by L E Fraser
After getting dressed, she hoisted Brandy, their arthritic golden retriever, down the steep ladder staircase that descended from the bedroom loft to the thousand-square-foot main floor. The gourmet kitchen was clean. Carrara marble countertops twinkled in sunlight that streamed from the southern wall of windows.
She popped a T-disc into the Tassimo and peeked into the dishwasher. Empty. Reece hadn’t even made a cup of coffee before rushing out in stealth mode. In the two years they’d been together, she couldn’t remember a single time he’d left without telling her. Not that he had to report to her. Still…
A blinking light by the front door caught her eye. The alarm was disengaged. Reece wasn’t fond of Toronto and mistrusted the hordes that occupied the enormous city—a throwback from being a cop, and a testament to his preference for country living. Reece never forgot to activate the alarm. A niggling voice inside her head warned her that something wasn’t right. And he wasn’t answering her text. She called and it went straight to voice mail. Maybe he was in class and had turned off his phone. She sent a second text.
Cranky and a bit annoyed, she sipped her coffee and wandered across the large open space, her sock feet sliding a little on the hemlock floor. The view from the exterior wall of floor-to-ceiling windows was depressing. It was sunny, but thick icicles dangled from the streetlights and not a single drop of water trickled from the pointed ends. Pedestrians, bundled in a scary amount of winter clothing, scurried along the city sidewalk three storeys below her. What was so important that Reece had had to leave early on a bitterly cold morning?
His behaviour at the office after Margaret had left last night had been weird. Maybe Bart’s disappearance worried him, but Reece wasn’t prone to jumping to conclusions without evidence.
She eyed Brandy sprawled across the heating pad in her dog bed. Sam tried to ignore the untouched dish of dog food. Cold weather made Brandy’s arthritis worse, but Sam wasn’t confident that the medication was working. The vet had prescribed Cartrophen injections once a month. Initially, they’d noticed a huge improvement in Brandy’s mobility. Not so much any longer. The heaviness in Sam’s stomach shifted to a cramp of fear.
“You’re fine, old girl,” she said soothingly, projecting a calm she didn’t feel. “It’s cold and that’s hard on old joints. A quick walk and I’ll turn up the heat.”
Rheumy eyes—a milky cataract covering one—gazed into hers. The twelve-year-old dog thumped her tail against the side of her bed.
Sam tugged on her boots and stuffed her arms through the sleeves of the heaviest jacket she owned. She layered on two scarves, a toque, and gloves with mittens overtop. Ready to go, Sam turned to the dog. Brandy wasn’t pleased to have her warm coat strapped on or her leash attached. Descending the stairs was an ordeal, and tugging the shuffling dog to the exit increased Sam’s depression. Her mood didn’t improve when she opened the door. Cold fingers of icy wind probed the bottom of her thick jacket and burrowed beneath her layers of clothes. Shivers ran up her back. The inside of her nose burned when she inhaled, and her breath surrounded her in plumes of misty vapour.
At the back of the warehouse, she checked the resident parking lot. Reece’s car was gone, but since he drove everywhere anyway, this provided no clue as to his whereabouts. There was a thick layer of ice on the windshield of her snow-covered Grand Am. She stared at it morosely. Reece always scraped her car when he left before her. Not today.
At a small community park a block north of Queen Street, Brandy circled on shaking legs and squatted to do her business. While waiting to clean up, Sam sent Reece a third text. Brandy tugged on her leash in the direction of home and they hustled back to the warmth of the building. After she collected the mail, she carried Brandy up the stairs to the loft.
She flipped through the mail, stopping at a white envelope with a Millhaven Institution return address. She instantly dropped it on the kitchen table and wiped her hands across her jeans. Her fingers felt dirty touching an envelope that Incubus had handled.
Don’t open it. Throw it out, murmured her voice of reason.
Using the end of a teaspoon, she flipped over the envelope. There was cursive writing on the back. It’s about the recent murder. Open this one.
