* * *
I opened my eyes to dim light trickling through the shades of Junior Lee’s room. The scent of oiled leather was only a hint of what it was moments before, but the shiver coursed down my spine more freely now that I was not bound.
“I… I always forget who I am. It’s like I almost lose myself in the dream,” I muttered.
Paige took my hand in hers and tossed the keychain back into the box. “It’s okay. Did you see what you wanted?”
“Wanted?” I spat. “That’s an interesting question. I never want to see these things, but if I’m the only one who can, who am I to reject the visions?” I knew I shouldn’t take it out on her, and her eyes reflected my pain. “I’m sorry. I… I still haven’t gotten used to them, but yes I saw what happened.”
“So why the ritual burning?” Jessie asked in a moment of reprieve from his chore at the laundry hamper.
“I don’t know. I was—I mean, Junior must have been a sacrifice for something. She called him her ‘golden bull.’ Hopefully he’ll be the last.” I didn’t believe it, but maybe it would give Jessie some hope.
“That’s a blessing,” he muttered, going back to his task.
A blessing? I think not, but I couldn’t bring myself to say those words. Jessie didn’t need to know the details. Instead I asked, “Was there anything about lash marks on his chest in the report?”
Jessie shook his head. “I don’t know about the report. They didn’t show me that, but no one mentioned anything about them.”
“They must be keeping that part quiet.”
“Why? What marks? What happened?” asked Paige, squeezing my hand.
Shaking my head, I whispered, “Not right now.”
“It’s okay, man,” Jessie interjected. “I can take it.”
“I know you can, Jess. This isn’t something I want you having nightmares about. I have to deal with it, but you have a choice. Don’t let your curiosity lead you to things you’re better off not knowing.”
He accepted my recommendation with solemn dignity. We’d been through this before, and he knew to trust my judgment, as did Paige.
* * *
September 24, 1996
A few days after our visit with Junior Lee’s parents, I caught up with Shelley in school. Mr. Broaderick waved when he spotted me in the hall, but I tried to avoid most of the others.
Mrs. Easely’s voice echoing from behind an open locker stunned me, and I ducked around a corner. “Mr. Roden, what did I tell you about those naked pictures?” she shouted. The constant chatter echoing throughout the hall ended the instant her voice boomed.
“Ah, come on,” pleaded a youthful boy. “She’s got a bikini on.”
“Those kinds of thoughts lead to alcohol, drugs, and Satanism. I know you don’t want something so awful on your conscience.” The sound of tape ripping from the metal locker resounded through the hallway. Then her heels clopped back the other way.
Peeking back in the hall, I found the coast clear of any Stone face obstacles and breathed a sigh of relief. She would’ve had me kicked out or worse, being a graduate. The kids’ voices grew until the atmosphere had returned to normal and students began milling about again.
I suddenly spotted the girl from Junior’s cell phone waltzing down the hall with a condescending smile on her face. “Hey, Shelley. You got a minute?” I asked, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the crowded hall, into a vacant alcove. Paige was on my heels.
The young Shelley was brunette, short, skinny, and had freckles speckling her cheeks, but curves in the right places for someone so young. Her brown eyes looked me up and down from six inches below. Her face still held the innocence of childhood, but her body looked to be maturing at an accelerated rate.
“Uh, yeah, I guess. What do you want?” she sneered and appraised Paige with raised eyebrows.
Paige looked shocked at first, but then hid a smile behind a balled hand. I hadn’t expected the condescending attitude from what I would classify as a child. Considering all the rumors going around about Coach Moyer’s disappearance and Grant Brogand’s confession about his parents, I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me. People fear what they don’t understand. “Well, first off, you can stuff the attitude.”
She huffed and stomped a foot, her full book bag jiggling on her back. Overall, she was so small and wiry, it looked like she could’ve curled up inside it. I stifled my laugh.
“Fine, what do you want?” she asked. “I’m gonna be late for history.”
