Criminally Insane: The Series (Bad Karma, Red Angel, Night Cage Omnibus) (The Criminally Insane Series)

by Douglas Clegg

  She has no strategy. It’s more haphazard than planned. Even her escape, it was pure dumb luck. It was Donna Howe being foolish and Rob Fallon being his ever-lovin’ socipathic self. It wasn’t fate. These were random events, which she has made to look like part of a pattern. I was caught up in it because I was afraid. I wasn’t seeing it for what it was: the machine called the Gorgon just going where the wind took her, the easiest roads, the dumb luck of life. Her finding my vacation phone and address was coincidental to attacking Donna Howe. If Jim Anderson hadn’t passed that piece of paper to Donna, Agnes would probably be at his residence in Redlands. Not here. It’s all chance, and she’s relying on it while the cops are looking for logic and pattern.

  But her logic is nightmares.

  The answer to stopping her is within her own pathology.

  Becoming a nightmare.

  Becoming what she wants.

  An idea which seemed absurd and brilliant at the same time suddenly occurred to him, something he’d never really considered. Something about telling Mark his ‘As If’ philosophy.

  Trey Campbell was going to behave as if Agnes Hatcher’s pathology was real.

  He was going to become, for her, Jack The Ripper.

  He was going to give her what she wanted.

  He only hoped he wasn’t too late for his family.

  Rowing as fast as his heart and muscles would bear, he saw what he thought was the flash of a red flare just up at the shore, in the mouth of the cavern.

  67

  The flare lit the cave a brilliant red, outlining its recesses and sharply jutting rocks. Teresa walked carefully along the wet pebbles at the cave bottom. As she was about to step on what seemed a smoother surface, the psycho woman shouted at her, “Not that way!” Then, more calmly, “To the left, dear. See how it winds upwards. If you go straight ahead, we’ll wind up in a lagoon. Look, do you see the spiral of the path? It represents the journey home. Spiraling, spiraling.”

  Teresa looked up at her mother’s face. It was covered, but she could tell by the way her mother was walking that she wanted Teresa to obey the orders. Not seeing her mother’s face was kind of scary for her; the handcuffs that bound them together hurt her wrists, too. But she knew her father would come, with the police, soon. She knew it would work out okay, just like it did on television shows like Rescue 911. Teresa had an opposing thought in her head, too. She thought that what happened to Jenny might happen to her. She tried not to let that thought control her.

  Teresa went to the left. She kept the flare as far out in front of her as possible. It was warm at its base. Too warm, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t like the way the fire sputtered at its tip, either. It wasn’t like a Fourth of July sparkler. It felt too warm, like it was going to eventually get so hot that she’d have to drop it. She didn’t want to be in the dark with the psycho woman.

  She glanced back at Mark, cuffed to the woman.

  Mark looked like he was somewhere else. His feet moved, and he stepped over rocks. But he didn’t seem to be in his eyes like normal.

  Teresa stepped up onto a rough, narrow path that quickly rose up from the wet pebbles. Before her, she saw the path rise and twist, like a staircase in a lighthouse. She hoped there were no wild animals living in it.

  She didn’t want to turn around and see the woman behind her. She didn’t want to ever have to look at that face again.

  She hoped everything would turn out all right.

  Teresa tugged at the handcuff to keep her mother away from the edge of the path.

  68

  Agnes gave her own flare to the boy.

  She whispered, “Hold onto this. It’ll help us see. You can chase away all the shadows with it.” She showed him how to hold it. He was a beautiful boy. Just like his father. She wanted to hug him tight, because he had a spark of her lover in him. But she knew this wasn’t the time.

  Then, as she followed the girl and her mother up the winding path, she opened the police knapsack at her side. Remembering when she first spoke with Jack in this new incarnation, the walks through the garden, the chess games, the way she looked at him and knew...

  Agnes Hatcher left a trail for him. Each of the pieces was sacred, and he would follow them to their nest.

