To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  6: Restless Ecstasy

  CLIVE STRYKER JUMPED SIDEWAYS to avoid being hit by the white panel van as it careened out of the alley. After shaking off the shock of what he had just witnessed, he pulled out his mobile and punched in 999. Running toward the unconscious man, he listened for the voice of the dispatcher.

  “Hello. Hell—” He gasped as both his arms were seized and wrenched behind his back.

  Ejected from his fist, his mobile skidded across the pavement, hit the brick wall, and died. He knew his assailants. The Sentries: a security team who patrolled Pegasus. He tried to explain but a succession of rapid jabs to the face and gut silenced his attempts.

  Now, slumped in a pile of garbage, more pissed than he’d been in a long while, he hoped they would not drag him away and beat the crap out of him again, before he could tell someone of consequence what he’d seen. Sirens and red flashing lights alerted him to the arrival of the police; perhaps they would listen, perhaps not. He had, after all, been apprehended in an alley outside a club he’d been banned from, while standing over an inert body.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” For all his literary imaginings, Michael was a cliché.

  “Listen. I tried to tell these thugs…your mate and his woman have been abducted.”

  “My mate?”

  “Yes. The magician.” An eye roll revealed his feelings of disgust. “I was trying to help this man,” he explained, gesturing to the unconscious knight, “when they ambushed me.” Feeling a trickle of blood, Clive wiped his nose.

  Michael smirked. “Go on brother. Regale me with your tale.”

  If the two boys had not been separated as infants they’d likely have killed each other before now. Though physically similar, they were oceans apart. Clive knew he was a threat to Michael and enjoyed antagonizing him, but did not want to be blamed for something he did not do—especially something as serious as manslaughter. Watching the paramedics lift the victim’s body onto the stretcher made him nervous.

  “Believe me, Michael. There was a man—a man that resembled— Well, for lack of a better comparison…Jesus Christ.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yes. Long brown hair, full beard. He even wore the long white robe.”

  “Well, praise the lord.”

  Michael’s perpetual smirk infuriated Clive, who took a deep breath to steady himself. “Do you want to know what happened, or not?”

  “Go on. I’m intrigued.”

  “This bearded character bound the woman in a straitjacket. Then he aimed a syringe at her carotid artery—”

  “Jesus Christ bound Sensara in a straitjacket—”

  Clive nodded. “Yes. Your mate, Estrada, was throttling this man here, and winning I might add, until he turned to look at her. That’s when his opponent brained him with a brick.”

  “Really Clive, you should be a writer, not a doctor.”

  “I thought you cared about him.”

  Michael produced his fags and lit up. “Then what?”

  “Then this man attacked Jesus Christ—I think he was trying to rescue the woman. And that’s how he ended up with the syringe in his neck.”

  “That will be simple to prove.”

  “I know that, moron. I’m a doctor.”

  “So, why didn’t you intervene, doc?”

  “Would you have?”

  “I wasn’t standing here watching and taking notes.”

  “It happened like that,” Clive said, snapping his fingers. “Anyway, Jesus threw the woman into the van, tied Estrada in a straitjacket, and shoved him in too.”

  “It takes more than a few seconds to tie a man in a straitjacket. You could have done something.”

  “I didn’t want to get involved.”

  “Now, that I do believe. But the rest of it? Jesus Christ, straitjackets, and syringes? It’s absurd.”

  “Stranger than fiction, yeah?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think, Clive. I think you are a psycho who abducts women. You tried to abduct Sensara, only Estrada and this guy, who we saw romancing her earlier, intervened. Then you, Dr. Stryker, stuck him with a syringe to sedate him—”

  “Then where are they now? Sensara and Estrada. Where are they now?”

  “Probably off fucking, which is where I’d like to be. Estrada’s been trying to get with her for weeks. Saving her life gave him an edge, so he took it.”

  “Michael—” Clive was tired, bruised, and exasperated.

  “It’s Mandragora.” As his brother curled his upper lip to expose a fang, Clive noticed that his pupils were far too dilated for any darkened alley.

  “You’re wasted.”