“It won’t take long. We just heard that you and Junior kind of had a thing, so I was wondering if you’d seen him that night.” I didn’t mention that we’d also found a picture of her on his phone, but it wasn’t anything scandalous. It did, however, put her in connection with him shortly before his murder.
“Yeah, so? We dated, but I date a lot of guys.” She tossed her head, and her long hair caught on her backpack, destroying the intended effect. It was almost comical, like a child readying herself for an imaginary beauty pageant.
“So… did you date him that night?”
“If you can call it that, but it wasn’t anything special. We ate dinner at Bayside Pizza. Then he dropped me off. I’ve had much better.”
I couldn’t tell if she was just forced to look up at me or her nose was permanently stuck that way, but she was sure full of herself. “So, you weren’t with him later that night.”
“Oh, no! If I had been, who knows what would have happened to me? I got out just in time.”
I nodded. “That’s true. You were lucky.” And heartlessly selfish, I wanted to add. Instead I settled for, “Who knows what that beast would’ve done to you?”
Shelley paused for a moment and glared. “I can take care of myself. Is that it? The bell’s about to ring.”
“Yeah, that’s it. You can go.”
“Great,” she said, turning on her heels and giving a hop to hoist her backpack back onto her shoulders. “And please don’t talk to me again; you’re going to ruin my reputation.”
Paige snorted once Shelley disappeared into the crowded hall. A chortle followed, and Paige bent over holding her knees, a few random tears even finding their way down her cheeks. “My-my, Alex,” she said behind pursed lips as she tried once more to hold in the giggles. “That girl is a hoot!”
I finally allowed my own amusement to show and shook my head. “I almost laughed in her face. I practically couldn’t help myself.”
“I know. When she tossed her hair, I almost collapsed. It was just too funny.”
The momentary thought sent my mind to thoughts of Glory, my stepsister that had died from internal bleeding earlier that year. My smile immediately disappeared as I remembered her glowing face smiling into the mirror as she tried to put Abigail’s lipstick on, only to smear it all over her chin and upper lip. She even got a dot on the end of her nose. Other memories came back to me, ones of a childhood innocence that had never been lost, but never allowed to flourish. The ache for a missing part of my world returned, and I bit my lower lip, staring at the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Paige asked, seeing my abrupt change.
I shook it off and muttered, “Nothing. Just remembering Gloria.”
The concern in Paige’s eyes turned to pity, and she wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me to her as we meandered into the dying traffic and out to the parking lot. To change the subject, she asked, “So what’s your gut telling you? Did she do it?”
“She isn’t nice, but I didn’t get anything when I grabbed her hand. I don’t know for sure, but I doubt she’s behind it. Did you see how small she is? How could she? Junior could’ve manhandled her in his sleep.”
A LIFE OF DEATH: 8
BY
WESTON KINCADE
The Golden Bulls
- BOOKS of the DEAD -
Chapter Four
Complications
September 14, 2011
The memory of Junior’s murder haunted me. There was a connection there. I knew it fro
m the visions, but where was the evidence? The police and our justice system required it. There had to be more to the murders… something I missed. I read on, scanning the pages on my lap as the Metro sped to the next stop. A recorded, female voice announced the Waterfront stop as we slowed, and I tuned it out once more. There were still plenty of stops before Branch Avenue, where Jessie was waiting.
I’d looked over the files time and again over the years, but still felt like I was missing something. The locations were different, but each spot seemed to be moving closer to the center of town. The boys weren’t the same age, but they were close, and I’d known each of them. It was a small town, and they were about my age, graduating classes of 1996, ’97, and ’99. So far, all of the victims were male athletes or had been in the past. The day was quickly approaching when one more name might be added to the file: September 20. If only the Tranquil Heights Police Department knew where to look. There should have been one last year, but the department never found a body.
I flipped to the photo of the last victim: Timothy Sterling—born May 10, 1978—died September 20, 2009. We found him because of the smoke, but there wasn’t evidence implicating anyone for the murder. Even with my visions, I didn’t know who was behind them, but I at least knew they were connected. How to prove it, though?
