Maggie looked down angrily. She had not disconnected from the vision. Why had it stopped? Then she saw the answer. On the T-shirt, where the hair had been, was only a long, thin black smear. She had used up the fuel for her spell. The hair was completely incinerated.
Moving past her immediate anger, Maggie reflected on her success. First, she had indeed found the right hair. Second, the spell had worked. Third, she knew how Annette had been killed, if not why or by whom. And the precision with which the killer had extracted and placed the organs was enough confirmation for Maggie that he was trying to accomplish something with the ritual.
A good start, she had to admit, and leaned back in her chair contemplatively.
* * *
The rain had come in about seven that evening, as Maggie enjoyed a quiet but pleasant dinner with her aunt and uncle. Since all of her free time was being consumed by the spell book, Maggie had considerably less to talk about.
'Oh, the magic's going well,' she imagined herself saying. 'I'll be sneaking out tonight to find more samples for my divining spell.'
And indeed after dinner, and after she was sure her aunt and uncle had retired for the evening, Maggie did in fact sneak out of the MacTary's house and into the dark, rainy night.
This time she rode her bike despite the cold. There were few buses running after ten o'clock and riding her bicycle in the icy drizzle seemed preferable to walking in it. It was near eleven thirty when she arrived at the campus. Locking her bike to the nearest bike-rack, Maggie hurried to scene of Kelly's murder.
As she had hoped, the police were not terribly inclined to stand out in the cold and wet. The scene was abandoned save the official looking police tape. 'DO NOT CROSS,' it commanded. I won't tell, if you wont, Maggie thought as she ducked under the tape and pulled the flashlight out of her backpack pocket.
Be quick, Devereaux, she told herself. She knew it was stupid and dangerous to be out alone by herself, especially with a serial killer loose on campus. But she took some consolation in the fact that Kelly's murder had been recent. The killings all seemed to coincide with a new moon and it would be several weeks until the moon was new again. So she was safe, at least for now.
Or maybe not. With a flush of panic, she realized that the killer's requirement that he take a life on the new moon did not in any way preclude him from killing someone else in the meantime. Especially if that someone else were nosing around one of the murder scenes late at night. Uh-oh.
Maggie looked around frantically for some artifact as fear exploded from her stomach. The rain hiding the sounds of oncoming steps, Maggie tried to stay calm enough to find something of value. The scene was far better preserved than Annette's had been and she quickly located several bits of flesh stuck to the rock of the pathway. Then her flashlight caught glimpse of a thread of some sort. Maggie stood paralyzed between her instinct to flee and her memory of the all-too-short vision from Annette's single hair. Grabbing the thread roughly, she stood up, looked around, then ducked under the police tape and ran as fast as she could back to her bicycle.
* * *
Maggie turned the key as quietly as she could and opened the door equally so. No immediate sign of Aunt Lucy or Uncle Alex. Not that they owned her or could prevent her from going out whenever she wanted. But the niceties of living under the same roof with someone usually included explaining where you have been near midnight on a rainy December night. Luckily, it looked like she would be able to avoid that. Trying not to drip too much, she scurried up to her room and quickly locked the door.
In no time, Maggie was crouched over the bits of flesh she had collected. Repeating the spell, Maggie summoned a vision from the silent witnesses to Kelly's murder.
The vision was similar to the first one. A dark figure grabbed Kelly from behind and wrapped a cord around her neck. Strangulation was followed by dissection. The figure seemed to be wearing the same dark overcoat and gloves, but Maggie couldn't see his face as he crouched over the body. She got a few fleeting glimpses as he arranged the organs around the body, but again Maggie couldn't make out the details of the face. The features seemed to shift even as she looked at them. Then as abruptly as the first, the vision drained away.
Looking down at the black smudge on the T-shirt, Maggie just gave out a resigned sigh and moved the thread into place. Again the divining spell passed her lips and again a vision arose.