  “Not enough to fuck with,” said Michael, crushing out his cigarette with his heel. “You’re fortunate, though, little brother. E opens my heart.” He motioned to the Sentries “Without it, I’d have given you to the boys without a second thought.” Leaning in, he grasped Clive’s cheeks and kissed him full on the lips.

  Clive backed up against the wall and spat. “You are one sick son of a bitch.”

  “Pure brotherly love, Clive. You’re not my type.” Several seconds of silent glaring ensued. “But I do think, you could be another Jack the Ripper.”

  “Please, Michael. Call Nigel. Let me talk to him.”

  “I think that you must talk to them,” said Michael, pointing to several police officers milling around the alley. “Officers, meet my baby brother, Clive Crispin Stryker. He claims to be a witness. You’ll love his story.”

  ≈

  The throbbing pain in the centre of Estrada’s skull brought tequila rushing back up his throat. Grimacing, he spat the bitter fluid as far away from his body as possible. Perhaps he’d puked already. The sour stench of vomit permeated the air. Blindfolded and bound, he fought through pain for fragments: a white van…a bearded man dressed like Jesus Christ…Sensara dangling in a straitjacket.

  He prayed that she was here beside him in the darkness; that way, at least he had a chance of saving her life. Blood clots on top of all that liquor? He knew better than to do that, but she was naive: too new to know, too stubborn to care. For that she could die, maybe even choke on her own poisoned puke, if she was, like him, bound face up.

  He had to focus. Get his bearings. Find her. Save her.

  Lying on his back, wedged up against something cold, hard, and metallic, he felt a vibration beneath him, heard a motor. The white van was on the move and he was trussed up in a straitjacket, wrists crossed over his belly, just as she had been. That was an advantage. It was harder to escape if your hands were tied behind your back.

  He used a black leather straitjacket in his nightclub act. Having perfected Harry Houdini’s escape routine, he’d tweaked it for his particular audience. Bound and hanging by the ankles a few feet above the stage, he played victim to Michael’s sadistic teasing. At the last moment, before anything violent or overtly sexual occurred, he would rip free of his bonds and send the straitjacket flying into the audience to a raucous blend of jeers and applause. He’d already begun his technical trickery; gauging the tightness of the jacket, its cinches and gaps, and the secret places he could manoeuver his muscles and bones to free his hands.

  Over the hum of the motor, he could hear nothing save the echo of Sensara’s pathetic cry resounding in his brain. More fragmented images floated through the darkness. The face of that bastard who’d taken her down the alley. A hypodermic. Surely to god, Christ hadn’t stuck that in her neck. If he had, she could be dying. Dead even. But he couldn’t think like that—

  How long had they been moving? The van was cruising at a fast even clip, not stopping and starting as it would be if they were driving in the city. Sadly, Estrada realized, they were on the freeway. But going where? And why? He assumed Sensara was there, since she’d been tied in the same type of straitjacket just before he was slugged.

  And there were two of them—that had been a shock—and both in costume. Christ and a medieval knight. One must be driving, the other riding shotgun.
He must stay conscious and alert for her; must find her in the darkness and let her know she was not alone.

  What motivation could they possibly have for abducting witches? And why the costumes? Was the ruse somehow symbolic? Were they religious freaks? Or after money? Working alone or for someone else? An organization, perhaps? The word Inquisition flashed through his brain.

  But there was no time for this madness now. He had to stop this delirium, control his thoughts. Willing his body to relax, he consciously slowed his breath, observed and counted each inhale and exhale, concentrated on nothing but now. No past, no future. There was only this moment and this task: to become so calm and so centred, he could speak to the woman he loved in the dark silence of his mind. If they were as aligned as he hoped, she would hear him, despite the drugs, and respond. By the time he had counted twenty slow breaths, his mind had stilled, his heartbeat subdued.

  Sensara can you hear me?

  In the darkness, he heard retching. Dry heaves.

  “She’s sick,” he said, impulsively. Waiting, he heard no sound in the darkness save Sensara’s heartrending snivel. “She drank too much alcohol and took ecstasy, some really potent shit. It’s a lethal combination. She could die.”

