by Paul Seiple
"I bet she didn't talk to him again," George said. He laughed. "Poor thing, she'll never get another chance." He drove by Kat, slowing down as he got to her sporty, red Celica. George expected a girl that was too shy to say hello to the pimply faced kid at the deli counter to drive something less flashy. Maybe a Pinto.
George wanted her to see him. He had it all planned out. If Kat recognized him as Bill's partner, he would stop and shoot the shit. George was a wolf; Michael's skin was the sheep's clothing. It was itchy, he had to take it off soon, but there was just something about the girl in the little red car welcoming him with open arms that got George off.
Nineteen
Maggie Hoover's condo was on the corner attached to two others, one to the left and one behind. The condos were identical in color, a dull gray with burgundy trim. The landscape areas were well-maintained, the pool already winterized with a cover. The residents took pride in their neighborhood. Shady Grove was far from being a bad part of town.
The yellow tape blocking off the small lawn stood out like a sore thumb in the cookie cutter neighborhood. A few curious bystanders stood by the tape trying to solve the crime with television logic. I heard something about the crime scene not being the same as it is on Quincy. The conversation quickly turned to a debate over who was the hottest angel — Farrah Fawcett or Jaclyn Smith. My money was on Jaclyn Smith. I was brought back to reality when Tim Hawkins, a rookie forensics investigator, bumped into me as he crossed the tape.
"Sorry, Detective," Hawkins said. "Didn't see you standing there. You won't find much here. No luck finding any evidence."
"Nothing."
"Not even a stray print. Either this place was picked clean, or this girl had the worst case of OCD I've ever seen," Hawkins paused. "Or she was a total introvert."
It's a common mistake for rookies to refer to kidnap victims in the past tense. It's something we were trained to avoid. Talking to the press or relatives and using past tense when speaking of victims implies no hope of finding them alive. But the truth was Maggie Hoover had been missing for well over forty-eight hours. The danger zone — forty-eight hours — after that time period, leads grow cold, hope fades, and usually the end result is a dead body. That's how this would play out. Maggie was dead.
A tall, thin blonde stepped between Hawkins and me and blocked Bill as he crossed the tape. She shoved a microphone under his chin. It was the same reporter from yesterday.
"Anything new, Detective?" She asked.
I hadn't given her a look yesterday, but today my eyes met hers. It was easy to get lost in her deep, blue eyes, to forget to breathe after seeing her smile, but more so than that there was something familiar about her. She was the fifth victim, the star of my current dreams. I barely recognized her. I looked at her legs, long and muscular. The navy skirt stopped just above the knees. I eyed her matching pumps. I didn't know enough about women's footwear to deduce if they were Gucci are not. For a moment, I closed my eyes and saw her rip the shoe from her foot while running through the woods. It was her, no doubt about it. My head started to fill with dizziness. My knees weakened. Keep it together I told myself as I sucked in all the air around me and released it with a hard exhale. This caught the blonde's attention. She jabbed the microphone in my face, this time avoiding my chin.
"Any new statement?"
Bill pushed the microphone away from my face with his forearm. "Nothing new," he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the condo. "Goddamn reporters, nothing but vultures."
I watched her walk back to the news van, mumbling something about fat cops and donuts.
"You OK?"
I stopped with my back to Bill.
"Hey," Bill said, shaking me. "You OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. She just looks familiar."
"All hot blondes look familiar to me. Unfortunately they don't seem to recognize me." Bill laughed.
Maggie's condo was immaculate, not even a pillow out of place. Hawkins was right, a classic example of compulsive disorder. I knew the signs; being diagnosed with a slight case as a kid. I never could put away my toys without washing them first. One night during dinner I threw a fit because I wanted to go clean my G.I. Joe and my mother wouldn't let me. The disorder never seemed to progress beyond action figures, but I knew they were dirty and they needed cleansing.
"Looks like this chick has a wicked case of OCD," Bill said, moving a pillow from the couch with his flashlight.
"Yep."
"Well at least it should make it easy to find anything here," Bill said.