This time, though, it was just of the killer. No murder victims to be seen. But Maggie recognized the coat, the gloves and the key from the first vision. She watched intently as the killer removed the coat and gloves and shoved them into a bag. The vision changed then, and the figure placed the bag inside a locker at what looked like the train station. Changing once more, the vision showed the killer walking up to a tree and placing a key into a knothole several feet up it. Maggie again could not make out the face, but she could see the number on the key clearly as it slid into the knothole: '99.' Then the vision gave out and Maggie was left alone in the room with what she had seen.
She doubted seriously that the police knew about any train station locker or tree knothole. And she was equally confident that they would be very interested in finding the murder weapons. But it was very late. That would have to wait until tomorrow.
For now the best thing to do was to get some sleep. She had developed a sort of post-magic routine and automatically began to follow it. Before going into the bathroom to wash up, she cracked one of the windows and went to open the trap to the vent. It was then that she realized that, in her haste, she had forgotten ever to close the trap. Maggie's mind raced as she tried to recall when she had last opened it and whether Alex or Lucy had been home during any of her other spell sessions that day. She wasn't sure about either.
She went to the vent and listened. No sound. That was good. Most likely they hadn't heard anything.
And if they had, so what? Maggie thought. It wasn't as if either of them understood Old Gaelic.
Right?
34. Missed Connections
This time the dream was different. She was roaming the hallways of the castle. It was the same castle, she knew that much. But the hallways were dark and she couldn't see more than a few feet in front of her face. She could hear screams and moans and wails clawing pitifully at the insides of the cold, stone walls. As she continued along the corridor, the cries intensified and seemed to bleed from the very walls themselves. Ahead of her shone a dim light, red as blood and flickering menacingly. She approached a sharp bend in the dank hallway and knew that the source of the flame was just around the corner. All around her, the screams had grown to a high pitched ring of despair and pain. She turned the corner quickly and looked into the heart of the red flame.
Then she woke up.
But she couldn't remember what she'd seen.
And that's what really bothered her. More than the obvious pain in the suffering voices. She wanted to know what that red flame was. But she didn't.
With a disgusted sigh, she pushed herself out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom. Twenty minutes later she was dressed and walking down the stairs for breakfast. She had slept in late again; it had been another long night of magickry. She was sure Alex and Lucy were at the store by now and she would have the run of the house to herself. So she nearly fainted when she heard his voice.
"Mornin', Maggie."
After her heart started beating again, Maggie turned to see her Uncle Alex, dressed inelegantly in his bathrobe and holding a steaming teacup in both hands.
"Oh, geez," Maggie finally exhaled. "You scared me. I didn't think anyone else was home."
"Aye, well," Alex took a sip from his cup. "I'm not feeling very well today. Your aunt convinced me to stay home, at least for the morn."
"Oh, well, that's too bad," Maggie offered.
"Aye, I haven't felt right for a day or so."
Maggie nodded, unsure what else to say.
"Was up most of the night too," he raised an eyebrow as he sipped again from his
cup.
"Oh?" This seemed noncommittal enough.
"Aye." He nodded thoughtfully. "You were up late yourself, no?"
"Er, yeah, I guess," Maggie wasn't sure where he was going with this, but no point in blazing the trail for him.
"Next time lock the door when you get back home, eh?" he smiled.
Maggie let out a sigh. "Oh, gosh. Sorry. I—"
"No need to apologize. I was up in the living room when you came home. I locked it right after you."
"Oh," this seemed to be a good word to repeat.
"What in blazes were you doing out so late on a night like that, lass?" He sniffed deeply and wetly. "You'll catch a cold," he laughed.
"Er, yeah, I know." Think, Devereaux. You can't rightly tell him what you were really doing. "I was out late with Ellen. You know, girl stuff."
"Ah, I imagine I don't know." Another sip. "Not a girl, I."
Maggie laughed politely at this observation. But she was still quite uncomfortable.
