Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  “I don’t know. I think they’re meant to be pagan, or at least symbolize the occult—that much I can tell you.”

  “Really? So they match with the pentacles?”

  “Yes, to an extent. Here’s the irony. The pentacle is a symbol of protection. It’s a sign of unending life, the cycles of the year, the interconnectedness of the universe. It doesn’t represent evil, and it’s not meant to invoke fear. It’s a very misinterpreted symbol.”

  Taylor glanced over at him. “McKenzie, how do you know that?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then sighed loudly. “Listen, this is going to sound ridiculous, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I was kind of into this stuff when I was in junior high. And high school.”

  “You were a Goth?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of. I got into it to avoid dealing with my sexuality. It was a great release, and there were a lot of other kids who were confused, as well. We did a bunch of experimenting, and I ended up with…quite an education.”

  “Renn, you never cease to amaze me. So you can be our resident expert in all things occult?”

  “I guess. But do we have to tell everyone? I feel sort of dumb about it.”

  “We’ll see how dumb you feel when you’ve helped close seven murders in one fell swoop, okay? Tell me more about the video. You said the pentacle was for protection. The victims certainly weren’t protected, so maybe they were meant for the killer’s security?”

  “It’s much more than that. The fangs were real. Whoever starred in the film had them created, filed, lengthened with bonding agents to look that way. There are dentists that will do that kind of work. We should take a still shot around to some of the local cosmetic dentists and see if any of them recognize their handiwork. We’re dealing with someone who believes they are a vampire. Most are content to role-play—there are very few genuine sanguine vampires out there. Combine that with the symbols—this is someone who is trying out several different religions, trying to find their place.”

  “Sanguine?”

  “Blood drinking.”

  “Right. So this was a religious killing done by a blood-drinking vampire?” she asked, her sarcastic incredulity ringing though the car. Hell, she didn’t believe in vampires. Or witches, for that matter.

  “No. It doesn’t feel like we have a true believer on our hands, someone who is against the pagan world and trying to make a point. This feels more like seeking to me. Someone searching for answers, for their place in the world. The symbols from the letter are old markings. A couple of them are obvious—the pentacle again, the moon and sun represent the seasonal cycles of the earth, the cross and the thunderbolt. The inverted triangles and the circle with the cross inside, they may mean something else. It could be a bunch of drawings meant to look like pagan symbols, too. They may mean nothing to the killer, outside of looking interesting. You never know.”

  “So if the symbols aren’t meant to portend evil, what the hell is this self-described vampire doing sending letters with them? And why does it say ‘we’?”

  “More than one, probably. A coven. If you could drop me at the library, I bet I could find their meanings quicker.”

  She turned the ignition over, edged out onto Broadway. “Sure, but why not look online?”

  “Well, I could, but I’ve got a hunch about these. Have you ever heard of the Strega?”

  “No.”

  “Stregheria, or Italian witchcraft. It’s an earth-based religion, pagan to its core, probably the oldest of the pagan religions that’s still practiced today. Nature is life, and magick, spelled M-A-G-I-C-K, is knowing how to control the interconnectedness of all the natural forces of life. Strega look for ways to manipulate the earth through their worship. It’s a positive journey. They aren’t worshiping the devil or anything like that. No animal sacrifices to dark angels. Not anymore, or at least not publicly.”

  She glanced over at him, saw he was trying to tease. It didn’t work, they were both too rattled. McKenzie continued, looking out the window.

  “Some of these look suspiciously like Strega symbols. We’re talking mythology worship here, the polytheistic society. Earth, moon and stars, all represented by the different Gods and Goddesses.”

  “Let me guess. You speak witch, too?”

  He shot her a look, saw she was teasing him back. “You’re funny. Didn’t you study the classics in college?”

  “I took a class in mythology to satisfy one of the liberal arts credits I had to take, but that’s it. All I remember is Zeus and his lightning bolt and something about the Tower of Babel.”

