by Karen Rose
“Cadaver dogs?” Vito suggested.
“Maybe, but what I’d really like to have is a scan of the property. I saw it on the History Channel. These archeologists used ground-penetrating radar to locate the ruins of an ancient wall. It was very cool.” Jen sighed. “But I’d never get the funds to pay a contractor. Let’s bring in the dogs and get it done.”
Nick held up a wagging finger. “Not so fast. The show was about archeologists, right? Well, if we had an archeologist, he might be able to do that… radar thing.”
Jen’s eyes sharpened. “Do you know an archeologist?”
“No,” Nick said, “but the city’s chock full of universities. Somebody must know one.”
“They’d have to work for cheap,” Vito said. “And they’d have to be somebody we could trust.” Vito thought about the body, the way the hands were posed. “The press would have a field day with this if it leaked.”
“And our asses would be deep fried,” Nick muttered.
“Who do you need to trust?”
Vito turned to find the ME standing behind him. “Hi, Katherine. Are you done?”
Katherine Bauer nodded wearily, peeling off her gloves. “The body’s in the bus.”
“Cause?” Nick asked.
“Nothing yet. I’m thinking she’s been dead two or three weeks at least. I can’t give you anything more until I get some tissue samples under my microscope. So,” she tilted her head sideways. “Who do you need to be able to trust?”
“I want to get a scan of the property,” Jen said. “I was going to see if anyone knows any of the professors in the archeology departments in the local universities.”
“I do,” Katherine said, and the three of them stared at her.
Jen’s eyes widened. “You do? A real live archeologist?”
“A dead one won’t do us much good,” Nick said dryly and Jen’s cheeks turned red.
Katherine chuckled. “Yes, I know a real live archeologist. She’s home on… a sabbatical of sorts. She’s considered an expert in her field. I know she’d help.”
“And she’s discreet?” Nick insisted and Katherine patted his arm maternally.
“Very discreet. I’ve known her for more than twenty-five years. I can call her now if you want.” She waited, her gray brows lifted.
“At least we’ll know,” Nick said. “I vote yes.”
Vito nodded. “Let’s call her.”
Sunday, January 14, 12:30
P.M.
“God, it’s incredible.” Spandan held the Bastardsword in his gloved hands with all the care and respect due a treasure that had survived five hundred years. “I bet you wanted to kill that kid for trying to rip this off the wall.”
Sophie looked down at the two-handed longsword she’d taken from the case. The students were taking a “creativity break” to better help them “envision the assignment.” Sophie knew they really just wanted to touch the swords and she couldn’t blame them. There was a fundamental power in holding a weapon this old. And this lethal.
“I was more angry at his mother who was too busy talking on her cell phone to watch her kid.” She chuckled. “Luckily my brain hadn’t fully settled back into English, so when I cussed her out, it was in French. But, uh, some things transcend language.”
“So what did she do?” Marta asked.
“Went crying to Ted. He gave her a refund, then came after me. ‘You can’t frighten the guests, Sophie,’” she mimicked. “I still remember the look on that woman’s face when I dragged her little brat over to her. She wasn’t much bigger than the kid. Nearly broke her neck looking up at me. It was one of the few times being tall was an asset.”
“You need better security in this place,” John commented, his eyes focused on the Viking Age sword he held. “It’s a wonder nobody’s walked off with any artifacts.”
Sophie frowned. “We have an alarm system, but you’re right. Before, hardly anyone knew we were here, but now, with all these tours, we definitely need a guard.” The salary for a guard had been in her operating budget for the coming year. But nooo… Ted wanted paneling. It was enough to make her twitch. “I know of at least two Italian reliquaries that are no longer on their shelf. I keep checking for them on eBay.”
“Makes you wish for medieval justice,” Spandan grumbled.
“What would have been the penalty for theft?” John asked, slanting a look up at her.
