To Kill a Sorcerer

by Greg Mongrain

  A thin line of mucus began to stream out of Amanda’s nose. She looked as if she had regressed to five years old. I wondered what thoughts filled through her terrified mind.

  The five black candles gleamed under the rope. After lighting each one carefully, I retrieved a cone of incense and a holder, set them on the table, and lit the tip. Amanda stared as I shook out the match.

  “And now we begin the mystical process whereby I take your soul as my own, and you give me the power to rule over men.”

  I wrestled her off the couch, wrapping my arms around her hips with her feet above my shoulders. My knees bumped her forehead as I carried her into the center of the candles and looped the rope around her ankles, pulling on my pre-tied noose to draw it tight.

  The sight of Amanda hanging from the ceiling, utterly defenseless, a living sacrificial doll with which I could do anything, filled me with a sense of invincibility. The prize, so long sought, was nearly mine.

  The long dagger sat on the carpet inside the rough circle of candles. I poured a measured amount of spices into the bottom of the goblet. My hand did not shake, as it had at the first two murders, and I did not spill anything.

  The cup shone in the circle of candles.

  Out of my case I took a clear plastic jumpsuit and donned it carefully, zipping it to the throat.

  The suit made a crinkling sound as I knelt in front of Amanda. I grabbed the front of her shirt and ripped it open. It slid down her limp arms, and I tossed it aside. Brandishing the ceremonial knife, I sliced off her bra.

  I leaned down so I could look into her eyes. Tears and snot dripped off her forehead.

  “You understand what I am going to do now, don’t you, Amanda? Can you feel the pain? Believe me, you cannot. When I rip your body open, it will be worse than anything you could ever imagine. Your mind will lose its identity in a storm of searing agony, and then you will be cleansed. Do not despair. Your pain and horror will give me the power I desire.” I patted her cheek. “And you, my dear, will know dumb obedience as my slave.”

  Her eyes widened until I thought they would fall out of their sockets.

  I thoughtfully picked up the cup . . .

  ( . . . again he gave you thanks and praise, gave the cup to his disciples, and said, “Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the cup of my blood . . .”)

  . . . pressed it against her throat, raised the knife . . .

  Lightning. Crash of thunder. I am deaf. Holding my hands over my ears. Eyes shut tight. Another crash.

  Gasping and trembling, I shook awake, fell off the couch and banged my head against the coffee table. Blood flowed. Ignoring it, I grabbed my phone and speed-dialed Hamilton.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “He’s killing again,” I said. “This moment.”

  “What? Are you okay? You sound funny.”

  I cleared my throat, stood shakily. “I think I just saw the next murder. He’s killing her right now.”

  There was a pause.

  “What do you mean, you saw it?”

  His tone convinced me that calling him had been a mistake.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Bad dream.”

  I sank to the couch, tossed my phone on the table. What had my vision been? It had not been a dream or a memory of a past event. The experience had possessed the immediacy of the present.

  He was cutting her open even now, drinking her blood and eating her heart. I could feel it.

  And I had no idea where he was or how to stop him.

  Thirty-Six

  Friday, December 24, 1:02 p.m.

  Hamilton called two hours later. He did not waste time with introductory chatter.

  “What the fuck, Sebastian? You call me telling me you can see this killing, and now we’ve got another girl hanging by her ankles? If Watanabe tells me the TOD is two hours ago, I am going to be pissed.”

  “I should probably just come to your location.”

  “Fuckin’ A. And use that Italian job of yours to get here quick. I want some explanations.”

  I had been expecting his call, so I had already shaved and dressed in a plain, single-breasted dark blue suit, white shirt, blue striped tie.

  Innocence is a look.

  In addition to the Walther P99 on my left hip, I carried the Christo Glass and one of the holly atomizers. Kanga would not catch me off guard.

  The security monitor in the foyer reported that Hector was opening the gate to my private drive. I picked up the bag with the remaining charms and waited in the garage. Hector drove in with the Maserati. A silver Mercedes sedan, one of the company cars, pulled up behind him. Bronk sat behind the wheel. He saluted. Bronk was one of eight ex-military specialists I employed full-time. Neither Preston nor I had given him an assignment in several weeks, so he kept busy working with Hector.

  Hector climbed out and tossed me the keys.

  “Good as new, boss,” he said in his heavy Mexican accent.

  “Did you clean it or replace it?”

  “Both. I know a man who can recycle a part like that. Got a good deal. I left no trace, but the leather was not as supple when I was finished. I knew you wouldn’t like that, so I got a replacement seat.”

  “Good. Nice work.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sebastian.”

  He and Bronk drove off.

  I hung a juju guardian doll on the rearview mirror of the Maserati with reluctance, despising its loud, gaudy body and thinking how much I wanted to eliminate Kanga so I could take it and its brother out of my cars.

  Not that I meant any disrespect.

  During the drive to the crime scene, I mulled over the reason for my stellar connection with Kanga. Similar connections had happened before. Three other times my ti bon ange had entered someone else, and for a few minutes, I had experienced the other person’s life. In each case, however, I never knew whom I had inhabited, even after reviewing the experience moment by moment later. So why Kanga? Blood perhaps? It was true he had stabbed me, getting my blood on his skin. And blood represented the most powerful of magical elements.

