Mutilated Dreams

by Hadena James

  “Do you trust me?” I asked her, meeting her reflective gaze in the mirror.

  “Yes.”

  “Honestly?”

  “We may not always see eye to eye, but I know why. I’ve come to understand a lot about you and as a result, I trust you completely.”

  “Despite my putting a gun to your head?”

  “That’s what made me understand you. If you hadn’t done that, we would still be on opposite sides of the fence, trying to find some common ground so we didn’t kill each other.”

  “That is ironic.”

  “I know,” she sighed and leaned against the sink counter. “Do you feel you have lost trust or broken it?”

  “Yes.” The reflection of me moved its mouth and my voice came out, but it didn’t feel like me. Sociopaths and mirrors are not great friends. “I am more in touch with the monster than the person that lives inside this body. Lately, I have struggled to deal with both and have cut myself in two to manage. A disjointed mind does not work very well.”

  “That’s very deep.”

  “Sadly,” I looked down, away from the stranger that stared back at me every time I stared into a mirror. “I think our killer is a victim. I have been trying to remember what it feels like to be a victim. I do not. I just remember being very angry.”

  “I think that’s what it feels like to be a victim.”

  “I do not know.” I shrugged and turned away. “I have been volunteering myself up for ritual sacrifice for so long that I have forgotten what it felt like to be an eight-year-old trapped in a small, windowless room, waiting to see what horrors might lay before me when the monster finally came for me. Once, a friend told me that he did not think I remembered because I had not been a victim then either, not in the standard sense of the word. Yes, I had been kidnapped, but from the moment Callow had taken me in his hands, I had begun plotting his demise. Essentially, he thought that I had volunteered to be a victim that time too. Today, I wonder if he is right.”

  “I don’t know, Ace. I doubt you’ll ever know. But does that matter?”

  “I feel like I should feel something for this woman.”

  “Why? Because you were once in the hands of a serial killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just because you can both say ‘I was a victim’ doesn’t make you kindred spirits. That’s the equivalent of you and me getting Mai Tais on a beach somewhere because we both have a serial killer in the family. My aunt did crazy, terrible things and she hurt people. You’ve got a few of those in your own family. We can try the beach and Mai Tais, but that doesn’t mean we are kindred spirits. I will never understand exactly what you went through knowing that your grandfather was The Butcher. You’ll never understand what it was like for me to have an aunt that tried to kill our entire family because she thought we were descendants of Atlanteans.” She frowned, but it was sad, not angry or disapproving. “We bonded a lot better over you putting a gun to both our heads than we would ever have bonded over having serial killers in our lineage.”

  “Sometimes, I think I want to know what it feels like to be normal,” I admitted.

  “Sometimes, I think I want to know what it feels like to be normal too,” she said. “Everyone’s normal is different. Besides, if you were normal in the sense that you seem to think the word means, you wouldn’t have come out of Callow’s clutches alive. The Aislinn Cain that I trust with my life would not be in this bathroom. She would have died Aislinn Clachan at the hands of a pedophile.”

  “I had never considered that.”

  “Nope, too deep for you. Stop trying to feel empathetic for a killer just because they’re a victim. We’re all victims of something. We don’t all start killing people to deal with it.”

  “I did.”

  “No, you killed because you’re a survivor. You would never kill a symbolic replacement or an innocent person just because you felt like it.” Fiona touched my shoulder. “You can call yourself a serial killer if it makes you feel better, but I think you’d look better wearing a cape and an armor suit.”

  “I was never a huge Batman fan,” I said, pointing out that I got the reference.

  “Pick whatever superhero you want, but that’s how I think of you.”

  “For the record, I also do not hang out on beaches.”

  “Is this going to lead to some crazy rant about poisons in water again?”

  “No, have you seen this body in a swimsuit? It frightens little children and probably sharks.”

  “Really? Body image is why you don’t go to the beach?”

  “I have a lot of scars.”

