Summoned Dreams

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by Hadena James


  “Marshal Cain?” She asked as she approached me to within a few feet. She didn’t bridge the distance or offer her hand to shake.

  “Yes, Sister Elizabeth Marie?” I responded.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “How may I help you?”

  “We’re investigating a case of multiple murders in Detroit. Some witnesses have said that women who go with Father Bellamy Schneider, don’t return. At this time, he isn’t a strong suspect, but we need more information than that. He said you could help,” I told her.

  “Walk with me, please,” her eyes held mine. They didn’t rove over the men. I nodded and she and I set off across the garden. “Before I was Sister Elizabeth Marie, I was just plain Lizzy, hooker, junkie, lost soul. Father Bell picked me up from the streets, fed me, clothed me and asked me if I wanted a new life. I did. At first, I thought I would go to rehab and then to another city. I did go to rehab, but while I was there, I found the Lord and instead of moving, I took the veil. Father Bell and I have helped several women find lives outside of Detroit, lives away from the pimps, the drugs, and the gangs. He does good work. Saving Detroit’s wretched and unwanted is his calling. What is your calling, Marshal Cain?”

  “I was kidnapped at eight by a serial killer. I survived. He did not. This is my calling, Sister, to hunt down those that would prey upon the weak.”

  “Yet, you wear a pagan god around your neck,” she pointed out.

  “I believe that whatever god I must answer to at the end of this life will forgive me for wearing the adornment. It is a reminder, nothing more,” I answered, tired of conversations about religion.

  “A reminder? A pagan god is a reminder?” She gave me a strange look. “What does he remind you of?”

  “When I got home from the hospital and the police station. When I had told my story to what felt like a hundred people. My first act was to take a shower. To my surprise, when I walked into the bathroom there was a book there, a book I had left several days earlier. It was The Egyptian Book of the Dead written by the scribe Ani. It was appropriate, I had been reading the book for a book report and it had been due while I was held captive. Looking at that book, as I prepared for a shower, covered in blood, and listening to my family’s amazement of my survival, I understood both life and death in ways I never had before. So I have many talismans from the ancient religion. They remind me of life and death and they keep me focused on the task at hand, no matter how dangerous or unpleasant it gets. I have already been excommunicated for them and I accept that as part of my fate.”

  “Excommunicated?” She looked at me surprised.

  “I bought my first pendant of Isis with my own allowance, three weeks after I survived. My priest wanted me to exchange it for a medal of the Virgin. I refused. I stopped going to church after that for many years, but when I did return, my priest again implored me to remove the heathen religious icon. Again, I refused. The Blessed Virgin doesn’t remind me of life or death, but forgiveness. I can’t afford to remember forgiveness and mercy when I am fighting a psychopath. I must remember that my life hangs in the balance. Any mercy is taken as a weakness by a predator.”

  “I can appreciate that.” She smiled for the first time. “Sometimes, the doctrines forget to take into account emotional attachments. Wear your reminders, Marshal Cain. You do the work that no one else wants to do. I don’t think God will be offended. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, Sister, I don’t think so.” I considered asking her how to exorcize my roommate, but that would have been rude and I didn’t believe Fiona was possessed, just devoted.

  We parted ways. I returned to the SUV. It was already running and my temporary team was inside.

  “Well?” Franklin asked.

  “Remember what I said earlier about the SCTU having a 100% rate for finding serial killers?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “We just broke it. She’s one of Father Bellamy Schneider’s saved women,” I told them. “He probably isn’t saving some and killing others. That just doesn’t sound very serial killer-ish.”

  “So, we drove all this way for nothing,” DSI Cavanaugh complained.

  “No,” I told him. “I think I could appeal to her and Father Schneider to get my excommunication lifted if I wanted. I also think she’s hiding something. I can buy the serene, peaceful, love everyone routine, but she doesn’t love everyone. She approves of my wearing a pagan talisman while I hunt serial killers, because that is less offensive to her than wearing a cross while doing it, and she wants me to do it.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” Cavanaugh asked. “Lots of people want the SCTU to do this job. That’s why you guys operate under different rules. It was voted for by the people.”

