Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon went well, and Simon’s mood lifted. Tracey had called and insisted on coming over to the bungalow after his last ghost tour to watch Netflix and drink wine. Shayla was at a conference, and Tracey decided Simon needed to lighten up. As worried as he was, he didn’t have the heart to turn her down, and he promised that he would give her some protective charms to wear, just in case. Then again, Tracey didn’t have a bit of magic, so she was probably safe.

  Simon had an hour between when the shop closed to customers and when he opened back up for the tours, time enough to tidy up and grab a quick dinner. But as he headed to the back room to finish off the coffee, a vision hit so hard he fell to his knees, bruising his sore arm against the doorframe.

  He saw an abandoned hotel, one he recognized as being just a block or so farther south on the boardwalk. It used to be the Moonlight Bay before it closed several years ago. It was an older property, slated for renovation, but despite the chain-link fence around it, vandals had gotten into the pool area and covered the walls with graffiti, completely obliterating their original theme of shells, fish, and sand. Simon braced himself on his hands and knees, ready for a horrendous revelation, but as abruptly as it had appeared, the vision faded without any additional information.

  “What the fuck?” Simon groaned, toppling over to sit with his back braced against the doorway. He had walked by the old hotel just this morning on the way from where he had parked, and nothing looked different from any other time he had passed the derelict structure. If it hadn’t been for the defaced mural around the pool, Simon might have wondered if the vision showed the same place. At any given time there were plenty of motels and condos being built, torn down, or renovated. Even the locals couldn’t keep track. Simon promised himself that tomorrow he’d pay the Moonlight Bay a visit.

  Both ghost tours were packed, and the tourists had started drinking early, so they were a rowdy, fun crowd. Clouds occasionally swept over the moon, adding to the atmosphere for good ghost stories, and the people who had signed up were in the mood to have fun. Simon felt his spirits lift, enjoying spinning the yarns and sharing some of Myrtle Beach’s more salacious history.

  He didn’t take the tours as far down the boardwalk as he used to, and even as he told his tales and answered questions, he remained alert. Customers filled the shop between tours, buying up merchandise and books. Once on each tour, Simon felt a prickle at the back of his neck like he was being watched, but he couldn’t spot anyone suspicious at the outskirts of his tour group, let alone the baseball-capped Slitter. Still, it was enough to temper his good mood and make him happy when the second tour ended, and the last customer pressed a tip into his hand in parting.

  Simon went back to check that the shop door was locked, and found a large brown envelope leaning against it. It only read “Simon” without a delivery or return address. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and used it to pick up the envelope, just in case the sender had left behind fingerprints. As much as he wanted to see what was inside, he had no desire to hang around a darkened shop this late in the evening.

  “You ready?” Tracey asked as Simon slid the envelope under his arm.

  “More than ready,” Simon agreed.

  Tracey had grabbed a ride in with a friend that morning, so they both walked briskly on the best lit path back to Simon’s car and hurried to the blue bungalow. He glanced around to make sure no one lurked in the bushes, shoved the envelope under his arm, and went to let them both into the house.

  “So where’s your sexy cop?” Tracey asked as Simon led the way to the kitchen. He set the envelope on the table and took the two bottles of wine she handed him, as she shrugged out of her backpack.

  “Working a late shift,” Simon replied. “No surprise, given what’s been going on.”

  “He’s cute. I can see why you like him.” She put her hands on her hips. “And you don’t break any mirrors yourself. I mean, if I noticed that kind of thing about guys.” It was an old joke between them when it came to compliments, and Simon felt himself unwind, just a little. He decided that the contents of the envelope could wait. He was long overdue for a little time off.

  “I stocked up on cheese and crackers the last time I went to the store,” Simon replied as he moved around the kitchen, getting out wine glasses and plates. “Some fancy salami, too, and a nice crusty loaf of bread if you want to do the picnic thing while we watch TV.”

