The Scene (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult Series)

by Gilmore, R. M.

  “We need to check on Tatum.” My voice was venomous.

  “Why? She obviously doesn’t want to be checked on.”

  “Too fucking bad. Drive.” I folded my arms across my chest like a kid.

  I was pissed. Not sure why exactly, but I was. I was pissed at Cyrus for lying to me. I was pissed at Mike for being so damned domineering. But mostly, I was pissed at myself for allowing all this bullshit in the first place. I felt like an ass for not seeing it as it was to begin with.

  How could I not realize that Reggie was playing me for a fool? And Tatum too.

  “I think Diego deserves some looking into. I like him, for this.” I spoke suddenly breaking through the tension that filled the cabin of the SUV.

  “Why, did your sweetheart tell you that?” He sounded like a pissed of teenager.

  “Well…yeah, he did.” Mike didn’t say a word. “He also said Regina was part of their posse, along with one other.” I left out the part about Cyrus in the loft. No need to open that coffin of worms.

  “So the little fucks killed her? Makes sense. He didn’t happen to tell you where we could find these assholes did he?” He was sliding back into cop mode.

  “I could be so lucky. In fact, your interruption fucked the whole thing up. He was talking. You should also know Malcolm is keeping him from talking to the police.”

  “I figured as much. It’s no excuse. Cyrus is a grown man; he can make his own decisions.”

  “I don’t think he can. There’s something shady going on with those two, with Malcolm in general. I don’t like that guy at all. He gives me the creeps. No one should have that much control over another human being.”

  “Do you think they know the whereabouts of our prime suspect?” he asked.

  “I’ve no clue. It’s pretty sad our prime suspect is some guy no one knows, no one has seen, and is only a suspect because someone pointed their finger at him.”

  “Like you said, it’s all we got,” Mike said with pluck.

  We debated and deliberated the rest of the drive to Tatum’s little pink house. We gauged that, while Diego has been implicated, we can’t rule out all others and assume he’s single handedly slaughtered upwards of nine women. There was still the distinct possibility that there were others responsible for the dead hookers.

  My guard was up to say the least. I rarely become terrified, unless there’s a bird nearby, but I was definitely scared. And swiftly on my way to petrified. Not only has someone disposed of a body in my dumpster, I was forced to observe a beheaded and staked corpse, and could possibly be involved with those responsible. Unlucky for everyone who is within spitting distance from me, I allow my fear to manifest as unadulterated rage.

  Sorry.

  CHAPTER 29

  Mike slid his extra-large vehicle against the curb in front of Tatum’s tiny house. There was light illuminating the small privacy window in the bathroom. The curtains over the bay window in the living room were drawn and the porch light was off. Tatum parks her little black sports car in the garage for safe keeping, so there was no way to know whether she was in or not simply from aesthetics. Mike and I scooted out of the car, shutting the doors in unison.

  Without hesitation, I trotted up to the little front steps and rapped on the door. Mike had moved up behind me breathing loudly from his trot. I rapped again, fast and harder this time. No response. Rising to tip-toe, I reached with fingertips over the ledge of the door jamb. There, located where it always had been, was my key. I hated to use it after our altercation the night before, but desperate times. The key popped right into the hole and turned over with ease. I can honestly say I was jealous of the easy door. Petty, I know, but we all have our pet peeves. The door swung open to the wall revealing a dark living room. I flipped the switch that controls the standing Tiffany replica that stood to the right of the couch. The living room appeared to be in normal condition. A bit messy, perhaps, but nothing out of the norm for Tatum’s place. I called for her, “Marco?” No answer. “Tatum?” Nothing.

  “Stay right here.” Mike slid past me into the living room. I never noticed before that he had his shoulder rig under his gray blazer. His hand had slid to rest over the butt of the gun.

  “Don’t you think that is a little paranoid?”

  “Sshh.” He hissed at me over his shoulder.

  I stood alone in the partially lit living room in front of the open doorway. I was beginning to feel very vulnerable standing there with open darkness behind me. I flicked the porch light on for good measure. I don’t know why that calmed my senses a bit. I guess I’d rather have light at my back than darkness.

