Fox wasn’t sure how he felt about his visit. He had learned that Regan Delaney was selfish, obsessive and delusional and that the Indigo Family was as dysfunctional as any cult Fox had encountered, but he had no reason to believe Sorcha was in any immediate danger — or any proof. Professionally, he had discovered how his erstwhile patient might have come by her rare gift. It appeared to be a strange genetic inheritance, a freak mutation in her bloodline resulting from centuries of Delaney family inbreeding.
Approaching the stairs, they passed another room. Fox glanced inside and saw a child’s bed and a cluster of pink toys. “That’s my daughter’s room,” Connor said proudly. “She’ll be five next year. She’s out with the horses and can already ride better than me.” He smiled. “It’s funny. I never had any children with my first wife but my second’s given me two. Perhaps, by breaking up my first marriage, my brother did me a favor after all.”
Fox was no longer listening. He was staring at the wooden letters pinned to the door, which spelled ‘Angela’. “You buy those letters or make them?” he asked, taking a photo with his cell phone.
“I made them,” said Connor. “Angela’s my daughter’s name. Why? You want to know why I colored the letters that way?”
A chill ran down Fox’s spine. “No,” he said, more calmly than he felt, wondering how he could have missed the connection. “You’ve already told me why.” He checked his watch then shook Connor Delaney’s hand. “Thank you for everything, but I’m afraid I have to leave now.”
“Why?”
“I need to get back to Portland and if I run I can catch the five p.m. flight.”
As he left the house and jumped into the waiting cab he punched a number on his BlackBerry. He was trying to call Sorcha and warn her but the iPhone he had given her wasn’t answering. Shit. He left a voicemail, telling her to call him urgently, then phoned Jordache. The detective was busy but his assistant promised to courier the crime scene photographs to Fox’s apartment that night. Fox checked his watch again and willed the cab to reach the airport in time. If the photographs confirmed his suspicions then Sorcha faced a far more dangerous threat than a delusional father.
Part Three
The Great Work
Chapter 34
At midnight, the excitement of Sorcha’s homecoming had subsided and the settlement was quiet. His exhausted daughter was asleep in her room, but Regan Delaney was too preoccupied to retire. He stepped out into the night to wander his domain.
As he walked among the silent wooden cabins within which his followers slumbered he looked up at the night sky. In a few days the silver moon would be full and Esbat would be upon them. Despite the mild air, the sense of anticipation caused goosebumps to erupt on his arm. Passing a sign forbidding entry into the forest on the rise behind settlement, he breathed in the smell of the giant sequoia redwoods. The forest was quiet except for the occasional cry of lovesick owls. He smiled up at the massive trees, standing like silent sentinels guarding his settlement and his secrets. Even the tower’s giant eye, gleaming in the moonlight, could not see into their depths.
Back inside his private quarters, he went to his concealed room and checked the closed-circuit monitors, toggling through the cameras secreted in the various sites around the settlement. He saw two Watchers patrolling the bridge but most of the screens showed his people asleep in their beds. Usually he searched for forbidden activity so he could publicly shame the wrongdoer and reinforce his people’s belief that he, the Seer, saw everything. Tonight, however, he selected the room in which his daughter lay sleeping. Because of the low light the black and white image was grainy but when he zoomed in on her face he could still make out her features. He remembered the day she was born and how he had stared into her eyes, wondering what they had seen before coming into existence and what they would see after she died. As he studied her face now, he smiled. He had reclaimed her just in time, days away from taking the Great Work to the next stage. Then his lens zoomed out and the excited glow of anticipation curdled in his belly.
Someone was standing at the foot of Sorcha’s bed, watching her sleep. Disbelief paralyzed Delaney for some seconds. How could an intruder be in Sorcha’s room? What was he doing there? How dare anyone steal into his private chambers? As he zoomed in on the intruder, fury replaced shock and he ran to Sorcha’s room.
