Frozen Statues, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  I take his hand. “Leo—”

  “She’s playing a trick.” Leo utters a high-pitched, squealing giggle that chills me to the bone. “Joyce has a mischievous side.” He waggles his finger at me and a grotesque grin contorts his pale face.

  I tighten my grip on his hand. “Leo, we have to wait for the police.”

  The magnitude of what we’re facing resonates and my training kicks in, curbing my fear. I hope the security guard has the sense to secure the crime scene. We need a forensic team and an IT specialist to enhance the footage to try to get a clear picture of the perpetrator’s face. Maybe a forensic video analyst can catch the plate. I check my watch. It’s five o’clock. Rush-hour traffic will start soon. Thousands of Torontonians drive minivans. The odds of finding this one are astronomical. If police surveillance cameras around the city picked up the vehicle, we might be able to trace the direction it travelled and narrow the search. But he has a five-hour head start.

  Leo tugs his hand free. “She’s in her car.” He charges through the office doorway.

  “Stop him,” I yell to the manager.

  “What? How? He’s a giant.” The manager steps aside and presses his back against the wall.

  “Leo, we can’t touch the crime scene,” I yell.

  My brother-in-law stops in his tracks. “Crime scene,” he whispers. “She was mailing a letter and buying milk. I wanted milk for my cereal.” His pupils dilate in his wide eyes. His breathing is too rapid, perspiration glistens on his face, and the skin above his carotid artery thumps in response to his galloping heartbeat.

  I turn to the manager. “Grab me a soda. He’s going into shock.” Sugar and caffeine will help but the useless manager doesn’t move.

  Leo clutches my hand so hard I wince. “My beautiful girl looks like the lily women. Is it Incubus?”

  “We don’t know that.”

  He pummels his forehead with the heel of his free hand. “I let her go out alone at night. What the hell was I thinking?” Loud, wrenching sobs tear from his chest. He collapses to the floor.

  “I’m a doctor,” a quiet voice says behind me. “Let me help.”

  I turn and face the woman who was shopping with the bawling infant. Her husband comes in from outside and hands her a black bag. The baby is screaming in her father’s arms.

  Sirens stop outside. Ominous red, white, and blue flashing lights roll across the store’s front window.

  The doctor removes the stethoscope buds from her ears. She fills a syringe and jabs the needle into the crook of Leo’s arm. His wails of despair slow to pitiful whimpers.

  Compassion fills the doctor’s blue eyes as she turns to me. “Talk to the police. I have him.”

  Outside, Dimitri is in deep conversation with a uniformed officer. I don’t recognize any of the first responders. An unmarked black Chevy Tahoe rolls up with emergency lights flashing across the front grill. Detective Bryce Mansfield steps out. I met him when he spoke at the police academy during my graduation. He’s a shrewd man with cold eyes. I wouldn’t want anyone else leading the investigation.

  “Detective Mansfield, I’m Sam McNamara.”

  He nods. “I know who you are. What’s going on?”

  I explain.

  “Where’s the victim’s husband?”

  Bryce’s eyes follow my gaze toward the paramedics rolling a gurney to a waiting ambulance.

  “Stay here,” he orders.

  The doctor finishes giving her statement to a uniformed constable and walks toward a green minivan.

  I intercept her. “Is it a heart attack?”

  “Adrenaline crashed his blood pressure and caused tachycardia. The EMTs will monitor him to ensure his pressure rises and his heartrate decreases, but you should be able to take him home.”

  I nod to show I’ve heard.

  She lays her hand on my shoulder. “I hope you find your sister.”

  “Thank you,” I manage to say.

  Two cops move orange sawhorses from the parking lot entrance. A white forensic van parks beside Detective Mansfield’s Tahoe. Two men and a woman exit. They’re chatting and laughing as they pull on the requisite white jumpsuits that will prevent cross-contamination.

  Everything is moving in slow motion, but the sky has grown light. Hours have passed.

  Detective Mansfield marches over to me from the direction of the store.

