Bare Bones

by Debra Dunbar

  “What did his father say?” I asked.

  The wife’s eyes met mine. “That Brian is not his son. He said that a monster has taken Brian’s body, because that man is not his son.”

  A chill ran through me and I turned my attention to the father. Had he meant that metaphorically? Maybe the supernatural events last month were clouding my judgement, but I thought he meant that literally.

  What monster takes over a person’s body? Immediately I thought of demons, then remembered the failed exorcism of Bradley Lewis. Amanda had been convinced of the same. She’d been sure that whoever had been walking around in her brother’s skin wasn’t actually her brother. But if not demons, then what?

  Skin. I remembered the odd coincidence of the implant, the skinned corpse in the museum. The guy’s skin in the backpack. Had the college-guy been Bradley Lewis? Were all three killers? Three non-human killers who took a person’s skin and walked around in their bodies?

  Norwicki stepped to the table and placed a sheet with a grid of photos in front of the boy. “Can you identify the guy you saw your Dad with? Are any of these photos that man?”

  The boy scanned down the list, placing a finger on one picture. “This one. Only his hair’s a little shorter now.”

  Bradley Lewis. The detective had him put his initials next to the photo, then swapped the sheet for another, this one with rows of female head shots. “Are any of these the girl he was with?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I pulled out my cell phone, scrolling through the pictures. “How about her?”

  Jack winced at the photo of his dad hugging the teenage girl. “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “Where’d you take that?” Norwicki demanded.

  “Outside the police station,” I told him smugly. “She was waiting for him.” I saw the pained look on Lisa Huang’s face and quickly added, It wasn’t a passionate embrace. They were both crying.”

  I don’t think that made the woman feel any better about the situation. I ached for her, really I did, but there was a connection between Bradley Lewis, Brian Huang, and this girl. I thought back to when I first saw her at the Inner Harbor and wondered what happened to the boy she’d been with, the one who I’d assumed was a verbally abusive brother.

  “Do you have a photo of, um, of the contents of Bradley Lewis’s backpack?” I asked Tremelay. I spoke in hushed tones, but didn’t want to risk letting the Huang family know that the murders involved skinned bodies.

  An expression of revulsion crossed the detective’s face. “No. I have a picture from when the kid went missing at six years of age, but not his…um, his current situation.”

  Not that it would have helped. I doubted I could have recognized anyone from an oddly tanned skin. Still, I wondered if the boy at the Harbor had been a victim. If not, where was he in all of this? He’d called the girl Becca or something, and the missing friend had an odd name—Lawson?

  Lawton. And the skin in the backpack had belonged to Lawton King, a sixteen-year-old boy from South Carolina. Like Tremelay, I was beginning to think there was no such thing as a coincidence. The girl was involved, the missing friend was found dead. I had no idea how Bradley Lewis tied in to this, or who the rude brother from the Inner Harbor was, but somehow all five of these people were involved.

  Tremelay turned back toward Lisa Huang, asking her further questions about her husband’s behavior and associations. I tuned them out, thinking about the three, possibly four or even five individuals involved.

  Putting aside the teen girl, her friend/brother from the Inner Harbor, and the mysterious Lawton kid, we had two suspects. Brian Huang and Bradley Lewis, both of whom had experienced sudden personality changes last week. Both of whom family members described as being a sort of doppelganger, an imposter in their son or brother’s body. If I hadn’t witnessed a failed exorcism, I’d be thinking demonic possession.

  As it stood, I was just as baffled as the police. More baffled, actually, since they were looking for a team of serial killers and I…well, I wasn’t sure what I was thinking at this point. The police could be right, but I was beginning to wonder if this killing spree was at the hand of a non-human murderer. Or murderers. If I was right, then Tremelay was really going to need my help. And fast, because any paranormal creature that killed and assumed their victim’s identity, who tore the skins off their prey was not going to be stopped by the Baltimore PD

  Which was why I needed to get my butt back home and do some research.

