The three detectives gathered around the site. Josh Bontrager looked at Jessica, then at Byrne. He crouched down next to the body. Jessica nodded. Bontrager drew back the sheet.
'Ah, Christ,' Byrne said. He spoke for everyone.
As with the previous victim, the middle-aged female's body was nude, shaved clean of all hair, as was her head. Jessica immediately noticed the bruises around her ankles. She had been shackled.
Wrapped around the victim's head was a white paper band, identical to the one that they had found wrapped around Kenneth Beckman's head. There was a red wax seal. Also identical were the blood patterns. One lateral slash to the forehead. Beneath it and to the left was another splotch, in a circular pattern. The area near the right ear was marked with blood in a figure eight.
If these were the similarities to the condition in which Kenneth Beckman had been found, there was a difference. This victim was lying on her side, behind the grave marker. One foot was resting on top of the marker. The other leg, the left leg, was bent completely back at an impossible angle. Jessica saw the bone protruding from the victim's thigh.
'ME's been here?' Byrne asked.
'Not yet.'
'Pictures taken?'
Bontrager nodded, pointed to the CSU officer who was leaning against a nearby tree and smoking a cigarette. 'Video, too.'
Jessica looked at the headstone. The victim's right leg extended toward the grave marker, which was half covered in debris and dead grass. The foot rested directly over the center.
'Kevin. Give me a hand here.'
Both detectives snapped on latex gloves. They knelt on either side of the body and gently lifted the victim's right leg, moving it just a few inches, being careful not to disturb any of the area next to the grave. They lowered the victim's leg gently. Jessica looked at the grave marker. It was not nearly as old as the ones that surrounded it, looking as though it had been positioned no more than a few years earlier. A shift in the ground had lowered it a few inches so that the marker's engraving was now covered in dirt.
Byrne motioned to the CSU officer standing nearby, who tossed away his cigarette, walked over and took a number of additional pictures. When he was finished, Byrne took out a pocket knife and began to scrape away the mud. The first thing to be revealed was a carving, one with which Jessica was not familiar. It did not appear to be a Catholic or Christian symbol — praying hands, an angel, a crucifix. As they cleared away more dirt, Jessica thought the symbol was beginning to look like a flower, a red flower with narrow petals.
Byrne brushed away the last of the mud and revealed that it wasn't a flower at all but rather a Chinese character. Beneath it, running vertically, were three other characters, all red.
A few minutes later they had the bottom of the headstone cleared of dirt, and saw what they were looking for. The person interred in this space had died on March 21, 2002.
Her name was Antoinette Chan.
Jessica looked at Byrne, a bolt of electricity passing between them.
Across town, a man had been found murdered, his head wrapped in a band of white paper. A man named Kenneth Beckman. Here in West Philadelphia, a second body is found, its head too wrapped in white paper. This victim, still unidentified, is found on the grave of a young woman who was also murdered.
Murdered, it is believed, by Kenneth Beckman.
'Let's check her hands,' Byrne said.
Byrne lifted the victim's right hand, checked it. Nothing. He circled the body, gently lifted her left hand. There, on the index finger, was a small tattoo. Instead of a lion, this time it was a rooster.
Jessica took a few photographs, her heart starting to race. She glanced over at Byrne. He wore an expression she had come to know well over the years, one that barely contained a cold rage.
Byrne squatted next to the body and began to undo the paper that wrapped the victim's head.
'Kevin, the ME's office is on the way,' Jessica said. 'You should wait.'
'Yeah, well, I should be living in Cazumel with the Corr sisters, too,' Byrne said. 'I don't see either of these things happening.'
Byrne gently unwrapped the victim's head, carefully removing the wax seal first and dropping it into a small evidence bag. The first thing that Jessica noticed when the paper was removed was that the laceration across the forehead, and the puncture wound, were in almost the same places as they'd been with the first victim.
The second thing Jessica noticed was that the dead woman was Sharon Beckman.
Chapter 20
The feelings coursed through Byrne, sensations that grew exponentially. He paced like an animal.
He stepped behind a tree as the feeling surged, filling his head like an onrush of water from a broken dam. It was followed by a moment of vertigo. He steadied himself, tried to wait it out, trying not to notice as…
… the man walks across the cemetery in darkness… he is strong… the dead weight of Sharon Beckman's body is nothing to him
… he does not search for the grave site, he knows where it is. He is familiar with this cemetery, all cemeteries. He places her on the ground, steels himself. He is not quite finished. He leaps into the air, and bears down with great force, breaking the dead woman's leg, positioning it back because it means something to him and…
Byrne opened his eyes, got his bearings. He had forgotten where he was, what he was doing. This was getting bad.
The crime scene swarmed with people. Byrne glanced at his watch. It had only been ten seconds. It felt like an hour.
He walked back to the grave site. Information had trickled in about the second body. This had been found in a Dumpster behind a building at Second and Poplar. According to the initial report the victim, a middle-aged male, had been found nude, his forehead wrapped in white paper, his body clean of all hair.
