by Jason Parent
Aaron groaned. “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” So much for my morning off. I should’ve known she was being nice for a reason. Ricardo doesn’t know shit about it. “How long is he back for?”
“At least a couple of months. He’s helping my dad out with the landscaping and snow-removal business, then it’s back down to Deltona, if I can’t convince him to stay this time. I’m glad you woke me, because we’ve got to get ready.”
“Now?”
Arianna gave him a good whack with her pillow. “Yes, now, silly.”
He knew if he didn’t get up, she was going to keep hitting him with it. He couldn’t determine if her intent was to be playful or irritating. Either way, it worked. “All right, all right. I’ll get in the shower.”
Less than an hour later, Aaron pulled up beside an overstuffed U-Haul with an equally overstuffed man standing beside it. Seth Medeiros had always been heavy, but lately, he was pushing four hundred pounds. He was kind of egg-shaped, like those toy people that rocked back and forth but didn’t fall down. He fit the fat-guy stereotype well. He consumed massive amounts of food and beer and always smelled like he was hiding pepperoni between his third and fourth spare tires. And he was always jolly, a regular Portuguese Santa Claus.
Aaron and Arianna climbed out of the car and walked over to the van. The lazy, fat bastard hadn’t unloaded a thing, apparently content to wait for Aaron’s help. Arianna went inside to visit with her mom.
Aaron was pretty sure he faked friendship with Seth convincingly enough. Occasionally, they would even go on a fishing trip or casino run together. Aside from drinking, fishing, and gambling, the two had only their love for Arianna in common. Seth was always protective of his sister. Aaron had never received the you-better-treat-her-right-or-I’ll-kill-you speech, but a glance from Seth would imply it from time to time. Aaron wasn’t perfect, but Seth seemed to respect his sister’s choice.
“How have you been, Seth?” Aaron asked as he approached the rear of the U-Haul.
“Can’t complain. Both Miami and Tampa Bay suck this year. I guess I’ll have to root for the Patriots again.”
“I knew you’d come around eventually.”
“Hey, man, no bullshit. When are you going to marry my sister?”
“Well, you don’t waste any time. No ‘Hi, Aaron. How’s the family? Is your dog still crapping on the rug?’ Right to the hard-hitting questions, that’s your style.” Aaron had expected the question, so he wasn’t as surprised as he let on. Seth was always quick to bring up the subject.
“Seriously, Aaron. I only mention it because my parents ain’t getting any younger. Everybody likes you. Why not make it official?”
“I will. I’m just waiting for the bills to lighten so that I can afford the ring.” Aaron had been giving that same excuse for seven out of the eight years he and Arianna had been together. He wondered if it made him sound cheap.
“If you need to borrow some money, I could—”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
Seth stared at him as though he’d been expecting a different answer. After a moment, his shoulders drooped. “Well, let’s get this done. I’m starving.”
CHAPTER 9
Bruce Marklin drove up to Charlotte Robillard’s house, knowing he looked as though he’d just gotten out of bed. The dark circles around his eyes, a deeper purple than usual, were a sure tip-off that he hadn’t slept well. He hadn’t gotten much sleep in weeks. He never did when he had a case he couldn’t solve immediately. His second wife, Marie, had always been able to distract him from his overactive mind. He’d thought about calling her, even had the phone in his hand, but decided against it. He didn’t know how to apologize for being distant, for never being there, despite being right beside her. How does one apologize for something he can’t change?
And so the Rubik’s Cube in his mind had twisted and reshaped all night long, all month long. Try as he might, he couldn’t get its damn colors to align.
The flashing lights of the cruisers parked outside the house hurt his eyes and sent a stabbing pain into his forehead. He winced and pulled over before taking in the rest of the scene. The street had been blocked off at both ends, yet the news vans had somehow gotten there first.
He grabbed his coffee cup, got out of the car, and pushed his way through reporters. He had a statement he would have loved to give each and every one of their parasitic kind, making their livings off the misery of others.
