by Jaycee Clark
This one was beautiful. Another brunette, long hair that had taken hours, yes, hours, to get just right in that pulled up knot. Of course, he’d had to touch it up when they’d gotten here and he’d set her up against the tombstone.
She sat, her pale skin alabaster in the deepening darkness, leaning against the tombstone. Her legs were bent and tucked under her simple black skirt, which contrasted well with the dying summer grasses. Her blouse almost billowed around her, sort of like her cloud of hair. Her head rested against the edge of the stone, her eyes closed, her makeup very light. Harvey Girls had not been allowed to wear makeup so he’d fudged there, but the light concealer was needed.
She was... almost as perfect as the forties girl.
They were all perfect—and imperfect—in their own ways. This one, luckily, had the longer clothing—hid her bruises better, since he’d rushed with her. She’d been a tempest, hadn’t she? He didn’t like hurting his girls.
The drugs though didn’t work on her like they had the others.
As he was out and away from the city, he’d brought his bellows camera and watched as the silver went to work with the acid, the photo of her slowly coming to life. He grinned, loving that process. There was just something about the old cameras, about the old ways.
He was born in the wrong century. He had to be so careful. So very, very careful. If he wasn’t, he’d be caught and then he could never talk to her, see her again, tell her what he’d done—for her.
He saved all the photos he’d taken. There was a reason; after all, he didn’t just want them for keepsakes. He needed them. To show her. But the time had to be right.
He had started to wonder what she’d look like as a doll, but that was wrong. She was the reason he made the dolls.
He set the plate aside and wanted to wait for it to fully develop. As he waited, he took a few more shots with the digital.
Would she like them? Surely she would, they were the dolls to end all dolls. She deserved them.
They were perfect.
Soon, soon, he’d share this all with her.
* * *
Paige jerked awake when a coldness shivered over her. She lay there for a minute, felt the heat of Mike at her back.
He’d been there for the last several days, barely letting her out of his sight. If he wasn’t around, then it seemed Sammy was, or one of the Riggio brothers. She had never liked being under a microscope. Too many years of people carefully watching her, of people wondering if she was seeing things, hearing voices, and whatnot.
When she’d mentioned it to Sammy, Sammy told her she was just paranoid. No one was watching her.
She knew none of her friends were actually doing that but it felt that way. She knew they cared and worried. And from things Sammy had mentioned before, she got the feeling the Riggio family had their own secrets and their own brand of knowing things.
Might be why they were never shocked when Sammy blurted out at some family dinner years ago that Paige talked to dead people. No one had shifted or shied away. Never asked her why she wasn’t on meds, or seeing a counselor.
They simply accepted it, accepted her.
She often wondered if Sammy understood how precious that was.
Paige had never really told her friend how bad it had been for her when she was younger. Though Sammy probably wondered, maybe even knew, since Paige had alluded. She’d just never wanted to share it all.
Mike shifted and again the difference in his warmth and the cold of the room skimmed over her.
Not again.
“Please, go away,” she whispered. “Not now.”
“Now. Before. To come,” a voice whispered.
There was a shadow in the corner, or was there?
The voice she heard, she knew she had, but to whom the voice belonged, she couldn’t tell.
“Not now. Let me sleep.” Please.
She heard a sigh and then the room warmed slightly.
But she lay there looking into the darkness. Was this another girl some man and killed and left in a cemetery, or was this a new ghost? One that belonged to the building?
No one had ever told her about the guilt. She’d felt it before when she’d ignored the others, but never on this level. How did she deal with it? And why did she feel guilty? They were dead, not like she could change that fact. Didn’t she deserve a life free of them, at least for a few hours? Is this what it was always going to be like for her?
She’d gone so long without acknowledging the others, now that they were always there, she didn’t know what to do, how to help them more. How to get a moments peace.
Lately she was seeing them all the time, she hadn’t told Mike that.
There were the two—possibly three?—women from the cemeteries.
But there was an old man as well. Who he was, she had no clue, but she saw him out of the corner of her eye on her way to the shop and when she walked home. She just ignored him. And the young boy probably from the last century going by the clothes he wore. There was also a girl she’d seen in the alley. They weren’t all connected to the first ghost though.
She’d spoken with the first ghost that fateful morning and now look what happened. Every other girl the bastard killed followed the first right to her doorstep, or bedroom and invited more. She wanted to help them, she just didn’t know how, more than telling Mike when a new girl showed up that she knew was connected to his case.
She hadn’t told Mike about the pop-ins. He might have an issue knowing the ghosts were watching at odd hours.
Not that she paid attention to too much but Mike when he was around, but still. What if they watched?
Freaky.
Settling back against Mike, she wondered why her. Why did they keep coming to her? Why now? Were her defenses just down? Was there some sort of connection between her and the girls? Not that she knew, she’d tried. She’d learned the first two names and as far as she knew they had no connection to her. Sammy couldn’t remember them coming into the shop, though if they had, she didn’t know.
