by Cade Brogan
“In the sixth century,” Claire went on, “they saw three as the first true number.”
“Interesting,” Rylee responded, her tone suggesting that it wasn’t. “You gotta be a trivia champ or something.”
Claire laughed. “No, not by a long-shot.”
“Maybe it’s time,” Rylee said. “Time’s marked by threes; beginning, middle, end; past, present, future. Or maybe it has to do with rituals, a lot of times they’re in threes too.” She filled her cup and sat back down. “So, let’s list out what we know.” That’s what she and Rich used to do.
Claire turned to the next page in her notebook. “That he likes hospitals,” she blurted out.
“Or that she doesn’t like them,” Rylee countered.
“Right,” Claire responded, “it could be either one.”
Rylee cocked her head, lifting both eyebrows. “Or here’s another angle, maybe hospitals are just a place that he—or she—is comfortable. Maybe the doer’s a doc or tech or patient or something.”
“You really think the doer’s a woman?”
“Could be,” Rylee responded. “I’m not sure about sprees, but some of the most notorious serials on record have been women.” She’d read everything available on the topic. Her upper lip curled, grimacing. “They’re cagey, vicious monsters, hiding in the darkest corner of depravity, some of ‘em killing for more than thirty years.”
Claire sucked in air, reacting to her intensity.
Rylee inhaled slowly, refocusing. “So, how about we make some calls, see which academic programs, say within a hundred-mile radius, teach their students to handle dangerous pathogens?” They brainstormed, listing them, and splitting the list down the middle. Rylee’s half included colleges of medicine and pharmacology. She’d volunteered to make those calls, thinking she’d be killing two birds with one stone—asking additional questions of Joanna’s alma maters.
“We should check the private sector too,” Claire suggested. “I know a lot of jobs where if you have a degree your employer will teach you what to do with it.”
“Yep, and the government sector too,” Rylee said, accessing an Internet phone book.
CHAPTER NINE
ChiTownBreakingNews.com
BREAKING NEWS
According to sources close to the investigation, a lethal pathogen has claimed the lives of eleven people, all residents of Chicago. Victims died within a few hours, making this the deadliest virus on record. Authorities believe exposure to have been intentional, the work of a mass killer. Scientists are reportedly “scrambling to find a cure” alongside detectives who are “doing their best to catch a spree killer like no other.” Many fear that the area could be standing on the doorstep of a pandemic. Residents are advised to reduce public outings and wash their hands with anti-bacterial soap. We will continue to monitor this disturbing situation closely, posting updates as they become available.
CHAPTER TEN
Elizabeth’s phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. She’d been planning her schedule, ticking through her mental checklist. Claire. What in the world was wrong with her? She knew not to be a pest, especially when she was traveling. She merged into a northbound lane on I-90. But she doesn’t know that you are. And she won’t until she gets home and reads the note that you left for her. She’d written it while consuming her last bite of cereal that morning.
Claire,
I’ve been called out unexpectedly.
My apologies for the lack of notice.
I should be back in a few days but don’t count on it.
And don’t let the dog on my quilt.