One hell of a way to start the morning, he thought as he traveled the walkway up to the house where Officer Temple waited to give him the rundown. He half-listened to the officer’s ramblings as he sipped his coffee, waiting for his partner to arrive so they could conduct a proper investigation.
A pang of guilt carried with it a wave of heartburn. He swallowed the coffee that threatened to come back up. I could have done more for these people. I should have done more. I should’ve been smarter. He’d visited the Sycamore Avenue home three days ago when the department had finally decided he should be alerted to Peter Robillard’s abduction. If not for the 9-1-1 call from the veterinary clinic, no one would have investigated Peter’s disappearance until he was officially classified as a missing person after forty-eight hours. Even then, the department probably would have given the case the cheating-spouse treatment and made it a low priority.
Bruce’s instincts told him that Peter’s disappearance was related to his investigation. It certainly wasn’t every day that people were kidnapped in the suburbs. On the rare occasion it did happen, it was usually a child in a custody dispute, not a thirty-eight-year-old veterinary assistant. Peter’s body, slumped across the threshold in front of Bruce, confirmed his instincts.
“Number five, I presume?” Jocelyn asked, also looking as though she’d just rolled out of bed. But with youth on her side, she somehow pulled it off, a classic beauty without all the trappings.
“What took you so long?” he asked, only half-serious. Her bedhead made him think of her in a light he shouldn’t have, since he was old enough to be her father. He twisted the wedding band on his finger, where it had been for the last decade he’d spent separated from a wife who’d probably loved him only half as long. Not that he could blame her.
“A girl’s got to do a lot more to get ready than a man. Plus, Caitlyn’s teething. She was fussing all night. Steven and I took turns, but…”
“Ah.” Bruce smiled.
“Oh, shut it.” Jocelyn slapped his arm. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a parent.”
“Just because I don’t have any kids doesn’t mean I can’t sympathize with your ordeal. Then again, you did plan to have the little monster.”
“And I wouldn’t unmake that decision for all the money in the world.”
“You sure?” Bruce laughed. “You’re going to need that much to put her through college. Should I start a college fund now?”
“Well, not everyone needs to go to Harvard, Bruce.”
Bruce stiffened. “You know about that, do you?”
“I am a detective, trained by the best. Come on, partner. There’s a story there, and we’re not supposed to have any secrets…”
“Some other time.”
“Come on. At least tell me what you majored in.”
“History and social sciences.” Bruce smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt then waved toward the front door. “Now, if you’re ready to work… shall we?”
“Relax. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.” Jocelyn eyeballed the naked body stretched halfway into the Robillards’ living room. “Who found him?”
“The wife. Apparently, he’d been propped against the door, and when she opened it, he fell into the room like a zombie out of those horror flicks you like so much. A neighbor heard her screams and called it in.”
Jocelyn shuddered. “That’s just plain cold.” She crouched beside the body, her glov
ed hand pointing at a circular hole in the man’s chest, about six inches in diameter. “Definitely our guy.”
Bruce nodded. The meat and bone hadn’t been cleanly removed like a scoop out of soft ice cream. More like rock chiseled away with a pickaxe. He looked away. His stomach had hardened over the years, and his mind along with it. Still, he didn’t want to see just how terrible humans could be any more than he had to.
Jocelyn stood. “Looks like you were right about that 9-1-1 call.”
Bruce grinned. “I knew it.” His heart beat a little faster. “I knew that call was about our guy. We’re getting closer.”
“Calm down. You almost sound like you’re happy about being right. I’m sure the Robillards are none too happy. Where’s the wife?”
“She’s inside. Don’t bother talking to her, though. She’s a vegetable.”
Jocelyn crossed her arms and frowned. “You’re so insensitive.”
“It’s the job. It does that to all of us… eventually.”
Charlotte Robillard was sitting on a couch in the living room, looking as pale and lifeless as her husband. Unmoving, she stared into nothingness. Her robe hung open, exposing much of her left breast. A large metallic emblem rested in her cleavage.
