Summoned Dreams

by Hadena James

  That’s what had happened with Phil anyway. He stood over the Crock Pot, adding vegetables and seasoning to the beef broth. Inside, was a chunk of rump cooking like a roast. He had carved it off his victim before disposing of her.

  He kicked back on the couch and opened a beer. He was tired. He’d been up all night. Now the sun was rising and it was time for him to get some sleep. As he lay on the couch, his mind turned over and over, not allowing him to sleep. He had hoped the beer would solve his problem, his mind overworking, not stopping long enough for him to get a decent night’s rest. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had slept a full six hours. Weeks, months, possibly longer, even four hours of uninterrupted sleep would have been a blessing, but it didn’t happen.

  Logic problems, Sudoku, and brain games used to help. They used to allow him half-dozen hours of uninterrupted sleep. They used to tire his brain to the point that sleep was possible. They had stopped working some time ago. He didn’t know how long that had been either, but it had been the trigger for the insomnia.

  Which had been the trigger for picking up prostitutes. That had led to him discovering his desire to bite people. Now, he didn’t care much about the biting or the prostitutes he killed. He only wanted their parts. The whole was worth far less than the parts to him.

  He would go about two weeks before he killed again. Sometimes longer if the insomnia broke and sleep returned to him. If it didn’t, he might kill sooner, just to fill the hours. When one was awake for twenty-two or twenty-three hours out of every day, it was hard to fill all that endless time.

  Getting up, he went to the medicine cabinet and grabbed his prescription sleep aid. He took three pills instead of one, as recommended by the bottle and washed them down with the remnants of his beer. He checked his roast again. The smell made his stomach growl. Tonight, he would have a good dinner. Maybe that would help him sleep.

  He undressed and lay down on the couch. His hands found the TV remote and he flipped through the stations, unable to find anything to watch. He flipped through them again and again and again.

  Eighteen

  Baby Girl Doe was on her way to the hospital. Her mother and Bill Campbell were on their way to the medical examiner’s office. Rita Campbell was on her way to the FBI office just outside Detroit.

  I sat on the curb smoking a cigarette. The concrete was cold beneath my rear end despite the warmer weather. There hadn’t been any other places to sit though, so cold or not, my butt was firmly planted on it for a few minutes.

  We were all taking a moment. An ATF agent had been killed in the take down of the gang leader. I didn’t know him, not even well enough to put a face on him, but it was sad when someone died. I tried to consider all life sacred. If I didn’t keep that in the front of my mind, I became emotionally colder.

  Hunter sat down next to me and lit his own cigarette. He opened his mouth and I held up my hand to stop him. We were not doing this. I wasn’t here to be his friend or his stepping stone. Getting to know me wasn’t going to further his career or make him a better person. If anything, it would have the opposite effect.

  “You won’t even participate in a little idle chatter to fill the silence while we smoke?” Hunter asked.

  “Nope,” I answered. “We have a list of 20 suspected serial killers whose doors we need to knock on and that doesn’t even count the one we were originally brought here to find. You want idle chatter, buy a squirrel. I have decisions to make and things to plot.”

  “I might be able to help,” Hunter told me.

  “You’re a psychopath, functional to be sure, but not the right kind. If you thought like a killer or used your instincts, Ballard wouldn’t have shot Bill Campbell, you would have. You have Borderline Personality Disorder, so you have an over inflated sense of self, your interpersonal skills are worse than mine are, you’re impulsive, and you have a death wish. That’s all well and good, but it isn’t particularly helpful. Most serial killers with Borderline have the same problem. That’s why they end up dead instead of in The Fortress. They can’t think that many steps ahead. I have very little doubt that you’re brilliant, possibly sporting an IQ higher than mine, but in my world, you’re still prey and I don’t need to know how prey thinks.”

  “What are you then?” Hunter asked. “You can see through me, but I can’t see through you.”