She’d asked the first ghost and the second to see if they knew anything she could pass on. All they could tell her was that he took them, dressed them up, posed them, took photos. She’d been right when talking to Sammy as well. The more emotion they showed, or felt, the more solid they became. She’d told Mike what she’d learned, but knew it wasn’t anymore than the police already knew.
So what was the man doing? Why dress and pose them?
Sort of like dolls, she supposed, which was creepy. She took a deep breath. She’d always wanted dolls as a kid, and as a foster kid she didn’t get them.
So why was he killing these women? Why were the women coming to her? Did they mean something to someone else and that was why he killed them? Maybe he just enjoyed the killing? Who knew?
* * *
Mike felt Paige shift against him. “Why are you awake? It’s still too early for you to be up. Another dream?”
She shook her head. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” God, he was tired but he didn’t like her up and awake and worrying alone.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does he do it? Why kill these women? Why the costumes he puts them in? I mean, for what purpose?”
“Babe, he’s a crazy ass. Crazy asses don’t always need rational reasons, at least not our rational.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but he didn’t want her worrying on this. That was his job, not hers.
“They might not be rational, but there are still reasons. There has to be.”
He grunted and stared at the ceiling of her room. Paige hadn’t shut the blackout curtains, the lights from the neighbors and street slanted through the window.
“I mean, one of the women said they were his creations. What is he creating? Have you searched for famous poses that match the women or something? Artwork? Old photographs or stories or dolls or something?”
“You told me about the photos and creations. We’ve l
ooked.” But as far as artwork or dolls, no, they hadn’t, actually. He frowned. “Not all those, but they’re good ideas. Hadn’t thought to look up old stories. Maybe local ones?”
The mayor and his lieutenant were on his case. Well, not the mayor personally, but still he knew the mayor rode LT’s ass, thus his as well.
How to explain this one? He could just say it came to him. Costumes, perfect makeup, the posing, which they’d already covered. Almost like dolls. Made sense. Photographs, stories, just another angle to cover.
“I’ll check tomorrow.” He rubbed his chin in her hair. “Today. Whatever.”
She nodded. “Why do they contact, connect to me? I mean there’s a lot of ghosts in the city and I’m seeing more, but these are...”
“Contacting you, so why?” he asked her.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m up. I don’t know if they are connected to me or not, or if they seek me out simply because I was dumb enough to talk to the first one.”
“But was she the first one?”
It was a thought he’d had several times. There was no way to know for sure. There was just his gut. Somewhere out there had to be other cases that would tie to this one. This guy had to have practice runs because these here were too smooth, too perfect for the bastard to have just started. He didn’t kill the women in the cemeteries, but dumped them, even if they were posed. He transported them after he killed them and left the women for others to find. His creations.
But where, that was the question. They were already doing database searches, but he’d have to broaden the angle and see if anything popped.
Paige huffed out a tired sigh. He didn’t want her worrying about this to the point she couldn’t sleep.
“I think… I think there might be another one,” she whispered.
“What? Another one? Already?” he said, rolling so he faced her, and turning her to face him.
“I don’t know for sure. I’m…” She trailed off. “Never mind. I’ll tell you when I know for certain.”
“I’d rather you tell me when you’re also uncertain.”
“I don’t want to cry wolf.”
“Paige.”
Her breath sighed against his neck. “I’m seeing more ghosts and they’re not all tied to this, so I don’t know and she, or he, isn’t really… there. More a shadow. A cold shadow I see by not looking. I think it’s a she, but I don’t know if she’s tied to this or she’s just new.” She snorted. “That sounds so insane, but it’s the only way to explain it.”
He didn’t care what it sounded like. She’d been more open and honest with him this last week than in the year or so he’d known her. He brushed a knuckle over her bare shoulder.
“So you’re worrying about the women, the killer, the why’s, and new ghosts?”
She smiled, slow and easy. “For the most part, that sums it up well.” She sat up, stretched, then laid back down, her back to him.
He settled her into the curve of his body. “You should get some sleep, babe. You’ll be too tired to work if you keep going like this, up all night, up before dawn. “
“I’m fine.”
“I know that. Not arguing that point, but you need your rest.”
“Be nice if I could get it.”
He grinned. “Oh, you’ll get it.”
She chuckled and he felt it against his chest. “I thought you were too tired earlier.”
“That was earlier, this is now, and one sure fire way to get you to rest is to screw you to sleep.”
This time she laughed outright. “Always so romantic.”
“That’s me.” He nuzzled her neck. “Romantic.”
She snorted. He moved her hair away from her neck and kissed her behind her ear. She shivered.
Always so responsive. He loved that about her. Loved how soft she was against him.
He shifted even closer, rubbing his hands along the front of her, cradling her breasts. Her nipples hardened as he played with them. He draped her leg over his thigh, cocking her knee as he slid into her from behind.