“What’s that around her neck?” Jocelyn asked.
“I’m not sure.” Bruce waved an arm, ushering Jocelyn into the house. “Let’s go see. We need to try and get some sort of statement out of her, if she’s well enough.”
“Bruce, I know you. Don’t push too hard.”
He frowned. “Even I’m not that insensitive.”
As they approached Charlotte, Jocelyn seemed to lose her compassion. Her eyes scrolled over every inch of the woman, examining the mourning housewife not as a person but as a piece of evidence, perhaps a material witness, taking in every detail. He smiled. He’d taught her that.
“Mrs. Robillard?” Jocelyn said softly. “Charlotte?” She kneeled in front of the woman and took her limp hands into her own. “Charlotte? Is there anything we can get you? Anything you can think to tell us that may help us get the son of a bitch who did this?”
Charlotte looked straight ahead, not even blinking. She seemed to be staring straight through Jocelyn at something only she could see.
“Come on,” Bruce said. “She’s going to need time. Probably doesn’t know anything useful anyway.”
Jocelyn pointed at Charlotte’s necklace. “That looks like a pentagram. Is she a Satan worshipper?”
Bruce signaled for her to follow him back toward the door, where they stopped inches from the corpse. “She’s not a Satan worshipper, though that might have given us a motive here. Mrs. Robillard is a witch, a follower of the Wiccan faith. Pentagrams are generally worn for protection. Some believe they ward off evil spirits.”
“What, like Samantha on Bewitched? I loved that show. The movie… not so much.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Bruce scowled. “Her faith is actually quite interesting. Witches believe that all entities have a spirit. Each spirit is connected to all others and to nature, and nature itself is divine. Satan is a Judeo-Christian and Islamic concept. He doesn’t exist within Wiccan teachings, nor does God, at least not in the form we’re familiar with. The pentagram represents the five basic beliefs of Charlotte’s religion, the perfect human.” He shrugged. “Long story short, it’s not an evil symbol. Pentagrams are only symbols of evil and the devil in the movies.”
Jocelyn stared at him. “How do you know all this crap? I can’t believe that’s what they’re teaching at those Ivy League joints.”
Bruce smirked. “I asked Charlotte about it last time I was here. Then I did a little research. It’s amazing what’s on the Internet.”
“Was her husband a… what? A warlock?”
“I believe males are still called witches, but I’m not sure. So for all intents and purposes, yeah, he was also a witch.”
Jocelyn frowned. Then her face cleared, and she nodded. “A cult!”
“I already told you, the Robillards are not satanic.”
“Not them and not satanic. A Christian cult. ‘My son, keep thy father’s commandment, and forsake not the law of thy mother: Bind them continually upon thine heart and tie them about thy neck.’” She groaned. “Why didn’t I realize this sooner?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? It was staring us in the face with Reinhart… literally written on his face. Look at our victims. An adulterer, a prostitute and drug addict, a child molester… I’m sure one of the Ten Commandments or the seven deadly sins has to apply to that. And please, spare me the priest jokes.”
Bruce had a half dozen good pedophile priest jokes on hand, but none had come to mind until Jocelyn mentioned it. Her theory had caught his interest. “A homosexual,” he added.
“And now a witch. I’m not too up on my Bible, but I vaguely remember something about pagan gods and false idols and how worshipping them would lead to damnation. The wrist slits always reminded me of Jesus. For Roman crucifixions, nails were actually driven through the gap between the radius and the ulna, medial in relationship to the wrist, unlike all those figurines where the nails are through Jesus’ hands. I may be stretching here, but the slits could represent stigmata, Christ’s crucifixion wounds.” She paused for a moment. “But then why weren’t there any other markings to represent the crown of thorns, nail marks on the feet, or a wound in the side?” She blew an errant bang out of her eye and shrugged. “Maybe I’m reaching.”