Exhausted, Sorcha lay on her bed, in deep sleep. Again the nightmares visited her but tonight the circling horses, the eye staring down at her from the looming tower and the shadowy figure chasing her seemed even more real and frightening.
Suddenly, something sensed in the real world pierced her dreams and dragged her from the depths of her unconscious. As she surfaced she became aware of a mounting, suffocating dread pressing down on her chest. The terror of waking was so great that she would have preferred to return to her familiar nightmares.
As her eyes flickered open she heard herself cry out. A figure was standing by her bed, bending over her, reaching out his hand but in her half-sleep state she couldn't move away. She flinched as he touched her brow and stroked her forehead.
“Relax. It’s only me,” the figure said.
As her eyes focused she recognized her father. A warm wave of relief flooded over her. She was home, back with her family. She sighed and felt herself descent into deep sleep once more. As she lost consciousness she didn’t register the anger and concern on her father’s face or the trace odor hanging in the still air like the smell of death.
Chapter 35
When Fox returned to his apartment that evening the photographs of the three crime scenes were waiting for him. As he laid them on the dining table he ignored the mutilated victims and focused on the blow-ups of the killer’s message:
SERVE THE DEMON
SAVE THE ANGEL
Ignoring what the messages might mean, Fox compared the colored letters on the crime photographs with those on his cell phone. The colors Connor Delaney had used to spell the word ‘Angela’ on his daughter’s bedroom door corresponded almost exactly with the marker pen letters that spelled the word ‘Angel’ in the crime scene photographs. In all pictures, the A’s were red, the N’s blue, the E’s green and the L’s differing shades of yellow. Even the G’s were similar brown tones. Fox knew why Connor Delany had chosen the colors: he had grapheme-color synaesthesia and saw individual letters as a particular shade. But why had the killer assigned the same colors to identical letters? Was it a coincidence?
Fox retrieved the notes he had made the day he’d first discovered Sorcha’s synaesthesia. What had she said when he had shown her the letter A? ‘You’ve written it n black ink but everyone knows A’s are red… E’s are olive green.’ Grapheme-color synaesthetes often ascribed similar colors to the same letters, which indicated that not only were Sorcha and Connor Delaney synaesthetes but the killer was, too. Did that mean the killer was, too? Did that mean the killer knew Sorcha and was part of her past?
He needed to speak off the record with someone about this to check his thinking before he went official. Fullelove already thought he was spending too much time on an ex-patient so he doubted she would be too receptive, and he would have to get his facts straight before he spoke to Jordache. Whatever his facts were. He packed up all the photos, files and notes and picked up his car keys. Within half an hour he was at Samantha’s. There was a squad car outside but otherwise no sign of the recent attack. The front door had been repaired and when she opened it she showed no ill effects. “What are you doing here, Nathan? Not checking on me again, I hope. I can look after myself.”
He smiled. “You’ve proved that. I need your help. It concerns Sorcha.”
“Well, in that case, come in.” She escorted Fox into the kitchen and poured him a glass of wine.
“Have you got any beer?”
She grimaced. “You know I serve only proper drink in this house. This is a very good Sauvignon Blanc. All the way from New Zealand.”
He smiled and took the glass. “Thank you.�
�
“So what’s this about Sorcha? When she said goodbye to me, by the way, I got the distinct impression she didn’t want to go.” She raised an eyebrow. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…” she paused, searching for the word, “…engaged by someone. I’m surprised you let her go.”
He frowned. “She was my patient. I did what I thought was right for her.”
“Nathan, my dear, you might understand the human mind but it appears you still have a lot to learn about the human heart.” She sipped her wine. “Why are you concerned about her now she’s out of harm’s way?”
“Because I’m not sure if she is out of harm’s way.”
“Why?”
