“Yeah. Aza hasn’t messed with you directly yet, but she’s gone after both your kids, people you care about, so I could be—” Jaina stopped talking and looked away, but not before Jake could see she was blushing.
Jake squeezed her arm. “Yeah, you might be in danger, too.”
Jaina looked back at him. “Might?”
Jake shrugged. “It’s all you’re getting out of me right now. Peter’s what I’m most concerned about. And I can’t be sure Aza won’t try to go after Dani again, either.”
“Maybe you should have said something to the police, or at least to her mom.”
Jake shook his head. “The police wouldn’t believe me, and I’m not about to rile Amelia up over it. She still thinks I’m unstable. Claiming a supernatural twelve-year-old is out to get her daughter wouldn’t help my case.”
“But that’s exactly what’s happening.”
“Lies are easier to believe than the truth. Amelia is going to bring Dani here tomorrow, to see Peter. Until then…”
It had been readily apparent that the attack on Peter had been intentional. Jake didn’t know what he had been doing in the basement utility closet, but that was where Aza must have found him.
He knew it was Aza, despite the staggering lack of evidence. There weren’t any signs of who might have done it, or any evidence of there having been another person present. Cameras were lacking in the complex, and the only escape routes from the basement were through the main lobby, which was filled with a dozen armed officers, and through the back door, but the parking lot camera didn’t show anyone leaving the alley that door led to. Beyond those two avenues, there was only the small window in the utility closet that could have provided means of escape. It was too small for an adult to even consider climbing through and even for most children. But Aza was undersized, lean and wiry. It still would have been tight, but Jake had no doubt that she’d wiggled through after attacking Peter. Unless she was still in the building, which he couldn’t rule out either.
Miguel Picero popped his head around the corner, then followed suit with the rest of his doughy form. “Ah, Jake, there you are. How’s Peter?”
Jake gestured for Miguel to sit next to him. Miguel did so, placing his backpack on his lap. “Nothing yet,” Jake said.
Jaina leaned around Jake and stuck out a hand for Miguel. “Hi, I’m Jaina.”
Miguel took it and gave it a hearty shake. “Miguel. Are you Jake’s…” Miguel raised an eyebrow.
“Friend,” Jake said. “And Miguel here the head of the Crime Scene Unit for Seaside City’s finest. And one of the few allies I still have in the department.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you,” Jaina said. Then putting her lips at Jake’s ear, whispered, “Does he know about you-know-who?”
Jake shook his head and quickly directed his attention to Miguel. “I hope you have some answers in that ratty bag of yours.”
Miguel unzipped his backpack and pulled out a folder. “On Peter’s case, no. Unfortunately, I have a somewhat…unfavorable reputation with the Port Dimmock police, but I’m working on it. No, what I have is information on that Miller girl from the other morning.”
“Yeah? Great, what do you got?” Jake asked. He didn’t think Miguel could tell him anything he didn’t already know. After all, Jake already knew the identity of the culprit. But diving into the case with Miguel would help take his mind off Peter for a time. It was nostalgic if nothing else.
“Well, a lot of really weird stuff,” Miguel said.
“Weird how?” Jaina asked, leaning forward and practically over Jake’s lap.
Miguel looked at Jake. Jake sighed. “She’s cool, Miguel. Sort of my consultant.”
“Uh-huh…sure,” Miguel said, a smile fighting to curl his lips. His eyebrows kept arching as he looked back and forth between Jake and Jaina.
“The Miller case, Miguel,” Jake said.
“Oh, right. Okay, well, starting with the autopsy. Now, I’m still waiting on toxicology reports, but I found enough on the body itself to raise a few eyebrows. As you know, the victim’s fingers and toes were severed.”
“And then her head,” Jake said.
“Right. The head was most certainly removed postmortem. The fingers and toes on the other hand were removed before the victim bled out from said amputations. That’s all as I thought at the scene, but once I got a chance to better examine the cut marks, angles, and so forth, I found a couple odd things. First, the cuts show many hesitation marks and a lot of shallow cuts, as I told you at the Millers’.”
“What, like the killer didn’t want to cut off her fingers and toes?” Jaina asked.