  “What’s going on?” I was beginning to feel antsy.

  My nervousness was only amplified by the silence from the back of the house. I strained my ears trying to pick up any sound emanating from the unlit space. A light shuffle and scraping sound came from Tatum’s bedroom.

  “Mike?” My heart was starting to pound with the thought of being alone and unknowing.

  “Ah, shit!” A loud banging noise, followed by a thud, preceded Mike’s first words.

  “What happened?” I asked as he emerged from the darkness.

  “Ah, I just tripped over a bunch of shit in the bedroom.”

  “So I take she isn’t here.” He shook his head. “Did you bother to turn on a light back there?”

  “No. I figured I’d cluster fuck around in the dark for a bit. Of course I tried to turn on the light. Flipped the switch and nothing happened.”

  “Well, dammit, let me go look.” I didn’t wait for him to give his permission.

  I could walk this house blind if I had to, I know it so well. And apparently, that’s what I was about to do. I made my way down the miniscule hallway toward the bedroom. The light switch just to the right of the door jamb worked the lamp on the dresser; I flipped it. Nothing. I shuffled my feet forward slowly anticipating the clutter Mike had spoken of. It was then I came up with the genius idea to use my cell phone as a flashlight. Those damn things come in handy for everything. Utilizing the dim LED screen, I scanned the area for clues. A regular Nancy Drew. The bed was disheveled, not abnormal. Clothes were strewn about, completely normal. Bedside table tipped over, definitely not okay. Other debris, likely the contents of the nightstand drawer, were scattered about the floor. The awesome, and highly illegal, butterfly-blade I gave Tatum for her birthday last year was lying open on the corner of the bed. Someone had gone to town in this room.

  “Hey detective, you got a flashlight in your car?” I called from my darkened space.

  Receiving no response, I continued my investigation in the bathroom. Reaching around the wall in the dark, I fingered for the switch. The vanity lights were working fine and illuminated the adjacent bedroom enough to make out the uncensored scene. The bed, which I had at first assumed was only disheveled, had revealed itself to be a total mess. Her fluffy bed cover was balled up at the head of the bed and the top sheet appeared to be missing. The clothes tossed on the floor were of average variety with one exception, a summer dress, torn to shreds on the floor near the foot of the bed.

  “What a disaster. Does it always look like this?” I about jumped out of my pants at the sound of Mike’s voice penetrating the silence.

  “No, it doesn’t. Look at this.” I held up the ripped dress.

  “Lay it on the bed. Did you touch anything else?” He was digging in his pocket.

  “No. Just the light switch in the bathroom and the one by the door.”

  Mike finally fished out two pairs of latex gloves and handed me a set of my very own. I slid my hands into the powdery holes; small hands leaving floppy tips at the fingers. Mike began arranging the dress on the edge of the bed. One of the skinny straps had been ripped at the seam and the miniature pearl buttons down the breast had been popped off.

  “Did she wear this last night?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t wearing anything but a blanket when I saw her. If I had to guess, I’d have to say no
. This isn’t exactly something you’d wear to meet your lover for a rendezvous. This was probably something she put on after she got home, or at any point up to this afternoon.”

  “So the likelihood of it being ripped in the throes of passion is unlikely.”

  “I’d have to say so. Unless she has, yet another secret lover, no there was no passion happening in this dress. Check this out.” I pointed to the butterfly-knife then on toward the tipped over night table. “I don’t think this was a happy accident.”

  “Why, my dear Watson, I think you’ve got it!”

  “No shit Sherlock, at least I was smart enough not to bumblefuck around in the dark. What do you suppose happened here, detective?” I stood with my hands in my pockets struggling with the compulsion to touch stuff. Struggling to keep my composure with thoughts of a headless Tatum dancing in my head.

  “Obviously there was some kind of struggle. The front door was locked when we came in and the living room was in order, right?”

  “As far as I could tell, yeah.” I thought back to the lock turning. I felt the pins fall into place as the deadbolt turned over. I was sure it was locked.

  “Then she had to have let someone in. Maybe someone she knew.”