Regards, Elizabeth
When her phone rang again, the fourth time in ten minutes, she silenced it. “Give it a rest,” she snarled, noticing that the voicemail indicator was blinking on the device. You’re off to discover a brand-new hunting ground. You love this part. You love it, and it’s been ages since you’ve done it—more than a year since she’d collected her last trophy. You should be happy beyond measure. Come on, don’t let Claire’s neediness ruin your outing. She deleted the message without listening to it. Then she took a deep breath to clear her mind. She’d planned to wait, to be patient; planned for her next victim to be Kenzie; planned for her to join the others in the order she’d been destined to join them. But she’d become aroused watching the dial spin round-and-round, believing that Kenzie was in the shower, and knowing that Rylee was out. She licked her lips, remembering the last time she’d visited her, quivering at the thought of her ample breasts, exquisitely exposed under the steamy spray of hot water. She’d longed to puncture her slender neck with a sharp needle; to administer the toxin prepared especially for her, to stand by as she gasped her final breath, soothing her as she died. But instead of going to her, she’d used restraint, deciding that it would be safer to settle for a substitute, giving her more time to plan her dispatch of Kenzie carefully. Both would fulfill her responsibility to God, ridding His world of impurity, but by doing it this way, she’d be eliminating unnecessary risk. “Better to have a kill less gratifying than to get caught,” she told herself. Impulsivity, in just this one circumstance, was quite possibly her only character flaw. So, she’d take her time on this one, put her toe back in the water so to speak, and get to know the new community as she studied her next target. She’d stay for a couple of weeks, attend church on two Sunday mornings, and complete the dispatch on that second Sunday afternoon. And then, when her task was done, she’d go home. She smiled, thinking that after two full weeks away, Claire would be particularly eager for her to return to their bedroom. She’d made multiple practice runs during the time they’d been together, sometimes staying in a motel mere blocks from their home, but had never been away two full weeks in a row. She’d done it for Claire, to get her used to her job, a job that she didn’t talk about, a job that required overnight travel, a job that she couldn’t afford to have raise flags of suspicion. Elizabeth had missed her, as she expected that she would on this trip, but hadn’t called her, not wanting contact to be considered an option. She couldn’t risk having her location discovered. GPS tracking could be the death of a serial killer, even one as intelligent, accomplished, and talented as herself. Missing someone, it was an unusual phenomenon. She merged with traffic going the opposite direction, traveling twenty-five miles out of her way, and powering down her phone. As she turned around, she revisited the hunt in her mind, thinking about how she’d choose her next target, how she’d refuse to settle for anything less than a breathtaking specimen, and how she’d stay longer if necessary to find her. But will she be 353 or 354? She furrowed her brow, pondering. 354 because 353 belongs to Kenzie Bigham. She cocked her head, squinting. But it’s a chronological count. If you dispatch another before her, she’ll never be 353, not really. It was a quandary, a quandary she’d have to pray about. “Think happy thoughts,” she told herself, forcing a giggle. “Look at you, off on a big adventure, all set to scout out a brand-new hunting ground.” She contemplated exiting at Madison but opted to continue north, placing greater distance between Chicago and her next victim. “You almost made a big mistake,” she admonished in a childlike voice, “and you know big mistakes aren’t tolerated.” She nodded, swallowing hard. “I know,” she squeaked, forcing another unnatural giggle. “Play too close to the detective’s backyard, and this little piggy just might get sent to market,” she added, laughing hysterically. Within seconds, she flashed to an unpleasant childhood memory and heard the clang of handcuffs against Kenzie’s bedroom radiator. Being apprehended had increased the frequency of her flashbacks. “Think happy, happy, happy thoughts,” she told herself, her tone sing-song in the melody of an old tune she’d sung in elementary school, Row, Row, Row Your Boat. She exited at Stevens Point, checking into a tiny motel near campus-town, under an assumed name, of course. Maybe they left the light on for you, she thought, chuckling at her reference to the popular slogan as she unlocked the door.
