“The entire rainbow. Well, that’s refreshing.” Luke said, sarcastically. “At least he’s not a racist.”
“We got us an equal opportunity psychopath,” Harlson agreed. “This guy breaks the standard mold.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but could you give me a little time here to myself?”
“No problem,” Harlson said. “I have a hankering for some hot coffee, anyway. There’s a diner up the road. I’ll go there for an hour or so.”
“That would be perfect.”
“Can I bring you back something?”
“Coffee would hit the spot.”
“You got it, sport.”
Harlson left.
Once alone, Luke closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He went to his pond by the forest. This was a tranquil place on the otherwise gray psychic plane that Lucas had built. He had carefully placed every tree and flower that surrounded the peaceful water. The skies here were always blue and the breeze was always a soft whisper on the flesh. This is where Lucas went to adjust and calm. It was a place he could always step back into if things weren't going well in his visions.
Intense emotion hampered his abilities. The pleasant heaven in his mind helped put him in a better state and he felt himself steady somewhat. But he still had doubts and issues bouncing around inside. It was harshing his calm so he left his pond and he came back to the death drenched apartment.
I’m older now and not in the greatest shape, he thought. This shit is taxing. I could just say I didn’t pick up any vibes and be on my merry fucking way.
Will you be able to live down not even trying when this guy strikes again? he asked himself.
It was a fair question and Luke knew the answer. He would not. He would feel like total shit.
Luke sighed and went to Tonya’s dresser and began touching her personal items. Hairbrush. Compact. Jewelry. Perfume bottles.
Nothing.
He opened the drawers on the dresser and he thumbed articles of clothing.
Nothing.
Luke tried the bed. Pillow. Night table. Lamp. Digital clock. Knick-knack shelf.
Nada.
The closet was next. The result was the same.
Frustrated, Luke sat on the bed, cradling his aching head. He suffered from cluster migraines, the kind that drove lesser men to acts of Hara-Kiri. He suspected they were a side effect caused by his gift (or curse. Sometimes it was a curse). He noticed that the migraines were becoming more and more painful. Using his power seemed to take a lot out of him these days. Dr. Spencer, Luke’s neurologist, could find nothing wrong. No tumors. No bruises on the brain. No evident chemical imbalance.
“You just think too much,” Dr. Spencer was fond of saying.
Luke had a dreadful feeling his problem went much deeper than job-related stress. But that was for consideration at another time. Right at the present, he had a sicko to catch.
He tried the bedroom door. A landscape print in a cheap frame had been knocked off of the wall. Luke tried it. He tried the spot on the floor where the body had been found and he fell back as an excruciating pain shot up his spine. He rolled into a ball, his shoulders shivering. He had no vision, only pain- unbearable pain that lit his limbs and extremities on fire.
Fortunately for Luke’s sanity, the pain quickly vanished, leaving him only the migraine to contend with.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, catching his breath.
He collected himself, wondering if that was the pain Tonya had experienced or if his own condition was worsening. He would have to make an appointment with Dr. Spencer. Luke went back to the dresser and he glanced in the oval mirror that hung above it. He looked haggard. The dark half-moons under his eyes were permanent. Part of the cause was probably diet but the main culprit was insomnia. He slept maybe three hours a night and cat-napped during the day. The dark hair on his head had yielded to premature gray when he was in his late twenties. Laugh lines, crow’s feet and worry wrinkles littered his face, making the forty-three year-old man look a decade or so older.
He took one of Tonya’s tissues, not thinking that she would mind, and he mopped the sweat off of his face. Luke noticed a snapshot taped to the lower corner of the mirror. He assumed it was of Tonya. She sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, hugging a brown cocker spaniel. Such a pretty girl, he thought. Tonya had curly brown hair and matching eyes. She was giving the camera a toothy smile. Her hair was messy in a sexy way and she wore a thin robe. The picture had been taken one morning, but by whom? Tonya had someone close in her life. Luke would mention the photo to Harlson.