She curved, pressing her sweet ass harder into him and he slid even deeper. Her hand fisted the sheets and he smoothed his hand down her arm until he eased her fist open, lacing their fingers together.
Deeper and slower. He worked her until she begged, until she was so hot, he couldn’t stand it.
With a final thrust, he emptied into her, groaning into her neck.
Maybe her waking up in the middle of the night had a few advantages.
* * *
The bakery bustled with activity this morning. The scent of coffee—Community he’d noticed—filled the air and mixed with the plethora of baking goods.
He watched her again this morning. She was always moving, always doing, always baking, always smiling. Though her smiles the last few days seemed more forced than they had previously. The smile didn’t reach her bright hazel eyes.
He’d always loved her eyes.
And her eyes, even as a child, had always been shadowed.
Maybe today was the day.
The police had found his latest doll yesterday. Not long at all. A groundskeeper had been busy and early apparently. By yesterday evening on the news he’d heard of the body of a woman being found in the small community cemetery. The photos, the antique camera images had turned out perfectly. If only the funerary sculptures had been better. But the woman was from a simpler time, a simpler woman, she wouldn’t have been near the ornate graves. She’d have looked out of place. Her in the fading light, the moss hanging from the trees, the pale stones, the growing shadows. Perfect. His best yet.
Now he wanted to share.
The urgent need to share this all with her, with the only person he’d ever really cared about, grew in him with every passing minute.
He’d created art, his dolls for her.
He remembered her as a child and still had an old faded photo someone had taken of them over twenty years ago. He was surprised and a bit disappointed that she didn’t instantly remember him. At least not that he could tell.
It had been a long time since they’d spent any time together, but she hadn’t really changed. He knew her the first time he’d heard of the new bakery and had walked in and seen her. Knew her instantly.
How was it she hadn’t seen him, at least remembered him?
Yet at the same time, he was glad she hadn’t recognized him. There was a strange sense of power in her not knowing him, not knowing of him doing all this for her. Though with the smile dimmed in her eyes, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she did know or sense something. Everyone, after all, was talking about his creations. Though no one used that term.
They used ugly words, like serial and crimes and vicious.
He wasn’t vicious. The girls deaths were quick. Though, he preferred the term sleep rather than death. Either way, he created his masterpieces.
And soon he could share them. Share them all with her.
She turned when someone said her name. The man was tall, though the other man with him was taller.
She grinned and this time her eyes lit up.
Once upon a time she’d looked at him that way.
The man said, “Babe, coffee here.”
She cocked a perfectly arched brow.
“Please,” he added.
Her dimples peeked out.
“That’s better, handsome.”
“Hey, Paige,” the other man said.
From here he could see the badges clipped to the men’s waists, the bulge of the guns under their jackets.
“Hey, St. Cyr. Please tell me you guys have him already,” Paige said, as she set two large coffees on the counter in front of the guys and then moved to the glass case to grab a couple of muffins.
She was so graceful, always so graceful.
The man crooked his finger at her as she set the bag on the counter as well.
“Not yet, but we’re getting closer,” St. Cyr, the tall man, replied.
Paige leaned over the coun
ter as the man met her halfway. He watched as the man curled his fingers into the front of her t-shirt and tugged her a bit closer, kissing her right in front of the entire shop of customers.
Someone whistled.
Someone else clapped.
“Now that’s a side I’d like with my coffee every morning.”
The man pulled away and looked at the college kid who shouted that out pinning him with hard green eyes. “She’s taken.”
“So I see, man, so I see,” the brave co-ed said.
He watched it all from the corner as he kept his head down and continued to scan the paper, making sure he turned the page so if anyone looked over they would think he was actually reading the thing.
The man just gave a chin lift and turned back to Paige. They talked quietly for several minutes. She smiled and kissed him again.
The man and his tall partner left. He breathed a sigh of relief, thank goodness. They were gone.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about her having a boyfriend. He’d never thought she’d be celibate or a virgin. She was a grown woman. Yet, he didn’t appreciate having it tossed in his face like that—not that she meant to, of course.
The man, had clearly marked her in front of all these people. He, along with every other male in the place, knew that.
He wondered who that policeman was—detective, probably, as he wasn’t in a uniform. Didn’t they have to work their way up the chain to get to wear plainclothes?
He watched her as she watched the man walk out of the bakery, a soft smile on her face. She was happy with him. He was glad of that, he really was. He just didn’t have to completely like it. He didn’t like the confused feelings inside, either, at that.
He wondered if the cops were looking for him, or those specific cops. He’d never followed his own cases before. Not really. He created, he captured, he left. Until his muse saw another opportunity.
He waited a bit longer until, like he knew she would, she came over and offered to fill his cup again.
“You’ve been in several times lately. What’s your name?” she asked.
He grinned. “I’m waiting for you to remember, Paige.”
She kept her smile, but her brows pulled low. “I know you?”