  “We all do. Yours just happen to be on the outside more than the inside. You’re still a lunatic, but you aren’t stupid, you aren’t falling to pieces, and you aren’t untrustworthy. You were dealt a blow with a brain tumor and Patterson Clachan and then Alejandro Gui. It’s been a rough year for you. You’ve made a few missteps, but we all do that. Once you stop questioning yourself, everyone else will too.”

  “That was very psychologically deep,” I told her and found myself smiling.

  “That smile would scare away sharks. You should definitely not use it if we go to the beach. And it really wasn’t that deep. We’ve all watched the struggle and self-doubt. Self-doubt just doesn’t work for a sociopath; their egos are too big. Yours especially. I’ve only seen glimpses of what everyone else has seen, but I think when you bring her back, I’m going to like her a lot.”

  Nineteen

  “You’re smiling,” Gabriel said as I entered the conference room.

  “Girl talk.” Fiona smiled back at him.

  “I was talking about Ace,” Gabriel said.

  “So was I,” Fiona answered.

  “Our killer has post-traumatic stress disorder.” I ignored both of them and looked directly at Lucas. “It is the only thing that makes sense. Rage followed by remorse, she is not a natural born killer.”

  “There were no signs of remorse,” Lucas restated.

  “There were, we just do not have the evidence for it yet. There was makeup on the body. I smelled it when I knelt down. She did not have sex with him, so the transfer had happened a different way. Sociopaths and psychopaths do not cuddle their victims after their dead unless they are necrophiles.”

  “So, she’s a necrophile,” Lucas said.

  “There was no evidence of that either,” I pointed out.

  “Women with PTSD just don’t usually become violent sadists.” Lucas sighed at me.

  “I know, but how much of the last year has been usual?”

  “Women with PTSD join victim support groups and learn kickboxing and carry stun guns or they hide in a world they create that’s as safe and secure as they can make it.”

  “I will admit that is true of almost one hundred percent of women who have been victims of violent crimes and suffer from PTSD, but it is almost one hundred percent. A miniscule portion of them become deranged killers trying to get back the piece of themselves that they lost. They victimize others to gain power and control. It fits,” I argued. “That is why she had not been killing until now. Taking the trophies was enough. It was her way of filling that lost part of her. This one, this guy, this victim, said something or did something that reminded her of the attack and she lashed out in an endorphin fueled rage.”

  “And she just happened to have a sword with her?” Lucas asked.

  “You saw that house. A sword could have already been in it. The owners would not have known. The caretaker, Harry, probably would not even have known. It was the home of a voodoo practitioner. It could have had a machete in the kitchen. I do not think she intended to kill him. I think it just happened.”

  “Okay,” Lucas finally said.

  “That is it?” I said.

  “Yes,” Lucas looked at me. “I had considered PTSD and dismissed it because the crime appeared premeditated, but you’re right. There could have been a sword or machete in the house that no one knew about because no one goes in there.”<
br />
  “Well, okay.” I sat down.

  “Plus, PTSD can create symptoms similar to sociopathology and psychopathology, not the physical side of it, exactly, but the mental symptoms. Endorphin boosts have been known to cause super human feats. With a machete and enough rage, someone with PTSD could behead a person, easily enough.”

  “Does this mean I have my expert back?” Gabriel asked.

  “Yes,” Lucas answered. “She just needed to find her way again. I think she did. Must have been one hell of a girl talk.”

  “I discovered Fiona has many skills,” I told him.

  “Good.” Gabriel looked at her for a long while. His face was impassive, but his muscles were tense. There was something else bothering him, something other than me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what it was or not. Fiona’s fingers were already typing on the keyboard of her computer. In a world that had moved from computers to laptops to tablets, I found it refreshing that Fiona still used a laptop. I owned a tablet and it was great for many things, but work wasn’t one of them. I didn’t even like for her to send me information to my tablet. I preferred a text message with an address telling me what door to kick down. Gabriel’s cell phone rang. He jumped a few inches. He was strung tight. “What have you got?” He hit speaker and set the phone on the table.

