache big as all hell and half of Texas this morning.”

  “Noticed you had a drawl.” Detective Dauscher gestured toward him with his pen. “Nice shirt. That where you’re from?”

  “Yes, sir.” Something in Jamie’s head whispered for him to tread with care. The detective was being too friendly. “Born and raised.”

  “My partner’s from Texas, too. Says unless you’re a Texan, you ain’t been blessed by God.”

  A laugh gurgled up Jamie’s tightened throat. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  Detective Dauscher tapped his pen on his pad again. “So, anything else bother you about your roommate?”

  “Just the thing that brought me here today.” Jamie’s mouth went dry beneath the detective’s judicious stare. Oh, shit. Does he think the term roommate is a ruse used to cover an admission of guilt? “As I stated, I had a migraine this morning and went to take some ibuprofen. When I was getting a glass of water, I noticed a spot on the drain board side of the sink. Don’t know why, but I swiped it with my finger.” Jamie swallowed. “Blood.”

  “Another accident?” The detective jotted on the pad.

  “Don’t know. Could be.” Jamie glanced toward the window again. Sunlight streamed through, bright and clear. “Or Moochie.”

  Detective Dauscher tilted his head, stared at Jamie through narrowed eyes. “You think your roommate killed your neighbor’s dog? Why?”

  “Why he’s obsessive about his room and his clothes and then leaves a spot of blood in the sink?” Jamie shrugged. “I know. I don’t have any proof of anything, and it all could be explained away easy enough. But I’m here, doing what my conscience says I should. Now that I have, it’s in your hands.”

  The detective nodded. “And your roommate’s name?”

  “Brent Carver.” Jamie gave him his phone number and address for good measure—just in case the guy decided to follow up.

  Detective Dauscher rose, his chair squeaking with relief. He held out his hand. “Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Bennett. There does seem to be a few curiosities about what you’ve said. We’ll poke around, see if we come up with anything.”

  Jamie shook his hand, relief lightening the guilt from his shoulders. “Thank you, Detective. I surely do appreciate it.”

  Exiting the police station, Jamie reveled in the warmth of the sun that contrasted the crisp breeze of spring. If Brent Carver turned out to be another Valentine Killer, at least Jamie’s conscience could be clear. He’d shared his concerns with the police, handing it over to them to deal with—or not.

  As he strode down the sidewalk toward his beat-to-shit Camaro, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something in his head told him to look up. Jamie craned his neck.

  Standing in the window above him, Detective Dauscher stared back at him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On his arrival at the beach house, River knocked on the front door. He grinned, visions of his blonde beauty dancing in his head. But all hopes of Vicki greeting him in some hot little negligee vanished when the door opened.

  “Detective Chastain.” A breath whooshed from Lenny’s mouth. He poked his head out the door and peered up and down the street. With a slight nod, he stepped back. “Come in.”

  River stepped inside the foyer, noting the immense skillet in the reporter’s hand.

  Lenny held the shiny fry pan up, a sheepish grin on his face. “Forgot my bat. But hey, it’s metal.” He performed a mock ninja move, spinning the pan about, and then a second gyration accompanied by a wounded cat cry. Skillet and free hand together, he bowed toward River. “Ninja warrior has weapon that is also shield.”

  Becca breezed into the foyer, sparkly ruffles flouncing about her hips. Long olive legs ended in sandals. What happened to the floor-length skirts?

  “Stop with the B-grade kung fu antics.” Laughing, she gave Lenny a playful shove, the bangles on her arm jingling. “Sorry, River. Seems he’s appointed himself my protector, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “
So, Vicki told you?” Relief coursed through him with her nod. It was good they knew their fate could be tied to the killer. It might just save their lives. “My plan is to stop him before either of you come up on his radar.”

  Her gaze pinned him, and hope shone in her eyes. She gestured toward the front door. “Guess you saw that as well.”

  Twisting around, he stared down. A grainy white substance lined the threshold. “Someone spill some sand?”

  “Nope.” Lenny grinned. “It’s salt.”

  “Yes, it is,” Becca muttered through clenched teeth. “And I’m starting to feel positively gritty.”

  River eyed the wide line. “Salt?”