  “Sounds like heaven. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  To Simon’s great relief, Tracey didn’t bring up the Slitter or ask more questions about Vic. Simon resolutely refused to think about either one and threw himself into enjoying the good wine, tasty food, and great company. Tracey always knew just what to say to lighten his mood. They picked a few movies specifically for their awful ratings, then poked fun at the acting and mocked the special effects in their own private MST3K until after two in the morning.

  “Damn. It’s late—”

  “Early. It’s early,” Tracey corrected, her voice just slightly slurred.

  “Time to get to sleep,” Simon replied, gathering up the debris of their living room picnic. “The guest room is made up. And you know where everything is in the bathroom.”

  Tracey eyed the couch. “I think I’m just going to crash out here if it’s all the same to you. I like your couch.”

  “Whatever,” Simon said, carrying the empties and leftovers to the kitchen. “Just don’t bitch at me tomorrow when you’ve got a stiff neck.”

  “Me? Never. I do not bitch,” Tracey corrected imperiously. “I merely uphold a higher level of standards.”

  “Uh-huh,” Simon replied noncommittally. “Just make sure to set your alarm, so you and your ‘high standards’ can get through the shower in time for both of us to get to work on time.”

  “Spoilsport,” Tracey grumbled, crawling up onto the couch and pulling a throw over her as she punched the pillows to get comfortable. Simon flipped her off with a grin and blew her a mocking kiss good night, feeling better than he had all day.

  16

  Vic

  “That’s all of them,” Ross said, dropping a pile of folders onto their shared desk. “We’ve also asked for their credit card and phone histories going back three months. That’ll help us retrace their steps, see if there are common touchpoints.”

  Vic looked at the folders and let out a long breath. He’d reached the point where the break room coffee ate at his gut more than it cleared his head. Myrtle Beach didn’t have a huge homicide department—this wasn’t Atlanta or Columbia. Ross and Vic had been put on the Slitter case exclusively since the pace of killings had sped up, but the two other detectives in the precinct were being run ragged just following up on the normal activity usually split among both teams.

  Like New Orleans or Las Vegas, Myrtle Beach was a place people went to drink too much, party hard, and let their inhibitions run wild. Sometimes that included really bad life choices. The town’s transient nature coupled with tourists who weren’t always careful enough could be a recipe for tragedy— on top of domestic violence, hold-ups gone wrong, and bad tempers mixed with strong drinks. Being put on the Slitter case was a change of pace, but hardly a respite from the dark, troubling realities of being a homicide detective.

  “Let’s go over them again. I’m pretty sure I’ve got them memorized, but maybe something new will jump out at us,” Vic said.

  Ross pulled up a portable whiteboard. “I’ll write—no one can read your chicken scratch,” he said, moving over to the side. “Oh, and do you want to explain why you ran ‘Billy Bass’ through the system? Was that some kind of joke?”

  Vic shook his head. “No joke. Just a tip. It’s got to mean something, just not sure what.”

  “A tip. From Simon.”

  Vic shrugged, not wanting to fight. “Whatever happened to respecting a source’s confidentiality?”

  Ross leaned in so only Vic could hear him. “All bets are off when you’re
sleeping with the informant.”

  “Not relevant.”

  “It so is.”

  Vic glared at his partner. “You gonna write? Or do I need to take possession of the marker?”

  Ross muttered something under his breath that Vic didn’t quite catch. He drew lines down the board for several categories: address, work, hobbies, associates. They would likely add more before they were through. Vic and Ross had done this before, when there were fewer victims, and found no glaring connections. But now, with more data points—and some additional new interviews with the victims’ families and friends—something they hadn’t seen before might show up.

