“She could be in danger, Karl. The killer could be the reason she ran away from the cult in the first place. And now she’s returned…”
“She’s not in danger from the killer. Trust me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Jordache sighed. “Because I think we’ve got him already.”
“You’re kidding.”
“That’s what we’ve been working on all night. We unearthed a few suspects that fit our profile but one guy ticks all the boxes.” Jordache gave a tired smile. “He’s still in one of the interview rooms.”
“Can I see him?”
“Sure. See if you can ID him. I know your aunt didn’t see him the other night and you didn’t get a great look at him at Tranquil Waters, but you did fight him.” He led Fox down the corridor and into a viewing room. Through a one-way mirror Fox could see Kostakis interviewing a man. “Recognize him?”
The man was big enough to be the intruder Fox had fought with but triggered no recognition. “No.”
“His voice?”
“I didn’t hear him speak. You sure it’s him?”
“Pretty sure. He’s a journalist called Frank Johanssen. Used to be the senior crime reporter for the Oregonian but had a breakdown after his wife was raped and murdered in Old Town a few years ago. Claimed the police knew who killed her but wouldn’t act because of lack of proof. He’s now freelance and writes mainly about how the justice system failed him but he still has links with local police and has good knowledge of the underworld. He knows most of the major players in Old Town from back in the day and has access to all the information required to have committed the copycat killings.”
It was Fox’s turn to be skeptical. “The victims were cut up pretty good for a journalist.”
“Johanssen knows how to use a knife. His old man was a butcher in Salem and Johanssen used to help him out when going through college. He has motive, too. He says Jane Doe inspired him to act: to go through the old files, clean up Old Town and mete out some biblical justice.”
“Has he confessed?”
“Kind of. Didn’t say much until Kostaki went through each crime in detail. Then he smiled and said they weren’t crimes at all, but acts of justice. He doesn’t even want a lawyer with him. Says there’s no point because the justice system is full of shit anyway.”
Fox stared at the man, struggling to see a connection between the person behind the glass talking with Kostakis and the one he had confronted in the dark. He wished Sorcha were here now because she might be able to recognize him from the death echoes at the crime scenes. Not that Jordache would believe her. “Does he have that rancid smell?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean anything. He might have just needed a shower.”
“Why did he attack Sorcha if she was such an inspiration?”
“Not sure yet but we’re working on a theory that he meant her no harm. That he just wanted to meet her, connect with her.”
“I fought the bastard, Karl. It wasn’t any social call. He had a knife. He poisoned her, for Christ’s sake. Two nights ago he poisoned one of your cops.”
Jordache led him back to the incident room. “He tranquilized them, Nathan. There’s a difference. Anyway, it makes a lot more sense than your archaeo-goddamn-sonics.”
In the incident room Fox noticed a file open on the main table. It contained a photo of the suspect. “What if you’ve got the wrong man?”
A shrug. “Ever since we’ve had him in our sights the killings have stopped.”
“Perhaps they stopped because the killer’s followed Sorcha back to the cult?”
“Drop it, Nathan. You can’t just make up stuff because you don’t like cults.” Jordache groaned. “I’m too tired for this shit. All the evidence points to this guy being a shoo-in. And that’s good enough for me.” Fox realized that Jordache wasn’t going to change his mind. And if the detective — his friend — didn’t buy his story then no one would. Fox was on his own. He handed Jordache a notebook and Samantha’s paper of archaeosonics. As Jordache flicked through them, Nathan slipped the suspect’s photograph into his pocket. “What the hell are these, Nathan?”
“The notebook records all the death echoes Sorcha sensed at the crime scenes. It covers the earlier murders as well as the recent ones. Read it. Some of the details might surprise you.”
Jordache sighed. “And this?”
“That paper explains the scientific theory behind what I’ve been trying to tell you. When you find out you’ve got the wrong man you might want to read it, too. Call my aunt about anything you don’t understand. She’ll be expecting your call.” He turned and walked away.
