Trinity of Darkness: The Darkness Unbound Collection

by Glenn Porzig

  "Abigail, is that you?"

  I'm here, Solomon.

  A sweet voice, that of an innocent child echoed in Price's head. It sent a jolt through him. He gasped. His head suddenly felt light and he began to sway back and forth.

  "Is it really you?"

  You called for me…

  "It's been so long… it's so good to hear your voice…"

  Tell me… what is it you require of me…

  "A girl, Beth—her family is here. They miss her terribly. Is she near? Can she hear us?"

  Beth is here…

  "She's here, Beth is here!"

  Mrs. Dixon began to sob. Price reassuringly squeezed her hand.

  "What would you like to ask her?"

  "Is she all right? Is my baby all right?" asked Mrs. Dixon.

  She is. She is here. She is with them. She is always with them.

  "Beth is all right. She says she is here with you."

  Beth has something she wants to say…

  "She has a message for you…"

  She doesn't suffer, she waits for them… she will be watching over them… waiting…

  "Beth is watching over you… she says she will be waiting for you… for when your time comes to be reunited once more."

  Suddenly a wind raked across the room—causing the candles to snuff out abruptly. There was a collective gasp. Plunged into darkness everyone pulled their hands back and the circle was broken. Abigail was gone.

  "The lights." Mr. Dixon said as he stumbled across the room and flipped on the switch.

  "She's gone… they're gone…" Price muttered despondently.

  ***

  Light from the computer monitor bathed Drake's face in an eerie glow. He wasn't a big fan of sitting at the desk and working at his computer for hours. He preferred a book to a computer screen any day. But he couldn't argue with the efficiency that computers provided, especially in his line of work.

  He was pouring over auto records, trying to make a connection between the cars that the witnesses had seen and the one he had seen himself. He didn't get a good look, apparently nobody had, but he had his instinct to go on. Obviously the guy was loaded. He apparently owned multiple fancy sports cars that had been primarily described as 'expensive'.

  He ran multiple searches, continually changing the parameters. He needed to find out who owned sports cars similar to those driven by the killer. But his searches kept coming up empty. Something was wrong. Some variable was throwing everything off. Frustrated he pushed away from his desk and strode over to the vending machine.

  He wasn't particularly hungry. Not that he'd had a real meal in the last twenty four hours. He was eating as something to do. Some nervous habit. He glanced over the rows of brightly colored candy bar wrappers but finally settled on a bag of trail mix. It was sweet and salty, and probably a better option than straight up candy. At least that's how he justified it.

  Sitting back at his desk he opened up the bag and poured the mixture of nuts, sunflower seeds, raisins, and chocolates covered with colorful candy shells into his hand. He remembered how much he liked candy as a young kid, but his parents wouldn't let him have it. They didn't want him to get fat. He had to stay in shape.

  His parents? He never thought about them any more. That was a lifetime ago. Then it hit him. Maybe his childhood had hampered his perception in this instance. He hadn't been thinking about parents.

  This was a young guy, around college age. How many guys like that had multiple sports cars? He'd checked the rental records, but that had been a dead end. What hadn't occurred to him until now was that maybe the kid didn't own the cars… maybe they belonged to his parents.

  He quickly changed the age field on his search and resubmitted it. Moments later a new list of potential suspects scrolled before his eyes. All of these car owners were too old to be the 'Heartbreaker', but now he could narrow the list down to those that had college age male children. The list shrank considerably.

  He couldn't stop. Couldn't afford to take a break… the full moon was coming and with it another dead girl.

  Hours passed by in a blur as he removed one after another from the list of suspects. Once he had it narrowed down he started concentrating on the male children. He looked for the ones that had a police record, especially any that might mention violence towards women. He doubted he'd be so lucky. He then began compiling pictures of the suspects and printing them out. One of them struck him as familiar.

  He had seen him somewhere before. And his juvenile record had been expunged. He couldn't be certain… but his gut told him this kid was worth looking in to.

  Even if his father was running for governor.

  ***

  The El Camino sat parked down the street from the Baron estate, its freshly waxed black paint reflecting the stars in the night sky above. Inside Detective Drake conferred with his mentor, the retired chief of police, O'Bannon.

  "They didn't really design these things to sit in for a long time, did they?"

  "Are you really complaining to me about the car I gave you?"

  "I don't think the word 'ergonomics' had been invented when they made this car."

  "Laugh it up, but she's a beauty. They really don't make them like her any more." O'Bannon's face lit up with the glow of nostalgia.

  "I appreciate you coming out here with me tonight. I don't think I could've managed to watch the whole night without falling asleep and I know that Underwood wouldn't spare any officers for this stakeout."

  "No problem. I'll take the first shift whenever you're ready to catch some shuteye." O'Bannon said, and then let out a slight yawn that he tried to cover.

  "It's still early to be yawning. Don't you get me started."

  O'Bannon reached down to the floorboard and pulled up a thermos from a bag resting between his feet. He made a production of slowly unscrewing the cap and taking a strong whiff of the coffee, it's rich warm scent quickly filling up the interior of the car. He poured himself a mugful and then returned the thermos to his bag without offering any to Drake. He took a deep slow sip. He looked up at Drake, "I've got donuts too."