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled up at the crime scene.

  This was one of the older neighborhoods in Studio City, south of the Boulevard. Tall trees lined the street in either direction. Sun flickered through the gaps in the leaves. Walking under the dappled canopy, I wondered where Aliena rested right now and if she really slept in the nude.

  A small group of people stood on the sidewalk. I waded through and approached the yellow barrier. An officer hustled over and held the tape up for me. He had been at the Patterson murder.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Montero?” he asked in a low voice. “Is this guy really using, uh, magic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They say you and your people think this guy is a sorcerer.”

  “‘They’ say?”

  “I just heard it around, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m not sure what we’re dealing with yet. Do ‘they’ think this man is a sorcerer?”

  “I don’t know about them, sir, but the guys on my shift, we’re wondering how he can keep doing this under our noses when our best people are looking for him.”

  “He’s smart,” I said. “So far he’s been careful. But we’ll get him. And talking to me about this is okay, but you want to keep it to that.”

  “Yes, sir. We got that loud and clear.”

  “Good man.”

  Hamilton crossed the lawn.

  “Suit looks good,” I told him as we came together.

  He gave me a distracted nod. “Come on, Sebastian, let’s have that chat, shall we?” He took my elbow and led me away from everyone else. “You want to start from the top?”

  “I had a participatory astral experience. I saw the murder through Kanga’s eyes.”

  He stared at me. A minute went by.

  “Fuck.”

  “Steve, I know how you feel about—”

  “Save it, Montero,” he said softly. “Just s
hut it. I don’t need more of this shit. I already have to listen to the voodoo jokes whenever I’m in the station.”

  “That is unfortunate. However, we have another dead girl, and I saw it happen.”

  “You saw shit. Not a word about that—not in front of Gonzales. I don’t want to—”

  “I don’t care what you want. I saw the murder, and if that contributes to my analysis of the crime scene, I am going to say something. If Gonzales thinks I’m a crackpot, let him. What do you care? Or is your reputation tied to mine now? Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Damn right,” he said. “You sit in your mansion all day while I field the jokes from the other detectives. And all of this participatory astral crap is mumbo jumbo that can’t be verified!”

  I kept my voice low.

  “Her name is Amanda. She’s wearing white tennis shorts, cuffed on the bottom. Feet are bare. Her top was pink. He ripped it off her, so there may be buttons missing. He tossed it on the floor. Next to that is her bra—he cut it off with his knife.” His face had gone from fierce to slack as I spoke. “You want more?”

  “How—is this possible?” he asked. I could barely hear him. “Unless it’s you, Sebastian.”

  That was a natural conclusion, and it represented a problem. “I wish I could make it easier for you, but I do not have an alibi for any of the murders. I was alone each time.”

  He bit his lip, his face uncharacteristically irresolute. He stared at me, trying to make up his mind. I sympathized. In spite of Mrs. Beasley’s eyewitness identification of Kanga at the Patterson scene, our case against him was circumstantial. We had no forensic evidence to put him at any of the murders.

  If, in Hamilton’s mind, I had gone from partner to suspect, he should not allow me access to this crime scene, nor allow me to continue participating in the investigation. He had wanted that before, and now had the perfect excuse to boot me out. I wondered how he would proceed. His solution surprised me.

  “Did you kill those girls and Madame Leoni?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill this girl, Amanda Meyer?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Let’s go in.” He handed me a pair of gloves. “But go easy on the vision stuff, okay? You know how merciless cops are.”

  As I signed in, Hamilton yawned and shook his head.

  “Tired?” I pulled on my gloves.

  “Woke up a few times last night,” he said. He picked up a coffee cup that was sitting on the table and took a sip.

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure. It sounded like something was banging on my windows.”

  So Kanga’s spirits had tried to call while he slept—and Bey’s charms had kept them out.

  “Interesting.”

  “Listen, Watanabe, the SID team, Gonzales, they’re all in there.” He glanced at a nearby officer, pulled me close, lowered his voice. “You know how any large group of people can be. Even LAPD has members who believe in the occult. Not all of the stuff I’ve been getting at work has been jokes. A couple of guys have told me, anonymously, to be careful. They believe this stuff is real.”

  “Really. Gonzales one of them?”

  “Never mind. Just, you know, try to keep the emphasis on the evidence until we’re alone, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  The aroma of Tashua Jong wafted over us as soon as we walked in. The spicy odor of the incense blended well with the tang of spilled blood, creating an appealing scent—probably the reason it was essential to the ritual.

  It was the same as I had seen it in my vision, except that now Amanda’s hanging body was covered in blood, her midsection ripped apart, the tatters of flayed flesh spread open like the petals of a dark flower.

  The scientific team had lain plastic beneath her body. The extent of the blood pool was considerable.

  The SID photographer zipped his bags closed and left, nodding at Hamilton. The rest of the forensics investigators had also finished, and now they filed out. The house grew quiet, and everyone spoke in hushed voices.

