Peter Thornton approached her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Samantha, startled by his touch, jumped and spun around to face him. When she saw her partner, she softly sighed. “Sorry, I was miles away. You startled me.”
Peter smiled and said, as he gestured down the hall, “The doctor says we can have five minutes with him.”
“Only five? Did you tell him this is an ongoing murder investigation?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Peter replied, “He didn’t want to let us in at all. The doctor said he’s far from stable and he’s concerned that any disturbance could be detrimental.”
“Fine. If five minutes is all we got, then we better not waste it. Let’s go,” she replied, as she moved forward down the hall.
The walls of the hospital room had been covered with sterile beige wallpaper with a faint interlaced vine pattern. A plastic mauve-colored handrail lined the walls at waist height. The constant beep of a heart monitor could be heard as they entered the room. Ivory white curtains divided the room in half, providing a meager level of privacy between the two beds. To Samantha’s relief, only one of the beds in the room was occupied. Pulling the curtain back from around the far bed, Samantha gazed upon the huddled mass propped up by three pillows amidst the sheets. Sean DeMarco’s face, although now puffier than she remembered, still had a distinctive parchment look to it. The color had returned to his lips, and his hands seemed a little less skeletal than they had in the Emergency Room. But his cheeks and eye sockets still seemed sunken compared to the photo Samantha had seen of the young man before his attack. Clear liquid flowed freely into Sean’s right arm through a narrow plastic tube connected to an IV bag hanging from a hook at the head of the bed.
When the two detectives entered the room, Sean DeMarco appeared to be asleep. But, as they approached his bed, his eyelids fluttered slightly, and he turned his head in their direction. His lips parted only slightly, and a faint whisper drifted out, forcing Samantha to lean forward to understand what the young man was saying.
“I’m sorry if I look asleep. I can’t open my eyes much more than this.”
“Just relax, Mr. DeMarco. We won’t keep you long,” said Samantha.
“Please, call me Sean.”
Samantha smiled, introduced Peter and herself, and then explained, “We’re investigating your attack as part of a larger series of attacks throughout the city. We’re hoping that you can provide us with some detail about what happened.”
Trying to raise his head slightly from the pillow, Sean whispered in reply, “I’ll try. Things are still a bit sketchy.”
Peter said reassuringly, “Whatever you can provide will be a great help.”
Sean’s eyelids stopped fluttering, and the only motion from him for a minute was his chest rising and falling with each deep breath, as if garnering strength for a pending ordeal. His head turned toward them, and once again his eyelids began to flutter.
“I went clubbing Friday night. It’s not something I do very often, and it was a last minute decision,” he whispered. “I got to Pulsar around eight thirtyish. Had a few drinks. I was having a pretty good time.” He paused for a moment, and took a few deep breaths. “I don’t really remember what time it was, but this woman came up to me. She was . . . she was . . . so sexy. So unbelievably sexy. And, ah, she started dancing with me. I mean, she was way out of my league.”
Samantha inquired, “Can you describe her?”
Taking a deep breath, Sean replied, “She was blonde. Not a fake blonde. You could tell it was real. Perfect complexion. Maybe five foot four. Said her name was Kallista. Had a funny accent.”
“What happened after she started dancing with you?” asked Peter.
Sean’s eyelids ceased all movement for a minute, and Samantha noticed that his breathing was becoming shallow. The two detectives patiently waited a few minutes, until suddenly Sean’s head turned toward them again.
“Wha . . . what did you ask?”
Peter repeated the question, and Sean’s lips parted for another whisper. “I’m ashamed to say . . . I kinda lost control. We . . . danced . . . dirty. Her hands were all over me, and . . . she rubbed her body against mine. It was . . . so erotic. And the more she did it, the more I wanted it. I couldn’t control . . . myself.”
Samantha noticed his chest rising and falling faster than before; his words faltered, punctuated by his labored breathing. She leaned forward and said, “Do you need to take a break?”
Sean replied quietly, “Just a sec . . . gimme just a second.”
Samantha and Peter waited patiently as Sean DeMarco allowed his head to sink back into the pillows. He seemed to drift off to sleep, and, after a few minutes, Samantha thought they should leave. But, after a long, deep breath, Sean’s eyelids fluttered again, and he said, “Ok. Where was I?”
Peter replied, “You said her dancing was erotic.”
“It was . . . like getting a lap dance. But I was allowed to participate. She kissed me. Touched me. I kept wondering when we would get kicked out . . . It must have looked obscene. After an hour, all I wanted was to find some private spot where we could screw. She seemed to really want it . . . and I know I wanted it bad. But we just kept on dancing.” Sean turned his eyes toward Samantha and added, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk like this is front of a lady.”
Samantha answered his comment with a smile. “Don’t worry. I hear things far worse than this all the time.”
“After another hour, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to have her. But, she seemed . . . to know my thoughts. She leaned in . . . asked if I wanted to go find someplace a little more private. I don’t know what came over me, but I grabbed her hand . . . and we rushed out of the club,” whispered Sean.
