by Dana Donovan
As she had done a thousand times before, Barbara reached for the mirror and swung it into position, allowing it to frame the landscape out her rear window. Only this time something did not seem right. Something in the reflection caught her eye as it swept into position. She reached for the mirror again and swiveled it left to right, but saw nothing to cause alarm. She then pitched it downward, onto the back seat. Wide brushstrokes of moonlight cascaded in through the windows, washing the interior in ribbons of steel blue, muted whites and gunmetal gray. On a cloudy night, it might have been easy to miss, but not this night. She leaned forward, squinting into the mirror at what looked like a large bundle of clothes or rags piled up on the back seat.
“Well I’ll be ….” She looked deeper into the mirror. “What is that?”
She put her arm over the top of the seat and turned around to inspect the oddity first hand. In that instant, it sprang to life, attacking with lightning speed, wrapping itself first around her face and then her entire head. With tremendous force, it plucked her from her seat, pulling her over the backrest, twisting and wrenching her head violently. She screamed, but her muffled cries, suffocated in threads of black wool and hair, would not come out. Her arms and hands flogged at the beast to no avail. She mule-kicked, striking the dashboard and the gearshift. The car lurched forward and stalled. Her foot knocked the mirror off the window. She kicked harder and the windshield broke. The horrid sounds of breaking bones and snapping vertebras followed. Her struggle ended with her lifeless body falling limp onto her seat.
A long, gray cloud slithered overhead, obscuring the full moon that Barbara had admired earlier. In the cloak of darkness welcomed by her killer, the bloody business of harvesting began.
Miles away, cruising toward the sanctuary of her home, Valerie Spencer took notice of how the damning sense of doom had suddenly abandoned her, leaving the void filled with an uncanny sense of tranquility. Once home, she drew a hot bath, lit an incense candle and set it on the windowsill. She slipped out of her robe and into the tub, feeling silly for having worried herself so.
A medley of Spanish folk music tripped softly from wall speakers in the adjacent bedroom. Vapors of steam ascended in ghostly columns like morning fog. It felt relaxing and delightful, a glorious and enchanting treat much deserved. She slid down lower, stopping when the water line met her chin, and the nagging kink in her neck seemed to melt away. The candles flickered in the April breeze. Valerie closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, the bath water had cooled, the candle had burned itself out and the wrenching pain in her neck had returned.
Three
The next morning, the research center announced it had canceled all workshops, and once again, bright yellow crime-scene tape encircled the parking lot of the main building. The media gathered like jackals while Carlos and I scoured the perimeter for clues to the latest murder. We had little to go on, save for the victim’s name: Barbara Richardson, a Caucasian female, age fifty-seven, single; and just like the previous victim, the killer had cut out her liver and taken it for reasons yet unknown.
The official sound bite my office put out suggested that both murders were random acts of violence, but no one in the department was overlooking the fact that the two victims participated in the same workshop at the institute. If the killings were not random, and for whatever reason someone was targeting the workshop, then the motive remained a complete mystery.
I asked Doctor Lieberman to arrange a group meeting of the two workshops for the following evening. Although I stressed that I considered none of them suspects, everyone, including Doctor Lieberman knew that they were all suspect by association, and any detective worth his salt would have put them all on the top of a very short list of such.
I arrived at the meeting the next night and found everyone sitting around the big oak table fidgeting nervously. The only exception was Lilith Adams, who seemed content sitting alone, her hands busy tying knots into a small length of rope. She appeared to concentrate fiercely on my movements as she tightened the knots in the line, spacing them precisely three fingers apart.
I began by extending my sympathies to all, and went on to promise everyone I would find the killer or killers no matter how long it took. Though frankly, I was already having my doubts.
“We don’t have much to go on,” I admitted, “but with crime scenes as messy as the ones we’ve seen here...” A sudden chill ran up my spine and I shuddered involuntarily, visualizing the horrid details in my mind. I had never done that before, and somewhere in my subconscious I had the feeling that someone in the room had planted those images in my brain. I collected myself, shaking off the distraction, but misplacing my train of thought. “Well, anyway, I’m sure my forensic people will come up with something soon.”