Sam sank into a chair at the table. The very idea of opening the seal—covered in the monster’s saliva—made her stomach somersault.
This wasn’t the first letter she had received from the serial killer since his incarceration. Incubus had written once a month. It was the reason she insisted on picking up the mail. She hadn’t told a soul about the letters. It was her dirty little secret. The man who had savagely murdered six women wrote to her. The man responsible for the brutal slaying of her sister considered her a pen pal. Nausea rolled through her belly and she wiped sweat off her forehead.
She had read his first letter. That was before the court had sentenced him to life without eligibility for parole. Looking back, she couldn’t say what had motivated her to open it. She’d been the one to trick him, trap him, and expose him as Incubus. She was responsible for his amputated left arm and the burns across the left side of his face. At first, she was resentful that he had survived the fire. Later she was elated because of the grotesque pain he suffered from the massive third-degree burns across thirty-five percent of his body. The man was a monster, and now disfiguring scars ensured his outside matched his inside.
Sam tried to find something to clean in the spotless loft. Her eyes kept drifting back to the letter. She threw it in the trash bin and grabbed her laptop bag. When she pulled out her computer, Eli’s resume fell out of the bag. She stared at the neatly typed sheet of paper. Something about the kid bugged her. It wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of digging.
There wasn’t a Canadian birth record for Elijah Watson born October 1992, which might explain why Wayne Kalstein had spaced on Eli’s surname. But that didn’t make sense because Behoo had told her he’d hacked Elijah Watson’s school records. She ran a credit check. There was no credit record for him, either. He didn’t even have a bank account. In the age of debit cards, people who used nothing but cash were usually hiding something. Eli did have a cellphone, though. An expensive one, from what she had noticed at the office, but she could find no record of any service plan. She considered calling Behoo again. But her hacker was temperamental and she didn’t want to alienate a valuable asset by asking him to double check his work.
She closed her laptop and stared at the trash bin.
It’s about the recent murder. The reference had to be about the university student found frozen and posed as a statue with black stones embedded in his eye sockets.
There was nothing strange about an inmate reading a newspaper or watching television, she told herself.
She went upstairs and grabbed a pair of tweezers from the bathroom. Back in the kitchen, she opened the cutlery drawer and extracted a knife. With a sigh, she retrieved the letter from the trash.
Using the tip of the knife, she flipped the envelope over and checked the postmark. It was from a few days ago. Right after the news had reported the murder. She licked her lips and flipped it over again.
Open this one.
It was a guess. He was guessing that she didn’t open his letters. Holding the edge of the letter with the tweezers, she ran the sharp knife under the seal and tweezed out a sheaf of folded papers. The fold was even and the crease was tight. He’d probably used the edge of his despicable fingernail to flatten the fold. Incubus was fastidious.
She closed her eyes. Images from her nightmare flashed beneath her lids.
Incubus had picked women in their early thirties with long, dark hair. They all had lovely hands and no tattoos, until he adorned them. Incubus fancied himself an artist. He had meticulously groomed his naked victims and staged them peacefully. He’d left them all with a single white lily that matched the tattoo on their ankles.
Incubus had chosen all but one of his victims randomly. He had targeted Joyce. By telling Sam why he had picked her
sister, Incubus had guaranteed that demoralizing shame would be Sam’s perpetual companion. No amount of education in psychology would ever change the disgrace and guilt that burdened her. Her sister’s blood tarnished her hands. For that, there could be no forgiveness.
She unfolded the sheets of paper. There were three in all. The paper was unlined, but the cursive writing was perfectly straight.
Dear Samantha,
It has been a while since I put pen to paper. I hope you think of me from time to time. I suppose it’s inevitable that you do.
