“So according to you, the killings yesterday were the work of a witch?”
“Of a warlock. A young, powerful warlock. Actually, I believe a whole coven was involved. I saw them last night, at Subversion.”
“What’s that?”
“A coven? It’s a group of like-minded witches who want to work together, to draw power from one another.”
“I meant Subversion. I’ve not heard of it.”
“Oh, sorry, Lieutenant. It’s a club, on Second Avenue. They only operate once a month or so, and on special occasions, like Samhain—sorry, Halloween. When I heard about the murders, I immediately began looking for them. They led me to the club. There were two, a boy and a girl. By the way, not to confuse you, but they’re practicing vampirism too, the little bats. A second girl joined them. They had an awful spat, then she took off running. The two older ones followed her. I lost them after that. It was a rough night, actually. So many of these Goth kids think they’re psychic vamps, and they go to the clubs to feed. The energy is overwhelming, you see, especially on a feast day. It drains your energy—heck, it even affects me, and I’ve got a rock-solid shield. Feeding on others without express permission is a nasty, dark habit. We don’t approve.”
“You called them bats.”
“It’s a nickname for the Goths. Baby bats. In Wicca we call them Fluff Bunnies. But Fluffs are a bit different—they’re more poseurs, wannabes. These bats are for real, they’re just too young to be accepted into a traditional coven. Legally, you must be eighteen.”
“Bats,” Taylor said. “What did they look like?”
“The girl was tall, as tall as you, black hair, pale, of course, with green eyes. They were very green—they might have been colored contacts. She was in traditional garb, her makeup designated her as a RomantiGoth.”
“RomantiGoth? What’s that?” Taylor asked.
McKenzie finally spoke up. “There are a ton of subsects within the Goth community—fairies and industrials and neopunk, skimpy, gravers. I could go on and on. New ones pop up every day.”
Ariadne eyed him with interest. “So you are one of us?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” McKenzie answered impassively.
“Hmm,” Ariadne said, head cocked to one side. She turned back to Taylor. “It’s much more an American phenomenon. Darklings in the European sects don’t distinguish themselves so rigidly. We’re still so married to our labels.”
“Ah. Continue, please,” Taylor said.
“The boy was dressed similarly, but in black pants instead of a skirt. They both had corsets on, platform boots that laced high up on their calves, cloaks. His hair is short, cropped, dyed black. They were both made-up, but I’d recognize them if I saw them again. They stood out, made an imprint on me. The youngest was in makeup, but not as elaborately dressed.”
“If we showed you pictures?”
“Certainly.”
“What’s the difference between Goths and Wicca?”
“Oh, lots. Wicca is an earth-based religion. Goths are…well, let’s put it this way. Most people don’t like to be sad. The world says you have to be happy, to go, go, go. Goths embrace that darkness. They explore their sadness, and the sadness of others.”
She glanced at McKenzie, who nodded despite his obvious embarrassment. Poor guy was being laid bare in front of her. She felt for him.
“And the makeup?” she asked.
“A variety of self-expression. They like to disappear, to draw attention away from their corporeal being and to their spiritual side. The real ones are accomplished witches and warlocks—they understand paganism and all its iterations thoroughly. When you find this boy, you’ll find his spell book, what we normally call our Book of Shadows. It’s our most intimate accessory, full of hopes and dreams, spell work and notes, what worked, what didn’t. It’s a vital piece of our lives, and his will be full of clues for you. So will his altar.”
“It seems like they’re drawing attention to themselves by being different, instead of away from themselves,” Taylor said.
“Well, that’s the outsider’s way of seeing them. Most are searching, seeking, looking for their place in the world. They find the Gothic lifestyle and it fits them, like pulling on your favorite pair of jeans and knowing you look fantastic. It’s an emotional journey as well as physical.”
“But the black dress, the hanging out in graveyards. What’s all that about?”
Ariadne smiled. “Because they’re sad. But unlike most, they embrace that emotion. If you could stop, look inside, admit to yourself what is really making you unhappy, then try to alter yourself for the right reasons, for your own personal empowerment, you’d be much better off. It’s okay to be sad. You don’t have to be happy all the time. It’s healthy to let some depressive thoughts into your psyche, to think about the bad things that can happen without the judgment of society. Look at the Buddhists. They are a guiding force behind most disciplined Goths. Buddhist teachings tell you not to get attached to your emotions while you experience them. That emotions are simply a reaction to stimuli, that a sensation doesn’t define you. That level of self-awareness is the key to the gothic lifestyle. They mourn for mankind, basically.”
“They’re teenagers. How self-aware can they possibly be?”
“Very. You’re looking for an incredibly intelligent person, Lieutenant, one who is well-read, well versed in everything from mythology to naturalism to botany. Someone who has skills, who can be a natural leader. Someone who has learned that darkness carries a current, who thinks that they can feed off the energies of the night, and can scare the hell out of all of us who strive to work for good. And you may want to check his athamé for blood. I assume that’s what he used to cut them.”
“What do you know about that?”