  After the team from Trace exited, only Watanabe, Gonzales, Hamilton, and I remained around the body. Watanabe inspected the wounds.

  “Well, Tasha, can you confirm that this is our guy again?” Hamilton asked. Nobody laughed, although the question was absurd.

  “Yes,” she said. “Heart wound looks ragged—it was not sliced out with a knife. All the other cuts are consistent with the earlier victims.”

  “And no signs of a struggle,” Gonzales noted.

  “She was sedated,” I said. “The moment she opened the door.” Hamilton couldn’t complain about that statement, since it was based on the evidence we already had.

  “That works,” Gonzales agreed, though he gave me a thoughtful look. He wore his standard brown suit, matched with a long beige tie today. “And it’s consistent with Mrs. Beasley’s statement. Tasha confirmed he was getting them to inhale something.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Who found her?”

  “Younger sister, coming home with friends.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes,” Hamilton said, “it was bad. Our cars got here before the parents though, so they never saw this.”

  That was a good thing.

  Amanda was suspended near the fireplace, hanging slackly, her tanned ankles now white where the noose bit into them, her knuckles about a meter above the bloodstained carpet. The pink blouse and bra lay on the floor where I told Hamilton they would be.

  Only the cuffs of her shorts remained white.

  The living room looked as I remembered, with the long, tan leather sofa placed against the wall in front of the picture window. The drapes weren’t completely opaque, but it would be impossible to see anything in this room from the sidewalk or even the yard. On the opposite wall hung a theater-size plasma TV. I recognized the chair Kanga had stood upon in order to screw the plant hanger into the ceiling.

  Gonzales was on his haunches, peering at the floor beneath her body. “Tell me, doc,” he asked Watanabe, “how would you say the killer was standing when he cut her up?”

  “He was right in front of her.” Watanabe sounded tired. When she glanced away from the body at me, I saw weary anguish in her eyes.

  “Yeah, but if she’s hanging like that,” Gonzales continued, “wouldn’t he have to be crouched down to slash her from the stomach to the neck? That is a downward cut, like the other two, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  We all took a second look. I knew Kanga had been on his knees when he did this, but I did not need to say anything. Gonzales was figuring it out for himself.

  “The easiest way to inflict those wounds,” Hamilton said, “would be from his knees.”

  “That’s right.” Gonzales squatted, using both hands to press the plastic flat so he could see better. “And there are indentations on the carpet.” He straightened up. “Which brings us to the next problem.”

  “What’s he doing about the blood on his clothes?” Hamilton said.

  Watanabe’s assistants came back into the room. We cleared the way as they took Amanda’s body down. They placed her carefully in a black body bag.

  “I will call you if I discover anything new,” Watanabe said. She followed her team as they wheeled the gurney out of the house.

  “As for the blood on his clothes,” Gonzales said when they had gone, “he either changed them or protected them somehow.”

  I peered at the couch where Amanda had lain before Kanga strung her up. There was dried mucus on the leather. I ran my forefinger along it, my heart stuttering. I took deep breaths to control my rage as thoughts of crushing Kanga’s throat filled my mind.

  “That makes sense,” Hamilton said. “Either way, he got out of here without anyone calling us.”

  “Someone had to have seen something,” Gonzales replied. “I’ll organize the house to house.” He left.

  “He’s right about Kanga protecting his clothes from the blood,” I said. “He wears one of
those clear plastic jumpsuits painters and other industrial workers use. He carries a big case and takes it with him.”

  “Thanks for keeping it between us,” he said.

  “You figured out everything that matters.”

  “Is there more? What else did you see?”

  “It’s the way Reed and Aliena theorized. He lights the candles, prepares this silver chalice with herbs, and then he cuts her open with a ceremonial knife, preparing to catch her blood in the cup as it drips down. It’s all deliberate and painstaking in its detail.”

  “And you say you saw this in a vision?”

  “It was not a vision. It was some kind of participatory astral experience. I did not view the murder from the outside. I was Kanga. I saw what he saw, felt what he felt.”

  “And what did it feel like to cut Amanda open?”

  I turned sharply. “I didn’t see that part. The connection was broken just as he raised the knife for the first cut.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t happen to see where he lives?”

  “Afraid not, chief.”

  “Can you confirm it was the man in our sketches? Did you see his—your—face?”

  “No. I saw his hands and wrists, so I can confirm he’s black, tall, lean, and strong. But he didn’t look in a mirror, and I didn’t see any other reflection.”

  He looked like he was going to ask me another question when he grunted in pain. His face went wide-eyed with stunned surprise.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He pulled his hand out of his pocket and raised it to his chest. “It felt like something punched me. No, not punched. It was more like—” His face scrunched in pain. “What the . . . ?”

  I glanced around. The log officer, Kennedy, still stood outside the door. Hamilton and I were alone. I took the Christo Glass from my pocket and held it up.

  “What is that?” he said.

  “A spirit finder.” I held it in front of him. The glass was pathetically small, affording me a tiny viewing area with which to scan for a moving object. A golden aura emanated from the internal organs of Hamilton’s body.