  Before he speaks, I say, “They need to print the right side of Joyce’s car. Maybe the perp touched it. There was a dark-haired girl at the cash just after Joyce checked out. Find her. All she bought was cheese. She must have witnessed the abduction.”

  “Go home. There’s nothing you can do here,” he tells me.

  “Have you contacted the employees on the afternoon shift? The cashier has sightlines. Maybe we can get a composite sketch.” I’m babbling, unable to stop. “If a forensic analyst enhances part of the abductor’s face, you can run it through facial recognition software. If he’s in the system, we’ll get a hit.”

  Bryce doesn’t interrupt until I pause. “Sam, you aren’t a cop any longer. Even if you were, you’re too close to this. Take care of your brother-in-law.”

  “Every hour that passes decreases the statistical probability of recovery. We need to—”

  He holds up a hand and scowls. “Let me do my job. Go home and stay out of my investigation. Got it?”

  “It’s Incubus,” I say. “Joyce fits the victim profile.”

  His face softens, but just a tad. “If it is, he tattoos them within hours of abduction and waits for the skin to heal. There’s time,” he says.

  Before he punctures her cervix and tears out her uterus, is what he means.

  “Go home.” Bryce turns and walks away.

  A red and orange sun dips above the eastern horizon line. Red in the morning, sailors take warning. A storm is coming. It will wash away evidence.

  Through my tears I whisper, “Help is coming, I promise.”

  My sister knows I always keep my promises.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Eli

  KEEPING HIS HEAD bowed to avoid eye contact, Eli scampered off the train a second before the subway doors slid closed. He climbed the stairs two at a time and exited Union Station onto Bay Street. Clutching a parcel to his chest, Eli maintained a brisk pace north to Harbour Street. He arrived at the Pinnacle Centre Condos in less than six minutes. As usual, he ignored the concierge’s reverent greeting and rode a private elevator to the fifty-fifth floor.

  Inside the forty-five-hundred-square-foot penthouse, he dumped his leather Boconi satchel in the elevator entry, tugged off his boots and parka, and descended the elegant curving staircase to the massive main floor. He stopped short. Danny was home, which he should have expected. She was a reclusive introvert.

  She glanced away from one of five ultra-high-definition monitors suspended on the wall above her modular glass desk and glowered at him. Her standard greeting.

  Hiding his parcel behind his back with one hand, he offered a chagrined wave with the other. She snarled something indecipherable and returned her attention to the monitors.

  Eli circled the double-sided black granite fireplace and trotted through the massive living room surrounded by unobstructed views of Toronto and Lake Ontario. In the custom kitchen, he headed for the sub-zero freezer. After he popped a Jamaican patty into the microwave, he cracked open a Mountain Dew and guzzled the cold liquid. With a satisfied burp, he grabbed a paper towel and waited for the microwave to beep.

  “What is this?”

  Eli spun around to witness Danny picking up the package he’d dropped on the kitchen island. She sat on a counter stool at the breakfast bar and peered at the carrier address. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  Eli snatched the parcel from her hands and set it back on the counter. “A better question is what that is.” He pointed at a large box on the dining room table.

  When she didn’t answer—not that he expected her to—he snagged his steaming patty from t
he microwave and went to the dining room table to investigate. Holding his snack in one hand, he rifled through the box contents with the other.

  “I used one of your credit cards,” Danny said, without a hint of shame.

  Eli groaned. “What are you planning to do with so many of them? And why not buy the classic toques? These pompom ones are ugly.”

  “I like the pompom. I bought you a grey baseball cap. The logo is small,” she said.

  “I am not wearing it.” He bit into his boiling pastry. Spiced ground beef seared the roof of his mouth. Hopping in a tight circle, he fanned his hand over his open mouth.

  In response to his refusal to wear the hat, she retorted, “If things were different, we’d be homeless.”

  “Do not go there.” He took a large bite of the patty and mumbled, “Everything is going according to plan.”