I started walking in slow, methodic strides, my head down, my gaze to the floor. I found it hard to look anyone in the eye after what had happened, fearing a greater vulnerability should anyone glimpse into my mind. The others had seen it all before, visitors stopping by the workshop, feeling vulnerable, as though broadcasting their thoughts aloud. Some might have smiled with guilt for allowing themselves to think about sex and nudity after meeting Leona, Lilith or the twins. Others might have turned red-faced for the sins they harbored on the way in, but now were no longer secret. Still others, such as me, likely turned their heads, or kept their eyes focused on the floor, as though the eyes were not so much the windows to the soul, but to the mind. That I was in the company of the world’s most accomplished psychics did not escape my attention, and I understood keenly that my usual method of asking questions without giving away too much information in the process would not likely prove effective here. I imagined if the killer were in the room, then he or she could have a decisive advantage in the game of detective versus suspect, and for the first time since my rookie years I felt the nervous lump in my throat threatening to undermine my tone of authority. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard before pressing on.
“I know this is difficult on everyone, but I need to ask if you know of any reason why anyone would want to see Travis Webber or Barbara Richardson dead. Did either have enemies?”
The group shook their heads in unison.
“All right, then. Is there anyone here who might have overheard something, anything that might have sounded strange or peculiar, either at the time or now in retrospect?”
Again, heads shook, and this time I could see that not all were paying particular attention. I observed Lilith, her head down, though still diligently tying knots, and the twins preoccupied with watching her. Chris, Jean and Doctor Lieberman sat staring through glassy eyes across the table. Gordon, Leona and Valerie sat glaring out the window. Michael appeared altogether disconnected. It seemed obvious that nobody wanted to be there, and that a group interview so soon after the murders was a mistake. In hindsight, I realized they first needed time alone to come to terms with what had happened. I asked only a few more questions before cutting the interview short.
“Before I go,” I said, already my hand gripped the doorknob. “I just want to say this. It’s still the department’s opinion that a fanatic cult is responsible for these killings, perhaps for the purpose of a demonic ritual of sorts. I know it’s not a lot to go on, but we have a list of gangs in the area. Our sources tell us that some of these gangs are involved in other satanic related activities like pet mutilations for the purpose of sacrifice.”
“Pet mutilations, Detective?” The question came from Lilith; her voice ripe with sarcasm. “Do we look like pets to you?”
“No, of course not, Lilith. I know it’s a long stretch from pets to people. My point is this. Why else would someone kill somebody and take their liver if not for that?”
“Maybe it’s the Asians,” Gordon answered. “I saw on TV where members of the Asian black market were going around stealing people’s organs for transplants.”
“Actually, Gordon, that thought crossed my mind also, except usually the victims are dru
gged and it’s the kidney taken, not the liver.”
“But it’s possible. Isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Guess anything’s possible. We’re looking into everything. I assure you. Does anyone have anything else?”
“Yeah,” said Chris Walker. “Do you think the killer is targeting us? I mean this workshop?”
I shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, Chris. This isn’t the kind of thing we’ve ever seen here in New Castle, where specific groups are targeted for sacrificial ritual offerings. To be honest, I believe both Travis and Barbara were two people in the wrong place at the wrong time. The most likely scenario is that the cult operates close by, and that they just happened to come across Travis and Barbara. That’s why I ask all of you to travel in groups of two or three when you come and go from this place.”
“Which brings up another question,” said Gordon. “Should we stop the workshops?”
I exchanged glances with Doctor Lieberman. “It’s hard for me to say, son. Personally, I think you have little to worry about. But if any of you are uncomfortable coming here at night, I’d suggest you stay home where you know it’s safe. I know you voted on it, and I can’t tell you what to do. What I can tell you is this: we will beef up security and patrols around the vicinity, especially at night, and we’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe.”
