Stolen Prophet: A Horror Supernatural Thriller (The Prophet's Mother Book 1)

by Julian M. Coleman

  Although as a soldier, he’d a clear understanding of who was the enemy. But as a cop, that distinction tended to be fuzzy. Maybe that had been the beauty of his job, to track down the guilty.

  Harry remembered how he had tried to find his murderous dad, but the bastard had hightailed it back to Japan and disappeared. The frustration of not being able to bring that Bluebeard to justice still haunted him. But he could ease his pain by hunting down other murderers.

  The last missing child case still haunted him. The perp had been so smooth. Thaddeus Tolliver’s stepfather had initially presented himself as a suffering parent.

  Harry fought against the memory; he couldn’t revisit that road again.

  He rubbed his forehead. It throbbed with pain. His attention shifted back to the picture of the missing kid. His headache shifted too and started to spread like a band across his forehead.

  Burnt out, yes, but what if he just walked away? What kind of life would he have without his job?

  Harry wondered if his desolate thoughts were being amplified by the collective neuroses that was inflicting the city. Even now, some of the self-proclaimed criminals were scrambling to confess.

  He noticed how they all looked over their shoulders. And were staring at the same place. There was nothing over there except a row of filing cabinets.

  Harry strained to pinpoint their fascination. He saw nothing, at first. He realized that he’d been looking at the wrong place. He should’ve been looking at the wall.

  He saw a shadow that looked out of place. It looked human. No one was there to cast it? Fear torqued up his spine while knotting up his guts.

  It had a woman’s shape. Just then he saw eyelids pop open, at least he thought they were eyelids and the sockets were filled with fire.

  Harry jerked and almost dropped his coffee cup. A double-handed scramble saved the desk blotter from being sloshed with liquid. When he looked up again the shadow woman was gone.

  It took him awhile, a few tense minutes, but he managed to reel-in his imagination once he realized a simple explanation for his screwy thoughts. Those guilty as hell perps had shafted him with a hefty dose of the power of suggestion. Mix in a weird day with a dash of silent partner and there you have it, a wall shadow with hellfire eyes.

  He chuckled at his gullibility.

  The missing kid’s photograph commanded his attention again. He couldn’t help it. He was swirling into regret. This boy’s innocence closely mirrored Thad Tolliver’s.

  Harry remembered when his mom’s kid safety warnings had two basic rules, look both ways before crossing the street and never take candy from strangers.

  Harry’s brutal upbringing had taught him that life had never ever been that innocent. He’d never experienced the kind of innocence dripping off the black child’s face that stared at him from the computer screen

  The kid looked wholesome, only worse, he had an androgynous appeal. He was a pedophile’s wet-dream. Even now, Harry imagined him tied to a ratty mattress with a degenerate porking him… just like what that pervert stepdad had confessed to doing to Thad.

  Harry’s headache mushroomed like an atomic cloud. The pain was bearable, but only just. He struggled to get his desk drawer open. He wrapped his trembling fingers around a bottle of aspirins, and swore silently at the child-proof cap until it popped. He wolfed five white tablets and washed them down with cold coffee. After a few minutes of heart-pounding and brain-twisting pain, the ache began to ebb.

  Jesus Christ! Harry wished he could scrub his attention off the prepubescent face that peered at him. His hand hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn’t make himself disconnect.

  Mason said, “We have the countdown. Five minutes to go before we clock out.”

  Five minutes?

  Harry felt that it was too late. He was pulled back from the bespectacled youngster, he clenched his teeth. The Tolliver case had forced him into counseling and caused him to self-medicate with bourbon just to sleep. Finding the young boy’s dead body had been more than tragic.

  Harry remembered how he’d easily absorbed the crime scene, and identified the likely perpetrator who he had caught gloating. He knew the type, straight-laced successful businessman who acted worried. Harry had zeroed in on him before the smirk. Yeah, he knew the type, a smarmy psychopath who was smarter than the incompetent police.

  Harry’s soul, however, had never been able to absorb the shock of just how that young boy had been tortured before he died.