“You’re going after Sorcha, aren’t you?” Jordache called after him. “Goddamnit, Nathan, what the hell’s wrong with you? Leave it alone. Not every cult’s evil. Don’t do this, Nathan. Listen to me. This is none of your goddamn business. It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to your folks…”
Even when Fox could no longer hear Jordache, he could hear his sensei’s voice echoing in his ears: maintain control, keep your distance. But it was too late. He had already got too close and couldn’t leave it alone. Exiting the police building, he recalled Sorcha telling him about her nightmares and knew with a certainty he couldn’t explain to Jordache — or to himself — that the killer was closing in with the same relentless inevitability as the pursuer in her dreams. Sorcha was now at her most vulnerable: alone in a remote cult, with no memory of her past to guide her, dependent on a family of strangers. As fox climbed into the car he caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror, staring back at him, challenging him:
Who will Sorcha turn to when the killer comes for her?
Who can she trust to help and protect her?
Who, if not you?
Chapter 37
Sorcha woke at dawn, roused by a rising sun filtering through the slats in the wooden shutters. During last night’s homecoming feast, her father had introduced her to three women in the indigo robes, referring to them as his Wives. After the feast, they had drawn Sorcha a bath and shown her to her room. She had been asleep by ten o’clock. Her sleep had been restless and filled with dark dreams, but when she awoke, she realized there were no death echoes in the room — not even white noise. Only the sound of birdsong and lowing cows disturbed the silence. She reached under her pillow and turned on the phone Fox had given her. As her father had said, there was no signal. She suddenly wished Fox were here. Every new discovery she had made since losing her memory she had made with him, but now she was on her own.
She got out of bed and pulled back the shutters. The first thing she saw was the tower from her dreams etched against the cloudless sky. In the bright morning sun its staring eye appeared less sinister and gave her hope that soon she would rediscover her past life. Looking out on the other cabins and barns she could see people going about their chores. Two women ambled out of a cowshed, weighed down by pails of milk, laughing in the golden light.
What had caused her to leave this idyllic place?
As the morning light flooded the bare bedroom she searched it for traces of the person she had once been. But there were few clues. No posters or pictures adorned the walls, just a mirror and a large bronze ankh above the bed. On the table by the window were a brush and some basic toiletries and in the small bookcase in the corner a few old paperback novels. The one thing that caught her eye was a faded photograph in a wooden frame, sitting on the top shelf. The woman smiling at the camera looked familiar. When Sorcha moved closer she realized the woman looked like her. She was holding a baby: the baby in her locket. Sorcha touched her mother’s face and smiled. The woman was no longer alive and Sorcha couldn’t remember her, but just seeing her mother holding her infant-self validated her existence and anchored her place in the world.
In the adjoining bathroom she put the soap and shampoo to her nose, but nothing triggered her memory. After showering she found fresh clothes laid out on the chair by the foot of her bed. The han
dmade, hand-dyed garments — underwear, jeans, cotton T-shirt and sweater — were clean but worn. Judging from their perfect fit she realized they must be her old clothes, and the thought comforted her. Looking at herself in the mirror she wished she could inhabit her old identity and memories with the same ease.
As she opened her bedroom door and stepped barefoot into the corridor she heard voices. Walking toward them she came to a halfway open door and was about to knock when she spied Regan Delaney lying naked on his back. Maria, the pregnant redhead, straddled him, full breasts swaying above his face. The blonde lay beside him, caressing his inner thigh. The third woman sat on the edge of the bed, nursing her newborn with one heavy breast, while stroking Delaney’s forehead. All the women were naked, whispering chants of encouragement as they stared devotedly at Delaney’s face.