There was nothing to find. Maggie's condo wasn't part of my dreams. There would be no gift left from the killer. He didn't operate that way. He took his victims from public locations. It was more thrilling. The killer had never been to her condo. Maggie hadn't known that she was being hunted. He was too savvy of a predator.
"Look a here, Mike."
Bill held up a napkin with a number on it. No name, just a number.
"This may be the lead we're looking for."
"Maybe so," I said. I knew it wasn't. Probably just some guy's number that tried to pick her up at the hospital. Guys have the nurse fantasy. A guy could be bleeding to death and in his mind the only cure would be a nurse straddling him as porno music played. Porn stars were the cure-all for any ailment.
Twenty
Rebecca Aaron came to WLNC chasing the dream — nightly news anchor for one of the three major networks. Just a small-town girl hoping to lasso the career-making story that landed her in the big city. Winston Salem wasn't the big city. But it was better than field reporter for The Daily Dose of Java, a small newspaper covering an even smaller town. A good news day in Java meant someone caught Sheriff Hastings citing someone for running the one stop sign in town. New York City was the prize, but the Big Apple proved to be the crush that ignored Rebecca's advances. That didn't stop her from trying. She wouldn't become the jilted suitor. She had beauty and personality. So did every other aspiring newscaster. Good looks and charm softened the blow of witnessing tragedy on nightly news. Rebecca had something that made her stand out — determination. She never relied on her long legs and perfect breasts to get ahead. She wasn't above verbally castrating any man that suggested otherwise. Every once in a while a man wouldn't see the toughness lurking behind the blue eyes and make the mistake of assuming Rebecca was the typical blond bimbo looking to ride her looks to fame and fortune. And every time that man sulked away, licking his wounds. The toughness came from having four older brothers. The determination came from her father. Whenever a door closed on a job opening, Rebecca stepped to the next as her father's words played in her mind — "Rebecca, to get ahead in this world, you need a little luck. But luck is as easy to find as a tick on a hairy dog's ass. You have to be determined to wade through all that hair and crap. Most people don't want to get their hands dirty. But the determined ones will eventually stumble upon a little luck. And just a little is all you need." Rebecca wasn't afraid to dirty her hands.
In a macabre way, Maggie Hoover's disappearance was the luck she needed. After a little digging, Rebecca got wind from a downtown source that Maggie wasn't the first girl to go missing. A homeless girl disappeared a few days earlier. That didn't make the news. Homeless people disappeared all the time. No one knew because no one was looking for them.
Winston Salem had its share of crime. Violent crime always garnered the most attention. Kidnappings didn't necessarily involve violence. But the mystery surrounding them made for top story on the local news. Maybe even regional. Two kidnappings could warrant a blurb on the national evening news. Rebecca wasn't about to let this opportunity get away. Her source, a hooker that worked the 7-11 parking lot on Sixth, said that a cute girl vanished just a few days before Maggie. She told Rebecca that Pipes, 'the singing wheelchair dude' knew the girl better than anyone. Rebecca took an afternoon off for a 'doctor's appointment' to see what she could dig up on the missing girl.
During sunlight hours, downtown was somewhat safe,
but at night the vampires came out, all with the intent of sucking something, whether it be money or life, from fools that wandered into their badlands. Even with the protection of daylight, this was not a place for Rebecca. Her hip-hugging red dress and matching heels might as well have been a billboard flashing the words Fresh Bait. She didn't give any thought to going home first and changing into something that would allow her to blend in. There wasn't time. Every reporter in Winston was shaking down their sources for any crumb that could be baked into an exclusive story. Rebecca trusted that Mindy gave her the information first. But she didn't know how long it would be until Mindy opened her mouth again. She was a whore after all.
Whistling, followed by a "Hot mama" trailed Rebecca like a shadow as she walked down Baker Street.
"Listen at those heels click. Music to my ears. Them legs lead to heaven?"
Rebecca stopped. The heels silenced. She turned to see a skinny man with unkempt red hair smiling at her through rotting teeth. He wore a blue flannel shirt; the right side hung lower, due to poor buttoning, and stained jeans.
"Damn. Now, you're a mountain, I 'd like to climb."
Rebecca stood at least six inches taller than the man. Being nearly six-feet tall barefoot, looking down on a man was nothing new, but this was the first time the word troll came to mind.