“You could say that,” Miguel said. “The angles of the cuts to the toes and to most of the fingers would suggest that the victim was the one doing the cutting.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jaina asked.
“Wait,” Jake said, holding up a hand. “Most of the fingers?”
Miguel nodded. “Yeah, the thumb and first two fingers of the victim’s right hand showed different angles and no hesitation marks whatsoever. Completely different cuts. I also found traces of adhesive residue on all the fingers and both hands. And then I found this.” Miguel pulled out a photograph of a serrated steak knife next to a department-issued ruler to denote scale. A strip of duct tape hung from the knife handle.
Jaina cursed and stood up. She started pacing, but Jake didn’t have the energy to even acknowledge it.
“Where?” he asked.
“Taped to the bottom of the chair we found the victim in. At first, I thought that was why there was tape on the handle, but after examining the fingers and hands…”
“She taped the knife in that girl’s hand and made her cut off her own toes and fingers. Jesus,” Jaina said.
“She?” Miguel asked.
Jake quickly waved it off. “Or he. Whatever.”
“Oh, there’s more,” Miguel said, pulling out another crime scene photo. “This was written on the bottom of the chair. In blood.”
Jaina stopped pacing and studied the photo with Jake. Scrawled across the rough wooden underside of the chair were the words, In everyone there is a darkness, a sickness, and a depravity. You are not alone. 041006
“Killer used a paint brush from an old children’s art set. We found it in the kitchen trash. Pretty messed-up shit, yeah?”
Jake just nodded, still staring at the crimson words.
“What do you think the numbers mean?” Miguel asked. “Some sort of code? Don’t tell me this is going to be another one of those cases where the killer makes a game out of this.”
“I have no idea,” Jake lied. He had recognized the numbers immediately. Aza wasn’t the first psychopath to use such a thing to taunt the police. “Any evidence of the killer? Fingerprints, blood, anything?”
“No prints that weren’t the family’s, though not quite everything has been processed yet, but I put a rush on everything from the living room. Nothing. None of the blood samples I’ve tested so far were anyone’s but the victims’. Found plenty of bloody shoe prints, but they were from that pair of soccer cleats you found and a pair of leather snow boots—also the victim’s. So unless our killer has feet the size of a twelve-year-old’s, I’d say the victim walked around a bit between…uh, removals.”
“Shit,” Jake said, though he was oddly relieved that Aza hadn’t left any overt evidence behind. If she was as capable and powerful as it seemed, the less people that knew, the better. Or, at least, that was Jake’s rationalization for the impulsive thought. “Where’d you find the boots?”
“Next to a shoe rack near the door to the basement.”
“The shoes been tested yet?” Jake asked.
“In the process. Took swabs from inside. DNA running for both sets as we speak, but I’m not holding my breath.”
Jake leaned back in his chair and looked at Jaina. She was pacing again and not looking his way. But she didn’t seem nervous—that wasn’t her. If anything, she seemed to be itchin
g for action. Watching her just made Jake tired. He should have been antsy like her, but Jake couldn’t help but to bend under the weight of it all. There was a posted guard outside the operating room that would stay near Peter, and Dani had gone back home with her mother, who was certain to keep a tight watch on Dani after the events of the slumber party. But despite all that, his family was no safer than they had been before. Not if Aza was what he feared.
“Basement?” Jake asked.
“Some fresh activity, but there’s a lot of junk down there,” Miguel said. “Hard to say if it wasn’t just from the family. Didn’t find anything conclusive.”
“Escapes?” Jake asked. Really, he just wanted to learn everything the police knew.
“In the basement, no. A couple small windows, but not even Dani could squeeze through. How is she, by the way?”
“She’s fine. Coming by tomorrow with her mom.”
“Nice. No, not nice, I mean…”
“It’s fine. Anything else on the Miller kid?”
Miguel shook his head. “Forensically speaking, no. But I may know a bit more in a day or so once some more test results come back. They know anything about what happened to Peter? I only got the official story.”
“That’s all I got, as well. And we won’t know anything more about his condition. Doctor said it’d be a while. I’ll keep you posted.”