Transfixed by the women’s writhing bodies, Sorcha stared in horror at the tableau, the urgency of their whispers increasing with the quickening tempo of their movements. Suddenly, Delaney groaned and thrust his hips upwards. As he reached orgasm, his eyes opened and, as if in a trance, his pupils rolled back in his head, leaving only the whites visible. The women stared at him the whole time, eyes wide with rapture. “What can you see? Tell us what you see,” the redhead pleaded, breathlessly, thighs shaking with exertion.
As they listened for his answer the young blonde turned to the door. Showing no embarrassment, she smiled at Sorcha: a knowing, self-satisfied smile. As if icy water had been splashed over her, Sorcha instantly regained control over her body, recoiled and ran as fast as she could down the corridor. Finding herself in the main chamber, surrounded by bookshelves, she tried to calm herself and purge the images from her head. For the first time she was grateful for her amnesia because, mercifully, it had felt like she had witnessed a stranger copulating, rather than her father.
“Good morning, Sorcha.” She swiveled around to see him walking toward her. He wore a long black robe and was smiling. If he was aware of what she had just witnessed, he gave no sign. “Sleep OK?”
“Yes, thank you.” She had wanted to ask him about her mother but now couldn’t find the words. Feeling herself redden she turned to the wall and found herself staring at a six-foot-high tapestry of overlapping twin figures, one bold, the other its pale shadow. The legs and arms of both figures were stretched out as if performing a star jump. Seven wheel-like vortices ran up each of their spines, reflecting the seven colors of the rainbow, from red at the base to violet on the crown of the head. The sixth, indigo vortex in the brow was shaped like an eye. Each vortex was linked to its twin by a silver thread — except for the top one. The thicker thread connecting the seventh, violet vortices on the crown of the heads was a braided cord. The face on each figure was a stylized likeness of Delaney.
“Do you know what the tapestry represents?” he asked.
She looked closer, grateful for something to focus on. “No. Should I?”
“The bold figure represents our carnal body and the shadow figure its spiritual counterpart, the so-called astral body — what some religions call the soul. The vortices running down the spine represent the seven major chakras. These link the two bodies and are the key portals for receiving, storing and expressing the life force vital for their well-being. Each chakra has a designated role in governing a particular physical, mental, emotional and spiritual aspect of our life.”
He pointed to the base of the spine. “The vortices at the lower end of the spine are the animal chakras and deal with our most basic needs.” He pointed to the red vortex. “The first, near the anus, sexual organs and the adrenal medulla — responsible for the fight-or-flight reflex — is called Muladhara, the root or base chakra. Physically it governs sexuality, mentally it governs stability, emotionally it governs sensuality, and spiritually it governs our sense of security.” He pointed to the orange vortex. “The second, in the sacrum near the testes and ovaries, is the sacral chakra, Svadhisthana. Physically this governs reproduction, mentally creativity, emotionally joy and spiritually enthusiasm.”
He pointed to the torso. “The middle chakras are known as the human chakras and deal with our more complex and advanced needs. He pointed to the green vortex in the chest, between the yellow in the abdomen and the light blue in the throat. “This, for example, is Anahata, the heart chakra. It’s physically responsible for circulation, mentally passion, emotionally love and spiritually devotion.”
“The most advanced chakras of all, however, are above the neck. These are what we in the Indigo Family focus on. These are the divine chakras.” He pointed to the stylized indigo eye on the man’s forehead. “The brow chakra, Ajna, is linked to the pineal gland, which Descartes believed was the location of the human soul. It produces the melatonin that regulates sleep and waking. This, the sixth chakra, is usually deep blue or indigo and is often called the third eye because it governs our intuition, unconscious and the balancing of our spiritual and base selves. Like a sixth sense, it acts as a lens into the other realm. Meditation can be used to access and develop this chakra but we synaesthetes are genetically predisposed to use this sixth sense automatically.”
“What’s the top chakra, the violet one? What does that represent?”
