Jane says, “Paperwork and procedure—they’re tedious, but that’s police work for you.”
“So young,” Jasmine says in reply, and I hear a chain being removed from a door lock followed by boots on wooden floorboards. “And with such a young family.”
A door closes.
“Yes,” Jane replies, and I find myself walking inside a nondescript suburban home in my mind, mentally retracing her steps. I wonder about Jasmine. What drives someone to murder their entire family? I know it’s a stereotype, but it seems out of character for a mother and a wife to kill both her husband and her kids. I wonder, what could have driven Jasmine to such extremes?
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Jane says. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic. “So, what are you and your family doing on this chilly Saturday afternoon?”
“Oh,” Jasmine says. “Bill and the kids are at the mall shopping for Christmas presents... Coffee?”
“Sure,” Jane replies. The conversation is calm and civil, and yet Jane knew something was up or she wouldn’t have thought to record this discussion beforehand.
The sound muffles slightly, and I get the impression Jane’s putting her hands in her jacket pockets. There’s a soft but sharp click, one that occurs close to the microphone. I’ve heard that noise before, but it takes me a second to realize it’s a safety switch being depressed on the side of a handgun.
“Well,” Jasmine says in a polite, considerate tone of voice. “This isn’t exactly standard police procedure, now is it?”
“These aren’t your everyday murders,” Jane says and I pause the playback.
I’m frustrated, but I note the time of the comment and the exact wording used,. I’m desperately trying to understand what’s happening. There’s something at work beyond what I’m hearing superficially, that much is clear.
“How did you know?” I ask her rhetorically. “Jane, you’ve got to give me more to work with. How did you figure this out?”
I wish she was here. I know Jane could explain herself with just a few simple words, but the explanation of what’s happening escapes me. I press play again, ready to pause the audio file as needed. I don’t want to miss any details.
“And how are you going to explain this?” Jasmine asks. “Are you willing to go to jail for twenty years for killing me in cold blood?”
Pause.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask Jane, desperately trying to piece together this jigsaw puzzle. They both know precisely what’s happening. “Come on, Jane. Talk to me, not to her. Remember, honey. Remember you’ve got a phone in your pocket recording all of this.”
Play.
Jane says, “I’m counting on there being bodies in the upstairs bedroom.”
And a shiver runs down my spine. How did she know? What tipped her off?
Jasmine laughs, she doesn’t even try to deny what’s happened.
“Who are you?” Jane asks, and I pause the audio, mumbling to myself as I jot down another note.
“But she knows who she is—she’s Jasmine Halter, a suburban housewife.”
My index finger clicks the play button and I hold my breath, waiting for the reply.
“Who am I?” Jasmine Halter says. “My name is legion, for we are many.”
And I pause the playback again, stunned by what I’m hearing. I’m not sure if Jane realizes this, but I recognize those words. They’re from the Gospels. I get up and grab a Bible from the bookshelf. In the back of the Bible, there’s an index. I scan through it until I find the reference I’m looking for: The insane man dwelling among the tombs. Mark 5:2-12.
I read through this section of scripture twice, highlighting two phrases with my pen.
And when Jesus was come out of the boat, straightway there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit, who had his dwelling in the tombs: and no man could any more bind him, no, not with a chain…
And always, night and day, in the tombs and in the mountains, he was crying out, and cutting himself with stones.
…and crying out with a loud voice, he saith, What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of the Most High God? I adjure thee by God, torment me not.
…And Jesus asked him, What is thy name? And he saith unto him, My name is Legion; for we are many…
Now there was on the mountain side a great herd of swine feeding…
And the unclean spirits came out, and entered into the swine: and the herd rushed down the steep into the sea, in number about two thousand; and they were drowned in the sea.
“What the hell is going on, Jane?” I ask, sitting down at the table again and noting the scripture reference and the time on my paper pad.
Play.