“The cuts? The pentacles? It was all over the news. It’s something to excite, to titillate. To guarantee it’s all that’s talked about. The killer is exceptionally egocentric—he wanted to leave his signature behind.”
Ariadne shifted in her seat, her tone more serious now. “This wasn’t some guy shooting from a clock tower, Lieutenant. This was methodical, planned, and it might not be over. You need to be looking for someone with a very special skill set.”
“Someone like you,” McKenzie remarked.
Untroubled, Ariadne said, “Yes. Someone like me. But I would never kill to further my goals. That is strictly forbidden. You of all people know that. Besides, it’s against my own personal code.”
“You know an awful lot about this, Ariadne,” Taylor said. “I can’t help but wonder how. And not through any of these gimmicks, either. You know details, and you’ve actively interfered in an official police investigation.”
“That is true,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
“We have a man in custody who says he committed the murders,” McKenzie said. “He also claims to be the king of the vampires.”
Ariadne threw up her hands, her long hair swirling around her like a wave. “Tcha. The Vampyre Nation is a joke. They are parasites, vermin. This so-called vampire king is lying. The warlock who did this is too smart to turn himself in.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Though he will want to brag, of course. Has he sent you a letter yet? I thought I picked up words last night.”
McKenzie gave her a long look. “You’d make a good cop, Ariadne,” he said at last.
Taylor leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. What was the agenda here? Yes, this was a splashy case, plucking at the heartstrings of everyone involved. And it wasn’t entirely unusual to have people surrender themselves, admit to knowledge of the crimes. She’d had self-proclaimed psychics try to horn in on cases in the past, people who claimed they could see the missing, could communicate with their spirits if they were already gone. They’d always ended up being charlatans, glory seekers, redirecting the investigations to suit their own twisted purpose. She couldn’t take that chance, not on a case this big. She realized she’d made her decision already.
&nbs
p; “Ariadne, I’m going to read you your rights. You understand that I’m going to have to treat you as a suspect—you’ve really given me no choice. This is for your protection as much as for mine.”
Ariadne nodded in agreement. “Do what you feel necessary, Lieutenant. I have nothing to hide—my heart is pure. You must do what your path tells you. I am not offended in the least. As a matter of fact, if you hadn’t, I might have been suspicious.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because now I know that you believe me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She’d left McKenzie with the witch. He’d be able to ferret out whatever it was that Ariadne was holding back.
Truth be told, Ariadne made her desperately uncomfortable. Mind reader or no, she was entirely too perceptive. Taylor had noticed her eyeing the bouquet of white roses Memphis had sent, wondered if she’d had the audacity to read the card while Taylor had been conferring with her team in the corridor. Probably. Frauds, the lot of them, these people who claimed to use the supernatural as their guide. She most certainly didn’t believe the woman was a witch, but she did believe she was involved. And since it wasn’t unusual for suspects to inject themselves into cases, Ariadne certainly fell under suspicion.
What was the deal with that creepy Barent man? Claiming he was a vampire, that Taylor had killed him over and over. Marcus had submitted the paperwork to get the warrant, they were playing the waiting game now. She was surrounded by kooks.
And by one clever killer, who had them chasing their tails, looking into the dark shadows for answers.
It gave Taylor chills to pull back into the Kings’ driveway, but she needed to talk to Letha before she went further. There were multiple cars in the driveway, well-wishers and neighbors bringing covered dishes and morbid curiosity. Taylor had always felt vaguely uncomfortable with the southern tradition of the wake—too many people seemed to live for tragedies, were surrounded by death and sickness. They were the first in line to comfort strangers, to offer help when victims’ families were more interested in battening down the hatches and healing themselves. This scene was being repeated all over Nashville this afternoon.
She knocked on the door, surprised when Letha herself answered. Her face had been scrubbed and her hair was clean, the black polish gone from her nails. Her eyes were clear.
“Letha, Lieutenant Jackson. We met yesterday. I’m so sorry about your brother. Can I come in?”
Letha glanced over her shoulder. “Do you mind if we talk out here? It’s really crowded inside.”
“Certainly.”
The girl came out and closed the door behind her softly, as if she didn’t want to alert anyone of her actions. Taylor stepped to the porch railing, leaned against it.
“So. I was at the school this morning, and your name came up. You hang out with the Goth kids?”
Letha bent and picked up a broken limb that had fallen on the stoop. “I don’t hang with them, not really. I was just…experimenting.”
“Who do you hang out with?”
“I’m a floater. I don’t belong to any of the cliques.”
“Theo Howell told us that you found Jerry yesterday, and called him and his sister to come over to help. You must be friends with them if they were your first recourse.”
“Theo and Jerry are friends. Were friends. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What about the police?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t want to get Jerry in trouble.”
Taylor tried not to groan aloud. The logic of teenagers.
“You should have called 911 as soon as you found him. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. So you aren’t part of the popular crowd?”
“I told you. I don’t hang out with anyone in particular.” She tossed the branch out into the lawn. Taylor could see the lines of anger in the girl’s shoulders.
“What do you know about drugs at school?”
Her eyes darted away, and she mumbled, “Nothing.”
“Vi-Fri? You’re sure you don’t know anything about it?”