  “Poor you. It’s very cool stuff. All of the pagan religions are based in polytheistic pantheon worship. The Christians had to work within the confines of the pagan structure when they converted the masses. That’s why Catholicism has so many pagan rituals. The incense, the candles, the feast days, the saints. Mary correlates to the Goddess, Christ to the God. The saints are also a direct corollary to the pantheon of Gods and goddesses. They represent the same things, protection for specific parts of life—crops, welfare, war. It’s fascinating, actually.”

  “Honey, we’re in the belt buckle of the Bible Belt. They didn’t teach us about that. It is interesting, but what does it have to do with this case? You think we’re dealing with pagans? I thought you said sanguine vampires.”

  He sighed. “I’m thinking that there’s more to all of this than meets the eye, and I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  “Well, I think we’re dealing with crazy people, people who took it upon themselves to kill seven children. I can get all romantic about the old ways too, but that’s not going to solve this case. I have to produce a suspect, and fast. Which means regular old police work instead of a history lesson.”

  “Let me go do some research. The killer might be in an altered state, especially if he’s under the influence of drugs. We can’t forget that someone shot the video, and that shakiness means handheld camera. We’re certainly dealing with more than one person.”

  “Great. Just what we need.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe the killer in the video is the person Lincoln saw in the videotapes we took from the scenes last night. God. We have seven dead, one clinging to life, a letter from someone claiming to have killed them and a film of the whole event. Vampires and witches running amok in Nashville. This will definitely make the national news,” she muttered, turning onto Eighth Avenue, then onto Church.

  She stopped in front of the Nashville Public Library. The soaring three-story stone edifice with its Roman columns seemed overwhelmingly prescient. Great, she was going to be seeing symbols in everything now.

  A homeless man wandered near the car and glared at her, then turned back to his meandering shuffle, across to the park to join his cronies. The irony wasn’t lost on her—the library and its traditional representation of enlightenment and education being watched over by the forgotten people.

  “Do you still want to go with me to Hillsboro? I can pick you up on the way.”

  “Yeah. That sounds good. I’ll call you in a bit. This shouldn’t take me long.”

  He climbed out of the car, already lost in his world. He disappeared through the ornate doors and she sighed. She didn’t know why, but seeing him walk away reminded her of Memphis. James “Memphis” Highsmythe, the Viscount Dulsie, special liaison to the terrorism Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico for the Metropolitan Police at New Scotland Yard, to be precise.

  Baldwin had seen Memphis in Quantico last week, moving into his new office. She hadn’t told Baldwin that Memphis had also been in touch with her.

  Memphis had been good for the past few weeks. After their interlude in Florence, a kiss that stayed with her for days after, she’d received a few discreet texts and e-mails, nothing that couldn’t be shown to Baldwin if the question arose. But yesterday, before she’d been publicly reinstated, a bouquet of white roses had appeared on her desk. The card simply read, Love, M.

  She’d gone throu
gh all of the appropriate emotions, and the not so appropriate ones, as well. Love, M, indeed. It would have been fine—nothing—really, if Baldwin hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t said anything, but clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscle jumped deep in the flesh. She hated Memphis for upsetting Baldwin, hated him for being so arrogant as to send her roses with a card that read, Love. But she was happy at the same time, and didn’t understand what that meant.

  She got mad thinking about it again, slammed the car into gear and pushed the accelerator harder than necessary, making the wheels squeal under her as she shot away from the curb. Distracted, she barely watched the lanes in front of her, crowded with tourists intent on crossing the streets against the lights to enjoy a few hours of entertainment on Lower Broad. She finally got fed up, cut across to Union Street and flew up Fifth, wrestling all thoughts of Memphis back into their appropriate place. She couldn’t keep doing this, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. She didn’t want him. That should be all that mattered. Yet thoughts of him kept crowding in at the most inopportune moments.

