Conspiracy of Ravens

by Chrystal Vaughan

  “Did you know the names of these hunters?”

  “Nope. The truck didn’t have any papers in it or anything. I looked because I was curious to see if I could tell anything about them by their name or birthday if I could find it.”

  “Why is that? What would you be able to tell by that information?”

  She grew irritated, scowling at me with her perfect face. “Don’t play stupid, Sophia, you know what power lies within a name and a day. If I could figure that out, maybe I could figure out how they lured those animals in. That’s useful information for a witch.”

  “You mean...the numbers right?” I was casting my mind back to the occult article for information about names and birthdates. I remembered something about the significance of numerology for many pagan and Wiccan religions. Catherine studied me a moment and then her brow smoothed. She launched into a diatribe, using a somewhat pedantic tone, like a teacher lecturing her class.

  “That’s right. Names translate to numbers, and birthdates have powerful numbers of their own. As I’m sure you can guess, my name number and my birth number match. Do I have to tell you how uncommon that is?”

  “Is it uncommon?”

  “It’s nearly unheard of. I’ve never met anyone else who has numbers that align, until I saw your story and byline in the paper. I did some research on you after reading your article. I sort of remembered you, like I said, but after that I was curious. Guess what I found out? You are just like me, whether you like it or not. Both of us have matching name and birth numbers and what’s more, it’s the same number.”

  “Seventeen,” I whispered.

  “Exactly!” Her voice echoed her delight, bouncing around the room to crash against me. “Seventeen, Sophia. It’s the month in the Egyptian calendar when Osiris was killed. It’s the number of chapters in the Persian bible. And it’s the birth and name number of us both. Do you know the significance of that number for you and me?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak. I was gripped with an unreasonable dread that we should share anything that was supposedly that powerful.

  “A person who has the seventeen birth or name number is considered an incredibly gifted psychic. Or witch, to use outdated vernacular. We have the ability to achieve immortality, Sophia,” her voice took on a fanatic, urgent edge. “Think about it! Our names could live on forever. The two of us together are more powerful than any force the rest of simple-minded humanity could ever dream of. I knew from high school you would never join your power with mine. You always kept your distance from me and my kind. You’ve spent your whole life denying what you are, that’s always been plain. Just because you deny its existence doesn’t mean it stops existing, Sophia, and so I decided to use it against you. You will be my ticket to immortality and I will leave you in my dust!”

  She finished her speech and sat back with her usual self-satisfied expression. I rose to my feet, done listening to her for one day, for a lifetime, I wished. “I was wrong about you. You’re batshit crazy,” I told her, and walked out.

  ****

  Brad was on the phone when I tapped on his office door and let myself in, not waiting for a response. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, muscular forearms exposed. His hair looked as though he’d run his hands through it repeatedly, his tie was missing, and he wore an expression of extreme frustration. I felt it safe to assume that his day had sucked as badly as mine.

  . “I don’t give a fuck what he’s got scheduled this week, you get him here tomorrow, you weasel faced little prick!” he finally yelled into the phone and snapped it shut, tossing it on the desk with not quite enough force to break it.

  “That goddamn asshole Maxwell says he’ll get the psychiatrist in here sometime next week! I want that fucking bitch out of my prison a hell of a lot sooner than that. Last night she lured another one of my officers into her cell and offered him sex. The dumbass believed her and she bit a hunk of flesh out of the side of his neck and almost killed him. Then while he was screaming and bleeding she sat there finger painting with his blood while humming a fucking lullaby!”

  “What? She didn’t say anything about it to me during our talk today!”

  “It’s on the goddamn night surveillance video! I just found out about it myself. I’ve had call after call from the warden wanting to know why I didn’t come down here last night and why he had to instead. All my officers are reporting to him that she’s mind fucking them, I’ve got shit going down in the middle of the night no one is reporting to me because, I quote, ‘We thought you were busy with that reporter,’ end quote. To top it off, Yoakum has come up with a total of zero bodies in four counties and the state cannot prosecute without any evidence aside from her supposed testimony. And yet I have done nothing about any of it because of my obsession with you! What a fucking mess!” He was shouting by the end of all this, glaring at me with stormy blue eyes.

  I was hurt beyond belief but I held my ground. Chin lifted defiantly, I pointed out that none of the problems he was facing were my fault. We stared at each other for a minute, then I admitted defeat. I took the voice recorder from my jacket pocket and placed it gently on the corner of his desk. I gathered the rest of my things from the leather chair and left, closing the door behind me. I was nearly to the front doors when I heard the glass in other office doors shatter in my wake, but I kept going. I didn’t start crying until I passed through the double gates, barely registering the now eight black shapes perched solemnly above.

  12-The Hanged Man

  I’d gotten myself sort of under control by the time I reached my hotel. I was even grimly happy for a few moments that Brad’s Jeep was stuck in the hotel parking lot with him miles away at the prison. Then, I was sad again. What kind of vindictive person was I? Was this what love does to people? I’d be alone forever with that kind of thinking.

  I must have looked pretty awful because the front desk clerk took one look at me and said, “Oh honey, are you okay?”

