by Jaycee Clark
She shook her head and tried to pull on her wrists without him noticing.
“That’s, um, that’s really interesting, Cohen.” At least he hadn’t left the dolls on her porch, or stoop, or her door, or, God forbid, on her bed, where little girls usually kept their dolls. Where she had kept hers once upon a time.
“Usually, I have the clothing first, and the image, the setting in my mind. Then I try to find the girl. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what hair color she has, or eye color, what shape her face is. If she’s slim, curvaceous, tall. Other times, I want the contrast or the compliments of colors, textures, shapes in a photo.” He looked back at her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I found a hobby in photography and just took it into an area that interested me.”
Taking photos of dead women?
“I realized later they were almost doll-like. And boom! A moment, you know? A reason I was doing this. My muse! You!”
What the hell did she say to that?
“Your muse?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. “Once I saw the dolls in my photos, I knew.” Again he motioned to the collection on the walls. “So I’ve made sure you can have the dolls in another way. My art, for you to keep.”
Art.
Black and white photos, a few in sepia. Some looked really old. Different women were in the photos. When had he taken them all? She couldn’t help but study the photos. How many women were there?
“So many, Cohen. “ She tugged again on her wrists, glancing at her bound hands and seeing the knot. If she could get her teeth on it, she might be able to get her hands free. Cohen was busy looking at the photos.
“You know which is my favorite?” he asked, looking back at her.
“No.”
He shrugged. “I don’t either. I do like the woman in white, something about the bright red just sets it off. But honestly, I think my new idea will be my best and my favorite.”
She shivered.
“And you get to be part of it.”
Oh, God. She stayed very still. He stood and pulled a framed photo off the wall. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a whole collection to give you. But as you can see, I improved.”
Had he ever said he wanted to be an artist? A photographer? Maybe, she honestly couldn’t remember.
“Anyway, I don’t like violence, not really. I might need it to make a point in my art, but on the whole, I’m not a violent man.”
Violence? Because killing women wasn’t violent at all, apparently. Crazy.
“I’m so glad you’re my muse,” he told her.
What did she say to that?
“Really?”
“Well, yeah, without you, without the doll issue back at that place, I might never have made the connection that I was doing this, on some level, just for you.”
“I don’t-I don’t know if I’m comfortable being a muse. I’d rather you not hurt anyone, Cohen. Not for me.”
“But you are an inspiration. God knows you even inspired me then. I made that doll, I tried to be better, I tried to protect you. I did protect you. After the fire, they took you to a safer place, didn’t they? I tried to find out where you were, if you were safe, but no one would tell me where you’d gone.”
She just looked at him. Had he just admitted…? No, surely he hadn’t.
“Wait, the fire? Protect me?”
He smiled softly at her. “Well, yeah. They deserved it.”
“Oh my God, you… you set the fire? That was you?”
His face hardened, his dark eyes glittering.
She pulled to the far side of the bed, as far as the tether would allow her to.
“Yes. I hadn’t realized they’d locked you in. I tried to tell them I’d made the doll for you, that you hadn’t stolen it from anyone, but they didn’t listen. They never listened.”
He had? Did she remember that? No.
“But the fire almost got you.” He shook his head. “I don’t do fires anymore. Not after that night. Too chancy.”
Yeah, it was probably time to go back to the therapist.
“Look, all that was a long time ago, Cohen. I’m-I’m happy you’re so inspired and have… um… made a success. But I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t make me any more dolls.” She took a deep breath of musty air and then let it out, slowly, as he continued to look at her.
“Well, I can’t do that. I find them, they find me. I have to create them.”
“But you don’t—”
“Yes, I do!” he snapped. “I have to.”
“But I don’t want you to, not for me anymore.”
He smiled sadly at her. “I know, or I think I do, which is why it has to be this way.” He took something out of his pocket and started towards her.
“What are you doing?” she said, trying to scoot to the other side of the bed, but her bound hands didn’t allow that.
“Don’t worry, it’ll only sting for a minute. Then you’ll be fine.” His voice was calm, as if talking about what he’d—they’d—had for lunch.
“P-please, please, d-don’t do this.”
He brushed the hair away from her face again. “Shhhh.”
She tried, she twisted, but he leaned into her and she didn’t have any leverage as he kept her pinned. His weight on her and the sluggishness of the drug wearing off didn’t grant her any quick moves or a way out of her binds.
“Please, Cohen. Please—” The sting of the syringe bit into her upper arm. “Please, don’t.”
Whatever he’d given her felt warm where it’d entered. “What did you give me?” she asked.
“Just something to make you sleep. Don’t worry. You get to be part of it now.” Again she felt his warm fingers brushing her hair off her forehead, tracing her nose, rubbing across her cheek.
“No…Please…” Mike.
* * *
He carefully parked the car in the backwater cemetery.
This one was way out of the way.
He’d rushed the girls, he knew he had, but there hadn’t been a choice. He knew Paige’s cop would be looking for her, looking for him.