"Baby, I wish I hadn't spent that last five on Thunderbird. I sure could use those lips on me." The man grabbed between his legs and gyrated his hips. "How bout you give me one on credit."
"If you want to keep that puny stub between your legs you better forget that you've seen me and fall back in your drunken stupor."
"Can't forget Heaven, baby, once you've seen it. I bet you give one hell of a blow…"
"Smiley, get the hell out of here and leave that woman alone," Pipes said, wheeling to the corner.
"You ain't a hooker?" Smiley asked.
Rebecca ignored Smiley. "Are you Pipes?"
"Depends on who's asking," Pipes said.
"What gave it away? The wheelchair?" Smiley asked. "I swear, man, no way in hell you can get away with anything. Just find the guy in the wheelchair." He cackled. "If you ain't a hooker what are you doing in this warzone?"
"Stop being so dramatic, Smiley. You wouldn't know a war zone if you stepped on a landmine," Pipes said.
"Is that what happened to you?"
"I'm looking for the girl that went missing a few days ago," Rebecca said.
"Everybody on these streets is lost," Pipes said. "Everyone is missing."
"Looks who's being dramatic now," Smiley said.
"My source said you knew the girl better than anyone. Sunshine?"
"Who's your source?" Pipes asked. "Are you a cop?"
"If she's a pig, I wouldn't mind clogging an artery on that sizzling bacon. Know what I mean?" Smiley said, grinning.
"I'm not a cop, but I can't give up my source."
"Reporter," Smiley said.
"You're pretty smart for a leprechaun. Why don't you run along and find your pot of gold," Rebecca said.
Pipes let out a brief chuckle that turned into a coughing fit.
"Oh, I've found my pot of gold," Smiley said. "How bout you come find my lucky charm?"
"Look, I don't know anything about Sunshine," Pipes said, catching his breath.
"My source…"
"I don't give a shit about your source. If you can't tell me a name, I don't know anything."
"Probably that dick sucker at the 7-11," Smiley said. "She can't keep her mouth closed for nothing."
"Watch your language in the presence of this lady," Pipes said.
"But you said shit," Smiley said.
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you. It's going to be getting dark soon, you probably should leave," Pipes said, turning his chair away from Rebecca. "Come on Smiley, I have half a ham sandwich I'll share with you."
"He took her," Smiley said.
"Who took her?" Rebecca asked.
Pipes turned his chair around to face Rebecca. "Leave it alone, lady."
"The Tall Man. He took her to Redd's. I thought he was just going to get his dick suc… I mean release a little tension."
"Where's Redd's?" Rebecca asked.
Smiley pointed to the dilapidated hardware store. "There."
"Why didn't you tell the cops?" Rebecca asked.
"Cause snitches get stomped like roaches. I ain't no roach."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Pipes asked.
"What were you going to do? Run over him?"
While Smiley and Pipes argued, Rebecca started walking towards Redd's.
"Where are you going?" Pipes asked.
"To check out Redd's."
"You don't want to do that," Smiley said. "Place has rats."
"What makes you think I'm scared of rats? I didn't run from you, did I?"
"There's no light. You can't see a thing," Pipes said.
"I'm not afraid of the dark either," Rebecca said.
"Shit," Pipes said, reaching into a sack attached to the arm of his chair. He pulled out a flashlight. "Come on, Smiley, we can't let her go in there alone."
"I ain't going in there. That's the Tall Man's house."
Smiley stood watch in front of Redd's, pacing back and forth, like a drug fiend, mumbling to himself. It was a coping mechanism he learned after being forced to give up meth. He hadn't touched hard drugs in years, not because he was clean, Smiley was far from it. He just couldn't afford them anymore since his parents kicked him out of their two-million mansion for coming home high while they had company. Reputation was thicker than blood.
"Hurry up," Smiley said. "The Tall Man could show up at any time."
Pipes parked near the back door with his back to the wall. He held an empty liquor bottle in his right hand and a shard of glass from the neck of another bottle in his left. Double-fisted. If trouble arose there wasn't much he could do. He knew it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't die without a fight.