Miguel pulled back. “Oh, okay. Yeah, I got it.” He stuffed the photographs and folder back into his backpack and zipped it up before standing.
Jake stood as well, but didn’t say anything. Jaina kept pacing, clenching and unclenching her fists.
“So, I’ll see you later, then,” Miguel said, beginning the walk away. “I have to file these reports anyway. Just wanted to make sure you got a look first. Oh, and see how Peter was doing. Shit.” Miguel stopped at the corner and looked back at the small waiting room. “At least he’s got you two waiting for him. All right, see ya.”
Miguel walked around the corner, humming to himself. The distant click of security doors opening and closing signaled his departure from the burn ward.
No sooner were Jake and Jaina alone did Jaina turn on Jake and nearly jump on top of him. “What the fuck!? She made that girl cut her own toes off!? Jesus Christ, Jake. That monster is after your family. We need to do something. Find her. Stop her. Bury her. Something!”
“Don’t you think I want the same thing!?” Jake yelled back, pointing a finger at her, even though they stood just a foot apart.
Jaina was breathing like a mad beast. Jake was only just keeping his own fangs from showing.
“Well, I can’t just sit here while that thing hunts us down. Yes, I’m using us again because whether I like it or not, I’m wrapped up in this shit, too. No thanks to you.” Jaina spun away and ran a hand through her hair. “And to think I did all this for a few bucks and a nice smile. I’m such an idiot. Not only might I go to jail if it’s found out I stole patient information for you, but a psychotic monster will probably cut my head off. No, wait. She’ll make me do it! Jesus!”
Jake returned to his seat, said nothing, and watched as Jaina fought to keep her feet on the ground. After a few more quick laps around the waiting room, she slumped into the chair on Jake’s side. Jake held out an open hand. Jaina took it and they sat in silence for the next few minutes.
“Dani’s birthday,” Jake said.
“Huh? What about it?” Jaina asked. “It coming up soon?”
Jake laughed, but there was no mirth in it, only resignation. “April tenth, two thousand and six. Zero four one zero zero six. What Aza wrote on the bottom of that chair. It’s Dani’s birthday.”
“Shit…She was always the target.”
Jake nodded. “Aza’s hunting my daughter.”
Unknown
Aza was ninety-nine percent sure she was dreaming. The other one percent was that she had died trying to wiggle out of that impossibly small window while the storage room went up in flames.
She could still smell it. The mix of burned flesh and the concoction of pungent cleaners used to start the conflagration. Aza laughed and set to coughing. Conflagration. What a great fucking word.
“Makes you sound conceited,” a voice said.
Aza still couldn’t see, but she was beginning to regain her sense of touch along with hearing and smell.
The darkness didn’t last. Wind tore at her face, cool and enlivening. It brought the rest of the world into focus as it blew in a new scene.
“Oh, I love swinging,” Aza said as she kicked out and sent herself higher. “Oh, and screw you.”
The swing next to hers moved in tandem, but was empty. “An observation, not a criticism.”
“Now you sound…what was it?” Aza asked. She was too distracted to fully focus on the conversation. She loved swinging so much.
“Conceited.”
“Yep,” Aza said.
Aza’s childhood house came into view next, just as it should have, for Aza knew by the feel of the worn wooden seat what swing set she was using. It had worn out long ago to the shape of her butt. She’d never understood why they had the second swing. No one ever used it.
“You’re not dead, by the way,” the voice said. “At least not any more than usual.”
Aza arched back and sent the swing soaring forward. At the perfect moment at the top of her arc, when the chains were nearly parallel to the ground, she felt at total peace. The perfect spot in all of the universe. It only ever lasted for the briefest of moments, but every time, it left Aza breathless and hungry for more.
“Do you see them, Aza?” the voice asked. Every word it spoke used a different voice, each too brief for Aza to recognize.
Aza looked down and saw not the familiar patch of dirt at the base of the swing set, but a small crowd of people. They were too far away to see clearly and plagued by roils of dark fog, but some deeper sense picked out a couple that her eyes could not.
“Yes,” Aza said, kicking forward again and turning her eyes toward a sky that did not exist. Nothing else mattered when Aza was swinging. Not the yelling or the fighting or the blood. Nothing.
