Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2)

by Chad Huskins

  Rideau was familiar with Rubashkin’s story. She was a young model with some promise, having worked the business since she was a little girl in Saint Petersburg. She had a small part in a made-for-TV movie recently, and signed on with the Tivoli Talent Agency in Moscow. Things had been going well until she had seen a few things the Mafia probably wished she hadn’t, pimps and dealers pushing the models around her into prostitution, even occasionally helping with smuggling of certain items across borders—Customs agents rarely bothered a girl with a pretty face. And she was such a lovely thing, Rideau noted.

  As a potential witness in a growing scandal, Rubashkin had been advised by both FSB and Moscow Police to relocate to someplace else, preferably where no one knew her, at least until they could build a proper case against the men she was accusing. She had also hinted that she suspected women were being trafficked elsewhere, young girls lured into the Tavoli Talent Agency, which she had come to believe was Mafia-owned, with dreams of hitting it big.

  Vasilisa Rubashkin had turned down all offers for witness protection. She just wasn’t that frightened. She thought a change of address would do just fine. Even though she had suspected the men around her of trafficking and forced prostitution, she hadn’t believed them capable of murder. Rubashkin’s tragedy was common enough: Perceptive enough to have picked up on what was going on once the girls started vanishing, yet still so young and naïve as to believe the pimps around her weren’t all that bad. So wide-eyed and innocent.

  And beautiful. The Grey Wolf hadn’t completely robbed her of that. Even in this twisted mess she was in, Vasilisa Rubashkin’s soft, smooth skin and lovable round face were obvious, a strange island of beauty, despite her unpleasant state. And her eyes and nose, though streaked with mascara, were so perfectly proportioned. You took a lot from her, she thought, but you didn’t take those.

  It was of little consolation, but Rideau took consolation where she could find it.

  She looked at the ligature marks, the blood stains, made an assessment. “A little under two hours ago?” she said to Blok, who had silently materialized right behind her, watching and waiting.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s our best estimate.”

  Rideau nodded. She’d started out in crime scene investigation, mainly forensic pathology, working the labs for a while and then, surprising all her coworkers, moved suddenly into Cyber Crimes Division. All of this with the Direction Régionale de Police Judiciaire de Paris before she was thirty years old. From Paris, to Moscow, to New York, to Berlin, to Chelyabinsk, to England, to Amsterdam, she had seen thousands of crime scenes. This was her first time ever setting foot into where the Grey Wolf had been. The man had gained enough spectral-like status in the intelligence community, being here was a bit like coming into a trashed hotel room after Mick Jagger had finished with it.

  It was peculiar, turning around and around in the living room and imagining him here. A plethora of questions leapt at her. Did he sit on the floor in front of her, or did he lounge on the couch? Did he stay to watch her suffer, or did he leave, knowing his work would be done momentarily?

  “I’m going to step outside, get some air,” she said. No one said anything in response. She left the way they had brought her. The wind hit her like a slap in the face. In the parking lot, Rideau remained behind a row of ice-covered hedges, wiping the cream from her upper lip and watching the media storm grow. There were two news vans now, plenty of lights and cameras. The story of the gruesomeness got out. Now it’s really sexy.

  The wind roared in her ears. She pulled her collar up around her neck, lowered her head to diminish her profile. She couldn’t get the image of Rubashkin’s fate out of her head. It reminded her so much of Dubois, and what had been done to him, all in order to send a message to Interpol and all other police agencies on the vory’s trail.

  Looking across the parking lot, Rideau watched the media boys jockeying for position, all craning their heads and lifting their cameras up to get a shot of something, anything around the apartment building.

  She spotted something else, too. A dog. A dark-gray one. It was moving between the legs of the assembled media hounds, slinking around virtually unnoticed. Rideau watched it disappear, then reappear as it wove through the crowd. Then, all at once, it turned and looked at her…

  “Do you smoke?” someone said. Rideau jumped, and turned. It was the female FSB woman, stepping over to her.

  “No,” she said.

  “I do. Especially after seeing something like that. It helps take the edge off.”