“What happened then?” asked Peter.
“Everything’s a blur after that. I remember . . . the stairs of the parking garage . . . she kept stopping every so many steps to kiss and grope me. A couple times, I thought we were going to have sex right there in the stairwell . . . up against the wall. I wouldn’t have said no if she wanted to.” He paused and his head sank back into the pillows again. Then he said, “I was parked on the third level. We half walked and half stumbled toward my BMW. But then . . .” Sean DeMarco paused again. “I was against the wall . . . I remember agonizing pain in my neck . . . a terrible burning . . . searing . . . There was a loud scream . . . a scream . . .”
Samantha leaned forward and touched Sean’s hand. “Just rest. We’ll come back when you feel better.”
The two detectives turned to leave the room. Peter had just pulled open the door when Sean said, “Detective . . .”
Samantha returned to the bedside, and leaned forward. “What is it, Sean?”
“I remember . . . her eyes . . . I remember her eyes.”
Samantha quietly inquired, “What about her eyes?”
Sean replied, “They were glowing . . . glowing red . . . like fire.”
Standing by the window again, Samantha gazed silently out over the cityscape. Peter stood beside her, patiently waiting for her to say something. The silence between them continued for five minutes until Samantha turned around, and leaned back against the glass.
“It’s the same description we got from Maxwell. Glowing red eyes,” she said.
“No need for a drug test, then,” joked Peter.
Samantha cracked a brief smile. “What did the doctor say about DeMarco’s status?”
“He said it was too early to tell how much tissue and organ damage was caused by the attack. He’s not even sure if DeMarco will live to see the end of the week.”
“Did you see that editorial in the Post-Gazette this morning?” she asked, referring to one of Philadelphia’s daily newspapers.
“The one that called the commissioner a baboon who couldn’t find his ass in a wet paper bag?”
Laughing, Samantha replied, “No, I m
issed that one. I meant the one demanding we let the, quote, professional law enforcement from the FBI, end quote, take over the case.”
Peter replied, “Ouch. That hurts.”
“The Captain called me into his office this morning. He said he’s going to have to do just that if we don’t start getting somewhere. Wilkinson’s been pushing hard to take over the investigation. The Captain says he’ll stall as long as he can, but we need to get our asses in gear.”
“At least now we’ve got corroborating witness descriptions of the woman,” said Peter.
“Or women. Don’t forget the Spinacker murder. We may be dealing with more than one killer.”
Peter gazed out the window, and asked, “Do you think that’s likely?”
Turning to follow his gaze, Samantha said, “About as likely as the commissioner finding his ass in a wet paper bag.” Peter couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. Samantha continued, “In all seriousness, there might be two of them working together. I never considered that until this week, but it’s a possibility. I’d bet Spinacker died the same night that DeMarco was attacked. And, if that’s the case, we’ve got a good description of our two killers; one’s a blonde, and the other’s a redhead.”
“They seem to be targeting men,” said Peter.
“Not necessarily. Don’t forget Hardwick’s family,” Samantha reminded him. “We should get an APB out on them. We’ve got those forensic sketches from the DJ, along with the grainy CCTV footage, so we at least have a vague idea of what they look like. Plus, let’s get someone to scan the city public records to see if they can find anything. There can’t be that many people named Kallista in Philadelphia. Maybe one of them will match our description. If she’s a resident of the city, there’s bound to be a record somewhere.” Then she paused, gazing out across the city once again. “Do you know what I hate most about this case?”
Peter replied, “No, what?”
She replied, “Every damn thing.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jack Allyn stood in his bedroom window and watched as people on South Street four floors below passed by his apartment building. The Thursday evening sun was setting over the city, bringing a light mist with the darkness. He could see the pavement of the road below glisten from the faint coating of moisture accumulating on its surface. Having been away from WPLX all week long had not helped Jack to deal with the grief and horror of his friend’s death. If anything, the solitude had provided nothing more than ample time to think about his tragic loss, as well as ponder the terrifying condition of Jason’s corpse. With images of Jason’s shriveled face appearing in his mind every time Jack closed his eyes, sleep had been difficult all week. Other than his trip to the Den of Heroes on Wednesday, Jack had not ventured much from the confines of his apartment.
As he stood before the window, he felt an overwhelming need to get out. The walls of his apartment seemed to be closing in on him, and, although he had never been before, Jack was beginning to feel crushingly claustrophobic. The clock on his bedside table told him it was closing in on seven in the evening, and a hunger pain in his abdomen reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Jack decided he should go out and find a nice place to have dinner, perhaps some place where he had never been before.
As he pulled on a pair of jeans and searched for a shirt to wear, Jack’s mind cast back through the events of the past week, from the gruesome discovery on Monday morning to the police’s return to Jason’s apartment earlier that afternoon. He remembered hearing the door of the elevator slide open around two, and watched through the peephole in his door as the two detectives from earlier that week passed his doorway. It had been at least an hour and a half before Jack had heard the elevator again, signaling their departure. He had been tempted to go over and ask about their progress on the case. He wanted to know what had happened to his friend. But Jack couldn’t bring himself to enter Jason’s apartment again.