He laid out his files and photographs on the kitchen table and told her about what Connor Delaney had said about Regan Delaney, the cult and their obsession with the third eye. “We all assumed the killer didn’t know Sorcha personally but was fixated on her public persona. The cops were happy for her to leave Portland and return to some remote cult because they figured she’d be safer there, out of the way. But what if the killer does know her? What if he is or was part of the cult?” Fox showed Samantha the picture on his cell phone and explained his theory of the colored letters. “The colors of the letters at all the crime scenes correspond exactly with the ones used by Connor Delaney. And with the letters Sorcha mentioned.”
She frowned. “Matching colors might meant the killer’s got synaesthesia. But even if he does have it, it doesn’t automatically follow he’s a member of the cult.” She paused. “Nathan, I know what you think about cults and why. But I’ve dealt with a few New Age cranks in my time — you wouldn’t believe the New Age gurus and mystics who’ve jumped on to the quantum physics bandwagon to give credibility to their theories about the duality of the body and soul — and Regan Delaney’s cult doesn’t sound any more sinister than the rest.”
“He’s certainly not the first person to interpret synaesthesia as a spiritual or psychic gift, either. Back in the seventies, a synaesthete and self-styled psychic parapsychologist coined the phrase ‘Indigo Children’ to describe kids with indigo auras who allegedly possessed supernatural traits and abilities, including telepathy. Despite widespread skepticism from the medical and scientific community, many parents, particularly of difficult children, were only too happy to have their little darlings classified as Indigo Children because it implied they were special. Later, of course, most of the children were diagnosed as having nothing more glamorous than attention deficit disorder, or being plain spoilt.
“My point is, Nathan, Sorcha’s probably fine where she is, whatever the cult’s obsession with indigo auras, the sixth chakra or the third eye.” She tapped her forehead as she said ‘third eye’, leaving a white mark, just as Connor Delaney had in Sacramento. The gesture sparked a tantalizing connection in Fox’s mind. He picked up the pile of crime scene photos on the table and began shuffling them like a deck of cards until he found himself staring at a graphic close-up of the severed head from the third crime scene. His aunt turned pale when she saw the image.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quickly concealing the picture from her. He had seen enough, however, to bring the connection into cold, sharp focus. How could he have been so blind? He riffled through the photos, focusing on pictures of the other victims. “But the killer can’t have known…?” he started to say, before the connection led to another chilling insight.
“What is it?” said Samantha.
“I think the killer’s definitely connected to Sorcha. Even more closely than I feared.”
“Why?”
He explained his insight and waited for Samantha to pick it to pieces. But she didn’t. “You could be right. If you are, it would explain something that happened the other night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come.” She led him to Howard’s study. “The intruder was hiding in here when I walked past. I only knew he was in here because he knocked something over and made a loud noise. I should have been the one in shock when I confronted him but he seemed even more stunned than me. I found this on the floor after he’d gone.” She picked up the Mayan sacrificial stone from Howard’s desk. It was broken in two. “His fingerprints aren’t on it but that doesn’t mean he didn’t touch it.”
Fox understood immediately. It confirmed his theory. He reached for the phone and dialed Karl Jordache’s number.
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to convince the police that ghosts exist.”
Chapter 36
Fox knew it was going to be tough to win over Jordache. Like all good detectives, Jordache believed in one thing only: hard evidence. The next morning, however, when they met in the homicide incident room deep in the warren of corridors that made up Portland’s Central Precinct police headquarters, Fox realized it was going to be tougher than he had thought. The exhausted detective seemed more irritated at being called away from whatever he had been doing than interested in what Fox had to say.
“You got a new theory?” Jordache sighed, gesturing to the notes and crime scene photographs plastered over one wall of the incident room. “We’ve been up all night pursuing the last one.”
“I think I’ve found a link between the killer and my patient. And a link to the cult she’s returned to.”
Jordache sighed. “Nathan, it’s not like you to get so involved with an ex-patient. We’ve talked about this. She’s not your concern any more. She’s history. Let it go.”
“You don’t want to hear my theory?”
