The pain had become a regular throbbing, which abruptly intensified to absolute agony. Kenneth Pearson spasmed, his head snapping back and forward and then smashing into the glass. The throbbing instantly eased. Another tremor sent his head into the glass again, and the incredible pulsing agony lifted, though it had been replaced by a cooler, liquid pain. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pounded his face—again and again—into the broken mirror, until there was no more sensation … until there was nothing. It was 2:22 A.M.
* * *
IN STUDIO CITY, Sandra Lopez was not exactly drunk; she’d only had two, or was it three, glasses of wine. She was mellow, she was relaxed, and humming gently along to one of the golden oldies on the late night radio station. She half remembered the original appearance of the song, but that was no indication of her age. Songs that were only a year old were turning up as golden oldies or classics nowadays. They had a short shelf life.
The lights on Coldwater Canyon turned from orange to red and she slowed the Nissan, allowing it to roll to a stop. She locked the doors. She’d heard of lone women being attacked in their cars while they sat at traffic lights, and while this was not one of the seedier parts of the city, she was still taking no chances.
The lights changed. She was already moving as she glanced in her rear view mirror …
And something in the back of her car looked at her with large black eyes. A scream caught in her throat, became a whimper. She tried to look away, but found she couldn’t. She tried to stop the car, but couldn’t. Her right foot was stuck to the accelerator, pressing it deep to the floor. She pressed her left foot hard on the brake, the engine howling, tires burning against the asphalt as she gained speed.
The eyes crinkled as if someone was smiling.
And the spell was broken.
Sandra Lopez managed to scream once more, as her headlights illuminated the massive plate glass windows of an electrical showroom, hidden behind metal security grilles. The car hit the grille, ripping most of it out of its frame, bringing it down around the car, entangling it as it continued on into the shop front: televisions, DVD players, cameras, and computers, most of which were still plugged in, exploding into showering sparks and acrid smoke.
Several hours later when the car was cut free by the fire department, it was discovered that the falling metal grille had sheared through the windshield of the car, completely severing the woman’s head.
Twenty-two people died in bizarre circumstances and freak accidents across Los Angeles. They all died at the same time: 2:22 A.M.
* * *
IT TOOK NO more than a heartbeat to regain control. But that had been enough. The overload shivered out across the Otherworld, upsetting the delicate balance between the two planes of existence.
Little damage had been done, and it had drawn some sustenance from the deaths. But it would have to be very careful now. Very careful. This was the critical time. Freedom had never been so close.
Never had it been so vulnerable.
85
IT HAD been a shitty day. Every so often you got them when one thing just piled on top of the other. By noon, she knew that this was going to be one of those days.
Twenty-two bizarre deaths—suicides, freak accidents—added to the usual night toll of Los Angeles misery. The press was having a field day and the TV and radio were full of experts with increasingly bizarre theories. Government and/or alien mind rays was the current favorite.
Thank God, she didn’t have to deal with them. She’d enough to contend with: a serial killer was busy working his way through the street girls and everyone from the mayor down was screaming for results.
But they had nothing: girls disappeared. There was no pattern, no clues, no DNA, nothing except wild theories. They had plenty of those.
* * *
MARGARET HAAREN SAT on the edge of the tub, pouring bath salts into the swirling water. She only stopped when the water began foaming up spectacularly and she realized that she’d emptied half a jar instead of a capful. She was tired, dead tired, physically as well as mentally, with an ache that went deep to her bones.
There was a gentle rap on the bathroom door.
“It’s open.”
Helen, her niece, popped her head around with a large mug of steaming tea in her hand. “Thought you might need this. Chamomile. Help you sleep. You look exhausted.”
“I am. Thanks love. I know this hasn’t really been much of a vacation for you…” she began.
“Don’t worry about it. When you’re not here, I simply have to go shopping and go out and enjoy myself.” She smiled widely.
“I was going to take you to some museums, galleries, but it’s just been crazy the past couple of weeks…”
“I thought LA was always crazy.”
“Even for LA in general and Hollywood in particular, this is spectacularly crazy.”
The teenager ran her fingers through strands of her brunette hair, pulling it back off her face. “Well, you know, it is such a chore having to explore Los Angeles,” she smiled wickedly, “but I suppose I could find it in my heart to forgive you. Look,” she added seriously, “I know what it’s like; so don’t worry about it. Remember, there’s a detective or two in my family, too. I know all about the crazy hours. Now, go on, have your bath, relax. I’ll see what I can do about making dinner.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Be a miracle, too,” Helen muttered.
* * *
THE WATER WAS as hot as Margaret could bear and she almost had to force herself beneath the bubbles covering the surface. Tiny beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and ran down the sides of her nose. Once she was beneath the surface, with only her head showing, the water lapping at her chin, the trick was not to move, because that agitated the water and it stung. Closing her eyes, resting her head against the back of the bath, she deliberately reviewed the day’s events before pushing them aside, dismissing them until she returned to the office in the morning.
And adding to the day’s mayhem was the news that Jonathan Frazer’s wife Celia had turned up dead.