  Chapter 17

  THE PETERSON BOOK was open on the couch, but it was what I saw in the kitchen that had me shaking my head. Flour covered the counter tops, spilling in a heap of white powder on the floor. The broken bag lay in the sink. It looked like someone had yanked it from the cabinet, ripped the bag open, and shook it all over my kitchen.

  I shouldn’t even own flour. I couldn’t cook anything beyond heat-and-serve. When I’d moved in, I’d stupidly bought what everyone told me were kitchen staples—flour, sugar, spices, baking soda, yeast. I wasn’t sure the yeast was still good by this point. The flour certainly wasn’t, now that it was mostly on my floor.

  Grumbling to myself, I got the dustpan and broom. Dario was north of the city, and it was daytime. Even if it were night, I couldn’t imagine him sneaking into my apartment and having a field day with baking supplies. My apartment was warded against entry by anyone else. Obviously this was an inside job, which meant my fox named “V” was the culprit.

  Why would “V” do this? Was he trying to tell me something? Something to do with kitchens or flour, or baking? Maybe ghosts? In cartoons, people dumped flour over themselves and were mistaken for ghosts.

  I realized what was going on when I went to throw my first dust pan full of flour away. By the trash can was another mess of white powder, the fox figurine on its side at the edge. He’d drawn a “V”, but once I got a good look at it I realized the mark in the flour wasn’t truly a “V” after all. It was a checkmark with the extensions at each end jutting outward at a perpendicular angle.

  The equivalent of a stick figure bird.

  “Raven?” My voice shook as I picked up the fox and cleaned it off. The eyes glittered at me, but there was no confirmation of my theory. “Raven, is that you?”

  It had to be her. I didn’t know anyone named “V”. Raven had died violently with unfinished business. She’d vowed to help me with the demon mark. My friend was so stubborn, so strong-willed, that I could completely see her sticking around this world, forgoing the afterlife to help me as she’d promised.

  But how could she help me when she couldn’t do much more than roll around, knock books over, and write a checkmark in flour? How the heck were we going to communicate if she couldn’t speak? Or even write.

  I placed Raven on the kitchen counter and ran to my room, digging into a box of miscellaneous stuff that I’d brought with me when I’d moved from my parents’ house. Yarn. A photo album. One of those adult coloring books with crayons. Slippers. And a white board. Sadly only two of the dry-erase markers were still working, but it should do. I brought them out and placed them on the dining room table.

  “At night I’ll put you next to this and hopefully you can leave me messages. I’ll even uncap the markers each night to make it easier for you.”

  Even then, she might not be able to do much. The fox figurine had no movable parts, no opposable thumbs. How Raven was going to hold a marker steady enough to write, was beyond me. Although there had to be some way she could manipulate her surroundings. Poltergeists could write, could pick up and throw objects. If those spirits could do it without corporeal form, Raven should be able to. Then Russell’s words came back to me. It might take her time. It might take her longer than my lifetime.

  I refused to believe that, so I grabbed the fox and plopped down on the sofa, Peterson’s Monsters of the New World on my lap. “Okay, I know you’ve been insistent about this book. Does it have to do with the skinning murders? Because the Huang family g
ave me the idea that this might not be a serial killer who has a sick thing for taxidermy, but something else entirely. What type of creature skins their victims and then assumes their identity?”

  I flipped through the book, stopping at Native American Skinwalkers. They were a type of magic user who used animal skins to assume that form and gain the powers of that particular animal, as well as cross the veil. More than just the normal animal abilities of the wolf, panther, or bear, the mage would gain the symbolic powers that the animal held in the spirit world.

  Wow. I wondered how long it took them to be able to do that. If they mastered one animal, were they able to master another or only remain proficient in transformation to the one? I looked further, noting that the majority of documented practitioners were of Navaho descent, although others had claimed to have achieved this level of skill over the past few centuries. There were also conflicting claims as to whether the person who performed this was evil or not. Navaho legend said the magic user had to kill a close family member in order to gain the ability, and then used the animal skins to go around killing other humans.

