Dark Heart (19 page)

Justin still retained a link with Angela—a sapphire ring. He had not thought of Angela since he had packed it away before coming to the States. But thinking of Angela always made him think of the ring.

The ring…

Justin left the window and went to his bedroom. He threw open the closet door and pulled out the huge trunk. All these years and he still knew exactly where it was. There was a small storage compartment in the lid. Justin reached in, withdrew the battered old box he’d placed there so long ago, and opened it.

The ring was exactly as he’d remembered it. The silver band was wide and ornate as a gothic cathedral. The stone was set in a heavy bezel, a blue cabochon stone cut square, with a small, darker blue imperfection in the center…

The Hong Kong marketplace seethed with sound and motion. Justin laughed at a street performer. Angela threw some coins into the juggler’s hat, squeezed Justin’s arm, and pulled him on to the next stall. The bazaar was a crazy jumble of vendors, performers, and artisans, all trying to sell their wares.

“Have you tried this?” She pointed at a vendor selling meat on a stick.

“No, nor will I, until I know where it came from” he said, dubious. She tugged him in that direction and bought two.

Before they’d finished their snack she saw something else that drew her attention, “There!” she said. “Monkeys! C’mon!”

“You go,” he said. “I’ll watch. I’ve seen monkeys before. I don’t like them much.”

“No sense of adventure, that’s you,” Angela said, letting go of his hand and moving toward the monkeys. Justin smiled, chewed the spicy meat, and watched the people milling about. Every now and then, another Chinese merchant would accost him, beg him to buy this bag of nuts, this piece of jewelry, that pair of sandals. Justin refused politely each time.

Then he’d noticed the little old man. There was something different about the man and his boat. Much larger junks were berthed all along the harbor, with others sailing everywhere their keel depth would let them go. Nobody paid the boats any attention. But when the old man rowed his tiny, weather-beaten rowboat up to the pier, all seafaring action seemed to cease. And when he secured his craft and jumped onto the dock, the congested mass of humanity parted for him, let him pass. In the chaos that was Hong Kong in the twenties, that required something close to a miracle.

Watching curiously, Justin became even more interested when the little old man made a beeline for him. Watching the crowd scramble to get out of the man’s way was like watching the sea part before Moses.

He came to a halt right in front of Justin and for a moment, Justin felt like he should move aside.

The old man did not introduce himself, did not attempt a preamble of any kind. His wide-brimmed reed hat tilted back as he looked up at Justin. His slitted eyes and sun-browned face wrinkled into a contagious smile.

“Sir, gift to you.” The old man spoke softly in broken English. “Give you heart’s desire.”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Angela exclaimed, who had just come
up beside Justin. “You must have it, Justin dear. How much?” she said to the old man.

He smiled even wider and nodded. “Not mine. For you.” He inclined his head toward Justin.

Justin was confused. “From who?” It was something Justin would have expected to see at Sotheby’s in London, not on a wharf dock in Hong Kong. The ring was incredible. The dark imperfection in the center of the sapphire looked like a flame.

“Not mine. For you,” the old man said again, offering the ring. Justin hesitated, but Angela took it and put it on his finger.

“It looks as if it was made just for you!” Angela said. “Is it not simply perfect?”

“Quite…perfect.” Justin was stunned, unsure of what to say. The old man tugged at Angela’s cuff and she leaned down. He whispered something and then, with a bow and a smile, turned and shuffled back to his little rowboat.

“What did he say?” Justin asked.

“How extraordinary!” she said. “Did you know him?”

“No. Not at all. What did he say?” Justin pressed.

“He said this ring holds the blue flame of indomitable will. It will remind you of the Tao. The way of love over hate.”

Justin smiled. “I thought Tao was the way of balancing good and evil.”

Angela shrugged. “Everyone has their different interpretation of the facts, dear Justin. There is always more than one truth. More than one way.”

Justin had taken the ring off that night, just after his master told him to kill Angela. He had not put it back on since then, though he had kept it with him. He’d always wondered if the old man had actually said the whole bit about the indomitable will, or if Angela made it up. After all, the old Chinese man could barely speak two words of English, and that was quite a complex speech. And it was exactly the sort of thing Angela would do, pull a romantic proverb out of the air to flavor the day. Probably she had hired the old man to make his appearance and give Justin a gift she knew he would refuse if she offered it to him directly.

Justin turned the ring over in his hand. He put the tip of his finger inside its silver circle.

“Justinian!” The deep, grinding voice thundered through the silence of the dawn.

