Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  “What did you see?” she asked again.

  Vicki stared at them, thankful they had each other. Knowing their destinies were linked to the killer didn’t lessen her admiration for Lenny’s survival instincts or her love of Becca’s untamed spirit. And who knew? Together, they just might be able to alter the outcome.

  “The first two symbols were the same for both of you.”

  Lenny pulled a pen and notepad from his computer bag. “What were they?”

  “The first symbol was the letters A, S, and D.” She waited while he jotted on the paper. “The second was a thin, matte-silver tube. It looked expensive.”

  “Okay.” He drew a line on the paper and wrote his and Becca’s names on either side. “Start with Becca’s other symbols.”

  Lungs squeezing, she glanced at her friend—who stared back, her eyes filled with both trust and hope, a small smile gracing her lips. “Becca’s are ice cubes and broken glass.”

  Lenny reached over and ran a soothing hand down her back. “Okay. Mine.” He took a deep breath. “Lay ’em on me.”

  “A brown paper bag and a yellow daisy.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, give me a break. Could I get anything more obscure?”

  Becca tapped a fingernail on the table, eyeing Vicki. “There’s one more. Isn’t there?”

  He scanned his notes. “Did I miss one?”

  “No.” She laid her hand on his arm.

  Ice shot through Vicki’s veins. “I was going to tell you. I didn’t want to, but I was.”

  “I won’t make you say it. You’ve carried enough guilt just for knowing.” Becca switched her attention to Lenny. “The last symbol is the pointed capital D.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Jeez Louise. We’re on the killer’s list?” He looked from Becca to Vicki. “When the hell did that happen?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged, knowing all the hope she’d tried to give them earlier had more than likely just evaporated. “I just got a flash of the symbols. They all came at once.”

  “Well, I could’ve gone the whole day without that information.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I mean, she’s the best friend. I’m just the research guy. We’re not supposed to be….”

  “I’m sorry,” Vicki whispered.

  “Don’t be,” Becca said, her voice strong and firm. She spun the laptop toward Lenny. “We still have eight days to stop him before my time runs out.”

  He sat up, a gleam of hope in his eyes. “You’re right. Eight days. That’s like what, three years in a dog’s life? Plenty of time.”

  Becca grinned. “You’re crazy.”

  “That’s what you love about me.” His fingers tapped the keyboard. “And I promise to make it the most exciting and sexually satisfying eight days of your life.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” Becca pointed at the laptop screen. “But first, we have to stop a maniac.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Knocks at the door jarred Jamie awake. He bolted upright, the action making the room spin. Bright sunlight streamed through the window behind the couch, intensifying the throbbing migraine. Disoriented, he blinked several times in an effort to clear his blurred vision as he stumbled across the living room. He needed to stop whoever’s knuckles continued to jackhammer against his door before his head exploded.

  Mrs. Gretzner stood in the hallway, dark smudges beneath her red-rimmed eyes. Her thin lips quivered. “Oh, Jamie. I woke you. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  “That’s okay.” He forced a smile, but instead of relief coursing over her features, her eyebrows knitted. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Gretzner?”

  “Well, it’s Moochie.” Her watery gaze glanced from him to the stairwell. Her fingers tightened around the hot pink leash the toy poodle usually sported, and the silver buckle jingled. “He’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “The last time I saw his sweet face, he was curled in his little bed on top of the quilt I keep folded on the foot of my bed.” She looked at him, despair set deep within her eyes. “I covered my Moochie with his little blanket night before last, and when I got up yesterday morning, I couldn’t find him.”

  He nodded. Just the act of moving his head brought a fresh round of pain to his skull.

  “I thought he might’ve wandered off. That he’d come home. But…but….” She clutched the leash, her frail, bony hands shaking. Rapid blinks held back the well of tears brimming her eyes, and she lifted her canine companion’s strap to her pursed lips. A deep breath brought a modicum of composure. “I don’t even know how he got out of the apartment. He’s been gone almost two days, and I don’t know what to do, or how to find him.”