  “I usually just drink the edge off.”

  The woman smiled, and for a moment they stood there in silence. Finally, the woman held out her hand. “I’m Dominika,” she said. A first name. No last name or title before it, just Dominika. Very friendly. She was a tall woman, but then most women were taller than Rideau. She had short blonde hair, which blew freely in the wind because she wore no fur cap like most everyone else here. She also had steely blue eyes, crow’s feet all around them, and sagging bags underneath. A hard woman. She’s seen a lot.

  Rideau shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Aurélie. Since we’re giving out firsts.”

  “A pleasure, Aurélie.”

  “Have you been with FSB long?”

  Dominika didn’t answer this. Instead, she said, “I’d like to buy you that drink.”

  Rideau blinked. “Sorry? Right now?”

  “Well, I’ve got my cigarettes,” she said, touching her breast pocket. “But you don’t have anything to take the edge off. We can’t do any more here. And…I can’t say what I want to say here. Watching eyes, listening ears, all of that.”

  Rideau stared at her a moment. Both of their breath was coming out in great tufts of white cloud, only Rideau was shivering uncontrollably and Dominika looked only mildly annoyed, closing one eye against the wind. “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “I’m leaving in five minutes in my own car. There’s a sushi bar called Syshka ten minutes from here. Wait a little while after I’ve left, then tell Lieutenant Tattar you’re in the mood for sushi, and that you heard one of the police officers around here talking about a place. When he drops you off, tell him to leave you alone for a while. I think he’ll listen.”

  Rideau took a step closer to her, and spoke as loud as she dared over the wind. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Do as I say,” Dominika said. Then, she shrugged. “Or don’t. I’ll be at Syshka for one hour. If you don’t come, have a nice stay in Russia, and I hope you have a wonderful flight home.” The woman walked by her, around the police tape cordoning off the area, and disappeared around the throng of reporters and gawkers.

  Rideau stood there for a moment, completely vexed, looking between the stairs whence she came and the twinkling sirens atop squad cars. Then, for just a moment, she looked at a few flakes in the air. That were moving sideways. Directly sideways, no twirling paths like you’d expect of flakes caught on such a rough breeze, just a straight line from west to east. More than a few flakes were this direct.

  She checked her watch: 8:58 PM. If not for Dominika’s odd invitation, Rideau might’ve pondered the anomaly a moment longer, before heading back up the stairs to inform Lieutenant Tattar that she was in the mood for a sushi dinner.

  Behind her, off in the woods, pale-yellow eyes were watching. Rideau never saw them.

  It was almost lunch time for Shannon. Today was hamburgers, her favorite.

  “This one? Is this one the one he offered?” The voices were coming from everywhere, and from nowhere. “Kaley?” she said. There was no response. Big Sister had left her alone again. She should’ve listened. Going with the laughing man only makes things worse. She should’ve listened!

  “Yes,” said another voice. A leader’s voice. Someone in charge. “Yes, now be quiet. He has promised her to us, so let this play out.”

  “I don’t like you,” Shan said aloud. “I want you to go away.” Ahead of her, two girls and three boys she ba
rely knew turned to look at her. A couple of them curled their upper lips in disgust, snorted, and tittered to themselves. One of the girls, a freckle-faced meanie who had always given Shannon a hard time for being the new girl, made a scratching gesture at her crotch, and laughed while looking Shannon directly in her face. “That’s not funny,” she said, eyes watering. “Why would you do that?” This only delighted the other kids.

  “What’s going on over here?” said Ms. Moore. She’d briefly stepped out of the room to chat with another teacher. As soon as she had left, Shannon had felt the courage of every student in the room go up—whispering and general antics could not be done with the vigilant Ms. Moore around—but now that Ms. Moore was back, the cowards ran back inside themselves.

  “They’re being mean,” said Shannon.

  “How are they being mean?” Ms. Moore wanted to know. She put her hands on her hips, and looked between Shannon and the others. Shannon was too embarrassed to say what the freckle-faced girl had done, but Ms. Moore was smart and got the gist. Finally, she said, “I want all eyes facing forward and on your work. No more talking. If I catch anyone talking, it’s detention.” She knows. She knows what they said, but she can’t do anything without proof. And, in a way, she’s afraid of them, too.