  I closed my eyes and envisioned two or three Native Americans running around Baltimore and killing people to assume their identity. A museum employee. The deadbeat brother of an investment guru. A high school girl.

  I couldn’t see it. Assuming an animal form like an owl? Yes. Assuming the identities and forms of those three humans? No. Well, maybe the investment guru if they hadn’t been interrupted and Amanda Lewis had been skinned. One of them might have wanted to play the market and win, but why her jobless brother?

  And all that was assuming the technique even worked with human skins. Things weren’t interchangeable in the magical world. Plus some accounts claimed these people were practicing their magic for a higher purpose. Murdering people and assuming their identity wasn’t in keeping with that higher purpose.

  So, theory one was that the murderers were the evil version of the Native American skinwalkers.

  I picked up another book, determined to explore all options. Selkie. Nope, they were human with a seal skin. A Chinese fox-spirit was said to be able to assume human form, but there was nothing I could find about them wearing their victim’s skin. In fact, the fox-spirit seemed to use its victim’s heart to maintain its human appearance.

  I wasn’t willing to rule out demons, although that would mean that Father Bernard’s exorcism wasn’t correctly done. It was a possibility.

  Theory two: demonic possession.

  Shapeshifters? But they shouldn’t need a skin to assume a human form. Still, I glanced through Transformative Beasts. Most shapeshifters, including werewolves, changed back and forth between their primary human form and their animal one without any external aid. These creatures weren’t able to shift into other animals or humans—just the two. But there were several types of shapeshifters who could shift into a variety of animals as well as humans. One reportedly killed and took the victim’s identity, but there was no mention of it needing the skin for this.

  I wasn’t going to rule that out either. Maybe the shapeshifter was just using the skinned body as a way to delay identification and the skin was a sort of focus in transforming into that appearance.

  Theory three: shapeshifters.

  Perhaps aliens? Like in that pod-people movie? Oh sheesh, I just couldn’t go there. So basically I was looking at shapeshifters, demons, or evil skinwalkers who had crossed the line and started wearing human instead of animal skins.

  “What do you think? I asked Raven. There was no reply, but I could swear I saw the figurine wobble. “I think I better call Dad and see what he has to say about this.”

  I picked up my phone and nearly jumped from my seat as it rang in my hands. It wasn’t my father with some psychic awareness that I needed him, it was Dario.

  “Hey! Better night tonight?” It was just after sunset, so I doubted there had been enough time for things to go south yet. He was probably just calling in response to my cheesy text.

  “Depends on your definition of ‘better.’” His tone was light and teasing, but I caught the underlying stress. “Can you come up here? I’m in Hampton. It’s north of Towson, just outside the beltway. There’s something I need you to see, to get your opinion on.”

  If this serial killer really was non-human, then I needed to research it as quick as I could. Part of me kept remembering what Father Bernard as well as my father had said: demon summoning for information was lazy. And if time was of the essence, I couldn’t let it run out and put me in a corner where I’d have to further sully my soul.

  But Dario had always been there for me. Always. At the drop of a hat he’d come when I’d asked. The vampire had never let me down, and that sort of friendship was something to be cherished. I wanted to be the same kind of friend for him. I wanted to be there when he needed me, without question, just as he’d done for me.

  “Where in Hampton?” I wrote down the address as well as his comments on landmarks. “At the Target? Should I meet you in housewares, or in women’s fashion?”

  “Meet me behind the building, by the dumpster.”

  Well, that sounded ominous. I had visions of human bodies in the dumpster, drained of their blood by the rogue group of vampires Dario and his family had been chasing.

  “I’m on my way.”

  I grabbed my sword and the spelled butter knife, and added my charm bracelet just in case. I’d only bothered to spell three of the charms since we’d been free of supernatural crises the last four weeks, but it would do. Right before I left I paused and looked at the fox figurine. Should I take her?