It was a small, dark room with peeling paint, wo
rn upholstery, a hole in the rug, a nasty ring on the inside of the tub, and an overpowering odor of stale smoke. Not what you’re accustomed to, that’s for sure. Nor was it as much as she could afford. But presenting herself as a poor person helped her to blend in, to slip by unnoticed. And in the new world order, that was her goal. She lifted her suitcase onto the bed, opening it. Under white cotton panties, concealed inside a knee-high sock, was a handmade gift from a friend, one that he’d carved to fit her palm perfectly. She touched its wooden handle, lovingly, longingly. Not feeling its crack against her flesh was the worst part of her punishment. Inside the toe of her slipper was a small bottle of tiny trophies. She gently turned it from side to side, remembering each one as a unique member of the whole. She looked up when a woman, one who looked a lot like Claire, walked by her window. “Mmm, well, aren’t you just delicious,” she murmured, squeezing her thighs together, intensifying the warmth in her center. She licked her lips when the beauty let herself into the room next to hers. “And so conveniently located.” She could be the one. If she were, Elizabeth wouldn’t need to be away from Claire as long as she’d anticipated. When something thumped, probably a chair, Elizabeth thanked God for thin walls. She sat down on the lumpy mattress, listening for the sound of running water. Come on, sweetheart, take a shower. Or a bath, it really doesn’t matter. She toyed with her trophies, confident that she wouldn’t have to wait much longer to add another. And then, as if in answer to an unspoken prayer, the pipes groaned. She sucked in air, reaching inside a special pocket on the outside seam of her jeans to touch a small tube-like weapon. Pre-loaded with poison, it was at the ready, a change from the way she’d always done things. Her heart fluttered. You’re being impulsive, she warned, sprinting toward the bathroom, and you know from experience that that’s when you make mistakes. She pressed her ear against the tile, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. You watched her go in. You know she’s alone. You don’t know how long she’ll be here. Come on; she’s perfect. Tomorrow may be too late. She swallowed at the sound of pipes whistling, water turning off and back on. It’s now, or never, she told herself. And with that she made her way to the door to peek outside, looking up and down the covered walkway. No one in sight. Praise the Lord. Then, she stepped out, closing her door soundlessly behind her. She’s in room three, she noticed, inserting her tension wrench into the lock. Three, the Trinity, it’s a sign from God. She wiggled the small tool—back and forth—back and forth—back and forth—and with a soft click the last pin set. Gotta love a cheap lock. She pushed lightly, and the door opened. Ahh, the sweet sound of a target showering. She smiled, tiptoeing toward the bathroom, nudging the door open and standing quietly, the young woman not noticing. Elizabeth marveled at how she carried on, bathing behind the frosted door as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Her hair was short, clipped into a cute boi cut; her skin was radiant, the color of cocoa; her small breasts were beautifully formed, round and perky. Elizabeth’s stomach twisted, thinking about how much she reminded her of Claire. It would be her first kill since they’d been together. You’re not together; she reminded herself. God placed her in your life as a penance, remember? She nodded, deciding that her feelings for Claire were much the same as her fondness for her flagrum, both instruments of punishment.
Slippery, the bar of soap escaped the woman’s grasp, sliding toward the drain. “Crap,” she said, bending down to retrieve it. As she raised up, she spotted Elizabeth, her eyes widening to the size of quarters. “This room is taken,” she shouted, sliding the door open, and scrambling to cover her nakedness with a fluffy white towel.
Elizabeth smiled, speaking calmly. “So, I see.”
“Well, go on, get outta here then,” the woman demanded, her eyes taking on a glisten of fear. This was the best part, the moment when her targets realized that something bad was about to happen, but they didn’t know what, nor how to protect themselves.
Elizabeth lifted her blowpipe to her mouth, sighting a vein at the base of the woman’s neck. She’d found that location to be the best site for delivery of her toxins.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked, her mouth falling open.
Elizabeth filled her lungs to their capacity, not responding.
“That’s it,” the woman barked, coming toward her, “I’m calling the cops!”
Elizabeth held her gaze, blowing with all her might—Wh-ooo-t.
“Ouch,” the woman yelled, her hand flying up to pull out the dart. She stared, dazed and confused, finding blood on her palm. “What’d you do to me?” she gasped, teetering. Within seconds, she lost her balance, dropping to her knees.
“Don’t be afraid,” Elizabeth said softly. “You’re going to die, but the process won’t take long. If you relax, it’ll be less painful.” She’d devoted many hours during the past year, creating a line of toxins that were extremely fast-acting.
“Help me,” the woman begged, tears tumbling down her cheeks.