“Right,” said Lilith, mumbling under her breath as she tightened another knot on the cord.
I turned to her. “I’m sorry. Did you say something, Lilith?”
“You can’t stop this, Detective. It’s too late. You’re in over your head now.”
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“I know it’s out of your control.”
Across the table, the twins agreed with Lilith by nodding. Gordon later told me that one of them said in a hush, “Do you see what she’s doing with that rope, sister?”
“It’s the witch’s ladder.” The other replied.
“Yes. She is tying the 40th knot now.”
“Do you know who it’s for?”
“No. I should think not. Perhaps it’s for one of us.”
“Or perhaps Marcella.”
I turned back after hearing my name whispered and cast my gaze at the twins. They straightened up quickly. By then it was too late. A dizzying whoosh filled my head, and I suddenly felt as though I were slipping into a serpent’s pit, blindfolded and hogtied. I felt the air in the room thin to a vacuum, robbing me of breath. I decided to wrap up the interview abruptly, telling them all that my door was always open.
“I encourage anyone who might want to talk in private to come by and see me,” I said, and then made my exit. I barely stepped out of the room and into the hall when the door swung shut on my heels. The group erupted in a roll of thunderous laughter. It made me angry at first, but the sound all of them laughing seemed somehow all right. I followed the stairs down into the lobby and let myself out. The crisp cool air filled my lungs and chased the foggy feeling from my brain.
Later, in that same interview with Gordon, he told me what happened after I left. He turned to Michael and thanked him by landing a congratulatory slap on his back. “Among the howling crew,” he told me, “sat Leona Diaz, the only one in the room not laughing.”
“I do not understand?” she said, timidly. “Did Michael do that with psycho kinesis?”
“Of course, you twit,” Lilith answered. “Don’t you get it? Marcella said his door is always open. Quite a hoot, don’t you think?”
“All right, simmer down,” said Doctor Lieberman. “There’s no need for name calling. Now, if I may restore order. I want you all to listen up please. I’ve got something to say.”
The ruckus settled into a thin stir before all eyes turned to the Doctor. He stood to address the group, but came across looking strangely apprehensive. He cleared his throat and wiped his cheek below his eye. Though no one saw tears, the understanding that they might have been there went unchallenged.
“I know what all of you are going through right now,” he began. “And I know Travis and Barbara were more than just shop mates to every one of us. They were very special people in our lives, and I too will miss them dearly. Some of you may not know this, but Travis was the first member of the workshop to have results of his PK experiments published in the New England Journal of Science and Medicine. I believe that article, perhaps more than any other, is what made the continuing studies here at the workshop possible for all of you today. Until then, the Center lost funding from both the government and the private sectors faster than I care to admit.
“Barbara, likewise, proved her importance in her own way for what she brought to the institute. As you know, Barbara became an ambassador, of sorts, for our cause. Whenever she saw the opportunity to gain publicity for us, she didn’t hesitate. Her gentle and kind demeanor brought a warm, friendly face to the work we do here. I don’t need to tell any of you that many people are afraid of psychics and clairvoyants because we deal with the unknown. Barbara’s work with local clubs and charities contributed to easing those fears and helped us gain acceptance in their world. I might say that my very salary probably comes from the many contributions of the kind people she introduced to this facility and without her…” A tear escaped the pinched corner of his eye. “Well, let’s just say that we will sorely miss her and Travis.”
Everyone nodded, agreeing with Doctor Lieberman’s words, and some including Leona and Valerie, brushed away tears of their own.
“I wouldn’t blame any of you,” the doctor continued, “if you wanted to stop coming here until Detective Marcella puts this killer behind bars. However, I suspect some of you may still want to carry on with the important work we’re doing here. Therefore, I decided to let you put it to another vote. If the majority wants to continue the workshops, then we’ll do so.”
Doctor Lieberman surveyed the room, searching their faces for seeds of apprehension. But solemn looks and focused stares prevailed. He could no sooner read their expressions than read their minds. The silence broke when Lilith spoke up. “I’d like to continue,” she said, stroking her fingers along her rope and stopping at each knot to cinch them tight.