“Stay back,” Jane cries aloud, but her voice wavers. She’s nervous. “Put it down.”
“What?” I cry, pleading with her as though she could somehow respond. “Put what down?”
“This?” Jasmine replies in a voice so calm my skin crawls. “Don’t worry about this. I’m not going to kill you with a knife. No, that would be too easy. I think I’ll use that gun you’re holding instead.”
Jasmine’s tormenting her, threatening her, but I already know how this ends. She dies. Did Jasmine want Jane to kill her? Is this suicide by proxy?
“This is just a little insurance. Evidence.”
“It’s over,” Jane says. “Take one more step and I’ll fire.”
“Oh, I’m counting on you pulling that trigger,” Jasmine replies. “You didn’t really think a mere handgun would kill me, did you?”
And gunfire erupts. Although the shots are rapid, they’re staggered, coming in waves of two, three or four shots at a time, and I quickly lose track of how many shots have been fired. I’m stunned. One shot is enough to kill someone, especially at close range. Emptying an entire magazine into a woman at point blank is massive overkill.
The firing stops and the silence is eerie. I scrawl notes on my pad, capturing the time and the final comments of Jasmine Halter.
Jasmine’s dead, I understand that, and yet somehow it feels as though I lost Jane in that violent exchange. Sirens sound on the recording, coming from outside the house.
“Jane?” someone says, breaking down the front door. “Are you okay?”
I’m expecting Jane to respond, but the voice that speaks has a slight quiver, and it takes a few words before I recognize the reply.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Liz.”
That’s Jane’s voice, but the pacing is wrong. There’s a slight inflection that sounds unusual, almost as though someone’s mimicking her accent. It’s subtle, and I suspect I would have missed this if I’d seen this incident unfold live, but being limited to only one sense, and having heard the conversation before the gunfire, the difference is magnified. This isn't my wife. But that’s crazy. Impossible. And I dismiss the thought, although in the back of my mind I’m aware I was struck by the same impression when I arrived home to find Jane drinking wine in the kitchen.
I let the recording run and I can hear cops moving through the house, radios squawk and there’s more conversation with Jane, but everything beyond this point seems redundant. I stop the recording, trying to absorb what I’ve heard.
Tomorrow, I’ll listen to the rest of the audio file, but as the recording is exactly an hour long, I suspect it simply runs on until it reaches the maximum file size. It’s almost as though Jane doesn’t realize she recorded herself, which is confusing.
Chapter 2:03 — Transylvania
“Hey, Joe,” I say, talking into my cell phone.
“Alan,” he replies, and I can hear he’s half asleep. I look at the time on the bottom right hand corner of my laptop—1:22AM. “What’s up?”
“Listen,” I say, still on edge after hours of trawling the internet trying to make sense of what happened here in lazy Boise, Idaho. “Remember you said you’d do anything to help.”
“Anything,” is the groggy reply.
“I’ve found Jane.”
“Hey, that’s
great news,” Joe says.
“I need you to come with me to get her.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Have you got a passport?” I ask.
Joe replies, “I know I’m going to regret admitting this, but yes.”
“She’s in Europe.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Romania,” I say.
“You want to go to Europe?” Joe asks, looking for confirmation and probably thinking I’m a little crazy.
“Yes.”
“Oh, man. I’ve got to say. When I said, I’d do anything to help, I was kinda thinking anything within the Continental US of A.”
I laugh. From the tone of his voice, I know he’s having a bitch and a moan, but he’s not discarding the idea.
Joe says, “When you asked about a passport, I was thinking Canada.”
“I know. Madness, huh?” I reply.
“O’Connor is going to freak out. He’s going to demand I keep with the roster.”
I say, “Tell him I’m mentally unstable and you’re worried about me.”
Joe replies, “You are mentally unstable, and I am worried about you.”