Justin jumped, slammed the ring on his finger in his surprise at hearing the voice. He turned to face the mirror above his chest of drawers.

The Dragon stared back at him. Its dusky scales were obscured by smoke, but its burning eyes were clear, glowing behind the haze.

“After all this time, you still doubt me.”

Justin swallowed, but he said nothing. He could not deny it.

“Have I not made you privy to my plans? Do I not strive with every ounce of energy I have to guide this world to the point where it might be safe for my return?”

“Yes, my master.”

“You know my mind. You know that our activities must be kept secret from the people until they are ready. You know this. And yet you suffer this witness to live. I care not what you do with your time, Justinian. But do not choose to consort with those who endanger our cause. You know your race is not yet ready for my presence. They are still too fearful, too superstitious. We have guided them closer, closer every day, but they are not ready yet. Be patient, Justin. You can see the truth of my words. Look at their books and films about the unexpected, the unknown, the impossible. Soon they will be ready for me again. Just a few more generations.”

“I know, my master.”

The smoke from the glowing eyes spiraled upward as the Dragon’s gaze held him captive.

“Then do my bidding. I know you fancy this woman. But I also know there have been many women in your life to fancy. I would like to be merciful to this one, as I have wanted to be merciful to each before this, but mercy is a weakness for those who care more about themselves than the difficult task at hand. You have chosen yourself over me. You have put your personal gain over the good of all. And you must be punished for that.”

Justin swallowed.

“Do you accept your punishment?”

“Yes, my master.” Justin bowed his head.

“Open your mind to me, Justin.”

Justin obeyed, and the Dragon’s powerful psychic claws dug in. Searing flames enveloped him, burning him inside and out to the point of madness. Justin did not cry out.

The price of disobedience.

The flames rose higher. The pain intensified.

The price of dissension.

Yet the pain felt better than contemplating Sandra’s death. It distracted him from contemplating that awful task. From that, at least, he was free for this one moment.

He burned until his flesh bubbled and popped, purifying him in the Dragon’s fire.

The price of freedom.

W
et leaves slapped her face. Sandra ran as fast as her aching legs could carry her. She stumbled around tropical tree trunks and thrashed through wet bushes. Yellow rays of oppressive sunlight flickered through the thick foliage overhead.

The black fox had been tracking her. It remained at a distance, watching calmly, sprinting to keep up with her, loping alongside sometimes, stopping with her when she had to rest. In contrast to her own noisy progress, it never made a sound, slipping through the dense rain forest like a dark ghost. Or perhaps she simply couldn’t hear it over her own ragged breath, over the blood that pounded heavily in her temples.

A golden crow cawed overhead and she ran past a white gorilla shaking the banana tree. She had to get away. He was back there, somewhere, and getting closer. Of that she was sure. If she didn’t run faster, if she didn’t get out of this accursed jungle, he would catch her.

An unseen root smacked her in the shin. The root was a
trash can and it clanged loudly as it tangled up in her legs. She cried out and tumbled to the forest floor. The black fox moved closer.

“No!” she screamed, warding it off with her hands, but the fox stopped a few feet away from her and sat on its haunches, watching.

Her chest rose and fell like a bellows. Her jeans and T-shirt were soaked with sweat, pulling at her as she tried to twist to her feet—

Too late.

She screamed again. The sun illuminated him. His red hair flamed. His trench coat was dry, despite the wet forest, and it rippled lightly around his ankles. Each pimple, each freckle, was a diseased spot on his face. He raised the knife over his head.

She forced herself to roll out of the way. The blade plunged into the earth. She dragged herself to her feet and tried to run.

No sooner had she lurched away from him than she stumbled again, clipped by a bush.

She fell…

…and fell……and landed on the hard, flagstone floor of the Cathedral of St. Joseph. The jungle noises stopped. No tropical birds cawed overhead. No chameleons took slow, careful strolls across scaled trees. The leafy ceiling had been replaced by high, ribbed vaults. The hot sun had given way to the cool, tomb-like echo of the church.

Her breathing reverberated around her. Slowly she rose to her knees, hampered by the white dress she now wore. She looked down at it. The gown was floor-length, had no belt,
and was made of a heavy fabric that was threatening to suffocate her. Already the sweat of her body was wetting it, causing it to cling to her skin.

A slight scuffling sound caught her attention and she looked up at the altar. The black fox stood there, watching her.

Her breathing had begun to slow. Her heart had begun to calm.

“Oh, God, no…” she whispered.