  Though there was no response from his abductors, he felt heartened that no one had hit him or told him to shut up. Somewhere he’d heard that humanizing yourself to a kidnapper increased your chances of survival.

  “Listen. If you’re after witches, I’m a witch. My name is Estrada and I’m the high priest of Hollystone Coven. Sensara is really sick. She needs to go to a hospital. Please let her go. Take me. Do whatever you want to me. Torture me. Burn me at the stake. I won’t resist. But, I beg you. Let her go.”

  After several minutes, the driver of the van veered off the highway, made a wide turn, and cruised slowly down a bumpy stretch of pavement. The vehicle stopped. Estrada heard the driver’s door open; then gasped as the side door slid wide and a cold fresh breeze slapped his face. He heard the sound of a body—her body—being pulled across the floor. Stay alive, Sensara. Please.

  “Thank you,” Estrada said. “And you have my word. I will submit to anything—whatever you want.”

  Cool damp fingers stroked his cheek. Then the door slid shut, and he was engulfed in the dark metal tomb, once again.

  ≈

  “I don’t know why you’re so pissed, Clive. If you hadn’t been skulking around the back alley—” Michael leaned back in his chair, jacked one foot up on the table and lit a cigarette. He sipped his coffee, then blew a significant smoke ring across the dance floor and glanced at the time on his cell: 5:08 a.m. Irritated by his little brother’s pouty-lipped silence, he snarled. A three-hour police interrogation was nothing compared to the harassment he’d experienced of late. “I don’t see how this righteous indignation is justifiable in the least. You arrive from London unbeknownst to anyone. You stalk me, and then scream victim when the cops want to know what you’re up to.”

  “Tosser,” said Clive.

  “Such eloquence, and from a Cambridge man. I would have thought—”

  “If I hadn’t been skulking you’d know nothing about Estrada’s disappearance.”

  “Don’t speak his name. Don’t even think his name—”

  After snapping shut his cell, Nigel slammed his palm flat against the table. “That’s enough now, boys.” He’d just been speaking with the cop he kept on payroll. Michael straightened in his chair and waited.

  “Sensara is safe and on route to the hospital. She was discovered in the parking lot of a convenience store in the valley.” Nigel glanced at Clive. “Bound in a straitjacket. She’s quite ill.”

  “And?”

  “No word on Sandolino. I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “Damn.”

  “Why leave her and take him?” asked Clive. “Even if she’s ill, it makes no sense if his motive is murder.”

  “Murder is never a motive,” said Nigel.

  “Where is he?” Michael fumbled with his gunmetal case, took out another cigarette, and tapped the end of it against the table.

  “You haven’t even finished the one you’re smoking,” Clive said. “Have you any idea what cigarettes do—?”

  “Any idea what my boys can do?”

  “Something else,” said Nigel. “The man that left the club with Sensara, and ended up drugged in our back alley, is a police officer.”

  “The knight? The one Estrada attacked?” Once past his disbelief, Michael grinned.

  “Apparently the officer was off duty and just looking for recreation.”

  “Oh, is that what they call it here?” Clive stood and stretched. “Wait, that’s brilliant. There’s a copper to corroborate my statement.”

  “Possibly. The officer was injected with a very strong opiate. He’s still intoxicated.”

  “What does this psycho want?” mused Michael. “Estrada’s not rich.”

  “A man dressed like Jesus Christ who abducts witches? Obviously, he’s some sort of religious freak,” said Clive.

  “Oh, yes. There’s one other thing Michael. They gave Sensara a toxicology screen. Besides the alcohol, she had a very high dose of MDMA in her system. They’re wondering where she would get that much ecstasy.” Michael hung his head, refusing to meet Nigel’s eyes. “Combined with the alcohol, she was so loaded, she could have died. You do know what that means.”

  Michael nodded. “I’m sorry, grandad. I’ll take responsibility for any fallout from this.” He tilted his head slightly to catch Clive’s reaction in the periphery. It was gleeful, as he expected, and really pissed him off. What kind of doctor was more concerned with his brother’s ruin than a woman’s life?