Again, I laugh. If only he knew how wild and crazy my thinking is, and I’m half wondering if I’m delirious from a lack of sleep. In the cold light of a bitter, winter’s day, I doubt I’d be this adventurous, but with the warmth of the central heating dulling my senses, I feel I need to go after Jane. My wife tried to kill me, I think. But why? I have no idea. My parents are deeply religious. If they knew what had happened, they’d say she was possessed by a devil spirit, and after reading that section in the Bible, I’m half wondering if there may be some merit to that notion, but no. I have a rational mind. I can’t go there. Something in the confrontation with Jasmine Halter drove Jane over the edge, leading to what I can only describe as a mental breakdown.
And as for the ragged copy of Dracula and the comments about legion? None of that makes any sense. There’s been nothing even remotely similar to the contents of that novel, at least as I remember it, although my thinking is probably skewed by too many poorly made Hollywood movies. And as if on cue, my left earlobe aches, reminding me the lower portion has been ripped off. The vision of Jane towering over me with blood dripping from her mouth is eerily reminiscent of a horror movie, but no. There must be some other explanation.
“You’re serious?” Joe asks. “You know I’ve never been outside North America, right?”
“You’ll love this. I just booked tickets, switching us to business class for the leg from Chicago to Berlin.”
“Oh, now you’re talking.”
In the background, I can hear Joe’s wife complaining about the noise he’s making talking with me. Joe says something about Europe, and from the sound of it, I think she hit him with a pillow and told him to go back to sleep.
“Say hi to Helen for me.”
There’s muffled, muted talking, and Joe replies, “She says, goodnight. Well, at least, that's the polite version.”
“The first leg is an 11AM flight to Chicago, buddy. Pick me up around eight.”
“Done,” Joe replies and I hang up. Joe always was the more adventurous of the two of us, and talking him into going with me was easier than I thought. I wonder if he'd be so accommodating if I told him we were heading to Transylvania.
Sitting in the apartment with all the lights on, I can’t help but mentally replay the recording between Jane and Jasmine. The conversation was so calm and yet so wrong, it’s as though they both knew from the start what was really going on, but each was waiting for the other to make a move. As soon as Jane pulled the gun on Jasmine, there was only ever going to be one outcome. Someone was going to die. I want to ask Jane about it, to understand her motives going into what she clearly knew was going to be a lethal confrontation. Why didn’t she wait for the police?
I don’t understand how Jasmine could be so dismissive of a gun being pointed at her. She was shot down in a hail of bullets. Perhaps Jane’s reacting to the trauma of inflicting such a brutal, highly personal and fatal act on someone she would normally identify with. Maybe Jane’s bizarre behavior is a reaction to the pressure she was under in those critical few seconds, and she's suffering from post-traumatic stress. But even that doesn’t explain the scratches on my chest where she tore through my skin, or why she ripped off part of my ear with her teeth.
I close the laptop and curl up on the couch. I can’t sleep in our bedroom. We have a spare bed, but the couch is closer to the door. I’d rather not be trapped at the back of the apartment. I’m being paranoid, and I don’t care. Paranoia is my right. To my mind, having a wolf trash my home justifies a little fear. And looking at the damage, I wonder if it was a lone wolf or a pack of wolves? Such thoughts aren’t helping me relax so I put them out of my mind. I fluff a pillow, leaving the lights on as I drift off to sleep.
There’s a knock at the door and I roll to one side, sliding off the couch, still very much caught in a deep sleep. Feeling groggy, I wander to the door and peer through the peep hole.
“Joe,” I say, opening the door.
Joe walks into the apartment saying, “8AM, buddy. It’s—what the hell?”
“Oh,” I reply, shutting the door behind him and scratching at my ruffled hair. “If you think this is messed up, check out the bedroom.”
Joe takes me literally and walks somewhat cautiously to the rear of the apartment, stepping over broken picture frames and ripped cushions as though they were land mines.