  “Yep.” The corner of her mouth twitched. Nerves. She pivoted on her heel, her skirt flaring. “Come in, Detective.” Sarcasm laced her words. “Can I get you something to drink? We have beer, wine, a couple soft drinks.”

  “I’d love a Coke, if you have one.” He trailed Lenny to the kitchen table where his laptop stood open. Assorted books and references sat in piles with myriad colored scraps of paper acting as bookmarks.

  Setting the skillet on the table, the guy scooped up half a dozen scribbled-on notepads and magazines to clear room. “Sorry. Been doing research on our, um, problem.”

  “Find anything interesting?” River scanned the table. After the information Lenny had shared at the diner, he would listen to whatever the dogged reporter uncovered. He’d just have to sift out the stuff that skittered off into Wacky World.

  “Well, you saw the salt.” He slid into a chair.

  “Yeah.”

  “One of the first things I discovered.” Lenny pecked the laptop screen with his index finger, a satisfied glint in his eyes.

  “The killer’s part slug?” River moved behind the reporter, squinted at the screen.

  Lenny looked at him, his brows knitting with confusion. “Oh. Salt, slug. I get it.” With a lopsided grin, he turned back to his laptop, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keys. “Our dude, Thurisaz, isn’t a mollusk, detective, but a demon.”

  River eased into a chair and worked to keep his expression even. “And demons hate salt.”

  “Rock salt to be specific.” His attention still glued to the computer, he lifted his hand above his head and waved it in a circular motion. “Line all the exits—doors, windows, hearths, attic access—demons can’t get in.”

  River glanced toward the back door. A thick band of white granules lined the threshold and lay on the sill beneath the bank of windows to the left. The bus had definitely veered off toward Wacky World. He turned back to Lenny, whose fingers peppered the keyboard, and tried not to sigh.

  Becca set a tall glass of ice and Coke in front of River. “You know, I’m cooking an insanely large amount of homemade spaghetti along with a crisp salad and crusty, fresh-baked French bread. Lenny brought a bottle of red wine, and I’ve already made my mom’s family recipe for tiramisu. You and Vicki are more than welcome to stay for dinner.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” He smiled at the dark-haired artist. “But Vicki asked me out. I think I’d best be served leaving this evening’s agenda in her hands.”

  Becca’s eyes glittered, and she returned to an enormous pot on the stove. “Well, then you should know I’ll have pancakes ready around nine tomorrow morning.”

  Does that mean another taste of sweet blonde heaven tonight? The thought of losing himself in Vicki’s warmth, and spending the night in her arms brought a rush of hot adrenaline. Silky blonde hair, smooth skin beneath his hands, soft lips on his body. He took a breath to slow his jackhammering heart.

  The rapid-fire clicking on the laptop had ceased. He glanced toward Lenny and found his gaze glued to Becca’s ruffle-covered rear end and long legs. A besotted grin sat on reporter’s face, and hunger danced in his eyes. River understood that look, and it had nothing to do with pancakes.

  River cleared his throat. “I see you have this place salted up tighter than Fort Knox.”

  “Yeah.” With reluctance, the guy shifted his focus to his computer. “Gotta keep her, I mean, us safe.”

  Drumming his fingers on the table, he stared at the reporter. “Listen, I know you tracked the killer’s symbol to Thurisaz, who turned out to be a demon. But what makes you think this thing is walking around killing people?”

  “Excellent question.” Lenny’s expression intensified. Despite his claims of wanting to become a serious reporter, it appeared he harbored a great interest in the occult. “Whoever the killer is, he might not be himself anymore. And with that said, let me explain. We know the killer praised Thurisaz, drew his symbol, and offered sacrifices—the hearts of his victims in particular. Blood sacrifices are extremely powerful in the world of demons and magic.”

  River’s gut tightened, and he tried to soothe it with a huge swallow of soda. Logic told him the reporter had swerved off into the weeds and headed down the wacky trail, but instinct insisted he continue listening. Ice clinked in his glass as he set it back on the table, and he nodded for Lenny to continue.