Fortunately for the department, most of Tim’s body was still intact. They’d gotten to him sooner than the others, but nowhere soon enough. His clothes and possessions had turned to ash. Enough damage had been done that they had to resort to dental records for confirmation of his identity. The only thing that remained was a piece of the plastic zip tie used to bind Timothy’s hands in front of him.
After fifteen victims, it was the only clue I’d found. It told the department nothing, but the autopsy revealed a shard of wood grasped under his wrists and an impression of a large staff. Give one up for science. However, I couldn’t say anything about my visions; if I had, they would’ve kicked me off the force. Not even Sergeant Tullings could have stopped it. He would’ve tried, but there’s only so much even a superior can do if it gets out that one of your lead detectives has gone loopy, accusing people of heinous acts without a shred of evidence. The zip tie was a simple item used in every household to bind cables and cinch trash bags, so as scientific proof, it didn’t go far. Even the staff imprint on his burnt body didn’t lead to anything.
Thinking back to the moment, I recalled reaching down to run a finger over the black, plastic binding protruding from the man’s charred hands. Timothy looked like he’d been killed mid-prayer, just like the last few victims, but this time in the middle of a vacant parking lot. The familiar aroma of old, worn leather drifted near, as it had that late night, mixed with the disturbing odor of burnt flesh.
* * *
“Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” I pleaded in a masculine voice that wasn’t my own. I couldn’t make out much because the world swam through my vision. I’d obviously been drugged. Rocks dug into my knees on the asphalt parking lot. I tried to stand, but another tie bound my feet. “Please stop. It hurts. I never did anything to you.” My body ached from heel to head, and the skin crisscrossing my right forearm was blistered.
“How do you know?” demanded the woman’s voice from a few feet ahead. I could make out a dark, fuzzy shape, but that was all. Suddenly, something hard slammed into my collarbone. “I asked, how do you know? Do you even know who I am?”
I raised my hands, pleading. “No, but please—”
Another blow to the opposite side sent me to the ground. Pain flared in my neck and shoulders.
“I don’t,” I mumbled. “Please stop.” Bile inched its way up my throat and mixed with the metallic taste of my own blood. At some point I’d bitten my tongue.
“My blessed bull, you need not worry,” her voice intoned. “You’ll be in a better place in the afterlife. It will be glorious. You will see.”
Whatever did I do to deserve this? Something pinched the center of my back, and a horrendous shudder ran through every inch of my body, slowly immobilizing each appendage: first my left hand, then my right. Soon I couldn’t move a muscle. Thoughts of my family, the faces of my son and daughter passed through my mind: Travis, age six and just entering school with blond hair, a wide grin, and shining, blue eyes, and Sarah, not yet eleven, her hair a tangle of brown curls… my sweet children. I’ll miss so much. Please forgive me.
Something coated my running shirt and pants in a spray, weaving back and forth over me. A whiff of lighter fluid assaulted me. Please make this quick.
The woman’s stiff shoe sole found my shoulder, rocking me onto my back. I would have winced if I could. Next, something was placed between my palms—something long and wooden. Then, the sound of a match striking echoed into my void like a dark beast. “No… no, please!” I tried to shout, but nothing worked.
A warmth began at my feet, sped up my body, and over the wooden handle in my grip. My murderer’s voice began chanting, but it was impossible to distinguish over the signals flying to my head from every agonizing limb and the roaring flames in my ears. Screams echoed through my skull, the anguish in my head and body building to a crescendo. It felt like I would pop, but still the flames ate at my flesh.
“God, nooo!” I screamed, but it never pierced the silence beyond my blazing thoughts.
