by Terence West
"Where were the bodies found?"
Dawn read further down the page. "It says all three were recovered from the dump just outside of town. Each person killed was last seen working at the landfill."
"How long did these killings go on?"
"I'm not sure," Dawn admitted, "but I've got all six of the coroner's reports, and they're all dated within a day of each other."
"So either they found all the bodies at once at a later date, or all the killings happened at once," Bishop theorized. "Does it say why the police thought it was occult activity?"
"Everything was occult back then," Dawn said with a frown. "If it was something they couldn't explain, then it was witches or the devil." She flipped the piece of paper over in her hand. "Wait a minute," her eyes widened as she ran her finger over several lines of messily scrawled writing, "it says along with each victim's heart being removed, something was stolen from each of the victims, something that held personal importance to them. It would either be taken off their person, or stolen from their homes the same day as their death. We know at least two of our victims’ hearts have been removed."
"That's how they connected the killings to the occult?" Bishop wondered. "That seems very circumstantial to me. Often murders are just botched robberies anyway, and it could be purely coincidental that our victims’ hearts were removed. Remember, they didn't take the boy's heart."
"Let's not be too hasty," Dawn said quickly. "Let's look at this for a moment." She sat the piece of paper aside while she pondered the clues. "In some occult rituals, it is important to have the heart and personal objects to complete the dark magic, but what kind of ritual would they be performing?"
"Hold on. You're basing your theories on ideas police had over seventy years ago. You said it yourself, whenever they couldn't explain something, it was automatically labeled occult."
"Yes," Dawn agreed, "but this seems different."
"We don't even know if the shadows were involved with the murders back then, and besides, do we know if the hearts were taken from the current victims?"
Dawn smiled. "There's one way to find out." Reaching into her pocket, Dawn produced a small silver, rectangular cell phone. She tapped in a number on the luminescent pad and pressed the ‘talk’ button.
"Who are you calling?" Bishop wondered.
Dawn held up one finger to silence Bishop as she listened to the ring. She smiled when she heard a familiar click. "Maria? This is Dawn." She waited for a moment as she listened to the response. "That's great. I'm glad your boy is doing so well."
Bishop looked on inquisitively as he silently voiced the name ‘Maria'.
Dawn help up her hand again. "Yeah… yeah," she agreed to an unheard question. "Listen, I need some quick information. I need you to dig up everything you can find on six murders that took place seventy-seven years ago here in Stone Brook. That's right." She listened for a moment, "Oh yeah, one more thing: I need you to reference any occult rituals that use human hearts. Specifically, six of them." Dawn nodded her head. "I know that's a very broad query, but I think it's important. Thanks, Maria." Dawn pulled the phone away from her ear and tapped the ‘end’ button.
"Who's Maria?"
Dawn smiled. "She's the Head Records Keeper back at the OPR. She can find out anything about anything," Dawn bragged. "She won't let us down."
"Great." Bishop paused, "Why are you having her look up occult rituals?"
"I just have a hunch," Dawn said with a wry smile. "Let's get out of here."
****
"Jesus," Chloe muttered as she looked over the lump (that was the best word she could think of to describe him. He was humanoid in shape, but not quite appearing as if he was from this planet.) in front of her. Jackson had returned only moments ago with Rivers in tow. He was a complete and utter mess. His clothes were stained the color of his vomit and his eyes were glossed over the same color as a dirty fish tank. He couldn't even stand. The only way he was remaining upright was with Jackson's help.
The three were standing just outside the Grant House on the driveway. Large raindrops were falling to the ground around them, occasionally being whipped up by the winds into their faces. Chloe quickly wished the storm would change its course. Sometimes they did that, Chloe argued with herself. She prayed this was one of those times. The last thing she needed now was a hurricane destroying her broadcast. It seemed like everything else was doing a good job of that already. She brushed her long, windswept bangs out of her face. She wondered if there was some higher power working against her, almost as if she wasn't supposed to finish this show. It certainly seemed that way from her point of view. A quick recap: one of her original experts was dead and the other was in jail being accused of the crime. Half her equipment had been destroyed by some kind of ghost thing, one of her replacement experts had vanished inside the house, and now her host was drunk off his ass.Perfect, she thought.This is exactly how I learned to do it in film school.