Jordache rubbed his eyes. “We’ve already—” He stopped and corrected himself. “Sorry, Nathan, it’s been a long night. Go ahead. Your hunches are always worth listening to.”
“This isn’t a hunch.” Fox walked over to the crime scene pictures on the wall and explained about his visit to Connor Delaney, the cult and the matching colored letters in the messages.
“Aren’t you taking this synaesthesia thing a little far?” said Jordache.
“It shows a connection. It proves the killer had synaesthesia like Sorcha and was probably—”
“It’s just colored letters, Nathan. It proves nothing. It’s circumstantial at best.”
Fox pointed to the crime scene pictures showing Sorcha’s portrait stapled to the victims’ faces. “Look where the staple is in Sorcha’s picture…” he indicated each of the victims, “…in all the crime scenes. And look where the staple is in each of the victims.” Fox tapped his forehead. “It’s in the exact same spot as the sixth chakra, the third eye.” He pointed at a close-up. “If you look closely you can see a trace of marker pen around the staple in the newspaper. The killer drew a dot on Sorcha’s picture, on her forehead, before gunning in the staple — the same dot that members of the Indigo Family wear. The killer’s either a member or an ex-member of the cult and he definitely knows Sorcha.”
Jordache shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “For argument’s sake let’s say you’re right and the killer does have synaesthesia like Sorcha. And let’s say he is or was a member of this cult. These were copycat killings. Forget motive for a moment. How would a member of a remote cult have known about the prior murders that took place at each crime scene?”
Fox paused. He had promised Sorcha he would keep her death-echo synaesthesia a secret, but could see no other way of convincing Jordache that her life may be in danger. “There is one explanation. Bear with me here.” As fox explained his aunt’s theory of archaeosonics and his discovery of Sorcha’s unique synaesthesia, he could see the detective becoming more and more incredulous.
“Let me get this straight, Nathan. You’re saying somehow people’s death throes are recorded in the subatomic fabric of the building in which they died and that Sorcha’s rare form of synaesthesia lets her play back these stored memories and relive their deaths?”
Fox tried to ignore the skepticism in Jordache’s voice. “I know it sounds crazy but that’s how I knew about the prior murders. Sorcha told me after visiting the thre
e crime scenes.”
“She sensed them?”
“She saw, heard, smelt and felt them. And I believe the killer did too. He’s not just a member of the cult, he also shares her death-echo synaesthesia. When he was in my uncle’s office he touched and broke a sacrificial stone used by the ancient Maya, a stone literally soaked in the blood of countless sacrificial victims. I think he sensed something from that stone so unexpected, visceral and shocking that he involuntarily knocked it off the desk and alerted my aunt.”
“A sacrificial stone? Are you kidding me? What was his motive for killing the three men?”
“I’m not sure. He obviously doesn’t share Sorcha’s natural fear and revulsion for death echoes so I’m guessing he’s psychotic. I think they excite him and he uses them not only to relive the murders but also to replicate them with a twist.”
“If he gets off on these death-echoes then who come the sacrificial stone shocked him?”
“Because it was so intense and unexpected.”
Jordache groaned. “What does your Professor Fullelove say about this… death echo synaesthesia?”
‘She doesn’t know about it.”
“How come?”
“Sorcha wanted to keep it confidential.”
“I bet she did. Listen to yourself, Nathan. With the greatest of respect, if I told you what you’ve just told me, without any real proof or corroborating witness, would you believe me? Even if I did believe you, what can I do about it? Rush out to this cult in the middle of nowhere and do what exactly? No judge in their right mind would give me a search warrant based on sacrificial stones, a crazy theory of archaeosonics and a diagnosis of an entirely new condition… death-echo synaesthesia.” He crossed his arms and shook his head. He looked sad and tired. “Hell, I’m not great fan of cults but where’s your goddamned perspective gone? I warned you Jane Doe would get under your skin but come on, this sounds like your making up reasons to worry about her. She’s gone now. She’s no longer your concern.”
Colour of Death, The Page 18