  They reviewed the cases in order, from oldest to newest. Vic read the notes aloud, and Ross scribbled on the whiteboard. In his head, Vic kept his own scorecard, alert for any red flags that suggested more connections between the victims and Simon than he already knew about. He hated himself for doing it, but the cop in him didn’t have a choice. Vic didn’t believe Simon was involved; hell, the Slitter had come after Simon several times. But deep inside, Vic knew Ross was right to be skeptical, and that he owed it to himself to look for evidence that might cast doubt on Simon, even as he owed it to Simon to look for ways to exonerate him.

  After a few hours, Vic set the most recent file down with a thwack. “That’s the first five,” he said, stifling a yawn. “All J-ones, all worked within the two-mile radius around the parking garage, no obvious connections.”

  “Once we get through the main files, we’ll go down the list of places that laid people off,” Ross replied, taking a swig of coffee and grimacing at the bitter taste. “That’s a hell of a long list.”

  It had taken plenty of legwork to hit all the businesses in the sightline of that parking garage and convince them to turn over names of people recently fired. A few of the places volunteered information about individuals who reacted with threats or outbursts, and those names went to the top of the list.

  Ross stepped out to get them both more coffee. Vic took the opportunity to text Simon. He felt guilty as hell for not being able to see him, especially since their last “date” had deepened the growing connection between them. Still, maybe a little enforced distance was for the best, his cop brain warned, even if just for appearance’s sake. Once the killing spree had ended and the culprit jailed, Vic could make up for lost time. He put his phone away just as Ross returned. Ross noticed as he put down his phone and frowned but wisely chose to say nothing.

  They started back into the files. Ross had brought in a second whiteboard with a map, and they’d drawn a circle to show the radius around the parking garage. He marked the locations in which the bodies were found, but the pattern still looked random to Vic.

  As far as Vic could tell, none of the first five deaths had any connection to Simon. Simon hadn’t claimed them as part of his “skeleton crew,” so if they did have any psychic abilities, they weren’t known to him. Iryena had worked various locations on the boardwalk; she and Simon might have crossed paths, but for that matter, so had half of the beachgoers on any given weekend. The only connection as far as Vic could see was that he had asked for Simon’s help, and Iryena’s spirit had responded. He hadn’t confided that to Ross and didn’t see a reason to do so now.

  Katya was the one who had shown up at the library event Simon gave. “So listen to this,” Ross said. “According to her roommate, Katya belonged to a local group interested in the occult. A statement from her roommate said she was into reading Tarot cards and had ‘spooky friends.’”

  “What next?” Vic mocked. “Are you going to tell me she played D&D and that obviously made her a Satan-worshipper? Come on. That’s so 1980.”

  “No idea whether she was into role-playing games, but according to her medical records, there was a history of drug use, and during one hospital-mandated psych evaluation, the interviewers suggested that she was prone to delusions.”

  Katya had told Simon she dreamed things that came true. That wasn’t so far off from the claims Vic had heard growing up from his nonna and some of the older women in his neighborhood. Did she have ability? Or was her belief a symptom of fragile mental health?

  “Half the women in my mother’s book club also read Tarot cards or went for regular readings,” Vic replied. “It’s not really that far out. Doesn’t make the readings true, but it’s hardly fringe behavior.”

  “Maybe,” Ross allowed.

  “Then there’s Cindy, the stripper you ran through the system because Simon thought she was in danger.”

  Vic rolled his eyes. “So now anyone who gives us a tip is suddenly a suspect?”

  “There’s a track record for civilians who get too involved in cases that don’t concern them, and it isn’t good,” Ross reminded him.

  “Maybe Cindy read tea leaves in between pole dances?” Vic asked as Ross put another dot on the map.

  “You tell me. You’re the one with the folder.”

  Vic glanced down through the interviews they had collected after Cindy’s death. The dead woman liked to binge watch the Hallmark channel and Netflix, and she also baked good cookies. To Vic’s relief, no one said a word about any psychic abilities, so whatever she thought she could do, she must have shared that secret only with Simon. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.