"Will you get this smelly fucker off me?" Jackson yelped. "I think flies are starting to gather." Jackson slipped out from beneath Rivers’ arm, sending him toppling to the ground.
Chloe knelt down to examine the heap of man. "Rivers," she said calmly much to her own surprise, "how are you feeling?"
Rivers jerked his head up toward Chloe and smiled broadly. He was completely shit-faced and he knew it. By this point, though, he was way past the point of giving a shit. "I feel great," he slurred. "Never better." He stifled a beer burp that was threatening to turn into a full-blown dry heave.
"You look like shit," Chloe assessed. "Do you realize we go on the air in," she glanced down at her watch, "four hours? I need you to be at one hundred percent by then. If not better."
Rivers clumsily lifted his hand and made the ‘okay’ gesture. "You got it, boss woman."
"I'm not fucking kidding around, you piece of shit. We're going live coast-to-coast and you're tanked!" Chloe's voice was quickly escalating beyond calm. "You sober up right now or," she didn't have a threat. The broadcast either went with him, or not at all. She tried frantically to think of something that might snap him out of his stupor. "Or I'm going to call Stephen."
Rivers’ eyes widened. That one name sliced through the alcohol induced haze like a laser beam. "No," he gasped. Channeling all his focus, Rivers tried to lift his soggy carcass off the ground. Once on his feet, he began to stumble back down. His arms shot straight out like a tightrope walker's trying to stay on the wire. He harnessed every fiber of muscle in his body, every ounce of concentration, to stay upright. This was important. Chloe had just pulled the net out from beneath him. If he were to fail… "Wait," Rivers gasped, out of breath. "I can do it."
Chloe quickly tried to conceal her smile. Her threat had been a success. She wondered in hindsight if she would've actually done it, maybe if Rivers had called her bluff, but luckily, he hadn't. "All right," she said coolly. "We'll try this, but if you aren't completely sober by air time," she reached out and grabbed Rivers by the chin, "I'm calling Stephen." She dug into her pocket and produced her compact, black cell phone. "I have his number on speed dial." She almost cringed. She was pushing it too far and she knew it.
"Okay," Rivers conceded, "okay. I'll be ready." He slowly ran his hand through his dingy red hair.
Chloe quickly slipped her phone back into her pocket and gave Rivers the once over. She turned to Jackson, "Go get him cleaned up."
"Since when did I become his keeper?" Jackson protested.
"Since I said so," Chloe said sternly.
Jackson opened his mouth to argue, but a quick glance from Chloe warned him off. "I'll take him back to the hotel."
Chloe nodded and looked up into the darkened sky. "Better hurry. The storm's back."
Jackson wrapped an arm around Rivers’ shoulder and began to lead him back to the car. "Come on, you stinky bastard."
"Hey," Rivers shot back.
Deep down, Jackson was enjoying this. He had always hated Rivers, and now he was being allowe
d a chance at redemption, or vengeance in this case. "Get in the car and shut up," Jackson instructed him forcefully.
Chloe leaned her head back and let the drops fall on her face. She knew that in an hour or so, the storm would be at full strength and venturing out would be completely impossible. As the two pulled out of the driveway in their rented maroon sedan, she allowed a smile to creep across her face and finally erupt into a complete toothy grin. The power she held over Rivers right now was intoxicating. She wished she had this power all those years ago when they were together. Things would've been different, she assured herself. Things would have been much different. I should call Stephen anyway, she thought spitefully, just to teach Rivers a lesson. No, that's just being vindictive.
"So what?" Chloe said with a grin. Reaching into her pocket, she quickly retrieved her cell phone and began to dial. "It's time for some payback." Lifting the cell phone to her ear, she listened intently as it rang. This time, she was going to do it. There needed to be ramifications for Rivers’ actions. After all, she had been bailing him out for years.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. Chloe wobbled uneasily to see Carrie standing before her. Her face was almost as white as the blouse she was wearing. "Chloe," she barely mouthed her name as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Chloe snapped her cell phone shut and deposited it back into her pocket. "What happened, Carrie?"