Sophie carefully settled the longsword back in the display case. “Depends on what point in the Middle Ages-early, high, or late-and on what was stolen, if it was stolen by force or by stealth, and who the victim was and who the thief was. Felony thieves might be hanged, but most small thefts were settled by recompense.”
“I thought they cut off a hand or gouged out an eye,” Bruce said.
“Not commonly,” Sophie told him, her lips quirking at his obvious disappointment. “It didn’t make sense for the lord to disfigure the people who were working his land. Without a hand or a foot they couldn’t make him as much money.”
“No exceptions?” Bruce asked and Sophie shot him an amused look.
“Bloodthirsty today, aren’t we? Hmm. Exceptions.” She considered it. “Outside Europe, there were cultures that certainly still practiced eye-for-an-eye justice. Thieves lost one hand and the opposite foot. In European culture, go back to the tenth century and you’ll find amputation of ‘the hand with which he did it’ as a punishment in the Anglo-Saxon Dooms. But the culprit had to be caught stealing from a church.”
“Your reliquaries would have been in a church back then,” Spandan pointed out.
Sophie had to chuckle. “Yes, they would have been, so it’s a damn good thing they were stolen from here and now, not there and then. Now your ‘creativity break’ is over. Put the swords away and get back to work.”
Sighing heavily they did as she asked, first Spandan, then Bruce and Marta. Until only John remained. In almost an offertory way, he lifted the sword with both hands and with both hands Sophie took it. Fondly she studied the stylized pommel. “I found one like this once, at a dig in Denmark. Not this nice, and not all in one piece. The blade had corroded completely through, right in the middle. But what a feeling it was, uncovering it for the first time. Like it had been sleeping for all those years and woke up, just for me.” She glanced down at him with an embarrassed laugh. “That sounds crazy, I know.”
His smile was solemn. “No, not crazy. You must miss it, being in the field.”
Sophie arranged the contents of the case and locked it. “Some days more than others. Today I miss it a great deal.” Tomorrow, when she was leading a tour in period garb, she’d miss it a great deal more. “Let’s go-”
Her cell phone rang, surprising her. Even Ted gave her one day of rest. “Hello?”
“Sophie, it’s Katherine. Are you alone?”
Sophie straightened at the urgency in Katherine’s voice. “No. Should I be?”
“Yes. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“Hold on. John, I need to take this. Can I meet you and the others in the hall in a few?” He nodded and turned his chair toward the Great Hall and the other students. When he was gone, she shut the door. “Go ahead, Katherine. What’s wrong?”
“I need your help.”
Katherine’s daughter Trisha had been Sophie’s best friend since kindergarten and Katherine had become the mother Sophie had never had. “Name it.”
“We need to excavate a field and we need to know where to dig.”
Sophie’s mind instantly put “medical examiner” and “excavation” together, conjuring a picture of a mass grave. She’d excavated dozens of gravesites over the years and knew exactly what needed to be done. She found her pulse increasing at the thought of doing real fieldwork again. “Where and when do you need me?”
“In a field about a half hour north of town, an hour ago.”
“Katherine, it’ll take me at least two hours to get my equipment up there.”
“Two hours?
Why?” In the background Sophie heard several disgruntled voices.
“Because I’m at the museum and I have my bike. I can’t tie all that equipment to the seat. I have to go home first and get Gran’s car. Plus, I was going to sit with her this afternoon. I need to stop by the nursing home and check on her at least.”
“I’ll check on Anna myself. You go to the college and get the equipment. One of the detectives will meet you there and transport you and the equipment to the site.”
“Have him meet me in front of the humanities building at Whitman College. It’s the one with the funky ape sculpture in front. I’ll be out front by 1:30.”
There was more murmuring, more intense. “Okay,” Katherine said, exasperated. “Detective Ciccotelli wants to be sure you understand this is to be kept in the utmost confidence. You must exercise extreme discretion and say nothing to anyone.”
“Understood.” She returned to the Great Hall. “Guys, I need to go now.”
The students immediately began to gather their work. “Is your grandmother okay, Dr. J?” Bruce asked, his forehead creasing in concern.