“Jesus,” he says, standing at the door and surveying the devastation in the bedroom. Torn curtains, broken lampshades, an overturned desk chair, scratches on the walls, a blood soaked mattress, ripped sheets, and splintered wood coming away from the bathroom door—the place is a dump. A grenade would have caused less damage.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing past him into the bedroom. “Some fucked up shit, huh?”
I’m not normally vulgar in my choice of words, but a little profanity seems appropriate given the circumstances.
“Did someone die in here?” he asks, and I can tell from his tone of voice, he’s serious.
“Oh, that?” I reply, pointing to the bed. “That’s my blood.”
Joe shakes his head. It’s a lot to take in.
“Listen,” I say, checking the time on my phone. “I’m going to grab a shower and pack a bag. Why don’t you make a pot of coffee?”
Reluctantly, Joe leaves me to shave and shower. The warm water is soothing, and I’m tempted to linger under the shower, but we’ve got a flight to catch.
After getting dressed, I stuff clothing and a solar powered phone charger into a duffel bag and walk back into the kitchen.
“You really want to do this?” Joe asks, handing me a cup of coffee in a plastic thermal mug.
“Don’t you?” I ask, knowing his mind must have been racing a million miles an hour while I was in the shower. “I mean, look at this place. It’s like a hurricane hit the apartment, or looters. Don’t you want answers?”
Joe nods.
Neither of us talk much during the drive to the airport. It’s another beautiful day, but I feel as though dark clouds are gathering. The flight to Chicago is brief. We have a two hour wait for our international flight, so we grab lunch at a bar inside the airport. People bustle around us, dragging bags on wheels and rushing along the marble concourse to get to various flights. The world is normal. Same as it was yesterday. But for me, it feels as though the world will never be the same again. There’s been a seismic shift.
“So?” Joe asks, chewing on a piece of garlic bread, something I find mildly amusing given what I’ve been reading. “Are you going to tell me what this is really about?”
“Honestly,” I say, pulling the ragged copy of Dracula from my back pocket. “I have no idea. I have my suspicions, but nothing makes sense.”
I place the book in front of him as though it were an exhibit in a court case.
“All I know is everything ch
anged when Jane began investigating the violent murder of Mavis Harrison in a gas station.”
Joe is silent.
“From there, the needle on the weirdometer goes hard to the right—beyond insane. I mean, I hardly believe this myself. My home was ravaged by a wolf.”
I plant my index finger in the center of the book, adding, “I don’t believe what I’m reading here, but I have no explanation for what happened to my apartment, or my wife. She bit off part of my ear, scratched my chest like a wild animal, and infected me with god-knows-what.”
“Yeah,” Joe says. “That’s pretty messed up.”
I nod, saying, “There are notes scrawled in the margins of this book and underlined sections that, honestly, leave me doubting my sanity. Sitting here in broad daylight, in the middle of one of the world’s busiest airports, it’s easy to pretend nothing happened, but I’m scared of what we're going to find over there.”
“What did she underline?” Joe asks in a serious tone.
I pick up the novel and thumb through the pages, reading aloud from various sections.
“A demon in her shape… that foul thing that has taken Lucy’s shape without her soul… I cannot let this happen… Oh, and this one is in Jane’s handwriting. Has evil passed unnoticed through the centuries?”
Joe says, “And you think this is for real?”
“Someone thought it was real,” I say. “Me? I don’t know. But I know my wife unloaded eleven rounds at point blank into some crazy bitch with a self-declared multiple personality disorder. And then my wife assaults me before fleeing to Transylvania.”
“Transylvania? You’re kidding, right?” Joe says, looking around to see if we’re being watched. I guess he thinks this is some kind of elaborate prank to expose him as gullible. No one pays any attention to us. We’re just two guys sitting on barstools overlooking the walkway. There are no cameras, no reporters rushing up to us, no bartenders or waiters who are in on the prank.
Van Helsing's Diaries (Books 1-3): Nosferatu Page 8