  “It’s what I haven’t got. There was no souvenir taken. He still has all his tattoos, scars, and birthmarks. His only wounds are the ones that killed him. It appears that he was stabbed in each leg and beheaded in a matter of moments. If I had to guess, it had been three movements, one right after the other. I can’t even be sure which one was fatal. They all would have killed, quickly.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Gabriel hung up. “You know about alternative religions, right?”

  He was looking at me. I stared back at him, unsure of what the right answer was or why I was being asked about it. I had researched some alternative religions. Religion had been very important in the Middle Ages. Nothing had really changed except the number of religions and almost all of them had books about them.

  “Some,” I answered tentatively.

  “When they pulled up the carpet to take it to the lab, they found this.” Gabriel passed me a photo. My brain recognized it immediately. It should have been a lot of places, but under a carpet in a notorious house wasn’t one of them. I frowned without realizing it.

  “Voodoo does not use pentagrams,” I told him.

  “That’s the problem. I recognize it too. I saw one on a floor when we were in Detroit.” Gabriel’s face contorted. Deep lines furrowed his brow, his mouth, and his eyes. His cheeks flushed. “Tell me that was not a human sacrifice.”

  “Well, I do not know a whole lot about human sacrifice, but leaving all those juicy body parts behind, especially the heart, liver, and spleen, does not really seem like the work of a satanic cult or Palo Mayombe, or anything really.”

  “Could it be Palo Mayombe?”

  “Beats me. However, Palo Mayombe practitioners like body parts and internal organs. Just as likely to be Predator as a religion.”

  “What’s Predator?” Gabriel asked.

  “The fictional apex alien hunter from the movies of the same name,” I answered. “He took heads and spines.”

  “I’ve seen the movies.” Gabriel’s mood soured even more.

  “Well, then you should not have needed to ask who he was.” I smiled at him. “Look, I do not think the two are related. The house has been in the hands of dark arts priests in the past. There’s been a few murders there. The carpet could have been put down at any time. It might have been installed to cover the pentagram. Actually, I think I read something like that in a book once on haunted houses. There was a family living in a house with weird things happening and one day they pulled back a rug, carpet, or floor covering of some sort, and found a pentagram on the floor under it. By itself, a pentagram is just a pentagram. Fiona wears one and it is not because it is evil.”

  “Leave my pentagram out of this,” she said still typing on her computer. “My pentagram is about magic.”

  “That’s what all pentagrams are about. First, inverted pentagrams are evil. This is a floor. It is hard to know if it is inverted or not. Second, regular pentagrams, the ones that are not inverted, are just about making a magic circle and dozens, possibly hundreds of religions have used the shape over the years.” I thought for a moment. “It is like a swastika. By itself, it would not be much more than a swastika. However, because Hitler adopted it for the Third Reich, it is always associated with negativity in the western world.”

  “Did you really manage to work haunted houses and Nazis into this conversation?” Green asked, breaking some of the tension that was building around Gabriel. I silently thanked him.

  “Yes, yes I did. I find it unlikely that someone removed the carpet, drew a pentagram, replaced the carpet, went out and found a victim, returned to the scene, found the crime scene tape on the door, ignored it, went inside, and then sacrificed someone to an evil demi-god. That is a lot of risk. It makes more sense for it to be a rather odd and unsettling coincidence,” I assured him.

  “I’m gonna agree with Aislinn,” Fiona piped up. “Considering the history of the house. Some idiot with a piece of chalk probably drew it as a joke.”

  “Okay, so what do we make of the lack of trophy?” Gabriel asked.

  “Um,” I shrugged. I had nothing. It was unlikely that our not yet killer would forget her trophy, but I knew I smelled makeup. Had she stumbled upon his body in the house, wept for him, and left? That would be too weird.