The dog in the picture, though. Where was the dog? Luke had not seen or heard the dog the whole time he had been in the apartment. He whistled, and heard a scratch on the wooden floor from under the bed. He got on his hands and knees, being sure to avoid contact with the chalk outline that he treated with the same respect one would have for a live subway rail. He peered under the bed. Against the far wall, beneath the head post, he could see the dog. It was curled into a furry ball and shuddering violently.
“Hey, fella,” he said, in a soothing voice. “It’s all right, baby. I won’t hurt you.”
The dog did not seem to believe him. Luke went to the side of the bed and gently pulled the dog out into view. It shivered madly and yelped in protest. He set the dog on the bed, stroking its head and back. The dog continued to shudder and whine pitifully.
“Easy now. You’re okay.”
The dog looked at Luke. Its right eye was useless- milky and blind.
Luke continued to pet the dog and then a vision came to him.
The perspective was black and white.
He looked up at Tonya, who was standing in the bedroom, wearing a skimpy red nightgown. Her hair was rolled into big plastic curlers and white cream was plastered on her face. Tonya looked down at him. She was concerned.
“Did you hear that, Buffer?” she whispered.
Part of the picture was cloudy, possibly because of Buffer’s blind eye, Luke wagered. This was the reason he could not see the face of the large figure that caught Tonya from behind, clasping a hand over her mouth. Tonya’s eyes widened as the figure’s other arm pinned her flailing limbs to her side before she could struggle further. Tonya and her attacker lurched forward, causing Buffer/Luke to retreat slightly.
“Keep back, dog!” the attacker, his visage still distorted, said in a gravelly voice.
A leather boot lashed out and caught Buffer/Luke in the ribs. Luke felt his ribs crack and a hot rasp of pain escaped from his lungs, causing him to yelp and scurry under the bed as the screaming started and then came to an abrupt halt.
The vision dissipated, like a thin fog under the sun, and Luke found himself once again stroking Buffer’s back. This was one for the memoirs, he noted, still feeling a tinge in his ribs. He had actually seen something through an animal.
His excitement over the event would have been greater had he seen more than a jean-clad leg and a leather boot. I’m about as useful as a football bat, he thought.
He had to get his act together. Others would die, like Tonya, if Luke’s abilities did not return to par. Come on, seer, he thought. Open your goddamn eyes!
Harlson returned, toting a paper cup. “Hey, where did the dog come from?”
“This is Buffer. He belonged to Tonya. He saw the murder and then he hid under the bed. Poor thing still seems to be in shock. I think his ribs are cracked. He needs to be taken to a vet.”
“I’ll put someone on that chore, and then I’ll let the lab boys take a gander at the pup. Did you get anything?” Harlson asked, expectantly.
“Not much,” Luke admitted, with a downcast look.
His head was pounding fit to burst.
CHAPTER 3
Luke pushed his roast beef on rye aside and he opted for one of Harlson’s cigarettes.
“I’m trying to quit these things,” Luke said, as he lit the cigarette.
Luke and Harlson sat in a corner booth of Gil’s Diner, some twenty min
utes from the crime scene.
A lunch crowd, consisting mostly of truckers who were guzzling coffee while their rigs hummed in the parking lot, sat at the bar stools in front of the grill.
A plump waitress walked over to Luke and frowned at his nearly full plate.
“Anything wrong?” she asked pleasantly.
“No,” Luke insisted. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
The waitress nodded, and then a spark of recognition lit in her eyes. “Wait a minute. I know you. You’re Lucas Glover- the psychic. I saw you on Good Morning Houston last year.”
Lucas nodded, not really relishing the attention.
“I got all your books,” the waitress continued. “They are at home, of course. But here.”
She snatched a napkin off of the table and handed it and a pen to Luke. “Can you sign it? To Penny?”
Luke smiled and he wrote a brief note. He handed it back. Penny tucked it into her pocket and whisked Luke’s plate away.