Bruce chuckled. “How do you know all this crap?” Jocelyn’s sharp mind, so young yet so capable, never ceased to impress him. She would become a finer detective than he could ever be, if her oversized heart didn’t get her killed first. She tried to hide that, but he saw through her as if she were glass. Still, he let her have her ruse. “Your theory does make sense. Do you remember the voice we heard when we cleaned up the 9-1-1 recording? When Robillard asked what he wanted, the guy said, ‘Your soul.’ Maybe the killer wasn’t being a smart ass. Maybe he was serious.” Bruce let Jocelyn’s theory play out in his mind for a second. “Yes, I do believe you’re on to something. Jocelyn, you’re a genius.”
Her face reddened, and she smiled sheepishly.
“Killing for one’s beliefs is hardly a rare concept,” he said. “At this point, it’s safe to rule out the usual motives. We’ll have to talk to some experts. So we think we have a cult of maladjusted do-gooders riding around in a white van, looking for sinners. That reminds me of Scooby Doo, except their van was green and blue.”
“And they would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for us meddling detectives.” Jocelyn smirked. The mischievous smile suited her, made her sapphire eyes sparkle. “Anyway, let’s let the medical examiner do her thing. She’s late… again. I instructed some of the officers to patrol the neighborhood and question everybody.”
They made their way back to the threshold. Bruce looked down to step over the victim’s body. He squinted. “Wait a second.”
In the hole where a heart had once been, something shiny reflected light. He crouched and peered into the cavity.
Jocelyn kneeled beside him. “I see it. Probably just another chip from the killer’s blade. We’ll know for sure when we get the autopsy report.”
“No, it’s bigger.” Bruce snapped on a plastic glove and reached into the wound.
“We shouldn’t—” Jocelyn began to protest but cut herself off.
When Bruce tried to pick up the shiny, orb-shaped object, he discovered that it was attached to something much bigger crammed under Robillard’s ribcage. He couldn’t pull it free from the broken shards of bone. He quit trying and wiped away some blood from the orb. Encircled by some sort of fabric covered in gore, a convex, yellow surface of glass or clear plastic enclosed a smaller black circle that looked like—
An eye?
&nbs
p; “Fuck this.” He plunged his hand into the wound, feeling squishy material, which resembled dense seaweed at red tide, around the glassy object. Wrapping his hand around the entire thing, he yanked it out.
Bruce held it up, and he and Jocelyn stared at it, speechless. The blood-covered object warranted no place in their crime scene, never mind in a human body.
“He’s fucking with us.” Bruce clenched his jaw. If it hadn’t been covered in blood, the stuffed kitten might have been adorable, complete with a bandage tied around its tattered front paw.
CHAPTER 10
Aaron parked his cruiser on a side street and aimed his radar gun at Plymouth Avenue. Make your move. Staring down its plastic barrel, he wanted to feel like a gunslinger with a futuristic weapon. Instead, he felt like a kid with a toy. Another lame night writing tickets.
The quarter-mile strip on Plymouth was a favorite racetrack for local teens. He had already seen a Trans-Am, two WRXs, and a Mitsubishi 3000 GT. A Pontiac Fiero slid past, looking more like a bright-yellow sled than a car.
The thirty-miles-per-hour speed limit was clearly posted, but Aaron had let a few drivers escape justice, passing him at forty-five, some even pushing fifty. Sixty was his minimum that night. He was already in a pissy mood and was looking to haul somebody’s ass off to jail, if not for any other reason than to get out of the cold. Reckless driving was easy to pin on drivers going double the limit.
His cell phone lit up on the seat beside him. Go away. He squinted down the barrel of the radar gun. I’m busy here. The caller was persistent. Aaron could have let his voicemail pick it up, but the ringing became an annoyance. “Yes?” he answered.
“What’s up, bro?” Craig’s always overly exuberant voice came through the speaker. “What are you up to?”
“I’m working.” At that moment, a Mitsubishi Eclipse with what looked like a giant spatula attached to its trunk sped by, clocking in around seventy. Great timing, Craig. “What do you want?”
“Dude, I’ve got to tell you something. When are you off tonight?”