  She wanted to talk to Sam about it, but Sam was already upset and attuned to the breach in Taylor’s mental protocol. They’d assiduously avoided the topic after Sam bitched her out for flirting with Memphis at an autopsy. Taylor’s face burned at the thought of their fight—she hadn’t been consciously flirting and was hurt that Sam had implied otherwise. But now, after Memphis told her so starkly what he was feeling, now that they’d had some physical contact, regardless of how minute it was, she didn’t know how to put her emotions into words for her best friend.

  And since Sam was pregnant again, she’d be drawing in, focusing on herself and her family. Taylor’s silliness wouldn’t be of importance. She suddenly felt isolated, alone, for the first time in several years. Truth be told, she didn’t have that many friends who she felt she could talk to, not about matters of the heart.

  Nothing to be done for it, then. Shrugging to herself, she chalked it up to being lucky to be found attractive by two men, and left it at that. Baldwin was the better of the two, the one she wanted to be with forever, and she certainly didn’t plan on endangering their relationship because another man had a little crush on her.

  Thinking about other men invariably led her to Fitz, and she reminded herself to call the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation again. Surely she’d find someone there who could listen to her side of the story, who would be willing to put pressure on the Coast Guard, or search the ports, something, anything, to help her find him. She felt her blood pressure rise thinking about her theory—that the Pretender had taken Fitz—and felt better. Fired up. Worrying about Fitz was much more important than worrying about Memphis.

  She passed the offices of Channel Five, wondered what they were cooking up today. The Green Hills Massacre, they’d called it this morning, with shots of Taylor speaking at the press conference. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever felt more pressure to move forward on a case than she did at this moment.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Quantico

  June 15, 2004

  Baldwin

  The alarm rang insistently.

  God, morning already? There was a dull ache in his head. He kept his eyes closed against the glare. He’d forgotten the blinds last night, and sun was leaking in through the wooden slats. His mouth was completely dry—it took a few tries to work up enough lubrication to swallow. When he did, the taste of bourbon rose on his tongue. That’s right. He’d been drinking last night. They all had. The sight of that little body just off the trail in Great Falls Park, broken and pale, her legs shattered, her blond hair slashing across her face like a golden blindfold, was enough to set them all off.

  He shifted his head, and pain shot through his temples. Wonderful. A hangover to help with the autopsy of little Susan Travers.

  He cracked an eye and saw the clock—7:45 a.m. The beeping seemed to be getting louder. He reached out to stifle the god-awful racket and realized his arm was pinned. He tugged experimentally and felt the pressure, wasn’t cogent enough to realize why. He swiveled his head to the left slowly and saw a spill of dark red hair, like blood, across his pillow.

  He fought the urge to pull his arm back as if bitten by a snake. Oh, shit. What had he done?

  The owner of the red hair shifted slightly, allowing him to retrieve his arm. It was fully asleep, and he gasped slightly as blood rushed back into the deadened nerves.

  “Aren’t you going to turn that off?” a sleepy, throaty voice asked.

  Charlotte.

  Jesus, he must have had more to drink than he thought. He didn’t remember…oh, now it was coming back. He’d walked her to her car. She’d been crying. He, ever the gallant savior, had brushed a tear away with his knuckle, and then she’d been closer, touching him in a way they both knew wasn’t a good idea. His head had dipped and the feeling of her soft lips overwhelmed him. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, and his body ached with the need to feel inside her.

  He’d felt inside her, all right. He could feel the stickiness in his groin, and the flesh there tightened in memory.

  He reached over and silenced the alarm. He glanced to his left, saw the wide amber eyes staring at him. An awkward quiet settled upon them, then Charlotte smiled. He felt a delicate hand straying up his thigh. He couldn’t help himself—he reacted quickly. With one part of his mind screaming, What in the hell are you doing? he shifted his hips a bit so her hand landed directly on him. She stroked him, softly, expertly, her free hand roaming across his chest, and when he could stand it no longer he rolled on top of her, parting her legs with his knee, catching her lips in a kiss. He drove himself deep between her thighs, not caring if he hurt her. From what he remembered of last night, Charlotte liked it a bit rough.