I’m doing well. I have a fine selection of books and some cheery photos to brighten the walls of my cell. The prison allows us televisions. I detest inane entertainment, but stay up to date on current affairs. It excited me to see you interviewed seven months ago after your ordeal. Have you truly recovered from what you suffered at the hands of your abductor?
Have I offered belated congratulations on your upcoming nuptials to Mr. Hash? You never struck me as the marrying sort. Curiosity piqued, I asked a friend to research your betrothed. There was a magazine article from three years ago regarding the cult in Uthisca. It quoted your young man. It pleases me that Mr. Hash doesn’t appear to be a dullard. Of course, a gifted writer can make a simpleton brilliant. How delightful that he left the Ontario Provincial Police and joined your little PI firm.
I understand your fiancé is roaming the hallowed halls of academia to complete his law degree. I do hope you influence him to stand in defence of the downtrodden. I wish him the best of luck this time around, since he failed miserably twelve years ago during his first attempt. Perhaps renowned defence attorney Jim Stipelli can assist him. Are you and Lisa Stipelli still close friends? Do congratulate her on the birth of her second child. A son this time, or so I hear. I have always admired Lisa’s long black hair and beautiful hands, but I would never debase myself by removing a mother from a child’s life. Mothers are so important, don’t you agree? But I realize now that you would sacrifice your life to protect your friend. Had I understood your protective nature, well, just think of the possibilities.
As for me, I’m enjoying celebrity status. I receive positive attention from fans inside and outside the prison. Incubus’s reign of terror enthralls them all, which brings me to the point of my letter. Have you noticed any similarities between my work and the first victim of the Frozen Statue Killer? I realize that the press has yet to dub the killer with a ridiculous nickname, but they will. I never understood why they called me Incubus. I had to research the origins of the demon. What a pedestrian appellation to describe the virtuosity of my work. Then again, the media is pedantic by nature. But I admit that I’ve grown fond of the name. It evokes fear in the bravest of hearts. I’m sure you understand my hypocrisy. You are the only person intelligent enough to appreciate my genius. The delicate intricacies of my work eluded the imbecilic prosecutor assigned to my case. Without you, the fumbling homicide detectives would never have apprehended me. Please don’t fret; I harbour no ill will toward you.
The recent murder is the work of a serial killer. This person has the unmitigated audacity to copy my brilliance, but the idiot authorities will fail to make the connection. The precision with which the killer staged the victim implies forethought, planning, and a skilled hand. As with all artists (even the derivative), this killer will strive toward improvement. Over the coming days, I will wait with bated breath to see if my theories on the methodology prove accurate. Have I tweaked your inquisitive nature?
I’ve queried my attorney, bumbling fool though he may be, to request expediting your visitation application. I am delighted to tell you that you can visit within your professional capacity shortly after submitting the completed form. Why don’t you go ahead and submit it? After all, it creates infinite possibilities.
What a feather in your cap for you to expose a serial killer with only minimal causalities this time.
Forever yours, Incubus
Sam set the letter on the table with a shiver. She didn’t want to consider how the monster knew that Reece was attending law school again. She refused to think about how he had discovered that Reece had quit law school years ago, or how he’d found out about her best friend’s new baby. She swallowed hard.
Fans outside the prison.
Slowly, she got up and took the letter to the sink. She rummaged the junk drawer and found a candle lighter. As the letter burned, she reminded herself that Millhaven Institution was one of Canada’s most secure maximum-security penitentiaries.
You would sacrifice your life to protect your friend… just think of the possibilities.
Sam scooped up the soggy, charred remains and threw them in the trash. Determined to put the letter out of her mind, she focused on Eli. Everyone had tells when they lied. She was an excellent liar—a necessary skill in her profession—but she had one uncontrollable tic: her right nostril flared. The best idea would be to confront Eli face to face to identify his.
After bundling up in layers once more, she set the alarm and ran to catch a streetcar.
As she gazed through the steam-covered window, a growing sense of impending doom blossomed in her chest. She clamped her trembling hands in her lap and accepted that she had made a terrible mistake. It had taken her years to overcome her homicidal obsession with Incubus.