“Hey, I’m partnered up with a local celebrity,” Harlson said. He had a very judgmental look on his dark face. “Maybe you should sign something for me, too.”
“That’s not what I’m about,” Luke assured him.
“So what are you about?” Harlson quizzed Luke.
“What do you mean?” Luke asked.
“Well, we have a budding romance going on here and maybe we should get to know one another better.” Harlson motioned to Luke’s wedding ring. “How long you been married?”
“Twenty years,” Luke bragged, feeling it was a rarity to hold on to someone so long. “We were college sweethearts.”
“Kids?” Harlson asked.
“No, but God knows we wanted them. Just wasn’t in the biological cards.”
Harlson nodded, mercifully not asking for more details.
“How about you?” Luke asked. “Is there a Mrs. Harlson?”
“I am far too kind to subject someone to that,” Harlson joked. “So, what exactly do you do? How do you describe your gift?”
“It's called psychometry. I pick up psychic impressions by touching objects,” Luke explained.
“Uh-huh. So were you born with it? Or did you have to go to a special school for it,” Harlson joked, but it was barbed.
“I suffered a trauma to the head when I was young. You ever hear of a small farming town near Oklahoma called Pleasant Storm?” Luke asked the skeptical detective.
Harlson frowned and shook his head.
“I'm not surprised. It's a real blink your eyes and you'll miss it type of town. My father had a farm there. There was this tragedy that occurred in ’65. A farmer, Adam Campbell, went on a rampage. He killed his entire family and around twenty townspeople who lived nearby,” Lucas explained.
“Jesus. That’s an impressive number. Pretty good score for a small town boy,” Harlson said.
“So, anyway, I always had a little bit of a glow growing up,” Luke continued. “Precognitive dreams on a small scale. Knowing what song was going to play on the radio next. Small potatoes. When I was a teenager, the Adam Campbell property was still standing and it was a pretty big Halloween spot. I went there, with some buddies. We broke in and I walked up into the attic. Something spooked me, and I fell down the stairs. I woke up in the hospital with a mild concussion and a migraine, which still hasn’t gone away.”
“You’re damn lucky you didn’t break your neck,” Harlson said.
“After that, the ability just came. The injury had stimulated something that I guess was already there,” Luke said, concluding his story and then steering a coffee cup to his lips.
“What did you see?” Harlson asked with an expectant grin.
“What? At the Campbell house?” Luke said.
Harlson nodded. “What scared you so badly?”
Luke thought about it for a second. “I have never tried to explain it to anyone before. I don’t know that I can.”
“Don’t be a tease,” Harlson said, lighting another cigarette. “What, you holding it for the next book? Tell me. You have to.”
“Okay,” Luke agreed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “I walked up to the attic of the house. When I got there, I saw this dark, spinning mass. The damned thing was as big as a bear. It was all gnashing teeth and glowing eyes. As soon as I saw it appear out of thin air, I turned and I fell. I have no clue what it was. I have never seen anything like it, since. And, honestly, I don’t want to.”
“That’s quite a story,” Harlson said, seeming fairly entertained by it all.
“So what’s your story?” Luke asked.
“I'm a veteran cop who bleeds blue and has a slight reputation as a prick. Sadly, that's about all there is to tell,” Harlson replied.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come up with anything solid,” Luke said, putting out his cigarette.
“Don’t sweat it, sport,” Harlson said, dropping a used napkin onto the remains of his Mexican omelet. “If it was that easy, I’m sure you would have broken the casinos in Vegas by now.”
The negative wall of doubt around Harlson was beginning to piss Luke off. “You know, I am an official consultant on this case. I may not be a deputized agent, but the mayor signs my check, as well.”
“Look, you may have supporters on the force, but to me you’re just Santa Claus with a pretend badge. I honestly think the commissioner put us together just to piss me off,” Harlson said, with a dry smile.
“He put us together because he told me you are the top dog in homicide,” Luke informed the detective. “You’re supposed to be bringing me up to speed but you aren’t doing a very good job.”