Three bodies in two days. This case was about to break wide open. Wall-to-wall TV and print news, perhaps even national attention. There was a ghoul on the streets of Philadelphia, a monster who was strangling people, shaving their bodies and marking their flesh. When they had found Kenneth Beckman's body they had all hoped that it was an isolated incident, that it was some sort of personal vendetta. It was not. It was bigger than that. There were now three corpses, and everyone had the nasty feeling that there would be more.
Byrne approached Jessica. 'I have that MRI. I have to go.'
'We've got this covered,' Jessica said. 'Don't worry.'
Byrne did not want to leave. The first two hours were the most critical time of a homicide investigation. After that, memories faded, people thought better of getting involved, forensic evidence had a way of giving itself back to nature. Although neither he nor Jessica were the lead investigator on this case, every warm body was critical.
'Kevin,' Jessica said. 'Go to your appointment.'
'I want to stop by the other scene first. This is out of control.'
'I'll go,' Jessica said. 'You don't have to-'
But Byrne was already on his way. He held his cellphone up as he walked back to the car. 'Call me,' he said.
Leaving the cemetery, Byrne saw the names of the dead carved in time-weathered stone, dates marking fleeting lives, parentheses of birth and death. Out of respect, out of the disquieting knowledge that one day someone would be walking on his final resting place, he did his best to avoid stepping on the graves.
Chapter 21
At first it is a muffled sound, like that of a wounded animal. I hear it the moment I step inside the room. It soon becomes crystal clear.
I will not be here long. I have much to do. I may be a poor cartwright, but my marchioness awaits.
I am not alone in this room. There are others here. We are all part of something, fractions of a whole. They talk to me, to each other, but I don't hear them. I hear what happened here years ago.
I stand in the corner, close my eyes. The scene unfolds, like a stage play viewed through frosted glass, two figures forever mired in a dark and terrible vignette.
She is a
shy girl, no more than eleven. She has long blonde hair, woven into a braid.
'Who are you? Are you a friend of my mom's?'
'Yes. We are old friends.'
'You shouldn't be here.'
'It's okay. I like your dress. It is very pretty.'
'Thank you.'
'I have a prettier dress. One made especially for you.'
'For me?'
'Oh yes. It is your favorite color.'
'Blue?'
'A very pretty blue.'
'Can I see it?'
'In time.''
'Where do you know my mom from?'
'We work together.'
'My mom doesn't work anymore.'
'This was from before. From a long time ago.'
'Okay.'
'Do you know the story of Eve?'
'Eve?'
'Yes. Eve in the Garden of Eden. Eve who was tempted by an apple.'
The blade removed from its sheath the creak of worn leather the sound of a little heart beating in fear 'I don't want you here anymore.'
'I won't hurt you.'
'I want you to leave, mister.'
'Don't you want your pretty new dress?'
'No.'
The blade shimmers in the bright afternoon sunlight 'I'm going to get my sister. I want you to leave now.'
The blade flutters and darts soaring high into the air 'Eve.'
The neighbors say they heard one scream that day, an unearthly wail that cooled the blood in their veins.
I hear it, too.
It is a sound that began a thousand millennia ago, a red wind that has blown through the ages, finding cracks in the world, a breeze that became a howling sirocco here, in the soul of a killer, in the festering heart of Room 1208.
Chapter 22
Lucy walked down Eighteenth Street in what she had once heard, from one therapist or another, was a fugue state.
She couldn't get that photograph out of her mind.
That couldn't have been her house on Melbourne Road. It wasn't possible. It was just a picture of one of a million bungalows. They all looked alike, didn't they? Especially the crappy ones.
But what about that flag, Luce? Did they all have that raggedy flag hanging off the porch by a rusted nail, that stupid pennant that was supposed to mean Spring? The one you were supposed to change every three months but no one ever did, not once in all the time they lived there? They had all of them — Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all four seasons, each looking more tattered than the other — but they never changed Spring.
What about that, Luce?
What about the Spring flag?
She didn't have an answer, just as she had no idea what had happened during those twenty minutes she couldn't recall. Somehow she must have talked about the day she disappeared. What did she say? And why didn't Mr. Costa tell her what she'd said? Wasn't that why she went to see him?
It was all part of the process, she guessed. And she had two more visits to go.
From the time she was six or seven years old, Lucy had been an ace mechanic. Not with cars, necessarily, although she could now do basic maintenance on most cars — changing oil, replacing plugs and belts, the occasional brake job if it didn't involve turning the drums or rotors. No, her forte was small appliances. Bring her a stopped tape player, a cold toaster oven, a dimmed lamp — and a lot of the staff of Le Jardin often did — and she would have it up and running by the end of lunchtime.
She had not gone to a vocational training school, or taken any classes, correspondence or otherwise. It was a natural ability, combined with a necessity of life.
When she was small, on the night forays during which she and her mother picked through trash they would often find all kinds of discarded items — toaster ovens, blenders, tape players. Lucy's mother would haul them back to their apartment, giddy with swag, then pretty much forget about them. Weeks later she would throw them out, and Lucy would rescue them a second time. She started with the easy ones, but eventually got better at repair.