  “If you say so.” She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and studied him with a grim expression.

  Eli ignored her Debbie-downer mood. No one would describe him as an optimist, but he was a ray of sunshine compared to Danny. He finished the last bite of his Jamaican patty and crumpled the greasy paper towel in his fist.

  “That chick is not stupid, Elijah,” Danny continued. “If you give her any reason to be suspicious of you, she’ll discover the truth.”

  “Sam does not suspect anything.” He returned to the kitchen and dug a knife from the front pocket of his jeans. His tongue poked from the corner of his lips as he slashed the tape that secured the package flaps. Eager to inspect his treat, Eli tossed aside the bubble wrap and extracted a black zippered case from the box. There was a rectangular carton as well, but he left it for the moment.

  Danny got up from the stool and peered over his shoulder. He unzipped the leather pouch and flipped open the lid.

  When she viewed the contents, Danny blew her breath out in an aggravated sigh. “You stupid douchebag,” she exclaimed.

  Eli took the 5M Taser from the case, leaving three cartridges and a charger in their foam inserts. “Wow, it even has a holster.” He removed the nylon holster and fitted the gun inside. “It is lighter than I expected. It doubles as a stun gun.”

  “Aren’t these illegal in Canada?” Danny opened the instructions and began to read. “Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, I have my ways.” Eli examined the safety and trigger. He ran his fingertips across the laser sight. “I wonder if it is charged.”

  He turned it on and fumbled with the safety until it disengaged. He pressed the trigger and crackling blue light arced between two metal probes.

  “When you attach a cartridge, it deploys two harpoons with nine-millimetre points,” Eli said. “The range is effective up to five metres. This is the same model cops carry.”

  “You can only use a cartridge once,” Danny warned him as she read. “If you don’t hit your target the first time, you have to reload.” She scowled. “You won’t have time.”

  “I will not miss,” Eli said.

  “Aim it between the beltline so the probes hit the torso,” Danny said. “It has a one-inch arc through clothing. Based on the specs, I wouldn’t trust that.”

  Eli grinned at her. “Got it. Do not aim at a parka.” He cupped his left hand under his right and sighted down the barrel.

  “Don’t point that thing at me,” Danny said.

  “No worries. I did not attach a cartridge.” He spun on his heels and crouched into shooting stance. It was cooler than the video games he constantly played. Reality was always better than fantasy was.

  “Do not get caught with it, and you need to practice accurate deployment.” Danny’s voice was grumpy. “How many cartridges do you have?”

  “It came with three, but I bought an extra pack of twelve.” Eli turned the Taser over in his hands.

  “Sam better not see it.” She had Eeyore’s gloomy voice perfected, although it wasn’t her intention to mimic the donkey. That would take a sense of humour and Danny didn’t possess one.

  “Relax.”

  Ever the pessimist, she retorted, “Sam is dangerous to trick.”

  “You covered the electronic trail,” he said. “She will not find out about him or about you.”

  Her perpetual frown deepened. “I can’t guarantee that.”

  Danny had graduated summa cum laude from computer engineering. There wasn’t a database she couldn’t hack or a record she couldn’t change. But her gloomy attitude was eroding Eli’s confidence.

  “She is beginning to trust me.” His false bravado did little to reassure himself that he had control over the situation. Sam didn’t trust anyone, including her fiancé. Danny was right. She was dangerous.

  Eli tucked his new Taser into the carrying case. His hands trembled and his right eye began to tic. He rocked his body back and forth.

  His plan was working and getting caught was not an option. Not with Danny’s life hanging in the balance.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sam

  BEFORE REECE WOKE, Sam slid out of bed and tiptoed down the ladder staircase to the main floor of the loft. The nightmare was getting worse. Last night, decay had sloughed rotten flesh from one side of Joyce’s face. The other side was porcelain, lined with grey veins. Black stones had replaced her eyes. She’d gestured to Sam with a white lily. Against the narrow green stem, her crimson fingernails had turned to razors. The flower had floated to the ground. Joyce slashed open her belly, tearing free her uterus and holding the gory gift out to Sam. It’s his lily now, she’d whispered, and black stone eyes had oozed blood that dripped down the china-white side of her face.

