Path of Bones

by L. T. Ryan

  “What? Trusting a psychic?”

  “Or an outsider.” Cassie wet her lips. She didn’t know what she wanted to say, but she wanted to reassure Harris that she wasn’t making a mistake by confiding in Cassie. “I’ve been doing this for a while and it still seems crazy to me. I don’t blame you for being hesitant.”

  “I appreciate that.” Harris threw a glance at Cassie and continued. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, they look dead. No, I can’t make them go away when I wish super hard. Yes, they’ve interrupted some, uh, special times.”

  “That’s not—wait a second. Are those all the questions people ask you?”

  “Without fail.”

  “Wow.” Harris looked like she was caught between wanting to laugh and feeling bad for Cassie. “You know what? I’m not surprised.”

  “What was your question?”

  Harris’s face turned serious. “Do you ever get scared?”

  Cassie took her time with the question and offered a slow nod. “I would say it’s gotten easier, but that fear doesn’t go away, you know? There’s a reason why they make horror movies out of this stuff. And while I may have seen just about anything you could think of, it is still shocking at the very least when receiving an unexpected visitor.”

  “True.” Harris took a deep breath as her gaze drifted to the canopy overhead. Already, a smattering of orange and yellow and red leaves softened the view.

  Cassie took advantage of the void hanging between them. “Do you still get scared?”

  Harris’s gaze returned to Cassie. She smiled and took a moment to respond. “Yeah. All the time. When you’re around death this much, it’s kind of hard not to. You want to be this hard-as-steel, tough-as-nails badass detective, solving crimes and all. But it’s all a front.”

  “Were you hoping I’d say it would get easier? That one day you might be less scared?”

  Harris shrugged. “Maybe. Kinda. Yeah.”

  Cassie smiled. “It’s okay to hope that. I wish I were less scared, but sometimes fear is a good thing. Sometimes it can save your life. I’m sure you already know that.”

  “I do,” Harris said. “But sometimes it’s nice to hear that out loud.”

  “These murders, they’re weighing on you, aren’t they?”

  “It’s not easy,” Harris said. “No matter who it is. But I see these women, and they’re not much younger than me. We can’t come up with a pattern with a reason for why they’ve been chosen. It’s unnerving.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I believe in you.”

  “Thanks.” Harris’s smile was genuine but sad. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

  Cassie got into her car and waited for Harris to pull out. She followed the detective onto the street and toward the city morgue.

  What a thrilling Friday night, she thought.

  Sixteen

  The city morgue was an unimposing brick building that belied the darkness passing through its walls. Sometimes bodies were stored there while the workers awaited identification or autopsies.

  Cassie hated morgues. For someone with her gift, the place could best be described as an awkward social mixer. With the undead. She had been several times, and it never got easier. Spirits often liked to hang around their bodies. Cassie could be inundated with ghosts and psychic vibes. When her gift was stronger, she could sift through them and focus on the ones who would help her solve a case.

  Now, she wasn’t sure what would happen when she stepped into that building.

  Harris got out of her car first and Cassie followed.

  “You okay?” Harris asked. “You look pale. Well, paler than usual.”

  “I’m fine.” Cassie rolled her eyes at Harris. “This place makes me nervous. Not sure what I’m going to see inside.”

  “Well, I can guarantee you’re about to see a dead body,” Harris said. “If that helps.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Cassie responded, but followed Harris inside anyway.

  The detective introduced herself to the employee at the front desk and was buzzed through the heavy steel doors where they were met by Dr. Seth Underwood. He was a large, bald man with dark, beady eyes and a huge mustache that made him look like a walrus. His outward demeanor was all business, but sidle up next to him at the bar at the Wormhole on Bull Street, and he’d keep you in stitches half the night.

  “Dr. Underwood,” Harris held out her hand for him to shake. “It’s good to see you again. This is—”

  “Cassie Quinn,” Underwood ignored Harris’s hand and stared Cassie down for a beat too long. For a moment, Cassie wondered if she was about to receive a lecture. Underwood’s face erupted into a huge smile and he bent over to hug her. “How have you been?”