Died in her sleep in the arms of her lover: what a way to go! That had been fine, people died in their sleep every day, until the results of the emergency autopsy she’d requested had come in and revealed that just about every internal organ in the woman’s body had ruptured and that her intestines were in pieces—literally!
She’d spoken to the medical examiner who’d performed the autopsy. In a precise Australian accent, the tiny Japanese woman told the detective that in thirty years of practice, she’d never seen anything like it: “It’s as if the woman was cut open … except that the dermis is still intact!”
That in itself had been weird enough until the body of a young woman had been pulled up out of the Hollywood Reservoir. Her belly had been sliced open. The body had been identified as that of a Toni Kane, a young pregnant woman who’d found herself in financial straits and had gone onto the streets to make some cash. Her friend, who was also working as a prostitute, told them that this had been her third night out.
Third time unlucky.
Then it got downright scary: her internal wounds were identical to those on Celia Frazer’s body.
Added to that, a second body had been fished out of the same section of the Reservoir. Although lots of the extremities were gone—fingers, toes—the face was still reasonably intact and one of the guys who worked vice had identified the body as that of Susan—Suzee—Burton, who’d been on the game since she’d been a kid. She’d had her throat sliced open.
So now they had a killer with a pattern: knife, prostitutes, lake … and the bizarre connection to Celia Frazer.
Margaret wondered if the Frazer girl knew that her mother was dead. And the father. Where was Jonathan Frazer? He was still at large. Haaren wondered how he fit into all of this. He was connected. She was convinced of that, but she wasn’t sure how. Except that she was convinced that he could not be the killer.
86
&nbs
p; WHY HADN’T she come?
He’d fed the mirror with blood, why hadn’t the image come?
The answer came slowly: because he’d used up the energy, the power in the blood, to strike at Celia.
Yesyesyesyesyes.
The power—the energy—was in the blood.
The blood had called the image the first time, given her substance as well as sustenance. The second time the blood had—what?—given his thoughts substance.
What was it Talbott had said? “Once it is fed its powers are limitless.”
Jonathan Frazer prowled around the mirror, approaching it, then standing back, almost teasing himself with its proximity and his knowledge that he could bring it to life, that he could call forth the image. That he could make it do his will.
All he needed was blood. And this world was full of cattle, sacks of meat and blood. But he was not going to make do with ordinary blood. He wasn’t going to use tainted blood, blood polluted by drink or drugs. He needed fresh blood, pure blood. He needed virginal blood.
The blood of the virgin is powerful indeed.
The thought stopped him cold. He stood in front of the mirror, nervously running both hands through his lank hair, pulling it back off his face and then twining his fingers together around the back of his head.
Yes, fresh blood, pure blood, virginal blood. Surely the power of the mirror was proportional to the purity of the blood? Jonathan Frazer looked up, tongue licking dry lips, eyes narrowing as a smile twisted his lips.
He’d been a fool!
Hadn’t Talbott told him everything he needed to know?
The mirror needed a male and a female. The male to feed the mirror, the female to provide the blood. It had been this way since the dawn of time.
And hadn’t the mirror already put its mark on Manny, hadn’t it saved her from Talbott; hadn’t Talbott told him that she would be different?
She was the chosen one.
Moving unhurriedly, Jonathan Frazer lifted the tantō and wiped the blade on his sleeve. Flakes of dried blood and a darker harder substance fell away. He didn’t think he’d need the knife, but there was no harm in being prepared anyway.
He slipped out of the guesthouse door and moved silently along the path that led up to the house. There was a light on in the kitchen and he could see Manny moving around the room, wearing a heavy bathrobe. He parted some leaves, peering closely at his daughter. How long had it been since he’d last seen her—a day, two days, three days?—but in that time her hair had grown dramatically.
A broad smile creased his lips. The image’s hair was long. Now, it was creating her in its own image.
87
THE PAIN in Manny’s face had abated around noon and the red swelling and burn-like mark had gradually faded as the afternoon had worn on. The dream was still vivid though, especially the image of the golden woman or creature, or whatever it had been.
And the baby.
Manny rubbed her breasts. They felt tender, heavy, and the flesh around the nipples particularly was darker and if she pressed, they oozed a thin colorless liquid.
What was that term: psychosomatic? Like when you imagined yourself to be pregnant and your body began to change as if you were, a phantom pregnancy. But could a dream, even such a particularly vivid one, bring on this change in her breasts, and leave the red burn mark on her face?
And what if it wasn’t a dream?
Manny Frazer carried the kettle to the sink and stared out into the garden. The evening light was grainy, leeching details and colors, turning the evening sepia like an old photograph.
What if it wasn’t a dream?
She shook her head. Maybe Talbott would have been able to explain it to her. The little he had told her just wasn’t enough. He’d said that the mirror was evil and that it possessed people … like her father, like herself. Was she possessed? She didn’t feel possessed, but then if you were possessed, would you necessarily know it, or would everything just seem normal?