Alex nodded again, sipped again, and looked at Maggie. A few awkward moments passed as the two stood uneasily in the hallway. Maggie suddenly realized that she hadn't spent much time alone with Alex since she'd arrived in the fall. Aunt Lucy had always been around. She didn't find this comforting.
"Gaelic was it?" He asked at last.
"Pardon?"
"Gaelic? I heard you in your room. Voices carry sometimes through the house. Especially when you're sitting in the dark trying to feel better. You're studying Gaelic, right?"
"Er, yes." At least now she knew whether she had been overheard.
"Funny, didn't sound like any Gaelic I've ever heard," he looked down as he sipped again from his anonymous drink. "I don't speak it myself, mind you, but I've heard it before. It didn't sound like what I've heard." He cast an inquisitive glance at his niece.
"Yeah, well," Maggie considered her several options, "I've got a pretty bad accent."
"Is that it?"
"Yup," Maggie decided. "That's it. Just practicing some Gaelic"
"Hmm."
Maggie looked at her uncle. He doesn't believe me.
"Well," she said at last, "I just came down to grab some food to take with me to campus."
"Oh, you're leaving?" Alex frowned.
"Yeah, I've got a lot of things to get done today."
"Well," Alex' disposition softened notably, "that's too bad. I'd hoped to spend some time with you this morning."
"Sorry, but, you know, duty calls."
"Aye. You do what you have to do." And he turned back toward the living room, hitching his robe tighter around him. "Have a good day."
"Thanks," Maggie suddenly felt bad about her suspicious disposition. After all, she was the one sneaking around at all hours of the night. "You too ... Uncle."
She couldn't see it, but she hoped he had smiled at this last word. She really hoped that.
* * *
"What?" Warwick's voice betrayed her irritation. "Are you sure? Damn it. Can you fax me some kind of confirmation? All right. You've got the number, right? Okay, yeah, I'll be here all day—all night too most likely. Okay, thanks again, Coles."
Warwick hung up the phone.
"Damn it," she murmured to herself. Staring at her desk, lost in possibilities and their elimination, she suddenly felt a presence in her doorway. Looking up she was greeted by the friendly faces of Inspector Cameron and Dr. Wood.
"Inspector. Dr. Wood." She greeted her visitors as she walked around her desk.
"Who was that, then?" Cameron asked his sergeant. "Something about the case?"
Warwick frowned. "Afraid so. That was the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Belfast. We can scratch Sean FitzSimmons off our list of suspects."
"Why's that?"
"Because he's spent the last week in the Belfast jail," she explained. "Apparently he got into a bar fight and tried to feed some bloke his beer bottle."
Cameron pursed his lips in disappointment, then nodded. "Well, we can't change that, I don't suppose."
"Suppose not," Warwick had to agree. Then, turning her attention to her other guest, "So, how are you, doctor?"
"Better," he answered, shaking the sergeant's hand weakly. "I'm afraid I ssuffered a mild sstroke the other week. Recovering sslowly, I'm afraid. A function of my age, I'm ssure. But it wassn't as sseriouss as it might have been. I'm a lucky man."
This news explained the slightly slack expression Warwick now noticed on the right side of the doctor's face, as well as his speech and weak handshake.
"Well, I'm glad you're—," Warwick started, but the phone rang again.
"Do you mind if I answer that?" she asked. "It could be Ulster again."
"By all means," the inspector replied with a smile. "Do your job."
Warwick smiled and grabbed the receiver.
"Warwick here. What? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. And you're sure? No chance of some sort of mistake? Yes, well, okay two-hundred witnesses... But they couldn't all have seen him ... yes, I know: he only needs one. Eh? Yes, can you fax it to me, or courier? No, don't worry. It's not your fault. Okay. All right. 'Bye."
The sergeant set the phone down on its cradle and let out a long exasperated sigh. "That," she pointed disgustedly at the phone as she turned again to face her guests, "was Professor Craig Macintyre's alibi being confirmed."