“Sorry, but that’s just not possible,” Elizabeth responded calmly. “Try to relax; it’ll be over shortly.” She stepped closer when the woman crumpled onto herself, exposing the center of her femininity. It was the first time that she’d seriously toyed with touching a target intimately. As the thought crossed her synapse, her mind flashed to Claire, and she ruled out the activity. “Here you go,” she said, covering the biracial beauty with a towel. When the woman’s breathing took on the characteristics of a death rattle, Elizabeth lowered down. “That should be your last one,” she promised, stepping off to finish her business. She opened a freezer bag containing a clipping from her albino raspberry, freeing it from a moist paper towel, and taping it high on the bathroom mirror. She paused, reached up, and took it down. It was her serial killer signature, her calling card, had been for years. But no more. In the new world order, things had to be different. She couldn’t leave it as she’d left it, but she did have to leave it. She had to leave it somewhere the cops wouldn’t see it. She looked around, finally poking it into the pot of an artificial geranium. As rigor mortis set in, she snipped a sliver of the deceased neatly trimmed fingernail, deposited the clipping into a small collection bag, and completed the label:
June 2
Dispatch #354
Stevens Point, WI.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PatientZero.com
DEADLY EPIDEMIC LOOMS OVER CHICAGO
The most lethal pathogen on record is loose on the streets of Chicago—with no cure in sight. Patient zero’s exposure to the virus was intentional. Yes, that’s right, intentional. Authorities are investigating, unsure if they’re dealing with bioterrorism or homicide. In the meantime, the doomsday clock ticks in Chi-Town. We recommend that you locate a bio-hazard shelter and stockpile a substantial food and water supply. We will post updates as they become available.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Claire dialed, listening for an answer, and hanging up.
That makes five since we left the precinct, Rylee thought, five attempts to reach your girlfriend, the one you don’t admit to or talk about. “No answer, huh?”
“Nope,” Claire responded, “but I left a voicemail earlier. If I had any sense, I’d pocket my phone, and wait for a callback.” She rolled her eyes. “But patience has never been my strong suit, so don’t be surprised if I keep dialing.”
“Not my strong suit either,” Rylee said, “especially when it comes to callbacks. I figure why torture myself when I can just keep on dialing?” She’d called Kenzie when the news broke. Had she not answered, she’d have pressed redial until she’d heard her voice. It was after she’d hung-up that they’d gotten the call, the one they’d been waiting for, the one advising them that the missing cab driver had been found.
Claire looked out her window. “Such a pretty day. Seems like it should be storming or something. You know, lightening cracking, thunder rumbling, rain pummeling our windshield?”
Rylee arched an eyebrow.
“Like it does in the movies,” Claire c
ontinued, “when the good guy sees trouble on the horizon.”
“In this job, there’s always trouble on the horizon,” Rylee responded, “you just have to try not to let it get to you.” The truth was, this case had slithered under her skin too, but she wouldn’t say anything, maybe to Rich when she called him later, but not to Claire Robbins. She turned the corner, running parallel to the Chicago Lakefront Trail, a gorgeous slice of nature that stretched for miles along the Lake Michigan shoreline. “Hard to believe we’re in the heart of the downtown, huh?” she commented, deciding it was best to talk about something else for a while.
“It is,” Claire responded.
“See right over there?” Rylee continued. “You probably already know this, but that’s the Hancock Building.”
Claire turned for a better view of the cityscape. “I thought so, but even after going on all the tours, I wasn’t certain. I’m not sure I’ll ever know Chi-Town the way I did Boston.”
“You will,” Rylee said. You may or may not be trustworthy, but you’re smart as a whip. “Give you six months, and I’ll bet you know this place almost as well as I do.”
“I hope you’re right,” Claire responded. “But while I come up to speed, please continue to point things out to me.” She tipped her chin down, making eye contact. “Even if you think it’s something a first grader should know.”
“As you wish,” Rylee said, smiling. “Not sure how well I’ll measure up as a tour guide, but I’ll certainly give it a try.” The momentary lightness in their conversation shaved the sharp edge off reality. She signaled a lane change. “It’s not normally so deserted down here,” she commented, “usually bicyclists, walkers, and skateboarders everywhere. Glad it is though. Glad folks are off the streets, heeding the warnings.”