  “Stop looking interested. That’s all she needs. Don’t forget the B-team caught this one.” Mason’s voice held a hard edge. “You weren’t the only one who went through hell because of the Tolliver case.”

  Harry sort of changed the subject, “What else did you hear about this one?”

  Mason sighed with a trace of irritation. “I heard the mom was already at the crime scene when our guys showed up but she slipped away. Frick and Frack went to her house and questioned her, but she’s not cleared yet. Plus -- get this -- she’s holding a press conference…” he consulted his watch, “…in about thirty minutes. The buzz is that she’s going to offer a hefty reward.”

  Harry cringed. “What? Right here at the holidays?”

  Mason gave a sardonic smile. “Yep, thousands of bogus tipsters will want a piece of the money pie. Oh and there’s more...”

  Harry was clocking the time too. They had three minutes left and counting. He followed Mason’s example and began shutting down his computer and shuffling papers into his desk drawers. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “The more part is that mom has juice.”

  “Juice?”

  “She’s got connections all the way to DC. The chatter is that she can speed-dial a few senators. How about that?”

  They both stared at Lieutenant Casey’s closed door. Mason said, mournfully, “She’s got her B-team on this one.”

  Harry nodded. “Yeah, but we’re her A-team.”

  Mason said, “We’re close to a justified escape. You and I can just get up and leave now.”

  Harry agreed. “We could, but we ain’t gonna, are we?”

  Mason powered up his computer and then unlocked his desk drawer. “I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut.” This time his grin was genuine. “Y’know, if you got up from your desk every now and then you might hear some things too.”

  Harry smirked, “Yeah, but nobody likes me. Everybody loves you, including the ladies.”

  He rocked back in his chair, propped a foot on the edge of his desk and indulged in another slurp of cold coffee. He could see the Lieutenant’s shadow as she paced the floor.

  He was tempted to punctuate the blandness of his coffee with a splash or two of Jack Daniels. Instead, he found himself drawn into the monotone drone originating at Frank’s desk. Frank Worchester was an old school detective, and like Harry, he was a veteran.

  Frank was a rigid man, but respectful and highly disciplined. Neat and orderly, that was Frank. He even continued to wear his hair in a military flat top.

  His face was as indecipherable as granite while a middle-aged accountant type sitting opposite him, in too neat attire that was anal enough to suggest OCD, admitted to hacking up a cheating girlfriend. The monotonous nature of the confession was startling given the gruesome description of the murder.

  Clearly murdering a woman was one thing, but saving and savoring body parts were straight along the lines of Jeffrey Dahmer. The guy had issues.

  Harry also thought it peculiar that Mr. Accountant, who had gotten away with the slice and dice for close to twenty years, was copping to it now. So why the confession and why now?

  Mr. Accountant went mute in mid-sentence. Harry could almost see the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The guy’s face grew paler under his neatly trimmed and slicked back black hair. His eyes rounded while his jaw slackened before he released a soundless sob.

  Harry and Frank looked at each other. Harry knitted his eyebrows while Frank rolled his eyes as he
handed Mr. Accountant a tissue. Harry saw the perp do that strange thing too. He followed the man’s stare to the wall. It had taken some guts for him to do it, but Harry was relieved when he didn’t see anything.

  Maybe he wasn’t meant to see anything? Maybe only Mr. Accountant was meant to see?

  Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Yep, that was a weird conclusion. Maybe he was he going crazy too?

  Harry’s eyestrain was causing his head to ache again. Although he wanted to play the whole thing off as some random rant from a psycho who then lapsed into a catatonic state, he couldn’t ignore the hairs rising up on his arms.

  Still, he was able to escape the cycle of bat-craziness by chastising himself for a runaway imagination. Maybe the guy was hoping for an insanity defense? Harry decided that now was a good time to concentrate on his report.

  The shift change was far noisier than usual. A platoon of detectives, some of them openly hostile, spilled into the squad room although they practically had no standing room in the brooding chaos.

  Mr. Accountant’s blubbering was minimized by the uproar. There were quite a few protests emerging from the bunch on just how much they appreciated being forced to work overtime.