Carrie shook her head. "I…"
"You can tell me," Chloe said comfortingly.
Taking a deep breath, Carrie tried to calm down. "It's my fault. I'm so sorry. I could've stopped them, but I didn't. I could've–"
"Stop," Chloe said firmly. "You're babbling. Tell me what happened."
Carrie bit her lip. "Chris is dead."
"Oh God."
Carrie fell forward into Chloe's arms and began to sob uncontrollably against her shoulder. Chloe wrapped an arm around Carrie and used the other to caress her hair. She wanted to cry as well, but who would be there to hold her? She had known Chris longer than Carrie, so it should be… she stopped. She was being petty. Someone was dead. Everyone had to deal with their grief in their own way. Right now, she had to be strong. She was the leader of this team, and if this broadcast was going to succeed, then it would be up to her to reach deep down inside herself and find the strength.
Listen to yourself, she said spitefully. A member of your crew is dead, and you're still worried about the show. What kind of monster are you?
Probably not as bad as the ones inside that house, she decided. At least, she hoped not.
Chapter 24
They already have six, Morgan worried. I pray they don't get the seventh. I don't know if I'll be able to stop them if they do.
Morgan was standing on the roof of a two story building that overlooked the small neighborhood where the Grant House was. The rain had been pelting her for hours while the wind whipped her hair around her face, but she was beyond being cold and wet. She realized that now. She had more power than they did. She was beginning to understand. The dream had shown her the way. It had explained everything to her in intricate detail. She had only needed to look inside herself to find the answers. There was work to be done, and she and Veranda were going to finish it.
She silenced her mind for a moment to hear the wind whispering to her. The hour was drawing near. Her and Veranda had to stop them. Morgan snapped her head down in the direction of the Grant House as electricity crackled from her hands. I will not allow them to complete the Ritual of the Sevens. I will die before I let that happen. Summoning her power, she lifted her nimble body into the wind and let it carry her toward her destination. She needed to bide her time, but it wouldn't be long now. Not long at all…
****
"Check, check, can you hear me?"
"We've got you, Chloe," Daniels replied. "There's about a four second delay on the video feed, though. Trying to correct now." He reached down and punched several keys on the pad in front of him. His nimble fingers worked quickly over the controls as he twisted knobs and pulled down several small levers. He turned to the operator to his left, "Hey, Mike, can you boost the signal a bit?"
Mike shook his head. "I'm giving’ ya all she's got, Captain," he replied with a butchered Scottish accent and a smile.
"Very funny, jackass. Like I haven't heard that one a million times before," Daniels replied. He keyed his mic. "Can't correct, we're just going to have to go with the delay." Daniels looked up at the two monitors in front of him. One showed an image of Chloe standing in the garage of the Grant House in Stone Brook, Florida, while the other had the ever-present color bars. He was glad he was here instead of in Florida. Chloe had a jacket wrapped tightly around her body, and he was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and sandals. Sometimes being the board op wasn't all that bad, Daniels thought.
"How does the feed look?" Chloe asked into her headset.
"There's a little static every now and again, but otherwise, the feed is exceptionally clear. Are you sure you're in the middle of a hurricane down there?" Daniels asked with a chuckle.
"Pretty damned sure," Chloe snapped, then the audio channel went dead.
Daniels looked up at the monitor. Chloe had ripped the headset off and was quickly walking out of the frame. "Some people just can't take a joke."
****
Running her hand through her hair, Chloe made her way across the garage. It was quiet now, not the bustling scene it had been an hour ago. Equipment sat unchecked on the floor next to coils of large black cable, and only two members of her crew were present. Carrie had turned into a full-blown chain smoker, lighting one cigarette off the end of the one before it. She was sitting alone in the far corner of the garage, as far away from the house as she could get and still be out of the storm. Her usually well-kept hair was a mess atop her head from her continuously running her fingers through it as she fidgeted. Her hands were visibly shaking, and she was still at least two shades paler than usual. Trent, on the other hand, had barely moved in an hour. He had refused to be taken to the hospital this close to broadcast time for fear he wouldn't make it back in time. He was being the consummate professional, but also an idiot in Chloe's opinion. He had, at the very least, sprained his ankle and that required medical attention.