  In the kitchen, Sam put an espresso disk in the Tassimo and heated milk in the frother. Latte in hand, she opened the electric blinds. Rain pummelled the windows. The sky was a dank slab of slate. Rain had washed away most of the snow, but heavy banks remained along the street curbs. Filth from the sand trucks coated the misshapen mounds. Frigid temperatures sucked, but waking to sunlight twinkling across a blanket of crystallized snow was less depressing than rain was. An image of her sister, crying tears of blood and gesturing with a white lily, materialized on the rain-streaked window. Sam jerked back and coffee slopped over her pyjamas.

  Reece’s phone tweeted. A second later, it chirped again. She picked up his cell from the antique church altar. She wanted to be alone to psychoanalyze the reoccurring nightmare. Understanding it would stop it. If the text messages weren’t important, she wouldn’t wake him.

  Sam unlocked his cell. In addition to two text messages, he had a voice message from Dr. Stuart. She scrolled to his text messages. Gretchen Dumont. Reece hoped to receive his experiential training at the Crown Attorney’s office. Articling positions were scarce and law students began the arduous application process a year prior to graduation. A reason to celebrate was just the ticket to disperse the lingering pessimism of her nightmare. She opened the text.

  Excited to meet you today.

  At the end was a winky emoji. The second text was also from Gretchen and read, Had a great time last night. That one had a kissy emoji. Sam gasped, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. There must be an explanation.

  A kissy emoji… What possible explanation could there be, besides the obvious?

  “Breakfast?” Reece asked from behind her.

  She turned and handed him his phone. His hair was wet from his shower. He wore jeans and the blue cashmere sweater she’d bought him for Christmas. When he smiled at her, a dimple in his right cheek made her eyes fill with tears.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You received a text.”

  He took the phone and read the messages.

  “What the hell?” His head snapped up and he stared at her with wide eyes.

  “So that’s why you cancelled our date.” She blinked rapidly to stop her tears from overflowing. Lowering her head, she wrapped her tattered sweater around her chest. She’d never felt so frumpy and slovenly in her life.

  “I don’t know what’s
going on. I promise you.” He called a number and put the phone on speaker. When a recording for the Crown Attorney’s office began, he keyed in an extension.

  A brusque voice growled a greeting.

  “Gretchen, Reece Hash.”

  He didn’t mention she was on speaker, which was a peculiar thing to do if he were engaged in an affair.

  The woman sighed. “Calling isn’t ingratiating you. I’ll respond to all applicants in due course.”

  “Did you text me?”

  “Of course not,” she said tersely.

  “I received two messages from you,” he said.

  “Mr. Hash, I’m not in the habit of texting law students.”

  Reece recited a number. “Is that you?”

  “How did you get my cell number?”

  “Because you texted me,” he insisted.

  “I did no such thing,” the woman retorted.

  “Can you check your phone for an outgoing message to me?” he asked.

  She replied in a stilted tone, “There is no record of it because I did not send it.”

  “But—”

  “Mr. Hash, if you say one more word, I’ll remove your application from the system. Is that clear?”

  “I apologize for bothering you.”

  Gretchen disconnected.

  “If that’s her number and she didn’t send these messages, where did they come from?” Reece asked.

  Sam didn’t know what to think. “Competition for that articling position is brutal. Could someone have hacked her phone and sent them to you?”

  “Why?” he asked in confusion.

  “She was not pleased to hear from you,” she ventured.

  His face tightened with anger and his eyes narrowed. “Whoever did this wanted me to embarrass myself with a woman who has a conservative and unforgiving nature.” His shoulders slouched and he ran his hand across his face. “Well, it worked. There is no way she’ll agree to be my articling principal.”

  Given Gretchen’s tone, Sam agreed.