  “She freaked out when she killed him and didn’t take one or it wasn’t her,” Lucas announced. “If it wasn’t her, we have a bigger problem, because this has all the hallmarks of a serial killer.”

  “I do not want to chase multiple serial killers,” I told Lucas. “I get tired of chasing multiple serial killers. I just want to go to a city, catch one serial killer, the only serial killer, and then go home for some British TV, irritating time with Badger, and hot chocolate with whipped cream. If we have to chase multiple serial killers in New Orleans, I’m going to take up drinking as a hobby.”

  Spiraling

  Her stomach made noises. She ignored them. She remained in bed with the covers over her head. Sleep had come and gone a couple of times. Each time was less enjoyable than the last. Her memory was shattered. Her dreams mixed in with the reality of what she had seen. The events of the previous night were a jumbled mess of phantom memories and half-remembered truths.

  There were wet spots on her sheets. She didn’t know where they had come from. She didn’t know anything, except that something terrible had happened to her, again. Her body hurt.

  Someone was beating on her door and calling her name. She rolled over, peeling herself from the sheets. Her skin hurt. Her muscles hurt. Her head hurt. Had she been in a car accident? Maybe she needed a hospital. Maybe that was what was wrong with her. Maybe that was why her body hurt. Maybe she was bruised from the seatbelt or steering wheel. Whose car had she been driving? Did she own a car? She couldn’t remember. Maybe she had hit her head. Maybe she had a concussion, which would explain the nightmares she had experienced while she slept.

  The beating grew louder. The voice became louder. It hurt her ears. She screamed, or thought she did, but the sound that escaped her throat was not a scream. It was a strange, mewing sound. She’d made that sound before. Maybe someone had broken into her apartment, raped her and beaten her. Maybe she needed the police.

  She couldn’t remember. Maybe she’d been drugged. Maybe that was the reason for the terrifying dreams that had plagued her as she had slipped in and out of sleep. How long had she slept? She didn’t know. Was it day or night?

  There was a noise from within the apartment. The banging had stopped. The shouting had grown louder. It was a gruff voice. A man’s voice was berating her for some reason. Why was he in her apartment? What had she done wrong? His words didn’t make sense. So
mething about water, floors, or ceilings. What did that have to do with why he was in her apartment? Was he her attacker? Was he here to kill her? She would welcome death at the moment. It would release her from the physical and emotional pain. It would stop the strange noises coming from her mouth. It would stop the noises coming from her stomach. It would stop the nightmares. Death had a lot to offer. She didn’t know if life did.

  “Sweet Mother Mary,” the gruff voice said. It had changed somehow. It didn’t sound angry. It sounded like something else. It wasn’t shouting. “Valerie! Valerie! Hold on, girl, I’m calling an ambulance,” it said to her. Who was it? Why did she need an ambulance? Was it related to the pain?

  There was blessed silence for a long time. She welcomed it. She didn’t care if she had died. It was quite nice. However, she still hurt. She was still making that awful noise. The one that she couldn’t seem to stop.

  More noise, lots of noise. Someone yanking on the covers, exposing her to blinding lights. A woman’s face came into view. She was older. She looked nice. Valerie wondered how long it had been since she had seen someone that looked nice. If her body hadn’t hurt, she would have thought the woman was an angel. Her hair glowed. There was no reason for her hair to glow. Maybe it was related to the awful dreams. Maybe she was still dreaming.

  Movement. Her body hurt. She screamed and it finally came out. The pain was overwhelming. It seared her in her very core. What were these awful people doing to her? Why were they making her hurt more, again?

  Dizziness. It swam through her, burning. Her head felt weird and awful, but the pain lessened. She was grateful for the relief. It was almost worth the movement and dizzy feeling. Maybe her first thoughts had been right. Maybe the older woman with the nice face was an angel and she had been leaving her body behind. It would explain why the pain was gone. She refused to open her eyes; afraid she might open her eyes and find that she was still in the hands of whoever had hurt her. She wanted to believe in angels.