  “And then there’s Quinn, the most recent kill,” Ross replied, making another dot on the map. Vic read out the rest of the details from the folder and watched as Ross marked on the whiteboard. Three of the victims had some personal connection to Simon; two of them were acquaintances if not friends. Tasha, the woman Simon had escorted home who barely evaded the Slitter, would have been another death that linked Simon to the killings.

  Vic felt his stomach tighten. He’d seen how upset Simon had been over the readings, and how distressing the visions and nightmares had been, how panicked Simon was the night of the attack. Either Simon was one hell of an actor, or he was genuinely concerned—and at risk. But Vic also knew how anxious the Mayor and the Commissioner were to be able to announce an end to the Slitter’s reign of terror.

  With billions in tourism at stake, would they care if they got the wrong guy, or would any possible suspect do? Deep down, Vic believed that most officers wanted to do the right thing. But he’d also been around long enough to know that not every cop was honest, and sometimes people’s rights got railroaded. The evidence linking Simon to the crimes was flimsy. But would the D.A. be in such a rush to score political points by putting away the Slitter that he might rush to judgment?

  Until he had something more concrete, truly damning, Vic intended to keep his mouth shut.

  He could cost you your badge, an unpleasant voice in his mind taunted. Just like before. Honest to a fault. Just remember, no good deed goes unpunished.

  “Quinn’s the last one,” Vic said. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, feeling the effects of recirculated air and the faint second-hand smoke that clung to the clothing of the detectives who chain-smoked out behind the building and came back in reeking of Marlboros.

  “And our outlier,” Ross noted, marking a ninth dot. “The only guy.”

  Vic read the information out of the file once more and paused. “Okay, one of his roommates said that Quinn belonged to a group that looked into paranormal phenomena.”

  “Like those ghost hunters on TV?”

  “There’s a webpage,” Vic said and pulled the site up on his computer. “Shit. This group’s been active for a couple of years. There are a couple of hundred people signed up.”

  “Does it show what their meetings have been about, and who attended?” Ross asked, coming to look over his shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Vic replied, clinking on links. Despite the large number of total members, it appeared that most meetings were attended by twenty or fewer people. “Looks like there was a core group that showed up most of the time, and other people came and went, or tried it and didn’t come back,” he mused.

  “And look at who spoke to the group six months
ago,” Ross said, pointing. Vic felt his heart speed up when he saw Simon’s picture in the “guest speaker” announcement. “Dr. Sebastian Kincaide, author of several books on ghosts and hauntings, will be on hand to talk about spirits, mediumship, and clairvoyance,” Ross read aloud.

  “The group has several hundred members,” Vic countered. “And they’ve been meeting every month for years. They’ve had dozens of guest speakers.”

  “Do a search,” Ross instructed. “Let’s see how many of the victims either belonged to the group or signed up for a meeting.”

  With a leaden feeling in his stomach, Vic ran the names. Every one of the victims had, at sometime in the past year, attended at least one of the meetings. Quinn and Cindy were at the program where Simon spoke—not surprising if they were already acquainted, or perhaps that was where Simon met them.

  “Contact the administrator. We want a membership list,” Ross said. Vic sent an email. “Now let’s go back through the past six months and see who the attendees were.”

  “There could be people who showed up but didn’t sign-up through the site,” Vic said, battling the nausea rising in his gut.

  “We’ll see if there were sign-in sheets.”

  “And if the Slitter went to these meetings looking for a hit list, you think he used his real name?” Vic’s worry and uneasiness found a vent in anger.

  “Maybe he’s a cocky bastard. After all, six months ago the killings hadn’t happened yet.”

  Vic printed off what he could from the group’s site. “We should run the rest of the names against the ‘recently fired’ list,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Ross’s dots on the map, and his eyes narrowed as he saw a pattern.

  “What?” Ross asked as Vic rose abruptly and walked over to the whiteboard, grabbing the marker. Vic connected the points in silence until he had a five-pointed star.