Sophie hesitated. “She will be.” Not the whole truth and hopefully for Anna, not a lie. “For now, you get a few free hours this afternoon. Don’t have too much fun.”
When they were gone, she locked up, set the alarm, and headed toward Whitman College as fast as she legally dared, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. For months she’d been missing the field. It looked like she was finally about to find one.
Chapter Two
Sunday, January 14, 2:00
P.M.
He sat back in his chair and nodded at his computer screen, his lips curving in a satisfied smile. It was good. Very, very good. If I do say so myself. Which he did.
He raised his eyes to the still photos he’d taken from the video of Warren Keyes. He’d chosen his quarry well-height, weight, musculature. The young man’s tattoo had been Fate sealing the deal. Warren was meant to be his victim. He’d suffered brilliantly. The camera had captured the exquisite agony on his face. But his screams…
He clicked on an audio file and a chilling scream blasted from the speakers with crystal clarity, sending a shiver of pleasure racing down his back. Warren’s screams had been perfect. Perfect pitch, perfect intensity. Perfect inspiration.
His eyes moved to the canvases he’d hung next to the stills. This series of paintings might be his best work yet. He’d titled the series Warren Dies. It was done in oil, of course. He’d found oil the best medium for capturing the intensity of expression, the victim’s mouth stretching open on one of those perfect screams of excruciating pain.
And the eyes. He’d learned there were stages to death by torture. All were most clearly seen through the victim’s eyes. The first stage was fear, followed by defiance, then despair as the victim realized there was truly no escape. The fourth stage, hope, depended entirely on the victim’s tolerance for pain. If the victim persisted through the first wave, he might give them respite, just long enough to allow hope to surface. Warren Keyes had had a remarkable tolerance for pain.
Then, when all hope was gone, there was the fifth stage-the plea, the pitiful appeal for death, for release. Toward the end, there was stage six, the final surge of defiance, a primitive fight for survival that predated modern man.
But the seventh stage was the best and most elusive-the instant of death itself. The burst… the flash of energy as the corporeal yielded its essence. It was a moment so brief that even the camera lens was incapable of complete capture, so fleeting that the human eye would miss it if one weren’t expressly watching. He had been watching.
And he’d been rewarded. His eyes lingered on the seventh painting. Although last in the series, he’d painted it first, rushing to his easel while Warren’s released energy still vibrated along every nerve and Warren’s final, perfect scream still rang in his ears.
He saw it there, in Warren’s eyes. That indefinable something he alone had found in the instant of death. He’d first achieved it with Claire Dies more than a year ago. Had it really been that long? Time did fly when you were having fun. And he was finally having fun. He’d been chasing that indefinable something his entire life. He’d found it now.
Genius. That’s what Jager Van Zandt called it. He’d first gained the entertainment mogul’s attention with Claire, and although he personally considered his Zachary and Jared series to be superior, Claire remained VZ’s favorite.
Of course, Van Zandt had never seen his paintings, only his computer animations in which he’d transformed Claire into “Clothilde,” a World War II Vichy French whore strangled to death by a soldier who’d been betrayed by her treachery. A crowd pleaser wherever the clip was shown, Clothilde had become the star of Behind Enemy Lines, Van Zandt’s latest “entertainment venture.”
Most people called them video games. Van Zandt liked to think he was building an entertainment empire. Before Behind Enemy Lines, VZ’s empire existed only in the man’s dreams. But VZ’s dreams had come true-Behind Enemy Lines had flown off the shelves-a runaway success thanks to Clothilde and the rest of his animations. My art.
Van Zandt understood that as well and had chosen Clothilde, caught in her moment of death, to adorn the Behind Enemy Lines box. It always gave him a rush to see it, to know that the hands gripping “Clothilde’s” throat were his own.