  "Fine, rub it in."

  "Don't worry, I'll be sure to save some cold coffee for when your shift starts. I can't promise the donuts will last that long though…"

  "I don't mind drinking cold coffee if it means that we catch this sicko," Drake spat.

  "You've really got it in for this kid, don't you?"

  "I just know that little bastard is dirty and I plan to watch his every move until the full moon has passed."

  "Don't get yourself all riled up. You just settle in and relax. I'll wake you if I see anything suspicious. Don't you worry, these eyes haven't failed me yet."

  Drake laid his seat back as far as it would go and then wriggled around until he got comfortable.

  "I just hope my bladder holds out after all of this coffee…" O'Bannon mused.

  It was going to be a long night.

  ***

  Nancy Witt was terrified. The handsome stranger who had swept her off of her feet seemed too good to be true. And he was. The polite young man with the expensive sports car had driven her to his sprawling estate. He was the perfect gentleman as he escorted her into the lavish foyer with the sweeping grand staircase. He locked the massive ornate doors behind them and playfully invited her to go down to the wine cellar with him so they could continue the party.

  The temperature had dropped as they descended down the stone stairs, and his demeanor changed as well; he began to act cold towards her. She started to get suspicious as he insisted that she go ahead of him to check the surprise he had waiting for her in the special room ahead. When she resisted he had lashed out, yelling and pushing her through the darkened doorway which promptly closed behind her.

  That had been days ago. Now she knew what awaited her. He had even mentioned the Heartbreaker earlier at the party, how could she have been so stupid? Now she would pay for her naivety with her life. He wasn't working alone. This was so
me sick group working together to torture and kill. She could hardly wait for it to all end. Why were they waiting?

  Her stomach growled in the darkness. The few scraps of stale bread and the occasional cup of tepid water they gave her was barely enough to keep her going. She guessed they wanted her weak and disoriented to keep her from fighting back—escaping. How had this happened to her? This sort of thing only happened to other people. People on TV. Not to people she knew. Not to her.

  She had seen specials on television about women being held captive for months or even years. Read the stories of the survivors that had escaped. But still she didn't have much hope. She knew there were many more that were never seen or heard from again. And she knew the grisly fates of the two girls that had been abducted before her.

  When she wasn't resting or plotting an escape, Nancy used most of her time to pray. Originally she prayed that she would be found and rescued. Then she prayed for strength to escape. Soon that turned to prayers for forgiveness for her sins, but now she only prayed for a swift death. She feared not even that prayer would be answered.

  One day, without warning, the large heavy door to the room slid open. The light was blinding, but she made out a large figure lumbering towards her. It wasn't the Prince Charming that had lured her into this trap. This man all in black was more like an executioner. Nancy's final moments were agony as the large man tore her heart free from her chest, and then the sweet release of death washed over her.

  Her eyes, once bright with life, were now a blank stare.

  The large man in the black rubber suit reverently held out the heart in his massive fist and turned toward the opening door to bring his offering to the man behind the glass. Young Thomas, the Heartbreaker, stepped past the lumbering giant and stared down at Nancy's sprawled out form. He smiled his mischievous smile and looked up at the dark figure back lit in the window.

  "Can I have her now? You said I could have her when you were through…"

  A voice crackled from the speakers. "Yes, yes. She's all yours now. Do with her what you will—just be sure not to leave behind any evidence. Now is not the time to get sloppy, not when we are so close!"

  ***

  Jeff Glaze was up early again. He didn't think he'd ever get used to this shift. In school he'd always been a night owl, but now he was waking up before he would have gone asleep. This wasn't the life he'd wanted for himself. He knew it's where he'd probably end up, but he'd hoped to have avoided it.

  It had already been a few months of this schedule but he wasn't adjusting well. He hated having to bail out early, just as things were getting started, when he actually managed to meet up with his friends at all. He'd already heard people mention that he'd dropped off the face of the earth. And it felt like it.

  Working this shift meant he was alone most of the time. He couldn't even call or text people because they'd still be asleep. And if they did remember that he still existed, they'd most likely forget his schedule and text him and wake him up… making it that much harder to get up for work.

  Work. It was a four letter word. But it was unavoidable. His dad had managed to keep their mom-and-pop bakery going for years, and now it was his turn. With a name like Glaze how could he not make donuts?

  His dad always joked that he put bread on the table. Now times were tough and he was pitching in for the dreaded morning shift. It was too important to trust to the unreliable people that his dad could afford to pay.

  There wasn't much parking in front of the bakery, so he'd been in the habit of leaving his car in a lot a few blocks away and crossing the small park to get to work. Sometimes it was a little creepy walking alone so early that everyone else was still asleep; the city was a ghost town before the sun came up. But he'd manage it anyway. Time to make the donuts! He'd say to himself as he briskly crossed the darkened park and hoped not to run into a desperate homeless man, or a strung out drug addict.