  “That’s as may be,” I told him, “but those people weren’t hookers turned nuns. I don’t know what the uniform hides, but I bet it hides the marks of a serial killer that she managed to get away from. I’ve only met a few nuns in my life, but none of them had a thirst for blood.”

  “I’ll call Fiona and have her check out Sister Elizabeth Marie,” Green said from the passenger’s seat.

  “Great, while you do that, we will head back to Detroit. It will be dark, but we can still snag a fifth for the day, if we work fast,” I told them. There was a sigh from the backseat. I smiled.

  After a mostly silent hour and fifty-six minute drive, we pulled up in front of a house with no lights on upstairs. There was light coming from the basement windows though. That was always a bad sign. I was beginning to develop a thing against basements.

  My reason for being there wasn’t noble. It wasn’t to save lives. It was to beat Malachi. If I could get five serial killers in one day, it was a record that Malachi wasn’t likely to beat. I liked being better than Malachi at things, especially this. My need to prove to him that I was a better serial killer hunter than him was pathological. I knew it. I couldn’t stop it.

  I stopped my brain from overthinking it. It was very possible that one day, Malachi would find some Manson Family wannabes and take down six or seven at one time. It was just as possible that the SCTU could do the same. I didn’t mind beating my own record. If Malachi beat it, I would have to search for just such a cult. That prospect irritated me. I pushed it away by shaking my head.

  “Having second thoughts?” Franklin asked.

  “Me?” I smiled again. “Not in the least. I was just thinking about how much I was learning to loathe basements. Since that’s the only place where a light exists, I’d say our suspect is in the basement. Unfortunately, serial killers don’t just hang out in basements for giggles. He probably has a victim inside. If the victim is alive, Ballard will take them to safety. If not, all efforts get concentrated on catching our killer.”

  “What if he isn’t a serial killer?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “I can’t imagine being wrong twice in one day. That is completely unfathomable, like trying to figure out what the universe is expanding into.” I got out of the SUV and let everyone else follow.

  The basement window was dirty, but it wasn’t so coated with grime that I couldn’t see inside. There was a woman hanging by her feet from the rafters. She was bleeding from her ankles, most likely the result of the ankle cuffs holding her. She was nude except for a hood. Since I couldn’t hear her screaming, calling out for help, or crying, I figured there was a gag involved as well.

  Serial killers that used hoods were exceptionally sadistic. Their victims couldn’t see what was coming. That made it worse. If a serial killer held up a knife, the victim could at least take a second to come to terms with the fact that a knife was involved. However, with a hood over their head, whatever happened next was completely left to the imagination. This made the torture worse. Our imaginations are always our worst enemies.

  “He didn’t cover the windows. It could be consensual,” Green whispered, sneaking up beside me.

  “Her ankles are bleeding,” I pointed out.

  “So, she’s a mas
ochist.” He shrugged.

  “Nobody wants to hang from their ankles long enough to start bleeding,” I replied.

  “Yes, they do.” He gave me a strange look. “You’re telling me that your great big brain with all its useless knowledge doesn’t understand the appeal of hanging by the ankles?”

  “I don’t understand bungee jumping either,” I told him and moved to the front door. Hanging from the ankles was dangerous. The blood became sluggish as it moved through the brain. It could lead to clotting, aneurysms, bleeding from the orifices of the head, burst vessels in the eyes and mucus membranes, and death. Bungee jumping had a similar effect, but it could also cause concussions as your brain hit your skull.

  I turned the doorknob, but the door didn’t open. I sighed. Most serial killers felt invincible. Few locked their doors. I hated it when they locked the door. It meant the door had to be broken down. My door breaker was currently sitting in a room surrounded by computers and people waiting to see if I could catch a fifth serial killer in one day without winding up in a bed next to Xavier.

  “Got it.” Ballard moved up next to me. He took out his little air lock pick thingy that was on my new gadget wish list and the door swung open with a slight shudder and a small popping.