Although she didn't know it, she was practicing reverse engineering.
By the time she was ten, Lucy would go out to dumps, finding her own things to repair. She knew every second-hand dealer in their small towns. Where most kids were reading Dick and Jane, Lucy pored over Sam's Photofact.
In addition, on her jaunts into the stores Lucy always stole the same color clothes — sweaters, sweatshirts, skirts. She even replaced some of her mother's clothes. Her mother was always falling down, ripping her clothes. Lucy got it down to a science. She could steal a brand new dress and worry the material just enough so that her mother never knew she was wearing a different garment. Her mother was a proud woman in many ways, and it broke Lucy's heart to see her going around in ratty clothes.
On this day, Lucy found herself in the Macy's near City Hall. She made her way over to the children's section, found a sweater that looked to be the right size. She picked up two of them, carried them around for a while. When she got to the women's section she selected a dress, brought it into the dressing room.
Inside she got out her small toolkit and, with her back to the mirrors — she knew all the tricks — removed the electronic tags from one sweater and the dress, affixing them to the second sweater. She slipped the first sweater and the dress into her bag, left the dressing room, replaced the other sweater on the display rack, tarried a bit to make sure that she wasn't being watched, then walked out of the store.
When she arrived back at Le Jardin, with just a few minutes to spare, Lucy could see that the convention guests — the members of Sociйtй Poursuite — were milling about the lobby. They weren't all guests, of course. It was a convention that attracted a lot of locals, as well as people from all over the tri-state area who drove in for the three days of seminars, lectures and dinners.
In all, over the next few hours there would be ninety-two new guests, and all of them had to be quickly and efficiently processed, greeted with smiles and pleasant repartee, their concerns listened to with rapt attention, their every need anticipated and met, their next three days in the city of Philadelphia — and specifically in Le Jardin — a promised and delivered haven.
Lucy stopped by the Loss Prevention office, picked up her room key.
A door to your subconscious, Mr. Costa had called it. A portal to what happened to you nine years ago.
Lucy finished her last room, room 1214, at 3:45.
She stepped into the closet, closed the door, sat down. In moments, the darkness embraced her. When she closed her eyes she saw the town of Shanksville, Pennsylvania from above, saw the school on Cornerstone Road, Lake Stonycreek, and the church on Main Street.
The Dreamweaver had asked her questions, his silken voice floating above her, behind her, around her, like a warm breeze. Her own voice belonged to a little girl.
What day is it, Lucy?
Tuesday.
Is it morning, afternoon, evening?
It's morning. Tuesday morning.
What time?
Around ten. I didn't go to school.
Why not?
Mama was out the night before, and she didn't get up in time.
Where are you?
I am across the street from the church.
Are you alone?
No. Mama's with me. She is wearing her long leather coat. The one with the rip in the right pocket. She is wearing sunglasses. She asked a lady for a cigarette and the lady gave her one.
What happened then?
There was a big bang. It was loud. Even the ground shook.
What did you do?
I don't remember exactly.
Try to remember. Do you smell anything? Taste anything?
I taste milkshake.
What flavor is it?
Chocolate. But it's warm milkshake. I don't like warm milkshake.
What about smell?
I smell smoke, but not like regular smoke. Not like burning leaves, or logs in a fireplace. More like when people burn their plast
ic garbage bags.
What happens next?
I stand here for a long time, watching the fire and smoke rise up into the sky.
Where is your mother?
Right beside me. Or maybe not.
What do you mean?
Someone is beside me, but I'm not looking at that person. I can't take my eyes off the smoke over the trees. It is making pretty patterns in the sky.
What kind of patterns?
At first it looks like the face of Jesus. Then it looks likes birds.
What happens next?
I reach up my hand for my mother to take me somewhere. Anywhere but here. I'm scared.
Does she take your hand?
I take the person's hand, but as we walk away I realize it can't be my mom.
Why not?
The hand is too big. And rough. It is a man's hand.
Is there anything else you remember?
Yes. We get into a car. And there is a new smell. Two new smells.
What are the new smells?
A different kind of smoke. Different from the burning plastic smell. Like from a pipe, I think. A pipe that people smoke. Like men smoke.
And what else?
Apples. Empire apples. We have lots of apples in Western Pennsylvania. Especially near the fall.
Do you remember what else happened that day?
The fire. The ground shaking. Being scared.
What about the man? What happened with him?
I don't know.
What about his face? Do you see his face?
When I look at his face it isn't there.
What about the fire? Do you remember what that was? Do you remember what caused the fire?
Yes. I remember, but only because I found out later.
What was it?
It was Flight 93. It was September 11, 2001, and Flight 93 crashed right near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
Lucy looked down at her hands. She had been clenching her fists so tightly that she had eight little red crescents on the palms of her hands. She eased her fists open, stepped out of the closet, looked around. For a few crazy moments she did not know what room she was in. Most people, even people who worked at Le Jardin, would be hard pressed to tell the standard guest rooms apart, their only clues being, perhaps, the view from any given window But Lucy knew every room on the twelfth floor. It was her floor.
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