  He always made it across with no problems, he tried to remind himself of that the next morning when it was time to make the trek again. But this time was different. He had an uneasy feeling… a foreboding crept over him as he crossed the small neighborhood park. He knew it was an inviting place in the bright of the day, but now the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

  He'd made it to the center of the park now. On days like this with a full moon he liked to stop for a moment and see the moonlight ripple across the water's surface at the base of the fountain. It was a beautiful way to start the day, before he was up to his elbows in yeast and flour. But this morning something wasn't right.

  The silhouette of the fountain was all wrong. Had it been changed? Had vandals done something to it? It wouldn't have been the first time. He walked around it to get a better look. He wished he hadn't.

  Jeff doubled over and threw up the previous night's pizza all over his shoes. After a moment of hyperventilating he desperately grabbed at his cell phone and dialed 911.

  ***

  Drake had still been awake staking out the Baron estate when he got the call. He'd managed to drop off O'Bannon on his way to the scene. His clothes were wrinkled from sleeping in the car and his eyes were bloodshot from the little bit of sleep that he did manage to get.

  Nancy Witt was found tied to a fountain in a small park downtown, her arms spread out in a mock crucifixion.

  The detective paced around the fountain, sidestepping the forensics team that was still taking pictures and dusting for prints. The killer was getting bolder. Displaying the body like this was not just to draw attention to his handiwork, but was obviously meant as a slap in the face to the police. An act of defiance that shouted that he was superior. That he was not afraid that the police would catch him. But he was wrong.

  The coroner's van arrived and Angela stumbled out of it. She was not a morning person. Drake saw her arrive and stepped over to a cruiser to meet her. She made her way over to Drake's side and stood silently, sipping her coffee as the forensics team did its job.

  "What, none for me?"

  "I'd give you the rest of mine, but I know you don't like caramel macchiato," she said before taking another sip.

  "Yeah, you can keep that stuff… too sweet for me."

  "I don't know how you can be a cop and not like it… it's like having coffee and a donut at the same time."

  The lead forensics technician came over to let Angela know that they were finishing up with their initial stages of the investigation and that the body could now be moved. She tilted the coffee back and drank the last precious drop then sat her empty paper cup on the hood of the police cruiser she'd been leaning against. She and Drake donned their powder blue latex gloves as they approached the crime scene. An officer lifted the yellow caution tape and allowed them to cross under it. Angela pulled out a digital recorder and began to dictate as she walked around the body.

  "She's pale, like the others. No sign of blood in the fountain. I'd say she was killed somewhere else and brought here." Angela's eyes slowly made their way from the top of the dead girl's head to her toes dangling in the water at the base of the fountain. She pointed at the twine used to hold the girl's arms out. "No sign of bruising at the site of the bindings. She was already dead and bled out before her hands were bound."

  Drake stared into the dark cavity where her heart had been. He felt his own heart sink. She looked like the girl he had seen at the party. She died because he failed her. He failed to catch the killer and this young woman had paid the price for his failure.

  "Get her down from there. Cut her down! I don't want people to see her like that."

  Angela was taken aback by Drake's sudden outburst. He wasn't usually emotional like that. But she agreed. They had enough pictures and the real work would be once she got the body back to the morgue and she was able to start the autopsy.

  "He's right. Underwood wouldn't want someone to snap a picture and post it on the Internet before the family has been notified. Let's cut her down from there and get her in the wagon before rush hour
and people start showing up for work."

  Men in protective full body suits stepped forward and began the slow work of freeing the body from the bindings, careful not to contaminate the scene. The twine was carefully collected and placed in plastic bags. Eventually she was lowered to her knees. They stopped and held her there while more pictures were taken. Now her back was exposed.

  Angela's jaw went slack. "Are you seeing this?" There was another symbol. This time is was an "IV". She said the letters aloud. "V-I—V— I-V?"

  Drake's face turned even more grim. "No," he said emotionless. "They aren't letters. They're numbers. The Roman numerals for Six-Five-Four—the bastard's been counting down—numbering his victims!"

  "What happens when he gets them all?"

  "Then he stops and we never catch him. Worse than that… if this is some sort of ritual, which I firmly believe it is, then he will have made his bargain and receive what ever boon that was promised him in return for the sacrifices."

  ***

  O'Bannon leaned back in his recliner. "Those late nights aren't as easy on me as they used to be."

  "I thought you said you were still in good enough shape for field work, and you're complaining about sitting in a car a few hours?" teased Drake.

  "Since the doctor told me to lay off caffeine I have a hard time staying up."

  "Since when do you listen to your doctor?"

  "You have a point."

  The retired chief of police reached down and pulled the lever that extended the footrest of his recliner, sinking even further down into the well worn cushions.

  "You saw him settle in for the night, and not come out again until morning. Is it possible you've got the wrong guy?"

  "I just don't get it. I was sure Thomas Baron was our man—but I don't know how he could have made it in, and out, without us seeing him." Drake paced across his mentor's living room.

  "Maybe he has a lake house or some other family owned real estate where he does the killings? If you've even got the right guy. Maybe he's just a punk rich kid that feels like girls don't give him enough attention…" O'Bannon lit up a cigarette. "What do you think his motive is?"