  Harry leaned toward Mason and spoke only loud enough for his partner to hear, “Yeah, and we thought we were going to leave.”

  Mason added, “Well, she didn’t bother to stop us.”

  Her office door was still closed.

  Harry said, “What’s worrying me is that I think we’re going to get the kid case.”

  Mason said, “Words of advice? If she does give it to us, then don’t panic and don’t curse her out. Do that to her again, partner and you’re going to end up spending quality time in Psych…again. Or you’re going to end up on the streets. A few more of those disciplinary actions and whoever your fairy godmother is, won’t be able to protect your Asian ass. Besides, I’ve had enough of working with Tommy when you’re gone. Ethan’s okay. But Tommy? That man is the antidote to community collaboration.”

  Mason ticked off Tommy’s attributes with his fingers. “The man has a black problem, an Asian problem, a Hispanic problem, a woman problem…I don’t know how Ethan puts up with his dumb ass. He’s the only reason why they’re the B-Team. That fucker couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”

  Harry laughed. “He’s got a small ass, that’s why he only needs one hand.”

  Mason lifted an eyebrow mischievously.

  Harry cleared up his joke. “I mean, that’s what I hear. Hey, I’m Captain Eunuch, remember? I don’t go around looking at men’s asses. I’d have to have a sex drive to do that.”

  Mason retorted, “Don’t let those knuckleheads define you. They just hate on you because you have a one hundred percent closure rate. Hell, I hate you too.”

  Harry was still laughing when he caught the lieutenant peering through the blinds, again. This time he was certain, she was peeping in their direction. “Dammit.”

  Mason followed his concern and reiterated, “Don’t lose it. We found Thad and we closed the case. We can’t save them all. We try, but we can’t.”

  Harry needed something to numb the memory of finding Thad bound and tossed in a crate like garbage behind that old barn in Culpeper County. The boy’s eyes had been open. Those dead eyes had stared straight into Harry’s and silently accused him of being too late. What good was having a perfect closure rate if he couldn’t save the most innocent of victims?

  Burning tears were ready to fill up his eyes. Mason gave him some privacy by focusing on his work. After a drawn out silence, he asked, “Why don’t you come over Sunday? Have dinner with us? The girls haven’t seen you in a long time. They’re always asking about Uncle Harry.”

  Spending time with the Family Epps wasn’t going to happen. Tracy, Mason’s wife, was a beautiful and accomplished surgeon, and the girls, well they were wholesome and loving. Mason may’ve been jealous of Harry’s closure rate, but Harry was definitely jealous of Mason’s family life.

  Harry couldn’t have that life. How could he when every woman couldn’t measure up to his mom? The sudden and unwanted memory of her murder caused dry emotion to choked up in his throat.

  The lunacy in the precinct was contagious. Harry was starting to feel just as reality challenged. Maybe the remedy was to go home and have that drink.

  Mason tossed a paperclip at him before resuming his index finger punches on the keyboard. “Come back to Earth, and try to look busy. The guys are mentally giving us the finger.”

  “If we get this case, I’m giving everybody the finger and it won’t be mental,” Harry joked. “What are you doing? You’re concentrating too hard. You must be playing Solitaire?”

  Mason’s phone rang. He sneered as he picked it up. “What? Is this another cold case? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Bring him back in a few minutes. Yeah, well, we’re all busy, aren’t we?” He slammed down the receiver, surveyed the room and asked, “What the hell is going on around here? I thought freaks only came out when there was a full moon. Don’t they know it’s just three-forty five? There ain’t a full moon now, right?”

  Harry said, “Bitchy, aren’t we? No sympathy here. You’re rich. Your wife is rich. Why are you working? Please remind me again. I know I have to work to keep my nice apartment and my slick ride, but you? You have gardeners and maids and a big mansion on River Drive.”

  Mason’s eyes darted at him. “Is that why you won’t come to dinner? You lusting after my wife’s booty and her pocketbook. Yeah, I got money. What? You’re jealous? It ain’t cool. But…and I’ve told you this a thousand times, gittin’ ain’t the same as havin’.”

  Harry laughed. “I’ll try being a rich man any day, though.”