  He would follow them, and remember.

  The lightning flashed in her brain, and she saw:

  The oven was stuffed with rags. The oil jug, for the lamps upstairs, rested in the corner. The coppers had left after searching the place. They had run back to the dead woman in the street. The one with her body sliced open. The one whose blood tasted like warm metal.

  The locket was in her hands, open.

  The lock of hair.

  The picture.

  She looked at the oil lamp. She could hear the whistles outside, and the endless rain. Would it never stop? She went to the casement window, looking through the grate. The street was enshrouded with fog. The rain was not as heavy as it sounded against the room. It sounded like drums beating; but it was only spitting rain outside.

  She took the locket in her fist and crushed it, but it would not break. It only seemed to get warmer with her touch.

  The time was drawing near. She knew that she must act fast, or she would never have the chance. How could he betray her?

  A memory of being told a story as a little girl: of a witch pushed into a great oven and baked alive by merry children.

  Agnes stepped over to the oil lamp, lifting it up. Its glow was warm. Warmth enveloped her, suddenly. The locket in her hand was like fire. The lamp’s glow, so comforting.

  In the corner, the great oven.

  Lightning thrust its spear through her—

  She was in the motel in Las Cruces. He was peeling away the layers of her face. He was showing her that she wore a mask.

  “Do you see who you are?” He asked. “It takes several lifetimes for ordinary people to understand this. But I’m giving you a gift of sight. You see? Remember the past? Your life was different then, but it was your true self.”

  Red lightning cut across her vision like blood blinding her from her cut forehead—

  She was in the cave, and the boy handcuffed to her stared up at her with the eyes of one who knows.

  69

  Trey was up to his shoulders in the water, drawing his boat toward the shore. He had to stop the motor several yards from the ragged beach because the waves were getting slightly choppy. He was not a good enough seaman to ensure that he wouldn’t crash the rented boat on the rocks. He gradually found sure footing, and was able to bring the boat up to the narrow strip of beach, just beyond the rocks. He secured it as best he could, and then went over to the police transport boat. He found Erskine’s body, and a pool of blood in an aura around his neck and shoulders.

  Without hesitation, he reached into the dead man’s shoulder holster and withdrew a gun. It was a standard issue Smith & Wesson. From Trey’s limited knowledge of cops, he assumed that the dead officer had rarely if ever used the gun. But it would be fully loaded.

  Trey held it in his right hand. The idea of having to shoot it bothered him. Conflicting images rose in his mind:

  Shooting the old man who had been trying to break in to his house.

  Agnes Hatcher, bent over the psychiatrist at Darden, bits of his scalp between her teeth.

  He checked around the boat, and found a small flashlight. He flicked it on. The police radio was destroyed. His first impulse was to take this boat, go get the police, and come back. But, what if there was no time? What if there were only minutes left to help his children?

  I can’t risk it. I can’t sacrifice them to that madwoman.

  From within the cavern, he saw a spray of red light. It moved, casting enormous shadows across the hanging rocks.

  He waded through the tidal pool that would, within the next several minutes, be flooded.

  When he stepped over the smaller rocks, and across what seemed a lagoon within the cavern, he waved the flashlight beam about the c
ave.

  Then, he saw something which made him catch his breath.

  He shined the light on the object that lay upon the slick path that led up from the water.

  It was a human heart.

  Beside it, one of Carly’s sandals.

  Trey Campbell felt a sudden sharp pain in the back of his head, and for a moment he thought he was falling.

  Instead, he was leaning across a woman’s body. Blood trickled from the edge of her neck. He looked up, and Agnes Hatcher was there—she looked different, but he knew her through the eyes. “The windows of the soul,” she said.

  He reached for her, and grasping her, brought her to him. Kissing her.

  Trey opened his eyes. He was standing on the path that led to the Monk’s Chamber. He felt dislocated, as if he’d briefly shared a vision with the Gorgon. She’s inside me now. I will find you, Agnes. I will keep you from hurting them.