  “I’m a predator,” I answered.

  “The rumors are true then,” he said. “You enjoy going one-on-one with the psychopaths. Yet, I’m the one with a death wish.”

  “I don’t have a death wish, quite the opposite. My will to survive is very strong.” I stood up and flicked my cigarette into the gutter. “As a matter of fact, going one-on-one usually ensures that we all live. If you are fortunate, we won’t enter one of those situations today.”

  “You’re a narcissist,” Hunter told me.

  “All sociopaths and psychopaths are narcissists. It’s the only way we feel the world. How I use that ability is what sets me apart.” I walked back to the group.

  “We are thinking we should call it a day,” DSI Lingon said.

  “Nonsense, the day is still young and we have a lot more suspects to check out. We don’t want the serial killers of Detroit to go to ground because we give them twelve hours to figure it out,” I told them. “Mount up, we ride.” If anyone got the reference, they ignored it. I missed Xavier.

  House number three held your garden-variety sociopath. Sociopaths were more likely to incorporate rape into their killing. They liked the control and power they felt from it. Psychopaths just liked the kill. He was cuffed and in custody in less than ten minutes. A new forensics unit joined the party and began searching through his video library. It wasn’t enough to rape and kill, he liked to watch it later.

  Our next stop was a diner. The food was greasy, but good. Green, Ballard, Franklin and I all ordered cheeseburgers. Hunter and Lingon ordered salads. I didn’t think it was because either of them was watching their weight, since they both requested the salads be vegetarian with no tomatoes with ranch on the side. Lots of ranch, more than was healthy for a single person in one sitting. Judging by Franklin’s ease with the situation, he would probably make a good SCTU Marshal. I would recommend him should we ever have an opening.

  An apartment building was next. We pulled up and started taking machine gun fire as we exited the vehicle. Franklin pointed out the shooters, nothing but punks with guns. We fired back as Green went up the fire escape. There were a few more shots fired and then he called for an ambulance. Lingon declined going up to look, giving a “thumbs up” when Green looked over the edge and shouted it was clear.

  I had no idea what kind of report the DSI agent would file when this was over, but I was pretty sure there would be retirement paperwork with it. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. He had a desk in an office where his gun stayed locked in a drawer most of the time.

  “Glad we ate,” I said as we entered the hallway of our suspect.

  “That is a really strong smelling roast,” Hunter said.

  “That’s because rump roast has a strong odor while it cooks,” Green told him, “especially when the rump roast comes from a person.”

  “Fucking cannibals,” Ballard commented.

  “Why are we glad we ate?” Lingon asked, his face very pale.

  “Because if we hadn’t, our stomachs would be growling,” Green answered for me. “Our brains know it’s human, but our hunger center doesn’t give a shit. It triggers the salivary glands as well as the production of acid, which makes our stomachs growl.”

  Lingon grabbed the wall and started vomiting. We waited. Green, Ballard, and I were used to cops tossing their cookies when confronted with human stew. He’d be worse once we entered the apartment. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have anything left to contaminate the crime scene.

  Our cannibal lived in apartment 7-G. The apartments next to him were vacant. The broken doors with boards over them proved as much. It was rare for people to l
ive next to cannibals in apartment buildings. The smells were always overwhelming.

  The sound of a TV could be heard coming from the apartment. The prostitutes had called him an extreme biter. To them, it meant he took out chunks of flesh when he bit them. Standing in the hallway, it was easy to smell that he had gone from chewing on living ones to preferring them cooked with spices. I agreed with Ballard. Cannibals were among the worst.

  I knocked and announced that my name was Candy. For some reason, men who liked prostitutes always fell for the ruse. He opened the door stark naked. I was really tired of seeing naked or mostly naked men. He probably wasn’t thrilled about the gun in his face either, but life sucked for both of us.

  “US Marshals Service, Serial Crimes Tracking Unit,” I told him as Green kept the gun pointed at him. “I gotta ask. Are you cooking a person?”