  After a while Harry just gave up trying not to appear interested as his attention rotated back to the wholesome image on his computer screen. He clicked the menu button and pulled up the background information. The details were scant, which wasn’t surprising, but the data had been loaded up more quickly than usual.

  He found himself memorizing the timeline that led up to the boy’s disappearance. Next he opened up the map of East Richmond and studied the gridded areas that were marked as searched.

  Harry wondered if Tommy and Ethan had collected all the witness statements yet. They weren’t rookies so they would know to get intel from traffic or home surveillance cameras. What did forensics find?

  Detectives knew to look inward first and then out, so what about his home life? Mom wasn’t cleared. What about Dad? What about other family members? Had the missing boy said anything odd to school members, counselors, or teachers before he disappeared? Had the boy communicated with anyone online? Did he have a cellphone? Did the B-Team suspect a stranger snatching?

  Suddenly pain slit through his grey matter with the precision of a scalpel. He gritted his teeth against the unexpected spasm. The aspirins were losing their effectiveness before they had established a true grip. But he had an alternative.

  Harry reached inside his desk and pulled out a pencil. His hand was shaking again. He needed to chill, and quickly. He couldn’t use booze on the job to self-medicate, so self-hypnosis had to be his fall back.

  Mechanical pencils didn’t work, besides he didn’t like them. He preferred the standard wooden yellow pencils, the ones with the green tin that held the pink eraser in place. He rolled good old Number Two on top of his desk. Immediately, his pain began to lessen.

  He found handling a wooden pencil calmed him the same way he supposed some folks needed to take drugs or smoke weed. He twirled the pencil with a flick of his wrist and a turn of his thumb and index finger. Staring at the spinning pencil was more than hypnotic, it was plain old comforting.

  Move the pencil, Harry.

  Today was off. First he he’d seen ghost shadows and now he heard his mom’s voice. Any more of the insanity drip-drip and he’d be ready to pop to some crimes too. Yes, Lieutenant, when I was stationed overseas, I indulged in a little coke and occasionally
some heroin. Oh and yep, I did lie when I said that murdering bastard fell during my interrogation. So okay, maybe I overreacted, but I still don’t know how that talking excrement ended up with life-threatening injuries on his way to lock-up. Now that I think about it, I really don’t know how my fist got all bruised or how those tapes got erased either.

  His desk phone saved him from diving too deeply into his macabre thoughts. He recognized Lucy Chang’s extension.

  Lucy was a crime scene technician. She was also a five-foot two-inch stunner. The Missing Links in the precinct wondered why he couldn’t even get it up for Lucy since they were both slant-eyes. More idiotic remarks from testosterone-fueled dumbasses, although in truth, Harry would’ve tasted her if he hadn’t been rewired by the car accident.

  He let the phone ring as he wondered how he could dislodge the grey. Once upon a time, Harry had tried to with drugs, and some of those had been legal, but none of them had been able to crash through that nebulous but impenetrable grey wall.

  By year two, he gave up and tried psychotherapy where he’d been forced to talk about how his dad had sliced up his mom and then pulled a Houdini. The horrors of his childhood had continued right after he became a ward of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

  He’d spilled it to the shrink about being the tiny Asian kid dumped in a succession of group homes. Because of an absurd number of beatings, Harry learned how to fight, but not like Bruce Lee. He’d fought like a back street brawler who discovered that kicking nuts and head butts weren’t off limits.

  Once Harry had started, he told it all. He talked about the teenaged sex predators who thought he was pretty, and kept going on until he finished up with stories about his sex-fueled days as a warrior for his fickle Uncle Sam. But being a soldier had been his salvation too.

  He was untaught the conniving survival skills that helped in group homes. Being a soldier drilled in traits like honesty, integrity and seeing a job all the way through. He’d already been a fighter, but the Army taught him how to be a man.

  Surviving psychotherapy had been a bitch. It did make him feel better, but what it couldn’t do was restore his memory. Nothing, it seemed, could pierced that greyness or raise his pole. Still, he didn’t deserve the nickname Captain Eunuch.