Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  She wasn’t sure where she was within the room, just that she was there. The walls were a blur, but she knew there was a hearth. She could hear that a fire was crackling, see that the flames were playing, blue and gold, and that smoke was rising.

  She still couldn’t see him; she didn’t know how he had gotten in. Had he come through the front door?

  He was in the shadows, as she was. There was a curious sound, as if something was being dragged, but she couldn’t see what.

  The woman in the room heard it, too. She started to turn.

  But Stacey couldn’t see her face.

  She saw the flash of a knife, rising silvery and glittering, caught for a moment in the firelight.

  The woman screamed.

  “No!” Stacey whimpered, the sound loud enough to nudge her, wake her enough to know that she was dreaming.

  But she didn’t open her eyes; she wasn’t out of the dream or the nightmare.

  The killer had her. And while she couldn’t see him clearly, she knew that he turned, and he looked straight at her—she could see a glitter as the firelight then reflected in his eyes.

  How could he see her? He could not!

  And yet it seemed he looked straight at her.

  He lifted the knife in her direction. And he smiled.

  * * *

  Keenan walked to the far end of the kitchen, checking in the refrigerator for anything edible, then he turned to push the button on the coffee maker.

  At that moment, Stacey came into the kitchen to start the coffee.

  They slammed right into one another, then broke apart, laughing.

  “Nice and early,” he told her, stepping back a distance from her, his hands on her shoulders.

  She smelled incredibly good.

  He removed his hands from her shoulders and took another step back, still smiling. He had the thought that having her in his house, with no one else around, and remaining able to maintain their platonic partnership was not something that was likely to happen again.

  He needed distance. They were professionals at very important jobs.

  “You’re up nice and early,” he said. “We’ll make sure we’re at Colin Smith’s office by eight, in time for our appointment. But it’s barely six—”

  “I’d like to go by my place. Please! I mean, it’s great to borrow your mom’s things, but I’d really love to get into my own.”

  “We have time,” he assured her. He was still in his pajama pants and robe. “I’ll just get dressed.”

  “I’ll throw on my stuff from yesterday—and, I promise, I can get ready at my place in a matter of minutes.”

  They moved apart, retiring to the separate rooms. Fifteen minutes later, after each had downed a mug of coffee, they were in the car, heading to her place.

  It was close, just a matter of blocks. And it was early when they reached her apartment, still just six thirty.

  There was a woman at the entry to the apartment when they reached it. She looked to be in her midfifties, small and a bit stocky. She looked disapproving as Keenan stood by Stacey, who’d had her key out, ready, before the door had opened for them.

  “I was worried!” the woman said to Stacey. She eyed Keenan. “Working all night?” she asked skeptically.

  “You know I work all hours, Marty. This is my partner, Keenan Wallace. Keenan, Marty has the other ground-floor apartment here.”

  Marty offered him her hand. “All I have to say is this—when you work all night, work all night here, please! Two FBI agents in the building would make me happy.”

  “We just never know where work takes us,” Keenan told her. Implication had been rich in the woman’s voice. He didn’t care. He smiled. Too bad it hadn’t been what the woman had been thinking.

  “We need to get moving,” he said quietly.

  “Hmph!” Marty said. “I have students, too.” She eyed Keenan judgmentally. He wasn’t sure where he came out in her mind.

  He didn’t really care. He didn’t want to add complications for Stacey.

  “Well, I’ll be in the car,” he said. “Marty, nice to meet you.”

  “And you! Nice, big guy. Seriously, please, work here.”

  He didn’t respond; he lifted a hand and walked back to the car.

  He slid into the driver’s seat. While he waited, he’d go over his notes. Tedious as it might be, you never knew when you might see something that began to make more sense or pointed in a direction not yet taken.

  He’d been there deep in concentration for maybe ten minutes, when a postal delivery truck pulled in just ahead of him. The young postman gave him a friendly wave and headed toward the house.

  There were four simple mailboxes to one side of the porch; the postman had a bundle of mail, which he sorted for each box.

  One of the items he carried was a small brown-paper-wrapped package that looked to be stained on one corner.

  Keenan couldn’t see the mailboxes from where he was, but something about the small package bothered him. He exited the car again, heading for the mailboxes.

  “Sir, excuse me, who is that package for?” he asked as the young man opened the first mailbox.

  The young postman jumped back, looking up to Keenan. The postman was only about five-nine, so he had to crane his neck. “Sir, the delivery of the mail is private. Interfering with a postal worker is against the law, as is opening or tampering with another person’s private correspondence.” He was stammering slightly, apparently trying to remember exactly what he should be saying.

  Keenan produced his credentials, explaining, “I’m not trying to tamper with anything. I’m disturbed by a package that seemed to have leaked a substance and might be dangerous.”

  “Leaked?” the young man said with dismay, looking at the package—and then trying to determine if anything had leaked on him. He looked like a schoolkid who feared he might have cooties as he stood there.