“You are connected to each,” the voice said, the swing from which it spoke still keeping perfect pace with Aza.
“And to you,” Aza said.
“Indeed.”
On the next back swing, the people were gone, replaced by a pit of emptiness. Too dark to be called dark.
“Would I fall forever?” Aza asked, hurtling over the void to reach another perfect peak.
“Who are you?” the voice asked.
“Aza,” she said.
“You’re distracted,” the voice said. “Enough swinging for now.”
Just as Aza neared the apex of the next swing, the swing and chains vanished. She spun in the air and fell. Not forever. No, only briefly, for the ground rose up quickly to meet her and the two things, girl and earth, met in a clap of thunder that flattened everything else around her. There was no pain or snap of bones, but she was left in the darkness once more, disoriented and senseless.
“For fuck’s sake,” Aza said. Amid perfect silence, her voice was startling, and Aza flinched.
Then she sneezed. And then she vomited.
Back arched, hot bile pouring past her lips, Aza retched out a floor, then walls and a ceiling. It wasn’t the first time, though she just then remembered the others. Dreams were funny that way.
With a floor beneath her, Aza could stand. Lights flickered on with each step she took. The hallway was featureless, neither direction any different from the other, but it all felt familiar and Aza had to move. That’s how dreams were, especially hers. The voice had been right: the swing, while a safe space, was also a terrible distraction. She was more than a simple girl. A simple girl could enjoy the rush of wind and exhilaration of a perfect swing, but not her. Those days had died with her parents. Maybe even earlier.
Suddenly, Aza was at a corner. The abrupt change didn’t even faze her, and she took the turn in s
tride.
And there, sitting on an unpadded chair, next to a closed door, was DS Anderson.
He looked up, locked eyes with her for a brief moment and made to get up. Aza was quicker, however, and she forced him back down with nothing but intention. DS Anderson growled and raised a hand, but Aza matched the motion and pulled both of his arms back down to the chair, summoning both armrests and restraints in a single thought. Dreams were magical like that.
DS Anderson struggled against his bonds and snapped at the air with his teeth.
Aza leaned against the wall, still some feet away, and waited for him to settle down. Time was strange in dreams, too. And she had no place else to go.
“You,” DS Anderson said.
“Obviously,” Aza said. She moved along the wall a bit closer.
DS Anderson looked down at the thick metal cuffs that held his wrists to his chair. He pulled at them and then shook his head. “This isn’t real.”
Aza shrugged and slid down to sit on the floor. She splayed out her legs and wiggled her bare toes. Then she replaced the dirtied clothes she was wearing with a bright sundress. It would have been one of the last things she’d choose if she were awake, but it felt good to be pretty for a while.
“I’m…I’m dreaming,” DS Anderson said.
“Don’t be dumb, I’m dreaming,” Aza said.
“What?”
Aza smoothed out her new dress even though in was already perfectly pressed—only a psychopath would conjure wrinkles. “This is my dream.”
“No,” DS Anderson said, again shaking his head like it would change something. Maybe it was just because it was the only part of his body he could properly move. He also had shackles around his ankles, though Aza hadn’t even consciously created them.
Aza sighed dramatically and climbed to her feet. She spun a tight pirouette to test the weight of her new dress, and when she found it pleasing in the way it trailed around her fragile frame, she stopped and turned back to the task at hand. “I’m here because this is my dream. You’re here because this is your mind.” She tapped her temple and grinned.
DS Anderson watched her every movement. Aza could see the constant tension in his shoulders and arms. He wanted to lunge for her. He wanted to attack her. He wanted to kill her. Knowing that only enlivened Aza. She had forgotten how much fun mind-dreaming could be. It had been such a long time since she found a suitable playmate. Now that she thought about it, she had never really found anyone capable of withstanding very much of her involvement. Even just a couple minutes in, DS Anderson had already displayed far more composure than most. Aza didn’t know what made people’s minds so fucking fragile, but it was a real drag.
Dear Tragedy: A Dark Supernatural Thriller (House of Sand Book 2) Page 11