  “No, it’s roast,” he said as he got an erection.

  “Down on your knees,” I told him, pulling my Taser and searching for my handcuffs, which were not on my belt. I had used them on Rita Campbell and forgotten to get them back or get another pair. Damn.

  “Fuck you, cunt.” He hit Green’s arm, sending his gun swinging wildly towards Lingon. Green had enough control and experience not to pull the trigger at impact.

  “Oh no.” I shoved him, hard in the chest before Tasering him. All 250,000 volts surged through his body. His back stiffened so hard it cracked. He ejaculated as he fell. It wore off quickly if we were dealing with a psychopath. It took a while if we weren’t. Unfortunately, we were. Our cannibal was back on his feet in almost no time. I was going to have to get the duration increased. It gave me just long enough to enter the room and go on the offensive. I grabbed him around the throat as he stood up. With one hand wrapped around his throat, my other grabbed the baton I wasn’t supposed to have.

  “Get back!” Green shouted behind me. I dropped the killer and stepped back. “Not you!” He shouted again, I turned. Stupid me. The blow landed on the crown of my skull. The room spun just a little and my neck hurt. As I stumbled forward, I saw Green shove Hunter back.

  I recovered in time to avoid a second blow. As I side stepped him, I stuck out my leg and let his momentum carry him into it. His shin hit my calf and he stumbled. The baton swung around my back and caught him on the thigh. The stumble changed into a fall and he landed face first on the ground, his body sprawled across the floor. There was no carpet. Even the padding was gone. The floors were not hardwood. The plywood was showing.

  “Stay down or I hit you again,” I told the suspect.

  “Fuck...” I didn’t let him finish. I kicked him in the face. Blood showered my pant leg, my boot and the floor. I was not about to let him use the “C-word” again. “Somebody cuff him.” I stared at Hunter and Green. The two men were squared off. I didn’t know what their problem was, but I sure as hell knew what mine was. I stomped over to them. Green stepped away from me. Hunter barely got turned as my hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat.

  “I have no idea what the fuck your problem is, but if it happens again, I’ll kill you myself. We are not chasing hackers. We are chasing serial killers. Any and every mistake should be considered fatal. If he’d had a weapon, I’d be dead instead of just suffering from a headache.” I dropped Hunter and spun on Green.

  “Marshal Cain, I didn’t mean to distract you,” Green started. “Marshal Hunter drew his Taser and with you holding onto the suspect, you both would have gotten a jolt. I was trying to stop him from using the weapon. I don’t believe it has enough juice to be more than irritating in this situation, but I didn’t want you to lose the upper hand if the Taser prong struck you instead.”

  “Next time, use names, Agent Green.” I sighed. My head was pounding. My neck felt like it had been set on fire and broken at the same time. I closed my eyes and steadied myself on my feet. A single blow had given me a concussion and whiplash. It must have been my lucky day, because I wasn’t dead.

  “Marshal Cain?” Green said my name before taking hold of my arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, just a headache.” I opened my eyes. “Is he dead?” I asked.

  “No,” Franklin told me. “Face is going to need some work through.”

  “Good, DOJ gets very cranky when I kill people,” I told him. He smiled at me. The killer’s hand suddenly surged outward. Fingers wrapped around Franklin’s throat.

  Ballard reached them first. There was a wet crunching noise as the butt of Ballard’s Glock smashed into the elbow of the suspect. The hand flopped open, releasing Franklin. Franklin gasped for air. The suspect clawed at Ballard with his other hand. Hunter hit him with the Taser. Ballard groaned and collapsed. The suspect laughed through shattered teeth and bleeding lips, and began to get to his feet again. Behind me, there was another grunt and a thud. I didn’t turn around. I charged, hitting the suspect in the gut with my shoulder. The force drove him backwards, taking his feet into the air. We hit the window.