  “She went for her knife at some point. It hasn’t left the bedside drawer since I gave it to her. And look, it’s even open.”

  “Oh, it is. And it’s fucking illegal, Dylan. Way to go.”

  “Cuff me.” I scoffed. “Anyway, she must’ve come for her knife in here where her dress got ripped. In fact, they probably ripped it right off her by the looks of it.”

  “And you’re the expert in tearing clothes off?” I ignored that comment.

  “She must have knocked over the table while she was getting the knife.” The knowledge began to process. “Shit, Mike, someone took her. Why would someone snatch Tatum?” So many horrific images flashed through my head. “We have to find her before she ends up behind a dumpster missing her fucking head! We have to find her now!” I was becoming frantic at the thought of my friend being stolen from her home, scared, defenseless, and possibly naked.

  “We will. We’ll find her. I want you to calm down and think who could have done this? Did she have any enemies? Is there anyone who would want to hurt her?” He was squeezing my shoulders methodically.

  “I don’t know…I…she wouldn’t have let anyone in. Except me…or you. She never opens her door, Mike, she’s not an idiot. She wouldn’t have just let anyone in; someone must have broken in through a window or picked the lock or something.” I was shaking my head back and forth; over and over again. My eyes blurred with desperate tears. I was looking into his eyes but not really seeing them.

  “There was no broken glass. Not even a cracked window. Think, Dylan.”

  “There’s no other way in.” My mind was spinning with ideas. “The garage…they could have…”

  “I checked the garage. Her car’s still there and everything’s locked tight.”

  “She…someone must’ve pushed past her at the door. She ran in here…goddammit, I’ll fucking kill him!” I shoved past Mike and stormed into the living room. “Stake through the fucking heart should do the trick! Maybe I’ll hack his bloody head off for good measure!”

  “Dylan, what are you screaming about?” He chased me into the living room.

  “That bloodsucking ginger fuck. He’s the only other living creature she would’ve let in this house other than you and me. And I know I didn’t take her…”

  “Well, I didn’t fucking do it. Why would Malcolm kidnap Tatum? What would he have to gain?”

  “Well…blood for one. She could turn up behind a damn dumpster somewhere! What if he wants to remove her head!?” My words grew louder and more frantic as I spoke.

  “Chill out we’ll find her. Where could they have taken her?”

  “You’re not going to argue with me? Talk me out of it or tell I’m being dramatic?”

  “No.” He sounded as stunned as I felt. “Actually, you make a lot of sense. If this were a movie, Malcolm would be the chief suspect. And Cyrus would be his senseless henchman.”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I balled my fists and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “We need to move out. Now.” He pulled his phone out of his inner pocket and speed dialed. “It’s detective Petersen. I have a possible missing person. I need CSU out to process the crime scene. Put out an A.P.B. on a Tatum Price, possible victim, age twenty-six, blonde, blue, five foot nine, hundred and fifty pounds. Last seen with a Malcolm McTavish.” He listened to the other line for a moment then sighed heavily, “Yes, that Malcolm McTavish. I’m contacting him now then following up on some leads. Dispatch uni’s to hoof the neighborhood for witnesses.” He gave the address then listened. “Yeah, I will. Thanks.” He shoved the phone back in its home. “Let’s go catch us a vampire.” He smiled at me smugly while reaching for the door.

  The door opened to a shadow in the dark. A tall shadow. A human shaped shadow. The look of alarm plastered on my face must have alerted Mike to the danger just out of his sight. He turned his head and drew his gun simultaneously, pointing it at the center of the black mass. Suddenly, my feet were moving, carrying me as fast as they could toward the door jamb or more specifically the light switch just to the left of it. Adrenaline pumped through my muscles as my body was thrust subconsciously toward the light. In less than a heartbeat, I had reached the switch. My hand flew upward and flipped the switch in one fluid motion. Light flooded the entry way instantly. Gun drawn, Mike stood face to face with our dark shadow. Or gun barrel to face, rather.

  I’d swear I turned that fucking light on.

  “Whoa! It’s me!” This from the now illuminated silhouette.

