Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  Hammer peered out in his direction. “Let the kid go.” Harry said, wishing he had a cigarette, a cigar, or some other filthy habit.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  “Good.”

  “He was with her this morning. They fooled around. For the record, it’s good to know.”

  “For the record, Detective Hammer, this killer isn’t interested in sexual pleasure, or in the act of procreation. This killer is engaged specifically in the defiling and obliteration of it.” Harry looked outside. Palm trees. “Hopefully,” and Harry sincerely meant it, “Phillip will get to see her again. That is, if we do our job right.”

  1:45 PM

  46

  “Our time is the very shadow that passeth away…”

  How was I to know? How could I have possibly suspected the little whore to be so clever? It was my own fault, though. Allowing her to stay in that trunk for so long. It was fortunate I had a backup plan. Can you imagine? Finding her, that stupid bitch, waiting for me with that jack in her hand. How dare she try to fight me? God! And how fortunate for me. The heavens must really be on my side. My sacrifice. They must accept her as my offering. Not like Mother. My poor unsuspecting Mother.

  I remove the clothes off her body. It is easy. A flimsy cotton, short sleeved shirt with tiny darts ironed down the back and that nothing skirt; black, short with pleats. Whore’s clothes. I pull her soiled panties off along with her bra. Victoria’s Secret. Garments of seduction. She’s developed for such a young girl. Nubile. Rosebud areolas. Precious. I notice she has a sucker mark. It bleeds down the side of her left breast. A hickey, I think they call it here in the States. Her crotch has a patch of soft, fine hair surrounding it. I try not to touch it with my sterile hands. Too dirty. Filthy. One foot is without a shoe. She painted her toes with dark polish. Black or purple. I can’t tell. Satan’s colors.

  She is breathing, but just barely. She isn’t dead.

  Good.

  I unfold the white smock I created for her, the one she will wear for the ceremony. I slip her head through the opening at the neck and slide it down over her body. I don’t want to hurt her. My intention is to save her. It has always been to save her. The sleeveless tunic flows over her body down to her toes. It is part of the ritual. No colors. Her hair is wet and sweaty from being in the hot trunk, but some of the blonde curl is still present. I lightly free it with my hand. Her cheeks are full of color. Red like roses.

  “Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered…”

  I pull her from out of the trunk. I try hard not to catch her skin on any of the metal latches. She must be unharmed, pristine for the ritual. No blood can spill. Grabbing underneath her arms, I drag her through the knee-high weeds to the burial plot. I prepared it especially for her. A new space. Meticulously, I went about clearing it, picking up debris and dead branches. It is far away from the road and surrounded by a fortress of large oak trees. They appear to be a thousand years old. Sunlight reflects through the cloak of swaying, shimmering leaves. The trunks are thick and wide like the Redwoods. I’ve never seen a Redwood, but I’ve heard about their magnificent glory, how tall and powerful they grow out on the Western coast.

  This is a sacred act, one carried down through the bloodlines of my ancestors. Unfortunately, I was not chosen to continue the practice. But, I felt it was my duty. My role. My calling. So, I took it upon myself. I say a prayer as I tie her wrists together with sturdy twine and secure them to the post above her head. I have driven the wooden stakes into the earth.

  No mistakes this time, Sydia. No escapes…

  I dug the holes deeper this time. The ground was not as pliable as my last sacred spot. My old burial ground. It took some time to find this place. I feel it is better. Far from the village. You must get here by car. My hands are blistered from the demanding work. Mother will be so unhappy when she greets me.

  I hurry to secure her legs. One to each post. I place the rope through a hole I drilled at the top. I wrap the cord around it several times before tying it. So very tight. Surgical knots work best.

  A cough. Her head moves slightly in the short grass. A slithering worm.

  Perfect.

  She will be awake in time.

  “For God created man to be immortal.”

  I talk to her sweetly, as if I am reading her a bedtime story. They offered us candy, chocolate, a special treat. I neglected to bring any along with me. I cannot tell whether she hears me or not. Soon, she will. Very soon.

  “… and made him to be an image of his own eternity. Nevertheless, through the envy of the devil came death into the world…”

  I go to the other leg and tie the rope around her ankle. Tightly.

  No mistakes this time, Sydia…

  Her foot has turned a slight purple in color. It is a reaction from the carbon dioxide, the lack of oxygen circulating in her system. There is no other way for me to do it. I look up. Her tunic is open. Her legs are stiff from spreading them so wide apart. It is easier this way. I can concentrate on my work. Alone. I don’t have to enlist the aid of helpers to assist me in holding her down.

  “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall be no torment shall touch them…”

  I continue my story. My verse of death I picked out specifically for the ritual. I don’t notice the bitch staring at me. I hardly notice anything. My concentration is so focused, so directed. So intense. When her foot slams into my face, shoving me backwards, I realize too late what has happened.

  I hear her voice for the first time. It is loud and aggressive.