Now she was truly discomfited. “How do you know about that?” she asked.
Taylor nudged a fallen leaf with the toe of her boot. “Theo told me. Was Jerry doing drugs?”
She nodded meekly.
“Were you?”
“Maybe a little X, here or there, but nothing major. Just on weekends. Like Jerry. He gave me some of his, if he was in a good mood. Please don’t tell my parents. They’ll be really mad at me.”
“Only if you tell me who Jerry bought the drugs from.”
The girl hung her head. “His name is Thorn. He’s a freshman.”
“What’s his real name?”
“I don’t know. It’s something foreign. I don’t remember. Can I go back in now? My mom’s going to notice I’m gone.”
“Juri Edvin?”
She looked startled—she knew the name. “Maybe. I really don’t know.”
“What does Thorn look like?”
“I don’t know. Short, like me. Kinda heavyset. He’s really part of the Goth crowd.”
Taylor watched the girl. She was biting a thumbnail, obviously upset. Was she lying? Or just not telling the whole truth? Taylor didn’t think so, but it never hurt to ask.
“Letha, your brother and Brandon Scott had a fight last week. Do you have any idea what that might be about?”
“No,” she said, quick and sharp. She clamped her lips together, leaving Taylor to think the real answer was yes.
“Letha. Was it the drugs? Were they fighting about Juri Edvin? Thorn?”
“I really don’t know,” she said.
“Is there anything else you can think of that might help me catch your brother’s killer?”
She shook her head, mute.
“I figured as much.” She gave the girl her card. “If you think of anything, please let me know.” She turned to go.
“Ma’am?”
She faced the girl again. “Yes?”
“Is it true, about Brandon? That he was…mutilated?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Umm…I saw the video online. Was that real?”
Taylor wrestled with her answer. Brandon had been a very good-looking boy. She watched the girl sweat it; she was genuinely concerned. There was the link.
“It may have been. Letha, do you know Brandon?”
The girl’s eyes flooded with tears, all her stoic walls crumbling. “We used to date. We broke up a while ago though. He was…seeing someone else. Jerry was so mad at him, so mad for hurting me. That’s what it was about, I’m sure. They’d been arguing a lot lately.” She sounded much too bitter to be fourteen.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor said.
Letha just nodded, then slipped silently through the front door into the house, closing it firmly behind her.
Strikeout. The girl didn’t know anything more. Taylor could tell that she’d been telling at least most of the truth. Time to call in the big guns.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Quantico
June 16, 2004
Baldwin
Jessamine Sparrow was sorely misnamed. Baldwin thought she should have been called bulldog—her tenacity was one of the things that he was most impressed with when he hired her. So when she said, “Hey, boss. Come take a look at this,” with an indefinable note of curiosity in her voice, he dropped his files and mentally crossed his fingers.
Baldwin stretched and stood, shaking away the cobwebs. He’d been staring at evidence files for the better part of two hours and his head was aching with all the tiny print. He didn’t need glasses, not yet anyway, but the words were swimming before his eyes, refracting in the harsh fluorescent light of the conference room.
Sparrow couldn’t have felt much better. She’d been cruising the online world for nearly twenty hours.
Her computer screen was a mess, with open windows of e
very conceivable size, shape and color. She clicked one of the windows on the top left, made it fill the screen. It was an obituary notice from The Washington Post, dated January 12, 2004. A small face smiled sadly at him, a little girl, maybe eight, nine years old. She had no hair—his first thought was cancer.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Her name is Evie Kilmeade. Nine years old. She died this past January after a battle with leukemia.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Sparrow spoke without the conviction many women would have given the statement. Though only in her late twenties, Sparrow was unmarried, with no real prospects, and no burning desire to populate her life with either a man or a baby anytime soon. She could still look at children and their suffering with a dispassionate eye. Baldwin had wondered if she was gay, then pushed it out of his mind. Her sexual orientation had absolutely no bearing on her ability to kick ass at her job, and Sparrow was one of the best hires he’d made in a long time.
“So what’s the catch?”
“Well, the name sounded familiar. Kilmeade isn’t terribly common, and when we did interviews with Arlen’s neighbors, it stood out to me. Then I see this, and when I put it all together, I found her address. Guess where little Evie lived?” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was watching, then popped it up on the screen.
Baldwin read it three times in disbelief. “You’re kidding,” he said finally, mind whirling.
“Nope. She spent her last days on this earth living across the street from the big bad wolf.”
Baldwin thought back, grabbed a mental image of the house across the street from Arlen’s. That’s right. He’d talked to them briefly two days earlier. The Kilmeades had been an open, friendly, caring couple, with two young boys. They’d never mentioned a little girl, and they were the only people who showed any sort of empathy toward their perverted neighbor. Kilmeade was some kind of psychologist, and he worked with prisoners.
“What color was her hair?” Baldwin asked.
“Funny you should ask. After some serious prodding and a probable-cause warrant, Sears sent over all the negatives from every one of Arlen’s shoots. You can thank Butler for that later. Evie Kilmeade has a file with them. When she still had hair, it was blond.”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 50