  “Better.” Cassie allowed the big man to squeeze most of the air out of her lungs. “How about you? Your hip still bothering you?”

  Underwood waved her off. “Eh, I’ll be fine. More important things to do, like get back on my Harley.”

  “You two know each other,” Harris’s hand still hanging in the air. “Wait, of course you do.”

  “We go way back,” Cassie said. “Dr. Underwood let me bribe him with my chocolate chip cookies on more than one occasion.”

  Underwood shifted from foot to foot. “When she says bribe—”

  Cassie patted him on the arm. “I’m sure Detective Harris is a lot more interested in what you have to say about Elizabeth’s body than your sugar intake.”

  “Right.” The breath Underwood blew out in relief ruffled his mustache. “This way.”

  Harris turned and quirked an eye at Cassie. “I have not seen that man smile in the two years I’ve known him.”

  “I make really good chocolate chip cookies,” Cassie said. “He’s a nice guy once you work out his quirks.”

  “Guess you gotta be a little weird to work here,” Harris said.

  Cassie gestured for Harris to go first and the two women followed in Underwood’s wake as they made their way down a hall and a set of stairs. It was colder downstairs, and Cassie knew it wasn’t because of the cooling units for storing bodies. The memory of an electric hum filled her fingers and toes, and she could almost feel what it was like to have her powers at full capacity. She hadn’t yet decided if she liked or wanted that feeling.

  “We don’t have much time,” Underwood said, “so I have to make this quick.”

  “Works for me,” Cassie said. She was already chilled to the bone.

  The room was larger than she remembered. She could feel the spirits crowding her. But what caught her attention was the table in the center of the room. It was covered in a sheet and there was a light shining straight down on it, illuminating the body underneath in a way that felt unnatural.

  Cassie always felt like, at any moment, a body would sit up and look at her. Seeing ghosts was less terrifying than the idea that someone hadn’t been dead all that time. Or they were dead, and they’d come back to life.

  Not for the first time in her life, Cassie prayed zombies weren’t real.

  “Elizabeth Montgomery.” Underwood pulled out her chart and read from it. “Twenty-eight years old. Seven-and-a-quarter-inch horizontal laceration that severed the carotid artery and damaged the windpipe. Ten-and-three-eighths-inch vertical laceration. Several broken ribs. Missing heart.”

  “Just like the others,” Harris whispered.

  “Identical other than small variations in the length of the lacerations and the damage to the chest cavity.” Underwood looked up at the two women. “Are you ready?”

  Harris looked at Cassie, who nodded. When she turned back to Underwood, her face was set in a mask of neutral professionalism. “Go ahead.”

  Underwood peeled back the sheet, stopping it above Elizabeth’s hip bones. Cassie couldn’t help the sharp gasp as she inhaled deeply. She had seen more than her fair share of dead bodies, but this was one of the worst.

  “Can you walk me through it?” Harris asked, her voice steady.
r />   Underwood’s tone was casual, but Cassie knew him well enough to know that what he saw in his line of work stayed with him. It was a given that this case would, too.

  “Toxicology shows Rohypnol in her system. She was drugged, presumably to make her easier to deal with. There are no defensive wounds which tells me she was pretty out of it when the attack started, though the pain would have flooded her system with adrenaline and snapped her back to reality, at least somewhat.”

  “Are you able to tell which happened first?” Cassie pointed between the woman’s neck and chest.

  “It looks like he cut her throat first and drained as much of her blood as possible. Her death would’ve been quick, all things considered. Cutting the carotid artery means she would’ve bled out in about a minute give or take. After that he cut out her heart.”

  Cassie knew there was nothing quick about it. The saving grace was upon passing through the veil to the afterlife, the pain and fear were forgotten. Usually.