  As he hiked the path that spiraled upwards, he came across other such finds. What might’ve been an eye, although it was all bloody. Several yards ahead on the path, a ragged patch of human skin, almost like sheer fabric. Don’t let this be my children. Don’t let this be Carly. Please, be safe. Please, Agnes, don’t hurt them. He wondered if he was too late. He moved as quickly as he could across the slick rock.

  He shined his flashlight up the trail.

  He knew where it led.

  His father had taken him there many times when he’d been a boy.

  The Monk’s Chamber. The Monk’s Well.

  Capila Blanca.

  Whitechapel.

  Trey shouted, “Agnes!”

  The name echoed through the caverns, which to Trey now seemed like the spiraling chambers of a nautilus, all leading to the central place of destiny.

  70

  The room was circular, with natural stone benches within its perimeter. A chasm was at its center, almost perfectly round, like a well without walls. However, there were several embedded rocks around its edges. The walls of the room were etched and shaded with pictures of Jesus and Mary. This made Teresa feel a little less scared. Graffiti, too, was sprayed and slashed across the white walls. Teresa began saying her prayers silently. She gripped her mother’s hand.

  Her mother gripped back, giving her a squeeze.

  It felt like a signal from her mother that they would be safe.

  Someone was yelling from below, almost like it was coming from the well that sat in the center of the room.

  “Do you hear him?” Agnes said, turning to the children. The flares lit the room with a pink glow, and the psycho woman seemed to be bathed in blood on her face. She had eyes like fire.

  The scream again, “Agnes!”

  Teresa recognized the voice. Daddy. She glanced at Mark, but he still stared straight ahead, through her.

  Agnes Hatcher grinned with blood-stained teeth. “It’s the intersection,” she said. “It’s the sacrifice time.”

  She grabbed Mark and brought him close to her bosom.

  She raised the fishing knife over his forehead.

  Close to his eyes. “Life for life,” she whispered.

  Teresa screamed, “No!”

  Her mother pulled Teresa behind her swiftly, and even with her hands confined, leapt forward.

  Carly could only see blackness through the face cover. She had said her prayers, and held onto her daughter’s wrist, even while the handcuffs had sawed against her own wrists. She had carefully followed her daughter up the trail, hoping that the police would come soon. Hoping that something would rescue them. Or something would help, some natural or supernatural agency. But no help had come.

  When she heard Trey’s voice, she thought he was near. But then, with Teresa’s crying out, she knew that something was happening. Something bad.

  Then, she heard a bleating sound from Mark.

  Carly lunged in the direction of Agnes Hatcher’s voice, keeping Teresa behind her. She had to make sure that nothing happened to her children.

  What she felt when she lunged was a cold blade digging deep into her rib cage.

  Agnes drew the knife out, and began cursing her, but Carly barely heard anything, and felt as though she might be blacking out.

  Teresa lay beside her mother. With her free hand, she tore off the face cover. She looked at her mother’s eyes. They were closed.

  Don’t be dead, Mommy. Please, don’t be dead.

  Ignoring the psycho woman who knelt over her with the knife, Teresa used her hands and teeth to tear off the rag tied around her mother’s mouth. “She has to breathe! You’re killing her!” Teresa said, turning to look at the psycho woman.

  Agnes Hatcher held onto Mark. She shivered when she saw the anger in the girl’s eyes. “Dying is good,” Agnes said, almost sweetly. “Hurting is good. It shows who you are on the inside.”

  Suddenly, Mark began crying. He tugged at the handcuff, but was held fast in Agnes arms. She kissed the top of his head. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll show you where your mother lived. Not in her heart. Not like you. She lived in the lower part of her body. She lived where she created you.”

  Agnes traced the knife down Carly’s body, down her stomach.

  She raised the knife slightly.

  “She lived where all whores live,” Agnes said.