Chloe knelt down next to Trent. He was sprawled out on the cold cement floor of the garage with his sore knee and ankle stretched out. He was slowly rubbing his hands over his swollen knee. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" she asked sweetly. He looked in bad shape.
Trent looked up at his boss. She could see the pain in his eyes. It wasn't just the pain of his injuries, but of losing a friend. It had been horrible news to her as well, but Chris’ death hadn't affected her the same way it had Trent. They were the two closest members of the crew, and they had been there the longest. She had always envied their unique bond. It was forged in the early, lean years of the show, and had developed into a mutual respect for each other's work and an unwavering loyalty to each other. It was to be respected, but it was also so unique, Trent would never feel that again. Chloe's heart sank.
"Yeah," Trent said slowly. "I'll make it."
"I still think you should go and at least get checked out at the hospital. You may have broken something," Chloe warned him.
"I'll be fine, besides, we're less than two hours from airtime. What if I don't make it back in time? It's not like there's a lot of crew left to cover for me."
That was harsh, but she knew he was just angry. "Okay. Just sit back and rest up." She stood up and turned away. There was no use talking to him at the moment. He was seeing the world through angry red eyes, and there was nothing she could do about that. She certainly wished she could alter time and bring everyone back, but that just wasn't possible. Or at least, she thought it wasn't. Wishful thinking, she told herself. No sense dwelling on the past. There's too much work to be done. Does that make me sound ghoulish?
She stopped near the front of th
e garage and reached toward the wall. There she felt a small black button and pressed it. The automatic garage door creaked in protest as it began to rise. Once outside, Chloe reached through the door and tapped the button, again closing the door behind her. She had one of the Grant's automatic garage door openers in her pocket. There was no way in hell she was going back into that house alone, and when the garage door was closed, the house was the only entrance. She would not be stuck in there, not even for a minute.
She lifted her face skyward and let the raindrops fall over her. This seemed to be the only thing that brought her peace at the moment. Her mind was cluttered with details of the broadcast, and guilt. She hated to admit it, but she felt guilty about Chris’ death. And why shouldn't she? He was killed while under her watch. Aren't bosses supposed to have some kind of liability for things like that? At the moment, she truly hoped so. It would be far better to be punished now, than have to live with his death on her conscience for the rest of her life. She didn't understand how military men coped. How could generals sit in secure offices in another country and draw up plans that would surely send young men to their deaths? Did they feel no guilt or remorse? Or were the men simple numbers on a piece of paper handed to them at the end of the day? There were no faces, only numbers.
Chris was dead. Sam was dead. Cane was missing and presumed dead.
Things were going great. She wondered if she got another member of her crew killed if she would be eligible for a set of steak knifes. At least her wicked sense of humor hadn't abandoned her completely.
She was wrapped up in the storm. The wind was howling around her and the rain was beating against her exposed flesh. It was what she needed right now. It made her feel alive (for what that was worth at the moment). Slowly, she sank down into the wet grass around her. Balling up her fists, she pressed them against her eyes and started to cry. It was not a soft sob, nor just a quiet tear running down her cheek, rather a deep belly cry. She was letting out everything pent up inside her. She was a failure and one of her friends was dead. Why had she been chosen for this godforsaken assignment? Did the fates have it in for her? Lifting up to her knees, she vomited on the grass. Her insides felt as if they were being turned inside out. She heaved again. Everything was coming up. The pain, the guilt, even that penny she swallowed in elementary school. Everything. She wrapped her hands around her aching stomach muscles as she threw up again. Taking a deep, forced breath, she rocked back and sobbed again. Her face showed the pain and agony she had been feeling since this morning.