  “Let me go! Let me go or I’ll kill you. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  She screams out, loud, blood curdling cries. Worse than Mother ever did. I stand at a distance and watch. She takes her free foot and frantically tries undoing the other one with her painted toes.

  Those Satan colored toenails.

  I walk up to her. “You silly bitch.”

  She stops fighting. She looks up at me, stunned. Paralyzed. I think she finally realizes whose presence she is in. God. A woman God. Then, she does something I had not prepared for. She begins to cry. Tears fill up in her eyes and roll down the sides of her cheeks.

  “Please,” she whimpers, “don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt my baby.”

  What can I say? “It’s Phillip’s baby. It’s Phillip’s semen floating around in your dirty snatch. It’s Phillip who hurt you, not me.”

  I lean over and grab her leg. Firmly this time.

  I tie the rope around her ankle. She keeps on crying. Whimpering. Pleading. Begging.

  “How do you know Phillip?”

  “I am doing this for your own good, you stupid bitch. Nobody thanks me. Why? Sexual pleasure is the root of all evil. The base of all of our problems. It caused all of mine and my Mother’s, so shut up, you whore.”

  “Please, I beg of you. Don’t hurt me!”

  “Why didn’t you say that to Phillip? He has hurt you more than anything I could ever do to you.”

  “You’re crazy. You’re really crazy.” She licks her dry, cracked lips with her tongue. Like Mother.

  Actually, this is when I most enjoy my job. When I’m playing God.

  “In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die,” I say, as I lay the wooden box beside me in the clearing between her legs. I have purposely cut the grass extra short. So I can see better. I open the lid. Inside, my exquisite instruments. The tools I will use to connect her with me, making her one with my Mother…

  “… and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us, utter destruction.”

  I roll out another piece of white cotton material and open it, exposing the bones extracted from a male rooster. They’re brittle and sharp from drying in the sun. A coffee can lid, rusted but fine-edged. I lay them both out on the cloth precisely in the order in which I intend to use them. Then I wait for a sign.

  “… they are in peace. For though they be
punished in the sight of men, yet is their hope full of mortality. And having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded; for God proved them, and found them worthy for himself…I bless you, I become you…I am you.”

  I stand up and step across her slight waist. I kneel down by her face and make the sign of the cross. The silly bitch has the audacity to spit at me. Me. God. I smile, reassuringly and push her hair away from her mouth. She tries to bite me. I stand up and laugh.

  “I am doing this for your own good. You have to believe me.”

  I step back, sit down and cross my legs Indian-style in my sacred space. I raise the white tunic to her waist. She raises her hips from off the ground, like they all do. Writhing around like a slithering worm. It is of no use. She cannot, will not escape. I take the last piece of cloth from the box and open it. No words have been written. No words need to. Not yet. Soon the words will read: FOR THEIR SINS. I will use this girl’s blood. The syringe is in my box. It will spell out the message. That comes later. Much later. It can wait. I look up, past the covering of green trees, weighted down with heavy branches and full of leaves. I stare at the sunlight bearing down upon us. And I wait. The sign will come. It always does.

  The terrain is abandoned.

  Shadows dance like ghosts. I take hold of the metal lid, careful not to cut myself. Through the haze of red dust and dry heat, the horizon holds gentle a sky soaked with blood. I must turn this gown to colors. Colorful and alive, it will soon dance off the table… off the body…

  “I don’t need comfort, Mother. I will not cry. I will be here for you. I am your keeper.”

  “You’re crazy. What are you going to do to me?”

  I block out her voice. I have to. Otherwise, how can I work? How am I to commune with Him?

  “Mother, make her stop. Make her shut up. Please. I insist. This must go as planned. Perfectly.”

  Blonde, wavy hair blowing in the distance. I hold Mother’s hand. I will deliver her to safety. I will deliver myself. I have to. Father will help. I know it. Now, she will be well. Now she will be saved.

  The girl with the blond, curly hair stares at me. She opens her mouth to speak. She appears so young, so scared…

  “Please, I am begging you, listen to me. I want to have this baby. Please, don’t do this. Please.” She screams louder. She understands now what she must do. How she is to play a role in this sacred act. “PLEASE! LET ME GO YOU STUPID BITCH!”

  I touch her lovingly with the white cloth. She has somehow confused me. She is the stupid bitch. Not me.

  I am God.

  Her body is a volcano of fever. Sweat. Then, she pisses on my hand. Sometimes, they defecate, too. I come prepared. In my box, I bring along plastic bags just in case. And sterile wipes.

  Her voice knows no boundaries of pain.

  I see Him now, like a beautiful white angel, coming to save her. To save me. I return my attention to the act.

  My sign has come. Like an omen. I am a prophet even at my young age…

  I make my first incision. I must be complete.

  They were…

  Blood sprays over me. A thin, light mist. The white gown, now sacred, comes alive with color. I lick my lips. I taste the metallic salt. Blood gathers. The berry colored fluid pools. It soaks into the material like a thirsty sponge. I look for the rise, the interesting way her pelvis moves to meet my skillful hands. I get carried away. I take more than necessary.