  ≈

  Love is a powerful motivator. It will rouse a man to action more emphatically than any other emotion. Estrada pondered this as he lay trussed up in a straitjacket he could easily remove, wondering what he had promised to do for love. But perhaps there was another way out: a way to keep his promise and still survive.

  He needed to know where he was, where they were going, and why. Recollecting that night at Buntzen Lake, Daphne’s comment filtered through his subconscious: I invoked a charm so the killer would be caught. He didn’t want to believe that his love for Sensara was conjured, but if it was—if they were enmeshed in Daphne’s charm, playing out his role was crucial.

  When the van stopped and silence replaced the hum of the engine, he heard the man sniff and clear his throat, then the door opened and shut. Perhaps they had reached their destination. Having been deprived of sight for so long by the blindfold, his other senses were keen, his mind ripe with visions. He focussed, listened…could hear other car doors slam, muted voices, the crush of rubber on pavement, the man’s footsteps as he walked away. This was a public place; perhaps a restaurant or gas station. Beyond these noises were natural sounds: leaves rustled by wind, the light patter of raindrops on glass, the garbled chatter of ravens.

  He’d read of shapeshifters, shamans who could take the form of other creatures. If it was possible to merge with Sensara’s mind, could he connect somehow with a raven? Use the bird’s form as a kind of avatar to determine his whereabouts? Listening intently, he imagined the raven: the intelligent flicker of black eyes, sleek head dampened from rain, a taloned foot holding down prey, a sharp hooked beak ripping through flesh.

  The scent of death deepened and he gagged. Several ravens were ingesting the innards of a rabbit, and he realized that he was now among them. He hopped back from the carcass, dipped his beak in a nearby puddle and swallowed to rid his mouth of the carrion taste. Then, cocking his head from side to side, he ruffled his inky feathers and stretched his wings.

  Another raven, sensing the shift, swaggered towards him, ears erect, and flashed the whites of its eyes in a macho display of power.

  Estrada flew into the air and landed on the hood of the van. Staring through the front window he saw two empty seats, though only one door had closed. Was his abductor travelling alon
e?

  Swivelling his head, he stared through blackbird eyes at the man who strolled toward the shop at the 24-hour Chevron. It was the man who resembled Christ, and like Christ, he’d shown compassion to Sensara and touched his cheek with tenderness. Could such a man really be a killer? Having taken off his robe, he now looked like any other traveller, in blue jeans and jacket, long brown hair blowing freely in the damp morning wind.

  Perhaps, it was the other man he had to fear—the cold one who led Sensara from Pegasus and knocked him unconscious. What had become of him? Did they intend to rendezvous or did the other man only lend muscle to the abduction? Gazing back through the window, he remembered that his trussed up body lay just beyond the seats. No matter how kind the man seemed to be, he was still a captive.

  Overwhelmed by the sudden desire for freedom and assured that the man posed no immediate threat, Estrada took off and flew high into the sky.

  The land below was a tangle of evergreens, severed by dark rock canyons and black serpentine rivers. Huddled against the bank of a river, that could only be the Fraser, the town twinkled like an earthbound constellation. So close to the freeway, it must be Hope. The town acted like the hub of an unbalanced wagon wheel.

  If his captor continued following the Trans-Canada Highway, they would travel north through the Coast Mountains toward Cache Creek and the hinterland beyond. Nothing much there but First Nations land and abandoned gold mines. If he turned northeast onto Highway 5, they would climb steadily and he could end up virtually stranded in the barren lands surrounding the Coquihalla Highway. Well-intentioned friends had kidnapped him several summers ago and driven to the Merritt Mountain Music Fest via this corridor. There was nothing between Hope and Merritt but seventy miles of barren mountains, riverbeds, and steep canyon gorges. This time of year, the summit could be capped in snow. Finally, if he turned southeast, they would follow the meandering Crowsnest Highway through Manning Park. All three routes had limited traffic on this October night. Too late for campers, too early for skiers.