  My thighs kept me from going out of it. He didn’t have as much luck. I watched as he fell seven stories and hit the concrete below. For the record, humans tend to bounce when they fall from such heights. Our suspect bounced, his body pin wheeling as it hit a second time.

  “Dead now,” Green said as he peered out the window with me. “How are your thighs? Shoulders? Neck? Head?”

  “I’ve had worse,” I replied. “This week, as a matter of fact.” I turned from the window and slid down to the floor. I didn’t care what anyone thought of me at the moment. I had just thrown someone out a window. It was brutal, even for me.

  Lingon began throwing up again, this time in the sink. The noise caught my attention. There was a head sitting in the fridge. The hair was matted. The eyes were white glazed bulbs. It had been there a while.

  “I think,” I stopped and closed my eyes again.

  “Marshal Cain?” Green’s voice pierced my head. “Hey, Cain!” His hand found my arm and my eyes flew open.

  “I think we’re done for the day,” I said. “Four in one day is a record. No one has ever caught that many. VCU had the record with three.” I closed my eyes again.

  “Cain, tell me what you’re feeling,” Green’s voice sounded concerned.

  “I’m feeling nothing,” I told him. “Check on Ballard, Franklin and Hunter.” Darkness was tugging at me. The noises were fading. I was going to pass out and I wasn’t sure why.

  “Cain?” Green shook me. “Come on, open your eyes. What do you feel?” I tried to shrug, but nothing moved. “Aislinn, stay with me. Don’t you dare give out on me.”

  “You’ve never called me that,” I said quietly. “I feel sleepy.”

  “Aislinn, what is it? I’ve never seen you react like this unless you were bleeding. What’s going on? Open your eyes for me, Aislinn.” Green had moved and now his warmth was pressed against my back. “Oh shit, no. You have got to be kidding me.”

  “If I’m bleeding somewhere, apply pressure,” I told Green. “I’ll clot quickly.”

  “Aislinn, you have a knife in your back,” Green told me.

  “Oh, that explains why I feel tired.” I opened my eyes. “Can you pull it out? It will be worse if I clot closed around it.”

  “It’s going to hurt, Aislinn.”

  “That’s okay,” I told him. “Pain reminds you that you’re still alive. It will help me fight the darkness.”

  “She’s a god damn...” Hunter started to say.

  “If you finish that sentence, I’ll finish you,” Green said.

  “It’s okay, Caleb. DOJ knows, so that means Lingon knows. Franklin is probably the only one that doesn’t.” I felt my eyelids flutter. “We need an ambulance or Xavier.”

  “Aislinn, Xavier’s still in the hospital,” Green reminded me.

  “I know. If I’m good, they might let me share a room with him. Now, pull out the knife, Caleb. That’s an order.”

  “Forgive me,” Caleb grabbed the handle. He twisted as he jerked it free from my body. Then
he held it up for me to see. It was one of mine.

  “Stabbed in the back with my own knife, how lame,” I told him. “But it feels better now.” It hurt. Pain was shooting through the muscles of my back. Muscles that seven months earlier had been exposed to the air because my skin had been missing.

  “Ace, don’t pass out,” Green told me.

  “Wow, now it’s Ace,” I teased. “I will do my best. I should have known I was pressing my luck. About one in four serial killers gives me a new scar. I was due. Did you call for forensics?”

  “Yes, and an ambulance,” Green said.

  “You’re a good agent, Caleb.” I closed my eyes. “For the record, I think I have a concussion too.”

  Nineteen

  There weren’t any machines or monitors beeping when I woke up. My head felt better. My back hurt. My hand hurt. My arm hurt. My thighs hurt. My calf hurt. I was one giant ball of aches. I would have to remember that swinging the baton was hard on me as well as whomever it hit.

  “You’re awake, I’ll let everyone know.” Green stood up from the shadows where he had been hiding.

  “Have you been here long?” I asked.