Immediately, the twins chimed in. “Us too.”
Valerie stood up next. “And me, Doctor. I want to do it for Barbara. I sense her presence here tonight. I think it’s what she would want.”
One by one, the others came around. It was Gordon first, then Michael and Chris, and finally Leona.
“Okay. It’s unanimous,” said Doctor Lieberman. “I think as a precaution, however, you should all take Detective Marcella’s advice and buddy up with a partner when you return. I trust he means what he says when he promises to beef up security around the building. Does anyone have any questions?”
“I do,” said Michael Dietrich.
“Yes?”
“Excuse me for saying this, but is anyone really buying this crap about human sacrifice and fanatic cults that Marcella is cramming down our throats?”
“Yeah,” said Gordon. “The whole thing seems ridiculous to me, too. I mean, who ever heard of pagan sacrifices happening in this country? Besides, I thought pagan cults only sacrificed dogs and cats and chickens and things.”
“I don’t know `bout that, Gordon,” Chris added, “but I saw a special on the Sci-Fi channel where this pagan cult sacrificed young virgins on a bloody altar after forcing them to have sex with a snake.”
“A snake?”
“Yeah, the thing was this long. First they built a fire and then they––”
“Pah-leaseeee,” said Lilith. “Stow it. Will you?” She rolled the knotted piece of rope up and slipped it into her pocket. “All right. I know what you’re all thinking. First of all, let me tell you that no, pagans don’t practice human sacrifice in this day and age. Nor do they sacrifice cats and dogs for that matter. You might find a few voodoo worshipers offering up a few chickens or goats in some third-world countries, but human livers are definitely not on the menu.
And Chris,” she wagged an accusing finger at him, “if you think the Sci-Fi channel reflects real life in the slightest, well then I’d say you really need to get a life. Honestly, just how the hell does one have sex with a snake?”
“I was telling you. First they––”
“Forget it. Listen, there’s something else going on here.”
“What?” Valerie asked. “Is this guy some modern-day Jack the Ripper?”
“Hardly, Val. Jack the Ripper only killed women. So unless Travis left this building wearing high heels and a slip, I’d have to say that the killer had another agenda.”
“What agenda would have someone cutting people open in the middle of the night for no reason?”
“Yes,” said one of the twins, and then several in the group moved in on Lilith. “Tell us. What agenda might someone have for ripping out someone’s liver if not for ritualistic sacrifice?”
The rest of the group immediately picked up on the inference that Lilith knew more than she was letting on. They closed in on her. She backed away, taking several steps until she found herself flat against the filing cabinet. Gordon’s chubby face came close enough to Lilith’s to feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. She put her hands to his chest and pushed him back, uttering something in rhyme. The others quickly fell back.
“It’ a spell,” Gordon cried, “She cast a spell on me. She’s cast—”
“Cool it, turd.” Lilith creased her collar and pulled on her shirttail to evict the wrinkles from her blouse. “And don’t ever get that close to me again, dog breath. You hear?”
Gordon nodded.
“Okay, folks, let’s get something straight. Everyone knows I dabble in witchcraft. Fine, but it’s something I do on my own time in the privacy of my own home. I don’t hang around with gnomes and goblins or cast spells on little children, though I do disdain the noisome little varmints—the children, I mean, not the gnomes. My interest in witchcraft stems from my psychic abilities and helps me to exercise my powers and explore my psychic potential. What I do on my own time is nothing different from what the rest of you do here at the workshop every week, which incidentally, three hundred years ago would have gotten us all burned at the stake. Psychics, Clairvoyants,” she turned and cast an implicating eye toward Leona. “And yes, even masters of bilocation. People would have looked at all of us as witches. Contrary to what Detective Marcella thinks, I’m here to tell you that neo-pagans do not run around cutting out people’s body parts for offerings to Pagan Gods.”