Certainly what she’d done with Talbott that night hadn’t been normal, something had definitely been controlling her that time. She shivered, and then yelped as cold water poured over her hands as the kettle filled.
Maybe she needed a little vacation. She’d try and contact her mother in the morning. Go and spend a few days with her.
And then she screamed.
A face had appeared at the window.
The kettle crashed onto the tiled floor, spilling water everywhere as Manny just stood there, frozen with horror.
When she looked again, the face was gone, leaving her an impression of wild hair, round eyes, and a fixed, maniacal grin.
Then the kitchen door swung silently inwards and a figure stepped into the room, a sour, damp odor preceding it. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth to scream.
“Hello Manny,” Jonathan Frazer whispered.
“Dad…” Manny’s eyes blinked open. “Dad?” she said again, looking at the man who bore only the vaguest resemblance to her father. “Oh, Dad.” She ran over and wrapped her arms around him, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “Dad, what happened? Where did you go? I’ve been worried sick.”
Jonathan Frazer pressed grimy fingers to his daughter’s lips, quieting her. “No time for questions. Come on, we’ve something to do.”
“What? What have we got to do, Dad?” Manny asked in alarm. Her father’s hands were busy with her suddenly thick and luxurious hair. Some sort of hormonal change, she realized suddenly, and that would certainly account for the changes in her body, the marks on her face. She twitched her head back away from her father’s hands. “Dad, are you OK?”
He nodded vigorously. “I’m fine, I’ve never felt better.”
“Do you want something to eat? You look tired.” There was something desperately wrong with her father. His eyes were darting, constantly moving, and he hadn’t once looked her in the face.
“I’m not hungry. I’m not tired.” He reached for her hand. “Come on, we’ve got to…” He stopped and smiled secretively. “Well, I think you know what we’ve got to do, don’t you?”
“No, Dad,” Manny whispered, “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Come on, come on.” His hand found hers and he pulled her out through the open kitchen door and down the path towards the guesthouse. “I suppose I haven’t really been thinking, you see. Talbott told me that there would be changes, little things out of the ordinary…” His hand went to her hair again. “But I suppose I’ve just been too busy to notice. And of course I should have realized that there would be two: male and female. He created them in His own image, the yin and the yang, the two making a whole, the two that are one…” He was babbling now, making no sense.
“Dad, Dad,” Manny whispered, feeling the tears start in her eyes, the burning in her throat. “Come on, you need a rest, a break, you’ve been working far too hard. I was thinking of heading up to Lake Tahoe to where Mom’s staying…”
His harsh laugh broke the evening stillness. “Don’t bother. Your mother’s dead.”
She stopped suddenly, and jerked her hand from her father’s. Her voice was a hoarse angry rasp. “Dad? What are you saying?”
He turned slowly to face her, and Manny suddenly realized that she was looking at a stranger. “She’s dead.” Jonathan Frazer’s smile became a leer and then the knife suddenly appeared in his right hand. “The bitch was fucking some guy. I cut her from crotch to sternum. Serves her right. Fuck her!”
Manny took three steps backwards, bare feet slipping on the damp grass. “You’re not my father,” she accused. “My father would never say such things. What’s happened to you?”
“Oh, I am your father alright.” He moved the knife through the air. “Now, be a good little girl and come on…”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.” She took another step backwards.
He shook his head in exasperation. “We need to feed the image.” He lifted his head, sniffing th
e air. “She hungers. I can feel her hunger.” He turned to look at her, his eyes like coins. “We need to feed her blood. Your blood. Don’t you see: only your blood can make her whole.”
Manny Frazer turned and ran.
The police. Were the police still watching the house? She raced across the lawn and then ran on the gravel, the stones cutting her bare feet. She cut across to the grass, feeling it wet with dew, slippery beneath her bare feet. She had to get around to the front of the house. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, her heart almost stopped with fright.
Jonathan Frazer was loping after her, bent almost double, gleaming knife in one hand. There was a wide grin fixed to his lips, showing most of his teeth, and she could see saliva dribbling down his chin.
Manny raced into the bushes. They caught and snagged her bathrobe, slowing her down, eventually completely entangling her. Her struggles only enwrapped her further in the branches. Finally, she wriggled free of the robe and, naked, scrambled out the other side, the branches tearing at her skin. She made a last desperate effort to reach the house, her naked flesh goose pimpling. She heard her father crash into the bushes, branches snapping and then there was the definite rip of cloth.
Across the patio, footsteps pounding on the grass behind her, now pattering on the stone flags, through the kitchen door, slamming it behind her, turning the key, realizing that this madman was not going to stop, racing out through the kitchen door as he came through the glass door in a cascade of glass and wood, out onto the slippery hall, falling, scrambling to her feet, fumbling with the locks on the front door, hearing the kitchen door snap open, hearing him stumble on the hall floor, and now out the main door and down the graveled drive, screaming, screaming, screaming, footsteps crunching on the gravel behind her, a harsh guttural voice panting, cursing, calling her name and now out onto the road and the white lights close, too close, a scream of rubber echoing her own scream.
Mirror Image Page 29