  Jamie glanced down the hallway. What the hell was he supposed to say?

  “I’m sorry.” He would’ve rolled his eyes at his ineptitude if he could’ve kept his balance. “Have you called the Humane Society, checked to see if maybe they’ve picked him up?”

  Her eyes widened. “No. I’ve been so worried. Well.” She clucked her tongue. “It just never occurred to me. You certainly are the smart boy.”

  He grinned—this time it came honestly. “Glad I could help. I hope you find him.”

  She turned, limped across the hall to her door. It appeared without Moochie to walk with, her hip had stiffened up again. The toy poodle had been too yappy for Jamie’s taste, but he’d made the woman happy. He hoped one short phone call would remedy the situation and bring Moochie home.

  Jamie closed his door, the click of the latch a gunshot to his temple. Man, he’d never had a migraine like this. Damn near incapacitating.

  He shuffled toward the bathroom and noticed the closed door to Brent’s room. Was he in there? Jamie didn’t have a clue. He’d been passed out on the couch. The guy could’ve brought the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders home, and he wouldn’t have known—and at this point, didn’t care.

  The cool bathroom tile felt like heaven to his feet, and when he reached the sink, he opened the medicine cabinet. Grabbing a bottle of buffered pain reliever, he popped the child safety cap and shook two pills onto his palm. He stared at the oval caplets of mercy then added two more.

  He tried to twist the top back on, but it slipped. Bouncing twice on the tiled floor, it rolled beneath the sink, circled once, and lodged itself between the commode and trashcan. Damn. Jamie stepped back, glared at the wayward cap, and considered leaving it where it was.

  Instead of leaning over, he wedged his foot between the two and fished it out. Besides the bottle top, something else caught beneath his toes. Jamie squinted at the mystery object and realized it was a twisted red rubber band tangled with dark brown hair.

  “Aw, man. That’s just disgusting.”

  Having seen Brent’s freakishly neat bedroom, the idea a compulsive guy like him would miss the trashcan surprised him. No way in hell I’m picking it up. Squatting, he swiped the pain reliever cap, rinsed it off, and returned the bottle to the medicine cabinet. He’d leave the hair accessories for his roommate to pick up later.

  Jamie plodded toward the kitchen, the four caplets safe in his grasp. Maybe he was coming down with something. He’d had a migraine the night before last, but it had been mild compared to this one. If things didn’t improve, he’d have to go to the doctor, get something stronger. Maybe even have a CAT scan. Couldn’t be too careful with all the microwaves and cell phones nowadays.

  Of course, after working in the ER the night before, Jamie had no doubt the pounding in his head wasn’t due to a brain tumor. That ballbuster, Head Nurse Jennings, had ridden his ass his entire shift. In between the car wreck victims, gunshot wounds, and strung-out junkies, she’d grilled him over a misplaced bottle of chloroform, which had magically disappeared. If not for Nurse Jennings, he would’ve liked the ER way better than working with the coroner. Curt’s sense of humor was as dead as the stiffs they picked up for the morgue. But, for some reason, every time Curt needed someone to fill in, Jamie volunteered.

  “The
bottle doesn’t turn up, your ass is out the door,” she’d warned, her voice grating like cat claws scraping on a tin roof.

  “I did a final check at the end of my shift. Everything was there.” He’d stared her straight in the face. He had nothing to hide. “If it’s gone, it happened after I left.”

  She’d scrutinized him, her nostrils flaring at the end of her piggish, upturned nose. For some reason the bitch had it out for him. Probably took the bottle herself just so she could torture him. “Doesn’t matter. You did the last count. It’s on you.”

  He’d stepped toward her, almost nose to nose, and reveled when fear had flashed in her eyes. “Bite me.”

  With twenty minutes remaining in his shift, he’d stalked to trauma two and cleaned the bloody disaster left behind. By clock out, the linens had been changed and the chrome sparkled. Everything had been organized.