“The seventh or crown chakra is the most important of all. The sixth chakra allows one to glimpse the immortal, eternal and infinite. But the seventh chakra allows one to become all-knowing, like a god. The crown chakra is the major portal through which all energy is channeled and dispersed to the other chakras. Sometimes called the God Source, it’s related to pure consciousness and is strongly associated with death. Located at the top center of the head, in the exact same place as the soft spot on a newborn baby’s head, it’s the portal through which all our life energy flows in at birth and out at death. If the sixth chakra is the eye or lens into the spirit world then the violet crown chakra is the doorway.”
He pointed at the tapestry. “Note the thicker silver cord linking the bold and shadow figures. What people term out-of-body or near-death experiences, we call astral traveling, whereby we inhabit our astral body and leave our carnal shell. When this happens the astral body remains tethered to its physical self by the silver cord linked to the crown chakra. This is our lifeline to our carnal body just as our umbilical cord was our lifeline to our mother’s body before birth. Once it’s broken we can never return to our body and we physically die.”
“You believe all this?”
“I know all this. Chakras date back more than four thousand years and the silver cord is mentioned in the Old Testament of the Bible, in Ecclesiastes.” He paused, giving her a knowing smile and gestured back to his bedroom. “What you witnessed back there wasn’t just me having sex. At the peak of physical ecstasy I leave my physical body and become one with the spiritual. The French are right when they call it le petit mort. It is a little death, a glimpse into eternity.” He laughed at her blushes. “Don’t be embarrassed about what you saw. It’s only natural.”
Mortified, she stared fixedly at the tapestry. He spoke with such conviction it was hard to evaluate what he was saying rationally. His talk of life energy leaving the body at death was bizarrely reminiscent of Samantha’s theory of archaeosonics. “Did I believe in this before I lost my memory?”
“All the Indigo Family knows this to be true. How else do you explain your gifts? Unlike most people out there in the world, with auras at the bottom of the chakra scale, most Indigo Family members are blue or higher and possess some synergistic extra sense.” He pointed at the dot on her forehead, then at the one on his. “Our auras are higher still. We go beyond indigo. Our gifts and potential are exceptional.” He smiled. “Yours even more than mine.”
She was about to broach the subject of her mother when the blonde suddenly appeared and whispered urgently in Delaney’s ear, causing his face to darken with anger. He fingered the amethyst set in the ankh hanging around his neck. “Are you sure, Zara?” he said. His frown intensified as he listened to her whispered response. “So
rry, Sorcha, I must go. I’ll leave you in Zara’s capable hands.” Showered and dressed in her indigo robe, Zara looked even younger than when she’d been in bed with her father. Sorcha suppressed a shudder, trying to purge the image from her head. “Make Sorcha breakfast, Zara, then show her around,” Delaney said. He glanced meaningfully at the blonde. “As we discussed.”
She nodded. “I understand.” As Delaney hurried away, Zara turned to Sorcha and smiled. Despite her youth it was a knowing, patronizing smile. “I realize you can’t remember anything but before you left we were friends.”
Sorcha looked hard at the girl, trying to recognize her. “Good friends?”
“Best friends.”
Sorcha smiled blankly at the stranger. If she had hoped that returning here would instantly ignite old memories, she had been mistaken. If anything, watching her father have sex, hearing him talk about his beliefs, and discovering that this strange child-woman had once been her best friend made her feel even further away from the person she had once been.
Chapter 38
Unlike at Tranquil Waters where nobody had known her, everyone in the settlement treated Sorcha with a disconcerting blend of reverence, familiarity and expectancy. It was unnerving to being in a place where everyone knew her better than she knew herself. Even the disciplined schoolchildren meditating in neat rows greeted her as if she were a celebrity.
“Why are they meditating?” Sorcha asked Zara as the young blonde showed her around.
“They’re learning to focus their energy through their chakras. If they balance and clear the chakras, energy can flow freely between their physical and astral bodies. You used to understand this better than anyone.”
Colour of Death, The Page 19