By reading the letter, Sam had invited him back inside her head.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three Years Earlier
Sam
THE WOMAN’S FACE is expressionless. She stands in the doorway of my new PI office and stares at me. I have the urge to whip out a deck of cards and dazzle her with a magic trick.
She’s tall with long brunette hair and wide brown eyes. Her complexion is flawless and her cheekbones are high in her oval face. Her lifeless expression, coupled with her perfect posture, reminds me of a fashion model pausing at the base of a runway. The fabric of her blue dress falls in perfect lines against her slim figure. The cut of the garment screams haute couture. The dress is pretty but it pales against the beauty of the woman herself. I have no idea what she’s doing outside my open door. She might be here for the previous tenant. If she can afford the Gucci purse she’s holding, she can afford a better accountant than the one who left this dismal little office.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask.
“I’m looking for Sam McNamara.”
“You found her. What can I do for you?”
Something flickers across her eyes—disappointment, maybe.
“You expected a man,” I state.
There’s a pause before she says, “It might be better that you’re not.”
I pull a coffee maker out of a cardboard box and plop it onto a decrepit wicker table. “Want something to drink while you make up your mind?”
“You’re moving in,” she says. “Why? It’s dreadful.”
I appreciate directness and hers makes me laugh. “Yeah, well, it’s cheap and I took a shine to Maria, the woman who owns the building and runs the bakery downstairs. The space will be nice when I renovate.”
She doesn’t look optimistic and I don’t blame her. Nicotine stains the walls from years of cigarette smoke, and the shabby orange carpet is filthy. I rescued the scarred partner desk from the side of the road on garbage day. I made a mistake there. Refinishing it will cost more than buying a spiffy new desk from IKEA. My predecessor left the two orange plastic chairs with rusted legs and the circa 1980s wicker side table. A pair of dented file cabinets line one wall. They’re my fault because I bought them off Kijiji when the seller offered to deliver. They look worse than the online photos did.
She takes a tentative step into the office and frowns at the two orange chairs, as if the legs will collapse if she parks her butt on one. I sympathise with her concern, but they’re the only chairs I have.
I sit. “Do you need a private investigator?”
She perches cautiously on the other chair and crosses her ankles. “You’re young.”
I get that a lot,
too. “Twenty-six,” I say. “I have a master’s in psychology and was a cop for two years.” If she follows the news, she knows the circumstances under which I resigned my position at Toronto Police Service.
Two months ago, my face was plastered across the front page of every paper in the city. I’d shot a fifteen-year-old Crips member who gunned down my partner in cold blood. The perp had two outstanding warrants—first-degree murder and extortion. It was a righteous shooting, but the media’s focus was his age. As far as most people were concerned, a cop had killed a teenager and that was all that mattered. The upper echelon of the police force didn’t appreciate the negative press. I didn’t agree with the politics, so leaving was my best option. But if I’d stayed and fought the charge of wrongful death, I’d have won.
“You didn’t mention your name,” I say.
“Lorna Maracle. I’m a fashion designer.” Her hand flutters against the silk of her dress. “Detective Mansfield gave me your name and address. I shouldn’t have bothered the police.”
“But you did.” I make it a statement and hope she opens up to me.
Her shoulders slump and she fiddles with the strap of her purse. “Whoever is doing this is probably just guilty of poor judgement. Sometimes people have strange ideas, you know?”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“Someone is following me and watching me at night. Two days ago, I received a letter.” She pauses. “A love letter, I guess.”
“Did you bring it?”
She opens her bag, pulls out a sheet of paper, and holds it out to me.
The first thing I notice is the elaborate swirls and curlicues in the handwriting. It resembles calligraphy. The thick ivory stationary is linen. There’s a subtle aroma of men’s cologne—woodiness and a hint of patchouli.