“Did you think you could escape me?” The voice came from behind her.

She spun around, stumbled back against a marble column. The redhead in the green trench coat moved closer. He was fully seven feet tall. His shoulders were powerfully wide and the hands protruding from his coat were veined and gnarled. A knife shimmered at his side, clenched tight in his massive fist.

“Did you really think that, bitch?!”

She pushed harder against the column, wishing she could somehow push herself through it, somehow escape this horror.

She closed her eyes. Her feet scrabbled against the stone. “Please, God…please…”

A hand closed around her throat. Her eyes opened and she looked at the face so near hers.

Slowly the features of the teenager melted away and reformed.

“Chuck…”

“Did you really think you could escape me?”

Sandra struggled to escape his iron grip, tried desperately to remember her training, all those years of lessons that had taught her to deal with this sort of thing. But the memories wouldn’t come. Her skills had abandoned her.

“God…no…”

“Your god is nothing here. You’re nothing.”

The knife sliced into her chest.

The pain was excruciating. Sandra gasped, choked. Hot blood burst from her mouth. Chuck’s hand twisted the knife. Sandra felt her body jerk reflexively as her life ran out of her veins.

The bloody knife clattered to the floor.

“One more thing,” he said. “Your heart is mine. It will always belong to me.”

Chuck’s hand reached into her chest…

“
No,” she screamed. Her hand pressed hard against her breastbone. Her heart was still there, securely inside her unmarred chest, still beating. Her sheets were covered with sweat.

For a moment, in the darkness of the room, she’d thought she was still in the church. Early morning light filtered through her white gauze curtains. She closed her eyes and opened them again.

No, she was not in the cathedral. She was safely in her bedroom. It had just been a dream.

She heard a door open not far away. Rubber wheels rolled down the hall. A knock on her door…

“Sandra?” It was Benny’s voice, concerned and hesitant.

“Yeah.” She tried to control her breathing. Pulling the sheet up, she spoke again: “Come in.”

Benny opened the door and wheeled in. He immediately rolled to the side of her bed and looked deeply into her eyes. He didn’t say anything, just took her hand in his.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Are you okay?” His voice was soft and low.

“Benny…” she started to explain, but couldn’t manage to get the rest of the words out. She pulled away from his reassuring handclasp and put both hands to her face. Dammit. The tears started to come and it was too late to do anything about it. Benny waited patiently until she cried herself out.

“I can’t believe it,” she mumbled.

“What were you screaming about?” he asked.

“It was Chuck. Another nightmare about Chuck.”

“Shit, Sandra,” Benny swore. “I’m so sorry.”

“I just can’t believe it.” She started to cry again, “It’s been ten years since I left him. Ten years! I haven’t had a bad dream about him in more than two years, and now they’re back.”

“Same ones? He’s holding you under the water until you drown?”

“No. He chased me with a knife this time. It’s never been that way before.”

“With a knife?”

“Well, it wasn’t him to start with. It started out being a black fox, then this asshole junkie who’s been following me around, and then it changed into Chuck. I don’t know why. Why would I still be afraid of him?”

“They say it sticks with you, Sandra. He beat you almost every day of your married life. Even if you can wipe up the floor with him now, it doesn’t matter. You’re still remembering that time when you couldn’t.”

“But not for years. Why now? I think it’s this case. This stupid case. It’s got to be.”

“So drop the case.”

“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “You know I can’t do that.”

He reached out and touched the sheet she had gathered to herself. “Your sheets are soaked with sweat. You were screaming loudly enough to wake the dead.”

“Sorry, Benny,” she said. “I don’t run anymore. I don’t run, and I don’t back down. Forget it.”

“Sandra…” he started, took a good look at the uncompromising lines on her face, then sighed in defeat. “Okay. I just think—”

“I know.” She smiled, reached out, and lightly traced a scar on the left side of his ravaged face. She spoke more slowly, more softly. “I know. And I thank you. If it weren’t for you—”

“Flip sides to everything.” He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You’ve been there for me at least as often as I’ve been there for you. I just wish you’d listen to me more often than you do.”

“I listen,” she whispered. “I really do.”

“Yeah. But do you act on what I’m saying?” He sighed. “All right.” He shook his head and began to back his chair out. “I’m going to make some breakfast.”

It surprised Sandra that he’d said nothing about how late she’d come home last night. He had to be curious about what she’d done, but he said nothing. It was Benny’s way. He needed his space to survive, and he respected other people’s need for space, as well.