  “US Marshals service!” I shouted as I entered the living room. There was mold growing on pizza boxes that were scattered all over the place. A cluster of roaches ran for cover. The house wasn’t just gross, it needed to be condemned and burned to the ground. A mouse ran out from under the sofa, completely oblivious to us. It carried a piece of crust in its mouth as it ran. I did my best not to cringe.

  I motioned for the guys to check rooms as I found a basement door. It swung open at my touch. With gun out in front of me, I headed downstairs.

  The basement was a wide-open room with wooden supports. There was a mattress in the corner. It was nastier than the upstairs. There were bloodstains on it. The room smelled of urine and feces. He didn’t just torture his victims, he kept them alive for a while in this dungeon.

  The grunts of the woman were now audible. I swept the area with my gun and found no one else in the room with us. I went to the woman.

  “US Marshal Service, SCTU, I’m going to get this hood off of you and then get you down,” I told her. “This means I’m going to have to touch you. Please don’t panic.” I pulled the hood off. The woman had been hanging for some time. Her face was red. The whites of her eyes had turned red. A trickle of blood ran from one ear. I removed the gag from her mouth. She didn’t scream, which earned her Karma points. I was so close that she would have deafened me if she had screamed. “Okay, getting you down may take a moment. I need help!” I shouted to anyone within hearing range.

  Franklin and Cavanaugh came downstairs. One helped hold her and one took the cuff off her ankles. I spoke soothingly to her as they worked. If she flailed, they would probably drop her on the concrete. That would be bad. I spread my jacket on the floor and had them lay her down on it. We needed to slowly let the blood leave her head, sitting up could do more damage.

  “No sign of him,” Green told me as he entered the basement.

  “Store,” the woman gasped out.

  “Great,” I stood up. “Franklin, Ballard, get her to the hospital, take the SUV. Have Gabriel send one to us at this location. The rest of us are going to hide in this god-forsaken house and take this son-of-a-bitch as soon as he returns.”

  “Wow, swearing.” Green smiled at me. “The many sides of Marshal Cain.”

  “If Xavier ever retires, remind me to have Gabriel hire you on,” I told Green. I liked him. He did indeed remind me of Xavier.

  “Who would babysit Blake?” Green asked. Ballard and Franklin were already carrying the victim upstairs. Another mouse poked its head out of a sliding closet-like door. I hadn’t noticed it there before. I walked over, put my gun away, and drew my Taser. Green covered me with his gun.

  Gently, I slid open the door. Mice poured out of the small space. Four buckets of human fingers were inside. Cavanaugh gagged as the stench escaped. One mouse was carrying a finger. I tasered the little bastard for Lucas, even though he wasn’t there.

  Twenty-One

  “Anyone want to hide in here?” I asked, pointing at the closet. Everyone shook their heads, so I shut the door and stomped on another mouse. My boot killed it quickly. It probably didn’t feel a thing. Normally, I didn’t kill mice, but seeing them pour out of the closet filled with human fingers did things to me. The calm had engulfed me with surprising ease. I hadn’t let it do that in a while. It was too Patterson-ish. I’d fought it every time.

  Not this time. This time, it was a welcome relief. I’d been stabbed twice and nearly went out a window. A little detachment from the day wouldn’t hurt. Plus, Green would stop me from losing control. He was used to dealing with Malachi. He could handle me.

  The heavy, steel reinforced boots found another mouse victim, as I walked across the floor. It crunched as I stepped on it. I looked down, wondering what I was going to do with the boots when I got back to the hotel.

  “Holy shit,” Hunter said.

  “Hey,” Green caught my attention. His hand gently touched my arm. “Go easy on the mice. They are just doing their own thing.”

  “Did she just change?” Hunter asked. I stared at him. I was coming to the conclusion that I didn’t like him. He was annoying. Although, I didn’t like Borderline psychopaths to begin with. They were like fireworks bought on the black market, unpredictable and unreliable. Malachi and I had low impulse control, but we were loyal to a fault. It was one of our few redeeming qualities. The same could not be said for a Borderline. They didn’t have loyalties. They were victims turned monsters. A different psychological makeup created their psychopathic tendencies.