  He heard her breath catch as he entered her, felt her teeth on his lower lip. She raked her nails along the already tender flesh of his back—Jesus, she’d scratched him open. He had a moment’s urge to bite her in payback. Instead, he reached his arms around her back and used his hands to cup her buttocks and lift her slightly, allowing him to go deeper and deeper. She was fighting him now, matching each thrust with one of her own, her legs thrown around his waist, her eyes focused inward. He remembered that look from last night, and smiled. The exquisite building began, the age-old rhythm going faster and faster, and he lost himself, not hearing her triumphant cries.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and holding a cup of steaming coffee, he stood in the kitchen of his apartment, watching Charlotte move around his home with a practiced eye.

  She picked up the new John Connolly he was reading, Bad Men. Baldwin almost laughed when he saw the book in her hand; the title took on a whole new meaning for him this morning.

  Charlotte smiled at him, a predatory housecat on the prowl. “You have good taste.”

  “He’s always been one of my favorites. Coffee?”

  She looked across the room at him, the mask dropped, her body angled in sly invitation. She arched her back and said, “Mmm, yes, please.”

  “Coming right up.” He moved to the coffeepot and poured her a cup, pretending he didn’t hear her next statement.

  “I could get used to this,” she said, and he shuddered inside. The last thing he needed was an involvement with one of his team. He’d already stepped over the line.

  He splashed another swallow of coffee in his mug, then turned to her, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He didn’t want to encourage this. It was a mistake. He handed her the cup.

  “When you’re done, let me drop you at your car. We can’t go into the office together. I don’t need any more scrutiny than I already have.”

  Her face dropped for the briefest of seconds, then she recovered, raising a delicate eyebrow. “Like that, is it? You’d rather pretend that last night and this morning never happened?”

  She sidled into the kitchen, sinuous and graceful, slipping her arms around his waist. He had to
admit, she was incredibly appealing. The scent of musk and roses filled his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply, aware that he was hard again. Good grief. He’d unleashed the genie in the bottle.

  “It’s not a good idea, Charlotte. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman, but—”

  Charlotte was rubbing against him again, grinding her hips into his with precision. She set her coffee down, then took the mug from his hand and transferred the warmed flesh to her now-exposed breast. How did she manage to get out of her shirt so quickly? He lowered his head and flicked his tongue across her nipple. She accepted the invitation and eased down his zipper. He glanced over her head at the clock on the stove and decided, what the hell. He’d been under enough pressure lately. Maybe he’d been wrong to fight this. Maybe being with Charlotte was exactly what he needed.

  Charlotte was small, only around five foot five, and easily lifted. She was wearing a tight black skirt, the same one that had been bothering him the night before. He quickly discovered she’d neglected to put on any underwear. He settled her on the counter, bent her backward, running his palm down the length of her body, and sheathed himself again. She giggled, and he felt a laugh build in his own chest. Here they were, going at it like a couple of teenagers, not even bothering to undress. It felt good. Better than he could have ever expected.

  *

  Charlotte

  Baldwin dropped her at the car in a strangled silence. Embarrassed? Regretful? She didn’t know his looks well enough to be able to tell what he was thinking. Not yet.

  She respected his discomfiture, slipped out of the car without saying anything. She had a fresh change of clothes in her trunk—she always had a go bag packed for the times they needed to attend to a crime scene in person. She drove to work, slung the bag over her shoulder and slipped inside. Only the guards at the desk saw her, and who were they to comment? It wasn’t the first time an agent had done the walk of shame into work.

  After she changed, Charlotte took an extralong time in the bathroom. She hadn’t been able to do her hair properly—instead of fine, red silk, the ends were waving and a bit frizzy. She used a special boar-bristle brush to get them tamed down, then reapplied some makeup.