* * *
Timothy’s smiling face looked out at me, and I slapped the file shut as the Metro halted at another stop. The murders, and my failure for so many years, created a feeling of grime and dirt that could not be washed away. It was as though my head, heart, and lungs were coated in motor oil, making it hard to breathe, live, and grasp the thoughts that seemed within reach. I was close. No one else had to die. But who was perpetrating these murders, and how was she picking her victims?
Then a tart, young voice caught my attention. The nine-year-old girl ahead of me replied to something I missed with a sarcastic tone and vivid imagination, saying, “I’ll turn you into a girl.”
The youngest boy spun on her, yelling, “Nuh-uh, I’ll turn you into a boy.”
“Nuh-uh. I’ll turn you into an elephant,” she shot back. After a thoughtful pause, her tone changed as she added, “And I’ll turn me into an elephant too so we can be huge!”
What I would give to be something else.
* * *
When the Metro finally stopped at Branch Avenue, I stepped from the cabin to see a tall, young man in his twenties; he had jeans, a white undershirt, and dreadlocks that reminded me of Bob Marley. He was punching keys on his smartphone. Thrust out to see his phone, the dark ink of a large, ornate ankh was visible on his forearm.
Jessie’s words echoed in my mind: There’s this tattoo of an ankh on his arm, but that’s not much to go on. Lots of people have that. A few of the victims had that same tattoo, or at least some version of it, on their bodies. Past visions of the case from the years following my graduation sped through my mind. The victims of that killing spree were drugged, but Junior, the first victim, was more cognizant than the others. Every subsequent one was left barely aware of the world around them, as though the dosages were getting stronger. It was like she was learning from her mistakes, getting better… smarter. Plus, I’d been a simple student. I didn’t have access to the bodies at the time, or the bone remnants in the case of the earlier murders. Before we learned the different kinds of places to look, the only things the department had been finding were spent candles and bone-mixed ashes. Although the Drunk’s brother was on the force, he was the sort of guy more inclined to give you a kick in the keister than a leg up. I made my way through school and helped them to find the bodies sooner, before they’d been fully reduced to ashes.
The tattoos I knew about were mostly reported by friends and family I spoke with. Others had photos of their recently deceased friends with the tattooed skin visible. One man had a small illustration of it on his calf with rose stems wrapping around its base. Another had a Romanesque depiction of an ankh on his f
orearm like the Bob Marley clone. The third victim had one emblazoned across his back with Celtic knotwork. The picture was etched into my mind. In it, Robin Gemanc was shirtless and hunched over the engine of his old Pontiac in the front lawn, his tattoo staring into the camera. When I first saw the picture, my eighteen-year-old mind clicked and sent me to the Internet for a quick search.
Jessie was right. It was a common Egyptian symbol, and tons of people across the nation had begun using it to decorate their bodies. Thinking back, even with it so prevalent in society, how many people in my small hometown of Tranquil Heights were likely to have one? The common thread linked those four victims, but were there others?
I pulled myself from my thought-filled immersion and glanced around for Irene, but she was nowhere in sight. Did she get out before me, or is she still on the Metro? I peered at the exit, but found no one matching her modern Mary Poppins description. The squeak-squeak of her wheel echoed through the covered Metro station, but then the subway began moving, the clack-clack of its tracks drowning out the sound. “Dammit!”
I headed for the exit, gazing into the milieu of people. At least there’re less of them than outside the airport. Jessie spotted me outside the fenced wall of the escalators as I came up. He waved, hardly having changed a bit since I last saw him more than a dozen years ago. I slipped my ticket into the machine and walked out into the sunlight. Irene was nowhere to be seen.
“Alex, how’ve you been?” he said, wrapping me in a one-arm hug while taking my briefcase with the other. “Where’s your bag?”
“Oh, I don’t have one, but I’ve been doing pretty good. It’s great to see you.”
“You too, my boy. Looks like you might’ve put on a couple pounds,” he added appraisingly.
I scoffed. “You’ve gotta be joking. I still have a pair of jeans from high school I wear on the weekends.”
A Life of Death: Episodes 5 - 8 Page 11