  This was most frustrating of all, knowing that she couldn’t really say or do anything to make Ms. Moore permanently remove the kids from class. That’s the way it should be. Mean kids get removed, the good kids get to stay and learn. Mean kids should be left out of everything, not allowed to learn, left to be stupid until they can be ni—

  Her thoughts were cut short when a few of the kids in front of her suddenly gasped. A couple of them leapt out of their seats and up onto their desks like they’d seen a rat. Freckle-face was one of them, but halfway there, her legs went out from underneath her and she face-planted on the carpet. And there was something else. Shannon saw it. It was brief, but undeniably there, if only for an instant. Something like a squid, fading in and out of existence, wrapping several tentacles around Freckles, jerking her feet out from underneath her.

  Something slid past Shannon’s feet, but she remained still. Very, very still. It was like what Kaley described from her dreams. Ankle-deep water, and things moving around in it.

  “No, no, no,” said the leader’s voice. “Leave her be! Let the laughing man do his work!”

  “The laughing man?” she said. Her words were drowned out by the screams from the other kids. Freckles had stood up, face gushing blood. Her nose was busted, and she was crying and looking around for help, but the kids were all leaping back. Ms. Moore was her only friend now, helping Freckles up and over to the door.

  “Everybody sit down!” Ms. Moore hollered. “Jessica, sweetheart, let’s take you to the nurse—”

  “It was a rat!” one of the boys shouted.

  “Nuh-uh, it was a snake!” another boy shouted. “Big as all get out!”

  The classroom was chaos. Teachers from next door had heard the commotion and came rushing in to see what it was all about. Shannon watched Ms. Moore lead Freckles (Jessica) out of the room. On her way to the nurse’s office, probably on her way home. Ms. Moore was so friendly to her. Ain’t right. Mean people shouldn’t be treated like the rest of us. It’s better than she deserves. Ain’t right.

  Mrs. Karlson from across the hall came rushing into the classroom. Ms. Moore asked her to watch her class while she took Freckles to the nurse. The kids all hollered at Mrs. Karlson that there was a snake or a rat or something else loose inside the classroom. The other kids were standing up on their desks now, shrieking that high-pitched shriek only kids could do. All except for Shannon, who sat right where she was, forgetting the whispers in her head and in her bones for the moment, and watching Freckles get escorted out with so much care and empathy. Ain’t right, she thought.

  8

  Cartersville Middle School conducted lunch this way: Since it was on the new “block scheduling” this year, and all classes, with the exception of first period, were nearly two hours long, lunch had to be fit in during third period. This was accomplished by having some classes get a thirty-minute lunch before starting their third period, some classes get a thirty-minute lunch halfway through their third period (splitting up the class), and some classes get a lunch at the end of their third period.

  Kaley’s third-period art class with Ms. Hurgess was of that second kind: she and her classmates reported to the art room, and halfway through they attended lunch, then returned to their class to finish out third period.

  There had been no problem with Mr. Boulier—whatever spell Kaley had set on him, it seemed to have grown deep, deep roots. As a matter of fact, it might’ve been too deep. Upon retrieving her things from his classroom, she found Mr. Boulier staring vacantly at the desk in front of him. When he saw her, his eyes widened just a tad, and then he stood up and found something to do in his closet, rearranging things until she had gone.

  Ms. Hurgess’s classroom was coated in the same watery film as the rest of the school had been. It flowed over the wall beside Kaley’s table, over the hanging sketch of one of Salvador Dali’s paintings that Gretchen Dunham had made two weeks ago. Ms. Hurgess had put that sketch up along with two others she was proud of; Nathan Driscoll’s self-portrait and Maggie Carter’s drawing of her dog Alfie. The water flowed over all of these, including the sign above it that said MS. HURGESS’S STUDENTS SHINE and ART OF THE MONTH, yet it ruined none of them.