“You know what I know,” Harlson maintained, gruffly.
“Bullshit,” Luke said, sure that it was. “You shouldn’t lie to a clairvoyant.”
Harlson grimaced and looked out of the window.
“I have clearance,” Luke said, settling back and crossing his arms. “You don’t want to help me help you, fine. I’ll ask for a more agreeable situation. Because I really feel that you’re not playing straight with me and I don’t appreciate that. There’s something to this Keepsake Killer that you’re covering up.”
It was really just a hunch, but Luke trusted his instinct. He could feel Harlson’s confusion, and he could feel something that went beyond the headlines and live at five reports.
“Okay,” Harlson said, nodding. “I’ll come straight with you. Somebody is going to have to eventually, anyway. How long have you known about this Keepsake Killer?”
“About five years,” Luke admitted. “He strikes for a couple of months and then he disappears, eventually reemerging again in a different state."
“He’s been at it for decades,” Harlson confessed, in a quiet voice, though the booths nearest to them were empty. “He’s the biggest fucking embarrassment to law enforcement that there is. He follows a pattern, like a migrating bird, but he’s not consistent. He strikes primarily in Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas, spending no more than a month or two in one spot before moving on again. That's why we are inseparable with the Feds on this investigation. We know his routine but he’s never around in one spot long enough to get a fix on him. The news claims that he’s killed at least thirty people in the last five years. He’s killed at least a hundred.”
“If he’s been around this long, how come the public hasn't heard all of this?” Luke asked. "Suppression? Media blackout?"
Harlson grunted. “All right, I'll shoot straight on this topic. Politics and image, sport. The authorities were damned determined to keep this mess out of the papers. They couldn't catch the bastard. The stories have been spilling out slowly for years now, and that's because of the internet, tabloids and cops needing a little help with their mortgages. The brass has been able to foster most of the stories onto conspiracy theorists, but if it ever got out how far back this goes, the heat would never stop. That's why you were brought in.”
“Don't you think that people deserve to know the truth?” Luke said. "How dangerous thi
s murderer is?"
“How many news reports keep you from living your life?" Harlson said, defensively. "The public knew of the murders, knew there was a predator out there. They just weren't privy to all of the details or that only one suspect was involved. When this all first started, the media was a little more responsible."
“I still don’t believe the public should be kept ignorant of the facts,” Luke maintained.
“That’s neither here nor there,” Harlson said. “We weren’t brought together to start a debate team, okay? Why don’t we forget the past and concentrate on catching this bastard?”
Luke took a sip of coffee, staring thoughtfully at the table. “You said it was suspected that there was only one perpetrator. What evidence is that based on?”
“Besides the DNA? The way he takes his victims apart. He’s by no means a surgeon, but he’s definitely a hunter. He always takes the same things from the body. We have another notion about him, one we’ve been able to keep under the table, by some miracle.”
“What’s that?”
“This goes no further than us. He might be a cannibal.”
“Christ,” Luke muttered, setting his cup down. “Has he-”
“No,” Harlson said, shaking his head. “We haven’t found partially devoured victims or anything. It’s just, the way he works on his victims. You saw the chalk outline back there at the apartment.”
“Is there anything else you should tell me?” Luke asked.
“I think I’ve covered it all.”
“I thought you said you were going to come clean with me, detective,” Luke said, fuming. There was more. He could feel it.
“I did,” Harlson protested.
“No, you didn’t. There’s something else. And it’s something very important for me to know.”
Harlson regarded Luke for a moment, with either respect or contempt on his face- Luke couldn’t decide which. “I’m that transparent, huh?” Harlson half-grinned.
“I can see the table behind you.”
“All right, well this is something I was told not to tell you. It’s something that the powers that be wanted to broach with you once you were committed to the case,” Harlson confessed. “So, this is hush-hush, even if you take your toys and go home after I tell you.”
Texas Strange Page 4