His larger slides from the bellows were carefully packed in the back of the car, all the digitals saved to a flashdrive.
It only took him half an hour to get the other one dressed, her hair and her make-up done. A few minutes to load her into the car he’d rented. Paige was so slight, and she was already dressed, that it took him no time to load her. Now, now he could set the scene in this abandoned cemetery.
He didn’t like being in a hurry. This was a great photo op and he had to rush. He would probably forget something. Quickly, he unloaded his camera and the equipment he’d need.
The other one, he decided to lay down, as if she were sleeping. One arm tossed above her head. She was dressed in a period costume, the only one he’d had that would fit her. This woman had been in wonderful shape. He arranged her just so, her head turned over her right shoulder, her left arm up, the right tossed over her abdomen. Her legs covered in the thick heavy skirts. Her hair was perfectly coiffed.
Then he went back and carried Paige. Giddy now, he hummed as he arranged her as well. The tombstone read about a loving wife and mother. The one beside it read about a life cut short.
Her right hand was on the doll’s chest, but her left was curled and tucked under her chin. She’d either be in a relaxed state, playing with her doll all worn out, or maybe visiting her mother’s grave with a doll. Or she’d be waiting for her friend to awaken so they could play.
He took several photos of her and the other woman as they lay together side by side on the cool ground, tall grasses standing on either side of them. He checked his watch.
He had a bit more time.
He wondered what he’d title this piece.
Paige looked so very young and innocent. Maybe innocent was what he should go with for her and worry about the contrast to it all later. Then again, if she represented the innocence of childhood the contrast would be the location itself. Or the fact the do
ll was, in fact, a dead woman.
Her own life-size mommy doll. He grinned when he looked at the doll, happy with the makeup and clothing. He took several photos in different lighting, took three with the bellows camera, and two with her phone, after he replaced the battery and turned it back on. He ignored the missed calls, the texts. Instead he pulled up her gallery, chose the photo he’d just taken and sent it via text to Mike Killian. Her sweetie. Man would not take long in getting here.
* * *
Paige was sitting in a cemetery, and not one she knew. It was quiet here, so quiet she could hear herself breathing.
“Finally,” a voice said. A voice she knew.
Paige turned and saw the woman in white, her red scarf bright in the foggy air around them.
“Where am I?” she asked, looking around.
“The between,” Harvey Girl answered.
Oh, the between. Paige frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Means he’s given you a shitload of drugs, hope help arrives pretty quick. Man can’t figure out his meds,” another woman said. The one dressed in the forties dress.
“Am I dead?” she asked them.
“Not yet.” They all looked into the fog.
“Bastard,” someone else said. A shadow from the back.
Paige didn’t want to die. She tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t work.
“You won’t get around here, in the in between. You’re still too alive,” the lady in white told her.
Paige tried not to panic. “How do we stop him? Can’t we do anything? Can’t you do anything?” she asked them.
“What?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know, get pissed, get solid, do something to him.”
“We’ve tried to stay away from him,” Harvey Girl told her. “He tends to drain our energy.”
Paige studied the women, except for the shadow in the back. That one was scary. Every now and then she thought she saw long dark tendrils of hair floating in the shadow.
“I’m sorry I didn’t help you more. I didn’t know how.”
“Yeah, well, you might want to work on that,” the lady in white told her. “You heard us, you did send help. The police are at least looking for him.”
“Which is more than they did before,” forties girl said. “We hear things on the other side.”
“What did you mean get solid?” lady in white asked her.
Paige shrugged. “When you come see me, when you get upset, or really emotional, you just sort of…solidify. I can see you, all of you, the buttons on your clothing, jewelry, everything.”
“And?” two of them asked.
“Well, if history is full of ghosts or a single ghosts moving things, or depressing bedspreads, or whatever in old homes, couldn’t you guys work together? Channel your energies or something and stop him?”
The women looked at each other.
Paige struggled to her feet.
“Don’t,” the shadow whispered.
Paige sat.
“The more you join us, the less your remain,” the words slithered across the ground.
“Maybe we can use some of your energy?” forties girl suggested.
“You can try,” Paige told them. “Otherwise, he might get away. And more will get hurt.”
The ghosts started talking to each other, but the words jumbled together as the shadow covered them and sucked all the light away. Paige fell back into the darkness.
* * *
Cohen wished he could stay, wished he could take her with him. He brushed his fingers one last time against her cheek, he said, “Until I see you again, squirt.”
With that, he walked away, side stepping a tombstone. He looked back, taking a deep breath, the scent of the river heavy on the air.
He climbed into the rental car, which he’d rented under his other name. With one last glance, he turned the car out of the bayou cemetery, long forgotten and almost rotten, and left, wishing he was taking Paige with him, but she wasn’t his to take.
Paige was his muse, and muses could never be caged. They had to be free. He’d send her some of his art after he settled.