  I gave her a tremulous smile and nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Whenever I was upset, the kindness of others seemed only to serve as an illuminated back drop to my misery, making everything seem worse. I climbed onto the elevator and rode to my second floor room, leaking a little from the eyes. I had to get a grip. It wasn’t like Brad was my husband, or even really a boyfriend, I reminded myself. People had flings all the time. That’s all it was.

  In my room, I soaked in a blistering hot tub for a few minutes and then dressed in comfy pj’s. Still sad but in control of the water works, I researched the psychoses of serial killers before composing my segment for Rick. Though it was later than I usually returned after a session with Catherine, I had plenty of time before deadline and was able to correlate some information I found with what Catherine was claiming she’d done. Her nomadic behavior, and the indigent nature of her chosen profession was in keeping with serial killer profiling. Though most serial killers were male, female serial killers were not completely unheard of. Catherine, however, was sort of unique in some ways. She killed in a variety of ways, though recorded female serial killer activity typically involved poison or guns, less close up work with knives or other stabbing type weapons. According to Catherine, she’d killed with knives as well as other instruments that ensured she would have to do close up work, making the killing more personal.

  I had no way of knowing whether she tortured animals when she was younger but my hunch said no, in spite of data to the contrary regarding serial killer behavior and progression. Her reaction to the killing of the animals in the forest by the two hunters would indicate her religious nature, and reverence for flora and fauna, prohibited the torture of lower creatures.

  She did fit the profile in many other ways though. Her victims, so far, were all white, as she was. I’d wait to include this in my write ups until her complete victim list was available and confirmed. She was disorganized, choosing victims seemingly at random as well as disorganization in the nature and location of the murders. I resolved to keep a map of my
own, pinpointing the locations of her supposed kills and checking for possible patterns.

  Catherine’s parents were both dead and she’d been raised by grandparents, another commonality among serial killers. Then again, so had I, and I wasn’t a murderer. I made a note to check out the grandparents to see if I could match information on her childhood with a typical psychopathic profile.

  She fit in the serial killer profile very well with her timeframe and schedule, however. According to my calculations based on information she’d provided so far, her cycle was about every forty-two days between murders. I wondered if her kill cycle matched her menstrual cycle, if her menstruation was off somehow, irregular, if this might cause some of these behaviors on a chemical level. I made another note to find a doctor who could answer questions about it.

  Finally, Catherine was very clever and seemed articulate but not especially smart. I didn’t believe we were dealing with a genius psychopath but rather one who may be slightly below average intelligence. Sometimes her speech pattern revealed a facet of this, though she strove to cover it with a contrived air of intelligence. It was like a persona that she wore, one that slipped every now and then to reveal the true face hiding beneath the surface.

  I compiled some information for further use and composed my piece for the paper, glad I now had a good handle on the psychological side in spite of the lack of a profile on Catherine herself. I decided to shy away from the religious angle in my piece, which is why I sold the female serial killer thing to Rick in the first place. I felt uncomfortable blaming witchcraft because I felt as though the public would read Satanism instead. For some reason, the idea bothered me.

  Rick called as soon as I sent the piece over. “Great job, Soph, really good stuff. How’s it going over there? You almost done yet?”

  “No,” I answered dully. “According to Catherine, we’ve got nine more confessions to get through if she has seriously killed seventeen people.”

  “Hey…you okay?”

  The concern in his voice unpinned my emotional control. I sobbed the whole story into his ear. “And it’s almost eight o’clock and I still haven’t heard from Brad,” I concluded, sniffling.

  “Aw Soph, give him some time, hon. He probably feels like a jackass. You know, I never had any kids,” Rick said slowly, “but I always thought of you kind of like a daughter. I guess that’s why I’ve kept you out of the more dangerous things, tryin’ to protect you and all. Then I started to feel bad, wanted to give you a shot at a big time story, to help you with your career. Heck, I know you’re gonna leave my little paper someday for the big leagues and I guess I have to be okay with that. I’m sorry I sent you into the lion’s den, now. You never talked about guys and stuff so I sort of felt safe sending you to talk to a female suspect. I really threw you to the wolves on both scores, didn’t I?”

  I was touched by his confession and instantly regretted every time I had ever cursed him under my breath or in my head. “No Rick, you didn’t do anything wrong. I did. I should never have gotten involved with someone on the job. Now I’ve jeopardized his position and compromised my own credibility. He shouldn’t be messing around with reporters, I knew that. He just made me feel...I don’t know. He makes me feel normal,” I strove to explain.

  “Hey kiddo, let me tell you something. You haven’t lost an ounce of credibility with me. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Don’t blame yourself. And normal ain’t something you’re ever going to be so stop trying to find it.”

  “Gee thanks, Rick. So much for those tender, fatherly moments, huh?”

  “Come on, you think I’m stupid? I worked the beat once too. I wasn’t always the boss. I know reporters and I know reporting. It’s all about observation. I’ve seen what you can do.”

  My stomach tightened, along with my grip on the phone. My voice sounded strangled. “What do you mean, Rick?”