  Then he looked at Keenan, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You may be FBI, but I can’t let you see another person’s mail—”

  The door to the house opened, and Stacey stepped out, dressed in black pants and a beige leather jacket, hair brushed, minimal makeup in perfect, professional mode.

  She frowned, looking from the mailman to Keenan.

  “Is the package for Stacey Hanson?” he asked the postman.

  “Yes, uh, yes, it is.”

  “Stacey, show the nice man your ID,” Keenan said.

  She did so, looking at Keenan with a curious frown.

  “Then...here, miss,” the postman said. He handed the package and a few letters to Stacey and quickly finished stuffing the other three mailboxes. He looked at them both, anxious to move on.

  Keenan stepped in front of him, not wanting to physically waylay the man.

  “I need your name, please.”

  The postman’s eyes widened with unease. He stared at them both. “I didn’t do anything; I’m a postal carrier. I do my job right—”

  “No one is saying that you didn’t. In fact, you’re commendable at your job. But we may need to trace that package.”

  “Right. Please,” Stacey muttered, glancing at Keenan with her frown of confusion deepening.

  “Eric Bolton,” the postman said. “My supervisor is Gene Estrella.”

  “Thank you,” Keenan said, stepping aside to let him go on his way.

  Eric Bolton hurried down the path to his vehicle but then stopped, turning back.

  “What do you think is in that package?” he asked.

  “Not sure. Thank you,” Keenan said.

  The postman hurried on again—his mail wagon jerking out to the road.

  Stacey turned to Keenan. “What do you think is in that package?”

  “No return address, Stacey,” he said. “And suspiciously stained.” He pulled out a pair of ni
trile gloves from the small stash he kept in his jacket pocket and took the package from her. “I want to bring this to headquarters, get the lab on it.”

  “But...we don’t know what it is.”

  “Do you know who sent this?”

  “No, but—”

  “Stacey, look at it.”

  She noticed the dark stain on the paper as well and looked at him again.

  “This doesn’t look like anything you might have purchased online.”

  “No,” she admitted. “But...shouldn’t we find out what it is?”

  “Yes—in a controlled situation. I just have a hunch that whatever this might be, it isn’t something good.”

  Seven

  In the lab at headquarters, Rebecca Cabal, one of their best forensic investigators, first studied and photographed the package.

  “Not that all the care we’re taking may mean anything—this package was dropped off at one of the busiest mail drops in the city. It was handled by several people, at least. Who knows how many? But then again, there is the stamp, though I don’t think that this envelope was stamped or sealed by anyone using their own saliva. There’s a lot of info available on the methods used to catch crooks—most would-be crooks know enough not to leave saliva!”

  Stacey had barely met half of the Krewe agents, much less those working in the extensive labs. So, she was happy to meet Rebecca. She liked her. Rebecca was tall with short red hair, not heavy but solid, quick to listen and pay attention and grasp a situation—and competent and knowledgeable about her own work. She had come into the technological age at the right time, Stacey thought, growing up with all the wonders that computers and science were bringing to the world.

  “It could just be something hastily sent by an old friend—didn’t see that a cosmetic or some other such gift might crack and leak,” Stacey said.

  “Your friends don’t use a return address?” Rebecca asked dubiously.

  “People can be in a hurry. They forget.”

  She wondered why she was protesting. Rebecca was right. Keenan, standing by with his arms crossed over his chest, was right. This didn’t look like a package that might be sent by a friend.

  The package had been photographed, dusted and swabbed. With gloved hands, Rebecca opened it.

  A stained note fell out. Along with a lumpy, red mass.

  Both Keenan and Rebecca were silent. Stacey looked at Keenan, feeling a chill.

  “That’s not...”

  “I believe it is,” Keenan said quietly.

  “Kidney. Human kidney. And I’m willing to bet that testing will prove it to be one of our Yankee Ripper’s victims,” Rebecca said. She looked from Stacey to Keenan. “There’s a note with it. Pretty messed up, but...”

  She used two sets of long tweezers to start painstakingly stretching out the note that had come with the lump of kidney.

  She looked at Keenan. “You’ll let me see what I can discover forensically? I’ll send the photos to you. You’ll have them before you even reach your offices. And the partial organ will go straight to testing.”

  He nodded grimly, glancing over at Stacey, expecting her agreement.

  Of course, she nodded. But she was shaken.

  She’d gone to autopsies. They were painful. She knew that those who worked and spoke for the dead—medical examiners and morgue workers and even morticians—had to learn to work with the body, the shell that was left behind. It was still difficult for her. Autopsies were bad, but the lump of human kidney on the examination table was beyond chilling.

  She wanted to believe that they were wrong—that this wasn’t a sticky lump that had once been a viable human organ. That a prankster had sent her a cow kidney.

  But she knew that wasn’t going to be the case.

  It was bad enough that it was what it was.

  Then she had to wonder why it had been sent to her. Yes, she was on the case; yes, she and Keenan were considered lead, but Fred Crandall was on the case, not to mention dozens of officers and agents in DC, Virginia, West Virginia and Maryland.