_______________
Out on the street, Jack walked slowly along the sidewalk, barely noticing the people who were around him. The falling mist covered the sleeves of the fleece pullover he had decided to wear to combat the evening chill. Although his strides were steady and straight, Jack had no particular direction in which he was headed. He walked a few blocks down South Street, and then turned left onto S. Fifth Street. Even though he had lived in the area for over a year, Jack had never really ventured far from South Street. It had been his way of saying that his stay in Philadelphia would be very brief, perhaps only a few months. Although a few months had become more than a year, his mind and soul had continued to rebel against the idea of further exploration of his city of residence for fear that it would represent surrendering to his fate.
A few blocks up, he stopped at the corner of S. Fifth Street and Pine Street and glanced around the intersection. An elderly man held an umbrella over himself and his elderly wife at the bus stop near the corner. Jack wondered whom he would hold an umbrella over when he reached that age. Or would he be standing alone at the bus stop, allowing the rain to pour over him? What he needed was a shoulder to cry on. What he wanted was her shoulder to cry on. But she was a long way from Philadelphia, and far too much time had passed. He suddenly felt alone, very much alone.
Crossing the street, Jack continued his aimless stroll along S. Fifth Street. As he walked, he kept his eyes down, watching the toes of his shoes kick up drops of water and scatter them out in front of him with each step. As he crossed over Spruce Street, Jack raised his head momentarily and caught a glimpse of a silhouette stepping out from a narrow alleyway ahead of him. The dark shape paused for a moment to stare into the cloudy sky above, and then turned toward Jack, walking with a determined step along the sidewalk. As the silhouette drew closer, its features became clearer in the dim illumination of the streetlights. Skintight jeans covered her long curvy legs, while a close-fitting sweater stretched over perky breasts. The perfectly curved figure strode forward with confidence and purpose. Jack remained still as she approached in a self-possessed manner that made him wonder if she even knew he was standing along her path. She brushed gently against his right shoulder without even a glance in his direction. But as she passed by him along the sidewalk, her face was momentarily captured in the glare of a nearby street light. The glimpse of her face that Jack received lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was all he needed. Even though he first beheld her face from a distance, hers was one that he could never forget. And even if he had held any doubt, her fiery medium-length red hair was unmistakable.
She continued to walk on, paying no attention to the man who gaped at her departing back. Jack’s mind raced in confusion, unable to decide what he should do. Should he chase her? Should he call the police? Weighing his options, Jack decided that calling the detective investigating Jason’s death would be his safest bet. His hand slipped into his pocket, and he extracted his cell phone. But he slid the phone back in as he remembered that he had left Detective Ballard’s business card in his apartment. She had given it to him, emphasizing that he should call her if he remembered anything else that might help their investigation. He cursed under his breath and then, with a deep sigh, moved forward down the darkened street in the woman’s wake.
Jack could just make out her silhouette about half a block ahead of him. She didn’t appear to be rushing, and there was no indication that she was aware of him following behind. Prudence called for a stealthy pursuit, and Jack considered abiding by prudence’s request. All he would need to do was to stay back in the shadows, and allow her to guide him to her residence. Then, he could return to his apartment, and call the detective. It’s a piece of cake.
He took each step slow and easy, to ensure that he was not making an overabundance of noise. The woman walked steadily forward passing Cypress Street, a small side street on the right. With a sudden movement, she stepped out into the street and briskly crossed to the other side. Watching the woman resu
me her trajectory down S. Fifth Street, Jack stepped into the road to follow.
With his attention focused on her, Jack’s only warning of the car’s approach was the horn and sound of screeching tires. The Honda Accord’s bumper stopped inches from his legs, and Jack found himself staring into the face of the irate young driver, who cursed at him through the windshield.
Ignoring the driver, Jack glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his quarry. The one thing that he didn’t want to have happen did. The woman had stopped, and glared at him over the top of a parked car. From her expression, Jack could tell that she now knew he was following her.
Turning toward her, he shouted, “I want to talk to you!”
Her mouth formed an evil grin, and she darted off down the street. Jack sped across to the sidewalk and bolted after her. Although slim and fit, Jack was by no means an athlete, and it wasn’t long before his breathing was labored as he tried to keep up. The redhead whipped around the corner onto Delancey Street, and Jack charged ahead to match her move. He turned the corner in time to see her disappear around another corner onto S. Reese Street. Despite the pounding in his chest and the searing pain in his lungs, Jack raced toward the corner, hoping to not lose her. Rounding the next corner, Jack marveled at the distance that his quarry had put between them. She’s got the speed of an Olympic runner, he thought, as he watched her sprint to the left around the corner of S. Reese Street and Spruce Street. As he followed her onto Spruce Street, the muscles in his legs were on fire. He gasped in desperation for every breath as his feet pounded on the concrete of the sidewalk. Yet he pushed himself forward, knowing that he couldn’t lose her.
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