  The schedule called for him to work third shift tonight. Head Bitch Jennings would be off. The question of whether he still had a job remained to be seen. Guess he’d find out when he walked through the doors.

  After pulling a glass from the kitchen cabinet and filling it from the sink faucet, Jamie tossed the four pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a healthy gulp of water. Eyes closed against the bright kitchenette, he willed the pain relievers to take immediate effect and end the agonizing bashing inside his head. Maybe another hour on the couch will help.

  He finished the water then set the glass in the stainless steel sink. When he glanced down, the hairs on his neck prickled. On the inside corner of the basin, an elongated, dark red dot caught his attention. Had he been standing to the right of the sink instead of the left, he would have missed the spot, which was no larger than the end of a pencil eraser.

  With an overwhelming sick fascination, he reached out and swiped his fingertip over the stain. He stared at the smear of blood.

  “Oh, shit.”

  He turned the water on, rinsed his index finger clean then washed again with antibacterial soap for good measure.

  Blood. A drop of blood. He’d seen enough of it in the ER to know it when he saw it. What was it doing in his kitchen sink?

  He clutched the edge of the counter. Why wouldn’t the pounding in his head go away, so he could think straight? He needed to be rational. Maybe Brent made a sandwich, cut it in half, and sliced his finger in the process. It’s possible. People do it every day.

  So, why were the heebie-jeebies running up his spine?

  The lined-up shoes and orderly clothes in the closet, the pen and pad placed just so on the desk, and the bed made with such preciseness a quarter would’ve bounced off it suggested an obsessive neatness bordering on neurotic. The bloodied shirt stuffed in the gym bag hidden beneath the bed alluded to covert behavior. Now, a single spot of blood…as though someone cleaned something in the kitchen sink.

  Chills spiked the hairs on his arms, brought his molars together, grinding. He scanned the basin, searched for another missed trace of blood.

  Nothing.

  “Huh.” But what about the hair tie and bloody shirt? He’s always seemed like such a neat freak. Jamie shook his head. There must be a rational explanation.

  The problem was he didn’t see Brent very often. Like never, actually. Their work shifts always seemed to oppose one another. In fact, Mrs. Gretzner had probably heard his roommate’s comings and goings more often than he had.

  What do I even know about Brent? Other than he needed a place to stay, was willing to pay a month’s rent in advance, and worked at some bar in Savannah, very little. He’s always appeared easygoing, quiet.

  But isn’t that what people said about Ted Bundy? Could Brent be a murderer? Jamie glanced at the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway. Probably not. But there is something off about the guy.

  * * *

  River followed Dauscher up the station house stairs. There hadn’t been much at the crime scene. A missing redheaded waitress, a dead cop, and an awful lot of blood.

  “You think it’s our guy, our copycat?” Dauscher paused on the landing, allowing a police officer and his cuffed perp to maneuver past before continuing up the stairs.

  “More than likely.” The knot in River’s gut agreed. “I requested a uniform on the girl because I got a tip she might be next.”

  Dauscher raised a brow. “Seems your informant was legit.”

  “Yeah.” River clenched his jaw as he trudged up the steps. “Lotta good it did. We lost a good officer, and the girl got taken anyway.”

  Lord only knew what the bastard had done to her. He’d have his depraved thrills then dump the body for the police to find. River’s stomach rolled. Just like the Valentine Killer did in Austin.

  “The whole thing sucks like a sonovabitch.” Dauscher pulled open the stairwell door. “So the artist and reporter, they both turned up on the tip list as well?”

  “Yep.” He strode through the doorway. What the hell would he say if his partner asked him about the informant? Good chance he suspected Vicki, but they’d never discussed it in detail.

  “Speaking of tips,” Dauscher said, strolling through the bullpen door. “As you already predicted, CID didn’t find a thing on either the paper or envelope our copycat left you. Your car came up clean, too. No fingerprints, fibers, spit, not even a damn eyelash. The guy is one fastidious bastard. They did, however, get the word on the note translated. Licentia. It’s Latin for—”

  “Freedom,” River finished. “Lenny translated it for me.”