  They did…

  Save some for sewing, Sydia.

  The lavender, purple and orange colors combine in this ritual dance.

  I steal one last look at Mother.

  An expression of horror and excruciating pain lights up her face. She passes out frequently. Short spells lasting for only a minute or so, and then she comes to. I try counting down the minutes, the breaths. Then, a howl. Like a hungry coyote. Or a wolf left alone to fend for himself. It comes from somewhere deep, deep within her. The sound shatters the quiet setting. It echoes like a rabid breeze through the rustling leaves. Nobody can hear. Nobody cares. She will be left alone in this sacred place I have prepared for her. To die. As I was. As my Mother was.

  Far from the hectic pace of the village…

  4:16 PM

  47

  The Lounge at the Riverfront Howard Johnson’s was appropriately called “The Recovery Room,” since its location was in such close proximity to the Medical University.

  Dan steered his car into the crowded parking lot. The banner advertising the bar hung prominently out in front. It made Wright chuckle at the implications.

  “Whadaya say?” Dan glanced at his watch, realizing it wasn’t quite five yet. His Dad had a saying (funny Dan should remember). In order to avoid any amount of suspicion, wait until the sundial at least passed noon. Then one could guiltlessly partake of the creature. Even though his Father was one to never heed his own advice. He was usually up, long before Dan even made it downstairs, his favorite breakfast of champions – a thirteen ounce, longneck bottle of Budweiser.

  Great. Wright probably thinks I’m an alcoholic.

  Instead, Wright nodded “yes.” Unbuckling himself from the confines of his seatbelt, he opened the door and wrestled with an armload of case folders and files.

  “Detective Hammer, with your usual characteristic instincts, this is a very good idea.”

  Wright held onto the wooden handrail as he maneuvered up the steps, balancing the accessories in one arm. Halfway up, he waited for Dan to lock the car.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Dan closed the door and tucked the keys inside his jacket pocket, slightly embarrassed that Wright had caught him staring. They walked across a wooden planked outdoor deck toward the entrance. Screams from children splashing around in a nearby swimming pool echoed in the parking lot as they entered the moody ambiance of the bar. The sour smell of wood floors, draft beer and spilled whiskey perfumed the room. They stood for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dark before taking a seat at the large horseshoe bar. The place was relatively quiet, a nice respite before Happy Hour officially began.

  “Thank God, they have peanuts.” Wright dove for the white ceramic bowl filled with the salty mix. A lasting mental picture -- Wright seated in Mrs. Stattler’s home, eating sugar cookies and drinking coffee from her delicate china cups, his pinkie finger extended in extreme refinement -- would haunt Dan forever.

  “If you’re hungry, I can take you for some dinner. There’s a nice place…”

  Wright cut him off. He cupped a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “No, thank you. This is fine.”

  The bartender, a short woman with too much eye makeup and far too little clothing approached them with a hearty smile. “What will it be, Gentlemen?” Her accent was pure Southern.

  “Beer. What do you have on draft?” Dan asked.

  “What you see is what you get.” She pointed to the wooden pull handles decorating the shiny silver spouts.

  “Bud Light for me.” Dan ordered first, stealing away a peanut. He looked around the semi-busy bar. Wright asked for a Dewar’s. Neat. The bartender scurried away, bending and scooping and pouring until she returned with Dan’s draft. She placed the frosty mug in front of him, the head foaming up and over the top. She delivered Wright’s drink, smiled politely and left. Her ass bounced off the coolers and lowboys as she pranced away.

  “I got a funny feeling about this case.” Wright cleared his throat. He set his drink down and waved for the bartender.

  Once again she appeared. “What’cha need, Sugar?”

  “Could we please have some more peanuts, young lady?”

  “Keep talkin’ like that and you can have whatever you want!” She gave Wright a wink before setting a fresh bowl down in front of them.

  “What do you mean?” Dan asked, not sure if he should already know the answer, be guessing at finding one, or if he looked just plain damn stupid.

  “Something isn’t right, it just doesn’t fit. I’m not exactly sure what it is. B
ut my hunch is that boy, what’s his name?”

  “Phillip?”

  “Yeah, Phillip. I have a feeling he was set up.”

  “Set up?”

  “Everything seems a bit too neat. For my taste, anyway.” Another handful of peanuts unloaded into Wright’s mouth.

  The act reminded Dan of a forklift, collecting, hoisting and dumping.

  “Spicy ones.” Wright took another sip of his drink. “Usually, if the perpetrator is an organized offender, like what I’m witnessing here, there’s some cognitive mapping, a thought-out pattern. An event triggers the first killing; some stressful situation puts them over the edge. They become unsure of themselves, insecure. The fear of them being caught weighs heavy. Then, after several times out, they get a taste for it. They begin to feel omnipotent. Above the law.”