  Harris looked up at Underwood. “You sound like you have more to say about that.”

  “It’s interesting.” Underwood twisted the end of his mustache. “The blade cut through her neck like butter. That tells me it was sharper than steel, maybe something like obsidian.”

  Cassie looked over at Harris. “Are obsidian blades ever used in ritualistic killings?”

  “Yes,” Harris said. “What about her chest?”

  “The chest was cut with the same blade,” Underwood continued. “The line is steady and even, which tells me this isn’t the first time the killer made an incision like this. But what’s more interesting is that he used a bone saw to cut through her ribs to get to the heart.”

  “A bone saw?” Cassie asked. “Like what a doctor would use?”

  “Exactly like what a doctor would use,” Underwood said. “This guy knew what he was doing.”

  “Does that mean the killer is a doctor?” Cassie asked.

  “Maybe,” Harris said. “We don’t have enough evidence to prove that yet. Hunters know plenty about anatomy, animals or otherwise, and there are ways to get your hand on any kind of tool. Is he a hunter? Did he learn it by watching YouTube and practicing on cadavers or animals?”

  “But someone would hear a bone saw, wouldn’t they?” Cassie asked.

  “If they did,” Harris said, “they might think they’re hearing a chainsaw. Not a whole lot of people who run toward that sound in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night.”

  Cassie knew she was right. She looked back down at Elizabeth and a well of emotion filled her chest. She was sad and angry and scared and confused all at once. The poor woman had done nothing wrong other than perhaps allow the wrong man to get close to her. And here she was, spread open like a specimen for dissection. She deserved better than that. She deserved to see her thirties and beyond.

  Cassie was hit with a wave of nausea when the lights flickered overhead. She looked up at Harris and Underwood, but neither of them looked alarmed. Cassie knew this was a message only for her. Between one breath and the next, Elizabeth appeared in the corner of the room.

  Elizabeth walked toward Cassie with her arm outstretched, like she was pleading, begging for her life. Cassie wondered if that was the same face she made when her executioner had pulled out his knife and pressed it to her throat. The nausea in Cassie’s stomach threatened to spill over.

  Elizabeth dropped her arm and looked down at her body. Another tear slid down her cheek and she looked into Cassie’s eyes. Anger filled the spirit’s face, and she took one step toward Cassie, then another. When she was inches from Cassie, Elizabeth leaned close and whispered in Cassie’s ear.

  “It’ll be over soon.”

  “Cassie, are you okay?”

  Harris’s voice broke the spell. The lights returned to normal, shining bright overhead. Elizabeth was gone and left in her wake was the feeling of her ghostly breath on Cassie’s ear. She couldn’t help but shiver. When she looked up, both the detective and Underwood were staring at her like she had grown another head.

  “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  Harris took a step forward with a curious look in her eye. “Did you see—”

  “Just dizzy.” Cassie gave the detective a tight frown. “I think that might be enough for me tonight.”

  Underwood took the hint and covered Elizabeth’s body.

  “Thank you again, Dr. Underwood. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Harris led the way back up the stairs and down the hallway to the front entrance. They left the building and as soon as Cassie felt the fresh air on her skin, the nausea started to drift away.

  “Did you see something?” Harris asked.

  “Elizabeth.” Cassie’s tongue was dry and heavy. “She said the same thing Hannah did. ‘It’ll be over soon’.”

  “If he slit her throat before opening her chest, maybe he was speaking to her? Trying to reassure her?”

  “Or maybe it means all of this will be over soon and our window of opportunity to catch the killer is dwindling,” Cassie suggested.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  Seventeen

  Cassie woke up on Saturday morning with a renewed vigor. Electricity buzzed through her body.

  Her brain had worked on Elizabeth’s case while she slept, and dawn had brought with it plenty of new questions. The idea that these were ritualistic killings circled Cassie’s mind. Learning that the weapon could be an obsidian knife added to that theory. And she knew where to go to prove her theory.