He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

I could probably learn a few lessons from Benny,
she thought.

Sandra went to the shower and washed the physical evidence of her adventures from the night before—both the good and the bad—from her body. She dried off and dressed, trying to shove the dream out of her mind.

When she finally emerged from her room, Benny was just putting the finishing touches on some eggs and toast, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the kitchen. She poured herself a cup and sat down at the breakfast table with a sigh of contentment.

“You’re a saint,” she said as he wheeled himself up to the other side of the table.

“I know.” He smiled at her.

“You’re too good to me.”

“I’m saving up for a time when I’m going to be really
shitty
to you.”

She smiled back at him and began eating her breakfast. “Oh,” he said. “Some guy called for you last night, a Dr. Dawes, I think. I wrote the name and number down next to the phone. He said you could come talk to him today. Said he didn’t find much, but that he’s got someone you might call.”

She sighed again, but with a different tone. “Damn. I was hoping he’d be able to figure out something for me.”

“Well, he’s got someone you can call.”

“Yeah, but I’m not too hopeful. He was supposed to be the best.”

Benny shrugged.

“It beats going into the office, I suppose,” she said. “Damn. I think I’ve got another lead if I can just find that redheaded punk. But if I can’t, and Dawes can’t help, then I’m at a standstill with this case. I just—”

The ringing of the phone interrupted her sentence. Sandra looked down at her scrambled eggs, half eaten and cooling quickly.

“You want me to get it?” Benny offered.

She shook her head. “No. It’s probably for me.” She crossed the room and picked up the phone.

“Yeah?” she answered.

“Bruce?”

“Hey, Mac. What’s up?”

“We got another one.”

Her body went cold. “Another ripper? Shit!”

He paused. “You okay, Bruce?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s the same MO?”

“Mostly,” McKenzie said. “We don’t have access problems this time—it’s pretty obvious how our psycho got to the victim—but there’s a kid with a hole in his chest the same size as the others. The crime scene guys are still looking for the heart. The evidence seems to indicate the killer tossed it to the ground, just like always, but that some scavenger, probably a dog, made off with it.”

“The victim’s a kid? Jesus, Mac…how old?”

“Eighteen.”

Sandra swallowed. “Why a kid?”

“I don’t know. Who the hell ever knows? Not till we nail some bastard—and maybe even not then, huh?”

“Who was he?”

“Name’s Zachary Miller. The killer got him with his pants down. Literally. Kid was humping a girl in a parking lot in Burnham Park down near Soldier Field. The killer hauled him out of the car and did him right there, right in front of his own car. It looks like the killing was slow this time, like it lasted for a while. Both Baxter and Madrone were pretty much instantaneous, but it looks like this kid got thrown around some first. There was blood on the car and all over the blacktop. Maybe our guy is starting to get a taste for—”

“Wait, in Burnham Park?” she said.

“Yeah, why?”

“What time, do they think?”

“Early. Just after sundown. About seven o’clock, why?”

“Jesus, Mac, I was right there last night!”

“You were there?”

“I mean, close. I was at a blues club a few blocks from the entire thing.”

“No kidding! What were you doing there?”

“Blowing off steam.”

Sandra swallowed, thinking of the redhead she and Justin had chased.

Into his thoughtful silence, she said, “Any witnesses?”

“Kind of. Well…it’s strange, Bruce. We got someone who saw the whole thing…and then some. The girl our victim was trying to boff. A girl named Tina Danforth. Seventeen. A nice, normal kid—good student, caring parents, no signs of substance abuse. She and the victim were dating. But her story’s just too fucking weird. I mean bad weird.”

“Why?”

“She says she knows who the murderer is, but every time she starts talking about it, she starts raving about monsters and angels or something. I think you need to talk to her. You’re a woman, and maybe…”

Sandra’s blood went cold. “Monsters?”

“I don’t understand it, either, Bruce. Like I said, you’re going to have to talk to her.”

“Who called the cops?”

“A waitress at a cafe near the park. She heard screams, but didn’t see anything. So the uniforms took their sweet time getting there. They found the girl nearly naked, beat up, covered in blood, just standing there on the street waiting for them. She led them back to the car where the murder took place. The crime scene’s a zoo. We got footprints everywhere, at least five different sets in the victim’s blood. Strange thing is, they tally with the girl’s story. Well, sort of.

“By the way, our witness says the victim was the one who trashed her, not the killer. She says the kid was trying to rape her, and the monster yanked him out of the car and killed him.”