  “And that’s supposed to help?” I said through my racing heart and labored breathing. Such a tiny everyday action had completely depleted my resources.

  “I came to check on Tatum, I swear. Can you please move that gun from my face?” Cyrus was standing on Tatum’s tiny porch with his hands shot to the sky and pissing his pants with fear. Funny what that little hunk of metal can do to a heap big man.

  “Where is she?” Mike spoke steadily, sights still trained on Cyrus.

  “I don’t know. That’s why Malcolm sent me. He was quite distraught she hadn’t returned his call and wanted to ensure her security.”

  “How convenient. It’s interesting you show up just in time to catch us here. Perhaps Malcolm sent you here to ensure his fucking security.” I looked in his face, Mike did too, but his eyes were fixed on the business end of Mike’s 9 mm.

  “Maybe he doesn’t remember? Maybe he has amnesia?” Mike: good cop.

  “Maybe he just needs a reminder? I’m sure we can jog his memory.” Dylan: bad cop. We all play our roles.

  Mike stepped forward, tightening his grip around the trigger. Cyrus backed down the three puny steps in a single bound, hands still in the air.

  “Get your ass back up these steps. I’d rather not shoot you in public.” The tranquility in Mike’s voice was a little chilling.

  Cyrus, reluctantly, did as he was told. He looked at me then, eyes wide and fearful. I looked at Mike as fast as my brain allowed the process. I wasn’t planning on assisting Cyrus so his helpless infant look wasn’t doing him much good - as long as I kept looking at Mike. The two of them made their way into the living room, Mike walking backward the complete distance. Instinctively, I moved to the door and shut it swiftly.

  “Something’s fuckie. Why the fuck are you here?” It’s hard to be a badass when you’re refusing eye contact, but I did my best.

  “Better start talking Dracula before we test the immortal theory.” Mike had his bad boy voice out.

  “I am not a fucking vampire!” F-bomb number three.

  “Oh, no need to get fangry.” I chuckled loudly at my own quip. I glanced at Mike to see him restraining a smile. Point for team Dylan.

  “So these bullets will kill you just fine then. Good to know.” Mike pulled his index
finger tight over the trigger.

  “Shit…yes…okay, okay. Stop. Please.” Cyrus tucked his chin to his chest squeezing his eyes tight. Flinching in terror? Hell yeah. “God, okay…I was sent here by Malcolm to check on his lover.”

  “Not good enough.” Mike pulled the hammer back. Not really a necessity with a semi-auto but an amazing effect.

  “Shit, let me finish. I was driving here when I got a call. The boy, Diego…” He paused; we nodded acknowledging we knew whom he was speaking of. “Dylan, he has Tatum.”

  “What?” Mike and I spoke simultaneously.

  “He has Tatum,” Cyrus repeated.

  “I fucking heard you. What do you mean? Why?” I was just a tad flabbergasted.

  “He told me to find you, explain to you the situation, and lure you to their location.”

  “Lure me? With what? He has my best friend what else do you need? Like I’m going to leave her there?” I thought suddenly of the beheaded corpse from my dream. My stomach turned with disgust and unadulterated fear.

  “Where? What have they done with her?” Mike pressed on with questions. My stomach tightened with the thought.

  “She is alive, as far as I am aware. They’ve asked I take you to a place in Mission Junction.”

  Fuck me. Seriously? I fucking hate Mission Junction.

  I wished then that I was holding the gun; I would’ve shot him just for mentioning Mission Junction.

  Yes, I do shoot the messenger. Often.

  CHAPTER 30

  The three of us piled in Cyrus’ car and headed off to meet a vampire about a blonde girl. Mike pulled his phone from his pocket and began to dial.

  “If you are calling the police, I was informed to urge you against that.” Cyrus said from his place behind the wheel.

  “No cops?” I asked.

  “No. I was told specifically to find Dylan, explain they have Tatum, and bring her to the club. I was also told if the police are alerted they will have no problem killing both of the girls just to spite me. In fact, I am not sure you were intended to be included in the package, detective, but I assume you will not allow Dylan to go alone. Honestly, I respect that, so I will not argue the fact.” His voice held tenacity.