  At that second, the sound of gunshot rang through the caves.

  Bats by the hundreds swept downwards upon them. Teresa started screaming. She kept her face low, near her mother’s. The bats brushed across her hair, tangling it.

  The monk’s chamber became black with bats as they dived down among the children. Agnes flailed the knife in the air, as the bats slapped against her.

  The knife dropped from her hand, to the hard-packed dirt.

  When the bats had cleared, Agnes lay in a heap across Carly’s body.

  The shadow of a man stood at the entrance to the circular room.

  “Beloved,” the man said.

  71

  “Daddy!" Teresa wept, clutching her mother. “Daddy! Mommy’s dead!”

  But the man in the jagged doorway didn’t look at her. He didn’t seem like her father at all, because the expression he wore was different. He looked like someone else had crawled into his skin.

  “It’s taken me so long to come to you,” he said, his arms outstretched.

  72

  Agnes felt a doorway open within herself. He had found the key, finally. He found the key!

  It was as if they were back in their nest, beneath the street in Whitechapel. It was like that last day. She was transformed—no longer in the body of the Hatcher woman, she was Agnes Graile, nineteen. Her Jack was there for her.

  She went to his arms. “I’m sorry for what I did,” she whispered, pressing her face against his neck. “I brought you all these lives so we could be together forever.”

  She smelled again the mildew and the coal. She kissed his neck. The scent of his soap was there—the scent of the gentleman surgeon.

  “Leave them,” he whispered. “They’re nothing to us.”

  She smiled, nodding, and reached into her pocket for the key to the handcuffs. She smelled wonderful, as if she’d just taken a scented bath. It was as if her entire body chemistry had changed. There was no sea to her, no blood. Just the scent of flowers after a rain. She handed the small key to him. Trey took it, and uncuffed the boy.

  Then, he hooked the empty handcuff around his own wrist. If I can get her away from them. If I can just get her away from here.

  “Bound for all eternity,” he said.

  And then she felt the metal against the flesh of her breast.

  Instinctively, she drew back from him. She saw the gun in his hand. “It’s karma,” she said dreamily, “What I did to you, you now do to me.”

  She reached for the gun, her hand closing over his.

  Teresa wrapped her arms around her mother, weeping. She didn’t understand why her father was acting so crazy.

  Then, she felt the breath on her cheek.

 
; She drew back, looking at her mother.

  Carly opened her eyes. She felt a pain below her chest. She tried to speak, but had some trouble. She tried to rise up, but had little energy.

  Agnes squeezed the trigger of the gun—

  Trey pulled it back and up, not wanting to kill her—

  The bullet grazed Hatcher’s shoulder—

  Agnes knocked Trey backwards with all her weight. It was as if she had the strength of several strong men. He felt his knees buckle, and the wind was knocked out of him.

  He fell to the floor, unconscious.

  Agnes leaned over him. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, “It was the locket. I didn’t mean to...the oven...”

  Trey, waking, hearing her babbling about “locket” and “oven,” realized that his act as her beloved Jack had sent her mind back to her repressed memory. He drifted in and out of consciousness, for a few moments, had the hallucination that he was inside some dark cold metal closet and could hear rain outside.

  As the rain spattered the streets and leaked into the basement, Agnes opened the small locket and saw the lock of dark hair and the woman’s picture. It was some society woman. Jack had betrayed her.

  He was there, hiding in the oven so that the police would not find him if they searched their nest. He was hiding behind rags and coal.

  She felt the blood boil within her.

  How could he betray her like that? They had sworn eternal devotion! They had mixed their blood with the blood of others—they were bound together for all time and eternity...

  She soaked more rags in oil.

  When she had several such rags, she opened the over door slightly. She held the oil lamp up. In the light from the lamp, she saw his eyes. He looked at her with love. She knew it was not meant for her. She was just a whore. She was just the street-rag he had worn for a period of time. This other woman in the locket—she was the one he loved.