  “No,” Green answered, “she just entered hunting mode.”

  “I’ve heard stories, but never seen it,” Hunter said.

  “Marshal Cain isn’t a side-show freak,” Green told him.

  “Find somewhere to be mostly invisible. I don’t want to have to chase this guy down in the streets,” I told everyone. I moved next to the stairs, hidden from view. Everyone joined me.

  From here, I could see the entire room. There was dried blood splatter on the walls. Small droplets that were easily overlooked because of the rest of the grime. There were larger pools on the floor, but again, there was so much soiling of the concrete, that they were hard to see. Green had probably noticed, but the others wouldn’t have.

  “What about the front door?” Green asked.

  “Ah shit.” I raced up the stairs. I heard Green say something in the basement, but I was already outside, looking for a place to hide. He would notice his broken doors. Unfortunately, it was still March. There weren’t any trees or bushes to hide behind. Instead, I ran around to the side of the house.

  The darkness helped hide me. I crouched down, narrowing the possibility of being seen even more. My coms were full of chatter inside my ear. Hunter and Cavanaugh didn’t seem to like their hiding places. They weren’t in the closet with the fingers, so I thought wherever they were, it was a win.

  A dark blue Chevy truck that had seen better days pulled up to the curb. Rust was decaying one of the front fenders. The window had duct tape on it. It wasn’t the suspect’s vehicle.

  “Got a visitor, not the suspect’s vehicle,” I whispered into my mic. The line became silent. That was a blessing.

  “I’ll take him if he comes inside,” Green’s voice buzzed in my ear.

  The man that got out was also not the suspect, unless the suspect had lied about everything on his driver’s license. But that tended to be a girl thing. He was at least one hundred pounds lighter than the suspect and a few inches taller. His hair was red, not just an auburn or a strawberry, but a bright red. Even Gabriel, who was a redhead, didn’t have hair this bright. It was practically neon red, visible even in the mostly darkened street.

  His footsteps were unnaturally loud on the wooden p
orch. He moved inside quickly, never noticing the broken front door. There was a crash and a single yelp.

  “Got him,” Green said.

  “Good,” I answered and snuggled closer to the house. I didn’t know who this interloper was or what he was doing here, but I didn’t like it. As I debated the danger level of a second suspect, already in custody, another car pulled up.

  This one was a Cadillac. It was a newer model with a sleek bodyline and curves. The paint was immaculate, not a scratch to be seen. It was also not the suspect’s vehicle.

  “Got another one, not the suspect’s car,” I told the other people listening.

  “They are here to buy the girl,” Green informed me.

  I couldn’t think of a response. We could have a string of men coming into the house if that was indeed the case. Who bought tortured hookers via auction? That was a new one, even for me. It seemed like a strange fetish, since by nature, prostitutes could be paid to do just about anything.

  If the other man was heavy set, this one was morbidly obese. He waddled when he walked. He had no neck, but sported a double chin. By the time he reached the porch, he was huffing and puffing. He would be an easy take down.

  He too entered the house without noticing the doorknob wasn’t working. There was a grunt this time. The house shook slightly. Someone swore.

  “Got him,” Green told me. “Don’t have handcuffs big enough for him, am using multiple sets of zip cuffs.”

  Headlights bounced off the other two cars. This car pulled into the small, broken down driveway. It was a white Buick. Exactly the car I was waiting for. The windows weren’t tinted and the suspect turned on the overhead light, illuminating his face while he fiddled with something. He had dark hair, tan skin, and a moustache. The moustache was new, but otherwise, it matched the picture of the suspect.

  “He’s here,” I told everyone. The suspect opened his door and stepped onto the dormant lawn.

  “Hey, Chuck, you having a party?” Someone behind me asked. I whipped my head around to find an older gentleman standing on the porch nearest to me.

 

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