  “Ease up, Soph. I can practically feel the lightning coming off you from here. And I meant the things you can do. The mind reading, the slammed doors, lights that go on when you enter a room and go off when you leave. Like, you mean to flip the switches but your hand forgets so your head, or whatever it is, fills in for you.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t do that!” I could feel panic rising within me, choking me. The lights in the room went dim and I sat in near darkness trying not to hyperventilate.

  “Sophia, calm down right now! I mean it,” Rick’s voice came through the phone faintly, as if from far away, barely audible over the sound of shattering glass. “Now my goddamn whiskey glass is broken and you are gonna hear me out. Get a hold of yourself right fucking now. You hear me? You with me, Sophia?”

  His voice was growing louder over the rush of blood in my ears. I made an incoherent sound of assent. I was hearing him. “That’s a good girl. Much better. Breathing. In. Out. Okay now here it is. You can do things, Sophia. Not normal things that just anyone can do. When you’re distracted, or upset like you are right now, they just happen on their own but I bet if you wanted, you could do them all the time. And that’s okay. You hear me? It’s okay, hon, it’s perfectly fine. Okay? Sophia? Answer me.”

  “No,” I whispered. He heard me anyway.

  “Yes, kiddo. I’m right, you know I’m right. Now you can go on denying it after this conversation is over, and I won’t bring it up again unless you want to talk about it. But I really think you need to get a handle on this thing and make peace with it. I hate seeing you feel bad all the time. You go around like a ghost of what you could be and I think it’s because you are denying this important part of yourself. Frankly, it just tears me up.”

  I was silent for long minutes, listening to the small, comforting sounds coming through phone: Rick’s breathing, him pouring another drink. He let me think a while and then said, “That’s all I got for you tonight sweetheart. Keep up the good work. Your pieces are doing well, gaining an audience. Stay as long as you have to for the story. Cut this Brad guy a little slack. And don’t forget…you always got me to kick around.”

  I finally smiled at this last bit. “Thanks, Rick. I mean it. Sorry about your whiskey.”

  “You should be. That was vintage fucking Glenlivet,” he replied, and hung up. I closed my phone and laid back on the bed, thinking about everything he’d said. I was startled out of my reverie by a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” I called, hoping it was Brad but disappointed to hear the busboy reply, “Room service, ma’am.”

  I got up and pulled open the door, my words about not ordering any room service dying on my lips. The busboy pocketed the twenty Brad held to him and sped away like a frightened deer. Brad stepped forward with a bag of takeout in one hand and a bouquet of more lilies in the other, stargazers this time. He wore a sheepish, sorry expression on his handsome face.

  “Um, hey Sophia. I didn’t think you’d answer if I called or showed up, so I resorted to stalker tactics.”

  I didn’t say anything. My mind was racing with the best way to handle this and keep my power under control. Part of me was still extremely hurt that he’d basically blamed his whole shitty day on my presence in his prison and his life. The other part was remembering Rick’s advice and how I felt about Brad already. Was it too soon to love someone this much? To give them so much power over me? I wondered.

  I finally moved aside and said, “Hey, Brad, what’s in the bag?”

  His relief was nearly palpable. He came in, put the bag and the flowers on the table and strode back to where I stood by the door. He closed it, and pressed me against it. His hands cradled my face, fingers tracing my jaw while he searched my soul with his eyes. I’m sure he found fear and doubt living there. Whatever it was, it caused him to frown. He kissed me, eyes open, watching me. We were at war momentarily, fighting between honesty and forgiveness, lust and love. Brad chose sides first, opting for honesty, and it undid me.

  “Sophia,” he whispered, “I think I’m in love with you. I know that must seem impossible, or too soon, b
ut it’s true. I’m so fucking sorry I took all my problems out on you today. I don’t know why I would say any of those things to you. You didn’t deserve that from me. I can only ask for you to forgive me and promise if you give me another chance, I will spend my life trying to make it up to you.”

  Our take out was cold many hours later when we remembered it was sitting on the table still. We ate it anyways. The flowers, however, were still as beautiful as ever and my sleep that night was expansive and dreamless.

  ****

  We were quiet with each other the next morning. It weighed on my mind he’d vowed his love for me but I’d not said anything in return. I worried it upset him and I was awkward, unsure how to respond in kind without sounding stupid. So many things raced through my mind. How would we work out a relationship between us, two different cities, two careers...it seemed impossible. I felt like I was heading for more pain in my life, but couldn’t stop myself. The sight of him took my breath away and I caught myself staring more than once, like a schoolgirl mooning over her first crush. Was it just a crush? I doubted the depth of my own feelings and I felt uneasy with myself. He caught me watching him shave, eyes so full of love and desire I felt tears prickling at the back of my eyelids. No, this was no crush.

  I must have looked downcast. He came back to the bedroom, shaving completed, and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong, Sophia?” he asked, a worried looking making lines between his azure eyes.

  “Oh, nothing. Even though I washed a few things,” and he grinned, recalling me washing my undergarments in the shower, which had led to other activities, “I didn’t pack enough for more than a week. I’m going to need to go get some clothes soon. I hate shopping,” I explained.