"You OK in there?" he asked.
Rebecca didn't answer, but the light bouncing from wall to wall was enough reassurance for Pipes. An etching on a wooden bench reflected the light.
The Lamb's death opened the first seal. I have my crown. I am here to conquer. Come and see!
"What the hell? Why are the o's marked out?" Rebecca asked shining the flashlight toward a wall behind the bench. There was something written in red paint to resemble blood.
He, who rides the red horse has the power to take peace from the world. With this great sword I'll silence the screams, leaving only a murmur.
The o's had lines through them.
Twenty-One
I couldn't shake the blond reporter from my mind. I couldn't save Sunshine. It was too late to save Maggie. But there was still hope with Rebecca Aaron. I only knew Rebecca from behind the eyes of the killer. The dream started as she left the Pilates class. If there was a hint of sexual gratification in the murders, Rebecca would have stirred it. She rarely covered her body after class, even in winter. She had it and she flaunted it. Long, sculpted legs. An ass barely hidden beneath tiny shorts. But her body didn't turn him on. The glow that surrounded her did. Subtle, but it was there.
He watched her from a newsstand across the street. She would drive to an Italian restaurant not far from her home. He didn't know what she ordered. It wasn't important. But she took less than ten minutes each time. That was important. She was never indecisive. Get in, Get out. He followed the same philosophy. He would take her when she returned to her car.
As the dreams progressed through the years, the killer grew more accustomed to the kill. He wasn't as hurried. He still had a job to do, but he took his time chasing her through the woods. He wasn't worried about getting caught. There was a god-like arrogance about him that mocked the eye of the law.
The dream of Rebecca became distorted after the killer caught her in the woods. The vision skipped a few frames when she tried to scream as he grabbed her, tearing at her flesh, trying to get to her soul. He
r mouth wide open as if she were auditioning for a B-movie scream queen, but only a whimper could be heard. The next scene was the killer's bloody hands. He rubbed them together. A job well done — smearing the blood like lotion on chapped, dry hands. Seeing Rebecca in person showed me more.
I saw her tied her up in an abandoned house. Somewhere near the outskirts of town. Silos lined fields along the road. This wasn't much help. Once you left the city silos were everywhere.
The killer talked more with Rebecca. Taunting her without revealing too much of his motivation. He mentioned her glow. I had no idea what that meant. When I saw Rebecca there was no glow. Maybe the killer was referring to her beauty. It was just another riddle that laughed in my face. I had to find a way to protect her without coming off as creepy. That didn't work too well with Maggie. She wanted a story. I decided that I would give her one. I reached for the phone.
"Hot date?" Bill asked, walking by my desk with a stack of folders. "You hiding something from me? You hate the phone." Bill smirked. I saw through the thin veil of the gesture. He was looking for my reaction.
I laughed. "Nah, just making sure the thing still works." I waited for a dial tone. "Yep still works." I reached for Maggie's file, just as Harriet, the desk clerk, came over the intercom.
"Michael, you got a phone call. Line three."
"Hello, Michael."
"Who is this?"
"I'm the wolf with the red roses."
I'd never heard the voice. But I knew I was talking to the killer. "What do you want?"
"Not a fan of rock music, I see."
I whispered into the phone, "I'll find you and stop you."
George laughed. "Cute. I'm not hiding. Here's another hint. Well, more like a boast. I'm going after number three tonight. You should join me while the night is young." He hung up.
Hint? Wolf with the red rose sounded familiar. Then it hit me. A few years ago the singer Meat Loaf had a hit with "You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth." I loved the album Bat Out of Hell. I couldn't believe I didn't catch the clue at first. In the song he referred to himself as a wolf with red roses. The killer was quoting Meat Loaf songs. I had a Walkman that I kept in my desk drawer. It was a splurge gift. Portable cassette players were all the rage. I didn't buy one to fit in. I liked to listen to music, mostly Miles Davis, while filling out reports. The Walkman afforded me that opportunity. As luck would have it, I actually had a copy of Bat Out of Hell in my desk. I listened to "You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth." Nothing stood out until he got to the line, 'The night is young.' He quoted that. The killer told me where he is taking the next victim.