VZ clearly recognized his genius, but he wasn’t sure the man could handle the reality of his art. So he’d go on letting VZ believe what he wanted to-that Clothilde was a fictional character and that his own name was Frasier Lewis. In the end both he and Van Zandt would get what they wanted. VZ would get a best-selling “entertainment venture” and make his millions. And millions will see my art.
Which was the ultimate goal. He had a gift. VZ’s video game was merely the most efficient way to showcase that gift to the most people in the shortest time. Once he was established he wouldn’t need the animations. His paintings would be in demand on their own. But for now, he needed Van Zandt and Van Zandt needed him.
VZ was going to be very pleased with his latest work. He clicked his mouse and once again watched his animation of Warren Keyes. It was perfect. Every muscle and sinew rippled as the man struggled against his bonds, arching and writhing in pain as his bones were slowly pulled from their sockets. The blood looked good, too. Not too red. Very authentic. Careful study of the video had enabled him to duplicate every aspect of Warren’s body, down to the simplest twitch.
He’d done an especially skillful job with Warren’s face, capturing the fear and the defiance as Warren resisted the demands of his captor. Which would be me. The Inquisitor. He’d depicted himself as the old man who’d lured Warren to his dungeon.
Speaking of such, now that Warren Dies was complete it was time to lure his next victim. He opened UCanModel, the delightful little website with which he’d had such success in locating the perfect faces for his work. For a modest fee, actors and models could post their portfolios on UCanModel so that any Hollywood director had only to click on their picture to launch them to instant stardom.
Actors and models made the perfect subjects. They had beauty, the ability to emote, and their faces translated well to film and canvas. They also were so eager for fame and so poor that they’d take just about any job. Luring them with a part in a documentary had worked every time and allowed him to purport himself as the nonthreatening old history professor named Ed Munch. He was getting tired of being Edvard Munch, though. Maybe he’d be Hieronymus Bosch next time. Now, there was artistic genius.
He perused the lineup his current search had produced. He’d identified fifteen prospects, but he’d already eliminated all but five. The others weren’t nearly poor enough to be easily hooked. Of the five, only three were truly destitute. His financial checks had shown them all to be in or on the verge of bankruptcy.
He’d shadowed these three prospects for a week and found only one to be solitary and secretive enough not to be missed afterward.
That was an important component. His victims must not have anyone to look for them. They were runaways like pretty Brittany with her folded hands. Or, like Warren and Billy before him, they had to be so secretive that no one would know they’d been contacted.
Of all the current candidates, Gregory Sanders was the perfect choice. Rejected and cast out by his family, Sanders was alone. This he’d found the night before when he’d followed Sanders to his favorite bar. Disguised as an out-of-town businessman, he’d bought Sanders a few drinks and waited until the man blubbered his sad tale. Sanders had no one. So he was perfect.
Clicking Gregory’s contact button, he zipped off his standard e-mail, confident in the steps he’d taken to mask his own identity, both physical and electronic. By tomorrow, Greg would accept his offer. By Tuesday, he’d have a new victim. And a new scream.
He pushed away from his desk and stiffly came to his feet, rubbing his right thigh. Damn these Philly winters. The pain was bad today. Apart from the sheer thrill, his art accomplished another important benefit-while he painted, he could forget about the phantom pains for which there was no treatment. No cure. No goddamn relief.
He’d reached the door of his studio when he remembered. Tuesday. The old man’s bills were due on Tuesday. Paying them was a necessity. As long as the mortgage and utilities were paid on time, no one would wonder where the old man and his wife had gone. No one would look for them, which was the way he wanted it. He walked back to his computer. He’d be busy with his new victim on Tuesday, so he’d pay the bills now.
Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15
P.M.
“I appreciate you coming so quick, Daniel.” Sheriff Frank Loomis threw a glance over his shoulder before turning to unlock the front door. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
Daniel Vartanian knew the observation was fair. “He’s still my father, Frank.”
“Uh-huh.” Frank frowned when the lock didn’t budge. “I was sure that was the one. I’ve had this key since the last time your folks took a long vacation.”