Cameron's face again turned up into a disappointed pucker. "Was it then?"
"Yes." Warwick waved again at the phone. "Apparently he was in Amsterdam the night of Annette Graham's murder. And the days before and after, too. So, he's off the list as well."
"Today's not our day," the inspector observed dryly.
Warwick turned to Dr. Wood, hope glinting again in her eye. "Are we sure it's the same killer? Couldn't it be different people using the same method?"
"Well," Dr. Wood straightened up a bit. "We're as ssure as we can be. It'ss the ssame moduss operandi. The ssame cutss. The ssame preccission."
Warwick wouldn't be deterred. "What about what forensics said? That the killer may have suffered an injury to his arm? Macintyre had that huge bruise on his arm."
A puzzled look crossed Dr. Wood's still healing face. "I'm not ssure what you mean?"
"Forensics said," Warwick repeated, "that the cuts seemed less surgical, less sure. Weaker."
Dr. Wood's expression changed to one of sternness. "I've never ssuggested any ssuch thing," he assured.
"Well, they thought it might mean that the killer had suffered some kind of injury. That his arm was weaker—"
She stopped and couldn't help but look down at the doctor's stroke-stricken right side.
"—that is, er," she stumbled on, "maybe it was a different person?"
"No," Dr. Wood went to cross his arms, but couldn't quite. "That'ss not it at all. It iss the ssame killer. And although there iss ssome minimal trauma to the inccision ssites which wass not pressent in the other victims, I would chalk that up to a duller blade. The killer hass likely not taken hiss knife to the grocer to have it sharpened."
"Of course," Warwick answered carefully. "And the cuts are otherwise very exact, correct?"
Dr. Wood cocked his head. "Yes," his voice was guarded.
Cameron breathed in deeply, but didn't say anything just yet.
"Safe to say the killer knows his anatomy?" Warwick continued.
"He knowss it very well," was the doctor's reply.
"Like a doctor?"
After a moment, "Like a doctor."
Cameron couldn't hold his tongue any more. "All right, then. Is that all, sergeant?"
"Yes," she eyed the doctor critically. "Nothing else to report."
"Then we'll be going." The inspector led Dr. Wood back into the corridor. Then he turned back and stepped into Warwick's office as the doctor shuffled down the hallway.
"Sergeant." He would have her attention.
"Yes?"
"That was uncalled for." He looked down at the ground, obviously conflicted. "Look, Elizabeth, you're a good office
r and a valuable part of this team. Hell, you'll have my job someday, but not if you start doing foolish things like that."
Warwick stood silent.
Cameron shook his head. "You're working too hard on this case, Elizabeth. You need to clear your thoughts. We'll crack this one, but not by working around the clock until our judgment becomes impaired. You need to get some rest."
"No," Warwick protested. "I'm fine."
"It's not a request, Sergeant," Cameron didn't like pulling rank, but it was one of the perks of his position. "I want you to take the next two days off."
"No, sir, really," she found herself actually frightened by the thought of wasting two valuable days on holiday—two days she could work on finding the killer.
"Two days, Sergeant. That's an order." Then he smiled. "You'll see. Your head will be much clearer after a bit of rest. Don't worry, we'll all still be working on it while you're out."
Warwick didn't respond. What could she say?
"I don't want to see you again until Thursday," the inspector concluded, and then disappeared into the corridor after the doctor.
Warwick stood still for several moments, staring after her supervisor, then turned back to her desk to grab some work to take home.
"Damn," she said softly.
* * *
She had procrastinated long enough. With a long, heavy sigh, Maggie looked up at the Aberdeen police station. She had to tell the police what she knew. But they didn't have to believe her. She wasn't happy about looking the fool. But what else could she do?
As she climbed the steps toward the front doors, Maggie reflected on how a police station is one of those places no one ever really wants to go to, kind of like the principal's office, arraignment court, or the morgue. The modern metal doors swung open begrudgingly at her heavy shove.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 26