  The digital clock on the wall said: 12:00 PM. Right on the dot. From what she’d seen on the Internet, there was a nine-hour time difference between the American East Coast and Chelyabinsk. So, if it was noon in Cartersville (where she was just getting to class), it was 9:00 PM in Chelyabinsk (where she was just starting to probe the perimeter of the dock house).

  Kaley dropped her bag beside the stool at her drawing table, which she shared with Leonard Cantrell, the quiet goth kid who no one talked to, and who talked to no one. Kaley had made no friends since coming to Cartersville, only a few cordial bullies and a smattering of loners such as herself that preferred to sit quietly and work alone. Leonard was one of those kids who was so focused on not talking to anybody that he actually did his work and did it well. He was known for his detailed sketches. Too bad being a good artist never made anybody popular in school, Kaley thought, taking her seat just as the bell rang. A world away, she was still following the pathway in the snowfall, up to the dock house…

  “All right, everybody,” said Ms. Hurgess, a matronly woman sweeping into the room with her overly large self-knitted pancho and bifocals resting low on her nose. In years to come, Kaley would wonder why all art teachers were more or less the same. “Sit your little bottoms down.” She always said that. It was mock authority. Like all art teachers in Kaley’s experience, she was easygoing and friendly with all her students, quite lax with rules in her classroom, one of the “cool” teachers. Artists, she supposed, were like that.

  Ms. Hurgess took a quick head count, her version of roll call. Then, she shooed them away like stray cats. “Okay, now go very quickly to your cubbies and get your work out. Have them out and ready for me to come around and check your progress.”

  Again, more mock authority. As often as not, Ms. Hurgess forgot to go around and grade students’ progress. It was one of the reasons Kaley had chosen this elective for this semester. Upon orientation, she heard a pair of boys chattering about who they hoped they got. One kid had said, “Man, I wish I could take art two semesters in a row. Ms. Hurgess’s class is a cakewalk. She doesn’t care what you do, long as you draw something or make something outta clay or with pastels.”

  Sign me up for that, Kaley had thought at the time. With all that had been going on in her life, she felt she had every right to a cakewalk. At least one.

  Presently, Kaley remained in her seat while the others rushed for their cubby holes (or cubbies as Ms. Hurgess called them) to retrieve their various projects. She looked across at Lenny. On his side of th
e table, he had all sorts of pencils out for sketching—on the rare occasions he’d spoken to Kaley, he had mentioned that he liked the Utrecht charcoal pencil for general sketching, while he preferred the General’s Kimberly pencil for shading. He rarely inked, but when he did he used Faber-Castell pens.

  Kaley stared at those pencils…

  …followed the open path in the snowfall in front of her…

  …got up from her stool and went to her cubby hole to get out her unfinished sketch…

  …nearer and nearer she went to the second dock house…

  …looking down at her sketch, a generic bowl of fruit, drawn from a picture in a magazine…

  …shivering from the cold Siberian winds…

  …pulling off her jacket because it was too hot in Ms. Hurgess’s room (the art teacher always liked the heat on)…

  …ducked into another stack of crates, and into darkness, when she heard footsteps…

  …sat back down at her desk, put the sketch on the table, and asked Lenny to borrow one of his Utrecht charcoal pencils…

  …peeked her head back out, saw the owner of those footsteps, a man in a giant red parka stepping out of the dock house twenty feet away for a smoke…

  …said “Thank you” to Lenny as she accepted the Utrecht and fished in her book bag for the magazine with the picture of the bowl of fruit…

  …slinked out of hiding and hustled over to the dock house and passed effortlessly through it walls…

  …put pencil to paper…

  …looked at the running water on the walls and the ceiling…

  …looked at the running water on the walls and the ceiling…

  With the magazine open and turned to the right page, Kaley looked between the picture and her rendering. Not even close, she thought, still on autopilot. While she knew there was a pressing need to return to Spencer and the boy, she also couldn’t resist going through the motions of school. She couldn’t even resist the gnawing anxiety in her gut over knowing who was sitting just behind her.