  Why her?

  And how did they have her home address?

  They thanked Rebecca.

  Stacey thought that she was moving normally as they left the lab for the elevator. But she felt a bit wobbly.

  She heard the little ping on her phone, alerting her that Rebecca had been true to her word; the photographs she had taken of the note were coming through.

  She wondered if the killer had known that the kidney might bleed through the packaging; perhaps Jack the Ripper had dried out his piece of human organ better before sending it to Mr. Lusk of the citizens’ brigade.

  It didn’t matter; no matter how good Rebecca’s camera might be, the note would be difficult to read. They probably already knew what it said, though. She guessed it would be the exact words that Jack the Ripper had penned years in the past.

  But why?

  A killer this brutal would usually be considered disorganized; to do what he was doing, this killer was organized.

  Something bigger was going on here. She was convinced.

  “Does he plan on stopping after his fifth murder?” she wondered as they stepped off the elevator.

  “There’s one thing every detective, scholar, et cetera agrees on—Jack the Ripper died, moved or wound up incarcerated. Because, in his kind of killing, no, they don’t stop. They need the thrill, the adrenaline, the release, with greater and greater desperation. Unless...”

  “Unless this is something else. A terrible and horrendous stage show for the police and law enforcement,” Stacey said.

  Keenan nodded.

  He pushed open the door to his office. Sliding around to his desk chair, he woke his computer and logged in.

  She drew the second chair around behind his desk as he was opening the pictures that Rebecca had sent.

  “It’s the ‘From Hell’ or the ‘Lusk’ letter,” Stacey said. “But of course, we both knew it would be that.”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  They both stared at it a second before Keenan brought up a facsimile of the letter that had come to the police in 1882.

  They were exact matches.

  “‘From hell, Mr. Lusk, Sir. I sent you half the kidney’—spelled k-i-d-n-e on the original and here,” Stacey said, “‘from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wate a little longer.’”

  “‘Signed Catch me if you can Mishter Lusk,’” Keenan said.

  “The killer imitated the handwriting, didn’t he?” Stacey said.

  “He made one mistake,” Keenan said. “He didn’t ‘prasarve’ it.”

  “I find it hard to believe that—given some attention to detail we’ve seen on this—he didn’t realize that it was going to become...mush in the mail,” Stacey said.

  He was looking at her. “He must think of you as being a counterpart ‘Mishter’ Lusk,” Keenan said.

  “There, again, that doesn’t make sense,” Stacey said. “Mr. Lusk was head of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. Obviously he knows that I’m with the FBI investigating. But Lusk wasn’t in law enforcement—he was with a citizens’ group.”

  He nodded. He was still studying her. “Are you worried?” he asked.

  She twisted her head at an angle, trying to understand the meaning behind his question.

  She smiled. “I’m an agent. I excelled with firearms. I may not look like a large brick wall, but honestly, I’m competent. I mean, this is a job where danger is an inherent part of it, but we’re also trained to deal with dangerous situations.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “Well?” she said.

  “You’re not afraid that he seems to have singled you out? He could have sent the kidney piece to one of Je
ss Marlborough’s roommates or someone else involved. Or to me, or Fred Crandall or Jean Channing...or a dozen other people. He chose you.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no,” she said. “If you’re even thinking of suggesting that I should be taken off the case—”

  “Not in the least. You are the key in this case—you knew about Billie Bingham being discovered. And now, well, you’re ‘seeing’ what historically should be the final murder.”

  “And maybe we can even stop it!” she said.

  “That’s the plan,” he told her.

  “Then, why were you asking me if I was afraid?”

  “Because if you’re not just a little afraid, then I’m worried about you, to be honest. We need to make sure that you’re with other agents. At all times.”

  “That’s not practical—”

  “Practical or not, it’s only sane. And not because you’re a woman—though God knows, with this, he’s very aware of you. Let’s hope that he doesn’t see you as his—”

  “Mary Kelly?” Stacey broke in. She shook her head earnestly. “No, seriously, I’m not seeing that. Okay, many people may not like FBI agents or may be skeptical of them, but our work is a far cry from prostitution!”

  “True. But I think you’ve been right all along. The whole Jack the Ripper thing is a ruse. Was it to kill Billie? Or was it, as we’ve theorized, to gain human organs? If so, you’d make a fine Mary Kelly. You’re young and in excellent health and condition.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?” she asked.

  “You can move in with me.”

  “What? No, that wouldn’t be...”

  “We’re talking about life or death—not what’s proper or not. Anyone targeted needs an extra pair of eyes watching their backs. You’re my partner on this.”

  “You really think I’m targeted?”

  “You received a human kidney in the mail. Yes. So, for now, we can check with the other agents, but since we’re pretty much 24/7 on the case now, my place makes the most sense.”

  “All right—if you really don’t think I should be alone.”

  “No man—or woman—is an island,” he said dryly.

  “Fine, then,” she said. “I have an extra pullout sofa in my apartment, too. You can move in until we catch this monster.”