  “Well, the nosey little creep came through. Who’da thunk it?” Eyes narrowed and lips thinned, Dauscher pointed toward their desks. “Looks like you got some more fan mail.”

  River’s focus arrowed to the white envelope positioned on the center of his desk blotter. The knot in his gut tightened, and a healthy dose of adrenaline dumped into his system. Damn. He glanced around to see if anyone suspicious watched him. When no one stood out, he approached the metal desk.

  There hadn’t been a note at the scene, and like a fool, he’d thought maybe that’d been the end of it. But the bastard just couldn’t leave him alone. He’d come to the station to insure River remained on his personal newsletter list.

  “Don’t suppose it could just be a note from your girlfriend.” Dauscher moved next to him, his gaze transfixed on the envelope in question.

  He pulled on a pair of gloves, the latex snapping against his wrists. “If it is, I’m about to look like an idiot.”

  He plucked the pristine envelope from the blotter, held it up to the light. Unable to discern anything, he opened the self-adhesive flap, removed the paper, and unfolded it.

  The killer’s symbolic pentagram and pointed capital D lay tattooed in thin black lines in the center of the crisp white page, below it the initials KLR. River scanned farther down the page and found the foreign words, Vita Eternus. Beneath that, something new.

  POLO

  Oh, shit. Sweat popped out on his brow. Laying the paper on his desk, he sank into his chair. What the hell is going on?

  Dauscher leaned over, peered at the message. “Same symbol means probably the same guy. Initials. What looks like more Latin. And the word ‘polo.’” Straightening, he tilted his head. “Does he mean the game played on horseback with sticks and a ball, or could it be an acronym for something?”

  “I don’t know.” Hell, now I’m lying to my partner…just like Kent lied to me. The knot in his stomach twisted, pulled tighter. But how…? His focus shifted to the note on his desk. This is bad. Really bad. “Could be anything. Might be nothing. Just a distraction to send us off in the wrong direction.”

  “Maybe.” Slipping on a pair of gloves, Dauscher reached for the paper and envelope. “I’ll get this down to CID. Probably come back clean.”

  Polo. The word rang in his mind. “Wait a minute.” River stood, took the envelope from his partner’s hand.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m not sure. But….” River spread the sides of the envelope wide, almost
turning it inside out. Tucked in the bottom corner, he found the rest of the killer’s message. Grabbing a pair of tweezers from his desk drawer, he plucked out the evidence and held it up for his partner to see.

  “What is that?” Dauscher’s eyes narrowed. “Hair?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s from our missing waitress.” He rotated the tweezers, and the distinctive golden-red strand glinted in the light, the root still attached.

  “Damn,” Dauscher drawled. “CID took a few samples from her pillow and brush. I’ll have them check to see if the DNA matches.”

  “It will.” River placed the hair back into the envelope and returned it to his partner. “He wants us to know he’s got her. That she’ll be turning up dead in the city somewhere after he’s finished with her.”

  The big guy grimaced, his eyes reflecting the horror they’d witnessed over the last week. He shook his head, pivoted away from the desk with evidence in hand, and strode toward the door. “Damn sick sonovabitch.”

  River picked up the handset of his desk phone, dialed the number for the Austin Texas Police Department, and waited while his call routed. He hunched over his desk, his elbow nailed to the blotter. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

  Polo. Damn it. How did the copycat know?

  Polo had been a term he and Kent had used while working on the Valentine Killer case. After the fourth body had been discovered, River had commented how tracking and anticipating the killer’s next move seemed impossible.

  “Here we are, bumping around in the dark, arms outstretched, and we just keep coming up empty-handed.” Seated in the Tahoe, River had slammed the door and yanked the seatbelt in place.

  “Yeah.” Kent had stared out the windshield at the coroner’s van. “We’re just entertainment for this guy. Like that game where one person’s blindfolded and someone else hints where they’re at.”