He reached over to grab his camera he’d set in the seat, glancing in the back to make sure the old bellows was still packed in the floor. Yes.
As he checked the road, he caught a flash of white and red.
He blinked and looked the mirror as he passed. Dark trees stood guard, Spanish moss swaying in the wind.
Had it been windy?
A woman? He could have sworn there was a woman there. White dress, red scarf.
No.
A chill danced over his skin. He tried to find her.
Nothing was in the road.
He looked back in front of him.
“Shit!” Another woman stood there.
She was dressed in a forties dress. He knew, he’d picked it out.
“No,” he whispered.
He kept driving, pressing his foot on the accelerator. The trees whirred by, the water glistening in the growing darkness.
There were no women there, just his mind playing tricks on him. He needed to focus.
He shook it off and thought about the last photos he’d taken. The whole afternoon had been rushed, but he’d known almost as soon as he’d had her back at his place what he wanted to do. The double photo. The makeup might not be perfect, but then he’d had to take it off both of them, really. Good mothers didn’t wear a lot of makeup and a child wouldn’t have. The whole thing wasn’t so much about makeup but presentation. The faces.
The—
A dark image stood in front of him, flashed closer. Dark hair, flowing and whipping around her face. Her whole being was shadows. He heard her scream just as he was almost upon her. Her face was right in front of his, in the car. He yelled and jerked the wheel.
He felt the car veer. Felt the tilt, the roll, as the car careened over the embankment. Metal scraping and screeching, glass breaking.
His head slammed into the steering wheel, blurring the world around him even as the water rushed in. He blinked and tried to focus, but things were fuzzy.
Water gurgled, no, rushed.
That wasn’t right, it wasn’t flooding, now was it? Car, he was in the car. He needed to get out. He grabbed the door handle and shoved, but the door wouldn’t budge. He was upside down. He tried to get his seatbelt off. Tried to press the plastic, but it wouldn’t depress.
The belt seemed to tighten as water rushed in now touching his head.
He glanced to his window, saw nothing but murk, but then her face was there again. Dark, pale, shadowed. Angry. She floated closer, her dark eyes glowing with black fire. Closer. Closer. The skin peeled and flaked off her face. She opened her mouth to kiss him.
He yelled but no one heard.
Chapter Nine
Mike paced the room.
“Calm down,” St. Cyr told him.
He didn’t even bother looking at his partner.
“He has her. Do not tell me to calm down,” he bit out.
The bastard had Paige. He had her. They knew it. She was supposed to meet him at three, was supposed to be back around two with Sammy, but she hadn’t showed, and hadn’t answered her texts. The one vague text sent, wasn’t her. Something about it was off. Even Sammy had thought so. There had been too many abbreviations for Paige, who spelled everything out. After that, nothing. Silence. Calls went straight to voicemail and she hadn’t answered any text either he or Sammy sent.
They couldn’t even find a signal from her damned phone.
Sammy had called her brother and St. Cyr. Now the Riggios were looking, the police were looking. They’d only found the bastard’s house an hour ago.
So many photos. Eight women total. Five local women. Three they knew about. The fourth was in Donaldsonville; the cops there were sending in what they knew, which was very little. The house, no one had let him in the house, though St. Cyr had let him know that her clothing was found. He’d only known that because they’d
asked him what she’d been wearing that day and he knew.
But now? Now, he was pacing. They wouldn’t let him look in the other room. No blood was found. He’d taken a swing at St. Cyr, who, along with the oldest Riggio, had pinned him to the wall. No blood, no sign of struggle, but her clothing. Her purse.
No phone.
“Where are they? Where did the bastard take Paige?” he asked no one as he continued to pace.
There was blood in another room. Another room down the hall, barren.
What it all meant, he had no idea. He only knew he had to find her. What was the bastard doing to her?
“You need to calm down. We’ll find them.” St. Cyr spoke to another crime tech. People bustled around him in a familiar dance he didn’t understand.
“No sign of her phone yet?” he asked for the umpteenth time.
St. Cyr just leveled a look at him. Mike growled, raked a hand through his hair and kept pacing. They’d find her soon.
They had to find her soon. He couldn’t, wouldn’t lose her now.
“What exactly are we doing?” he asked.
Nick Riggio leaned against the wall. “Crime techs are gathering evidence. We’ve looked at the photos, those are being studied by the cops and my firm, a couple of fed friends. Everyone is trying to find them. Local and state boys are on the lookout for a car he likely rented, though the receptionist at the rental counter wasn’t positive.”
“Does anyone know any—“ His phone dinged with a text.
He jerked it out of his pocket, swiped the screen, and saw the text was from Paige.
“Thank God!”
“What?” Riggio asked.
He pressed the app to read the message, and saw you can find… beside her name. “Another text from Paige. Let’s hope she actually sent this one.”
When it came up, it took a few seconds for a photo to load. Two bodies lay next to a tombstone.
“What the hell?” he asked.