  Dr. George Schafer volunteered at the local library. Twice a month, he lectured for free on a different artist, ranging from today’s world all the way back to Ancient Greece and beyond. Cassie had attended a few times and it was such a thrill to see people young and old alike enjoying his talks. Art history wasn’t always the most thrilling of subjects, but Dr. Schafer found ways to keep it engaging.

  George had a way of connecting to people through art and his breadth of knowledge was astounding. With forty years of experience under his belt, he knew a little about a lot. And when he didn’t know the answer, he took the time to look it up and get back to you. He was a bit of a local hero for those who knew him.

  Today’s lecture was on one of Cassie’s favorite artists—Artemisia Gentileschi. She was a seventeenth-century Italian painter who rose above her station as a woman to make a name for herself. She often painted women from myth and figures from the Bible. Artemisia’s rape played a pivotal role in her art, and Cassie had always been taken aback by the power depicted in her paintings, particularly Judith Slaying Holofernes.

  Looking at it projected on the overhead screen that hung from the library’s wall, Cassie was overcome with emotion. She felt a kinship with the artist who lived with unspeakable pain and yet found a way to channel her anger and bravery into her work. She didn’t let society’s rules dictate who she should be. She instead used every opportunity to defy expectations and prove she was as good—if not better—than her male peers.

  Cassie waited until the room cleared, and she approached George, who was packing his equipment. One of the library staff wheeled the projector away, and when George noticed Cassie’s presence, a grin broke out across his face.

  “Ms. Quinn! What a pleasant surprise. How’d I do?”

  “Incredible, as always.” Cassie found it easy to compliment George. He was a kind soul who gave his time for free. “She’s one of my favorites.”

  “I seem to remember that from your entry interview.” George winked at her and grew serious. “How are you?”

  “Been having some trouble sleeping,” Cassie said, “but I’m feeling good today.”

  “That’s fantastic to hear.” George paused and stared at Cassie, trying to read her mind. “You didn’t come here on a whim.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Should we grab a chair?”

  Cassie nodded and followed George into an alcove where they could talk i
n private. The library had set up a temporary display full of female authors and artists to coincide with the lecture. Cassie was delighted to see young girls each picking out several books to read.

  “So, Ms. Quinn, what can I do for you today?”

  Cassie turned back to George and felt the color rise in her cheeks. “It’s a bit unorthodox.”

  “I love unorthodox.” He leaned back in his seat. “Hit me.”

  “I’m doing some research on my own, outside of work, and I’m stuck. I guess I was hoping you might be able to point me in the right direction?”

  “I can do my best. What are you researching?”

  Cassie braced herself. “Ritualistic sacrifice?”

  George’s eyes sparkled and for a moment Cassie considered the idea that he saw through her farce and knew why she was asking him for help. “A fascinating subject.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s part of why we enjoy Ms. Gentileschi’s work, isn’t it? Often violent and gruesome, but there’s a strange catharsis there. Art, whether it’s a painting or a book or a movie, is designed to tell us a story. We can relate to it in a myriad of ways. Art can invite us to join in on a celebration or it could warn us against danger. Old wives’ tales, for example, are an oral tradition that stem from real-life horrors. Urban legends might make us pause before we step out into the middle of the night for an evening stroll. Ritualistic sacrifice has been around for millennia. It’s nothing to glorify, but we as a global community continue to be fascinated by it. I think that’s human nature.”

  “That makes me feel a little better,” Cassie admitted.

  George smiled. “So, are we talking about human sacrifice according to the Aztec empire, or were you shooting for something more modern?”

  Cassie felt sheepish. “I’m not sure. I feel like it could all apply.”

  George was excited. “That’s true. One lays the foundation for the other. Did you know that it wasn’t until recently we discovered the Spanish accounts of Aztec sacrifice were true? Apparently, they would cut open the chests of their victims and offer their still-beating hearts to the gods. Sometimes they would consume parts of their bodies to be closer with their deities.”