  “I’ll fill you in when I come back,” I told Raven, uncapping the dry erase markers in the hope that there would be a message for me upon my return. Nothing burst into flames, fell off the table, or flew across the room, so I assumed she was down with this plan.

  Then I jumped in my car and set my phone GPS to the address in Hampton, hoping between that and Dario’s directions I could manage to get there without too many detours. The call to my father would have to wait, as would any further research on the murderer and my demon mark. A friend needed me, and I wasn’t about to let him down.

  Chapter 18

  BY THE TIME I’d managed to find the correct exit and navigate the unfamiliar area, it was closing on ten at night. Cars still filled the parking lot and shoppers rattled by with their carts full of plastic bags. I parked out front so I’d seem to be a regular shopper and not some robber driving around back to case the joint. Before I could lock my door, Dario appeared beside me, scaring me to the point that I nearly peed my pants.

  “What took you so long,” he grumbled as I stilled my franticly beating heart. “Did you drive to Hampton via Frederick or something?”

  “I missed the exit and wound up heading to Philadelphia.” Which had been a toll road. I was still pissed about that.

  “Well I’ve been babysitting a body for the last hour and a half. It’s cold and stiff at this point.”

  Grumpy vampire. It was kind of cute, actually, to see him like this.

  “Human body?” I was surprised he hadn’t said “bodies.” His past descriptions of renegade groups led me to believe they were killing machines. Living with a feast or famine cycle tended to make a vampire want to gorge when they managed to grab a victim.

  “No, a vampire body.”

  Dario turned and led the way while I followed, still shocked at his words. Had one of the Balaj been killed by the rogues? The dead had to have been one of theirs. I couldn’t imagine I’d be called in each time they killed one of the renegades. Then I remembered our conversation about the Towson rogues and wondered if a human had possibly killed a vampire. A determined, knowledgeable, Van Helsing sort of character wouldn’t find it impossible, but I imagined a college girl trying to break a vampire’s neck and had to stifle a giggle.

  Dario and I blended in with the shopping public until we rounded the side of the store, past silent loading docks and around to the
rear. Two women stood by a back door smoking, their smocks still tied around their waists. They watched us with a wary curiosity, one edging her foot toward the propped-open door.

  I’m sure they wondered what the heck we were doing. Dario headed left, jumping onto an embankment and edging along a narrow path between overgrown shrubberies and the side of a gigantic dumpster. Looking up I saw the back of a low-rise apartment complex a few hundred feet away. No wonder the two women on their smoke break hadn’t been overly alarmed. This was clearly a short-cut from the store to the apartments.

  It was also the dump site for a body. I had no clue how the vampires had managed to find it with the thick bushes still holding on to their fall foliage. If they hadn’t, there was a good chance this body would have lain there until winter, when some poor human cutting through to his home saw it.

  Or not. Vampires turned to dust in the sunlight, their bodies would, too.

  I leaned in, pushing aside the stubborn thorny limbs to get a better look at the dead vampire. It was there I got my second shock of the night. The vampire was completely devoid of skin, legs and arms sprawled outward from a twisted torso.

  “The other victims were in the city,” I mused. We were in Hampton. It wasn’t far, but it definitely was a break from where the killers had previously been active.

  “And all the others were human.” Dario reached down and grabbed the corpse’s head, turning it to face me. I don’t know if I was more shaken that he grabbed the horror-movie skinned head with his bare hand, or at the sharp set of vampire teeth in her mouth. Big, pointy teeth. I knew they had fangs, but the absence of lips made those gigantic canines look all the more lethal.

  No wonder Dario had called me. He knew about the serial killer in Baltimore, but I hadn’t had a chance to tell him my theory about the killer not being human. This particular choice of victim would make a whole lot more sense if the killer was a demon, or demons, with a signature style of killing than if the killer were a human. Human serial killers were pretty darned scary, but to take down a vampire required knowledge—knowledge of how to make sure they stayed dead as well as how to quickly incapacitate them. Vampires were fast. The slightest delay and the killer would be the one with a snapped neck, sprawled dead in the thorny brush.