  “Seems to me someone has been working awful hard to bring the big bad demon into our realm.” He picked up a glass that, from its watered-down contents, he’d been nursing for a while. After downing half of the liquid, he grimaced and returned the glass to the condensation ring on the table. “Problem is, demons don’t just wander around creating mayhem while in their underworld form. I mean, if they did, anybody would know what it was. There’d be little kids pointing fingers and saying, ‘Look, Mommy. It’s the Boogeyman.’”

  River swallowed and pressed on. There might be a jewel hidden in this mess yet. “So you’re talking possession?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Demons like to be sneaky, covert. They’re insidious by nature. They need a vessel, a body. Once they get one, they can move around, do their evil deeds, and the rest of us poor slobs are none the wiser. Ever wonder why some normal dude is fine one day then randomly just loses it, shoots his wife and kids then kills himself? Possession.” Again, Lenny raised his hand and made a circular motion. “Hence the salt. Demons can’t cross a line of salt. Line all the exits and you’re safe and secure. Better yet, make a ring of salt around a demon, it acts like a force field. He’s trapped for all eternity.”

  River had no idea how to respond to Lenny’s sincere explanations without offending him, so he finished his soda instead. Demons? Possession? None of it fits with the more Earthly definition of the demented, psychopathic copycat I’m hunting. Wisps of black smoke come from campfires, not demons.

  “So, a ring of salt and the demon’s trapped.” River glanced at Becca, who focused on the pot on the stove. She dipped a spoon, tasted her sauce, set the used utensil in the sink then added a couple shakes of a spice to the pot. Is she listening to the words coming out of Lenny’s mouth? What’s her take on all of this demon business? “You can’t leave it there forever. How do you get rid of it?”

  Lenny nodded. “Incantation.”

  River’s gaze shot back to the reporter. “Seriously?”

  “Hey, they work.” He shrugged. “Roman Catholics have been using them forever. Druids before them. If it rolls, why reinvent the wheel?”

  River offered a pensive nod. “So, a simple cross won’t take care of it?”

  “Nope.” A self-deprecating smile crossed the reporter’s lips. “Vampires, yeah. But not demons.”

  “Good to know.”

  “No need to worry, I gotcha covered.” Lenny rose from his chair, and Becca glanced toward him, her lips curving into a slight smile. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’m gonna carry the box I prepped out to River’s car for him.” Hunching over, he retrieved a large cardboard box.

  She raised an eyebrow, her gaze traveling to River. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  He nodded. So, the salt thing jangled her. But if she believes in Vicki’s predictions, how can she discount Lenny’s researched solutions? It seemed Becca traveled the judicious road of “better safe than sorry” while ke
eping the reporter’s feelings safe.

  Outside, River opened the Malibu’s trunk. Lenny set the box inside, popped the cardboard lid open, and pulled out a quart-sized milk carton with the words Rock Salt emblazoned on the sides.

  “Figured if you were hunting a demon you’d need a case for your place.” A childlike triumph danced in Lenny’s eyes. “Only takes a few minutes. Just be careful coming and going through the doors.”

  “Why?”

  “If you kick the salt line, breaking it, the demon can step over like it was nothing.” He reached into the box and retrieved an olive drab backpack. “This is your survival pack. Has everything you need to take down a demon. Three boxes of salt have already been loaded along with half a dozen vials of holy water. Everything I’ve read says the water burns a demon’s skin like acid. Might work as a distraction, maybe give you a minute or two to get away, regroup.”

  River accepted the pack Lenny pushed into his hands. Holy water? Where did he get it, off the Internet? River shook his head. Better not to go down that path.

  “Oh. Almost forgot.” The guy dug deep in his jeans pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. “I wanted to make sure you had this.”

  “What is it?” River unfolded the paper. Line after line of a foreign language lay in bold type against stark white.

  “It’s an incantation.”

  River choked.

  “You’re gonna be hunting this thing, right?” Lenny pushed his sliding glasses back into place then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thought you might like to have the venerable verbiage to send the demon bastard back to Hell.”

  He squinted at the paper. “What language is this?”

  “Supposed to be Latin.” The reporter pointed toward the words. “But after you asked for an earlier translation, I figured you didn’t know it. So, I took the liberty of writing it out phonetically.”

  “Good thinking.” He folded the paper, tucked it into one of the backpack’s pockets, and dropped the pack into the box.