Romance: Wanted by the Alpha Lion (A BBW Paranormal Suspense Romance) (Heroes of Shifter Creek Book 2) (157 page)

Within the hour, a sketch had been made from Dabs’ description of the man who had purchased the two boys.  Around six feet tall, thin, blond hair, pale eyes, Dabs had said he dressed and carried himself like royalty, but had an accent that was hard to place.  He added that the man had looked older in the face but his hands appeared smooth and young. 

Logan gave the drawing to Victor when he returned to the station.  “See that this gets to the newspaper immediately,” he said.  “Give them express orders to have that picture on the front page of the very next edition.  We want everyone looking out for this man.”

“Aye,” MacCulloch said, and dashed right back out with the drawing. 

***

Despite the release of the drawing, no new information had come in about the killer.  Three more days passed.  Logan looked at the calendar and grimaced.  August would soon be upon them, and that meant another child stood in harm’s way.  He decided to meet with Chief Inspector Alexander Harrington to discuss the matter, in regards to their suspicions.

“We have to bring this to the attention of Her Majesty,” Logan said.  “She has a grandson, Prince Arthur, who is of an age common to the previous victims.  If the murderer follows his pattern, I am certain he will set his sights on the young prince, if he has not already.  I would recommend an increase in the number of guards around Buckingham Palace in August, when the family convenes to honor the memory of the late Prince Albert on the anniversary of his birth.”

“My dear Inspector Tummond,” Harrington said, with a dry laugh.  “There is no better guarded property in all of England save for Buckingham Palace.  There is no way this wretch who preys on the lower classes would ever make it inside – and even if he did, he would never make it out again with head still attached to shoulders.”

Logan shook his head in frustration.  “With all due respect, Chief Inspector, this man, this murderer, is clever.  He has rehearsed his performance, perfected it, and he has sent a warning to prepare for his next appearance.  I ask you to remember all the letters from Jack the Ripper, how each one that followed became more ominous, until began sending parts from his victims’ bodies.  With the passing of time, each correspondence became more erratic.  In the case of this killer who preys on little boys, he grows more sophisticated with each victim.  There is an evolution to his intent, and it grows stronger and more ominous with each passing month.  From what I have learned about him through his killings, particularly with the death of the Cotton boy, I would not put it past him to use a celebration of the late Albert’s life to murder one of his grandsons.  I do not think I need to tell you how this would affect our still grieving and widowed Monarch, Victoria.”  He looked into the older man’s eyes, desperate.  “Please.  Make them aware of this danger.  We can take no chances.”

Harrington let out a sigh.  “I shall take it under advisement,” he said at last.  “I will arrange for an audience with the Captain of the Guard, and discuss the matter.”

Relief washed over Logan like a stream of cool water.  “Thank you, sir,” he said. 

“In the meantime, I ask that you do your utmost to see to this madman’s capture.”

Logan nodded.  “It has become a personal priority,” he said.  “Rest assured.”

***

A courier arrived with a telegram from Professor Chetham, asking Logan to please meet him at the Temple Church, where he would be doing some research before returning to Canterbury.  In the note, he added that he had discovered what he believed to be a very important clue that might benefit the investigation.  Logan decided to just go instead of sending a reply.  He started to send the courier away only to stop him.  “I would have you deliver a separate message, to a different address.”  He scribbled out a note to Ruby, telling her to meet him at Temple Church immediately.  He handed it to the young man, along with a few coin to cover the charge and a tip.  “See that you deliver this straight away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hailing a hansom outside the station, Logan rode across London to the church.  Built over seven hundred years earlier at the time of the First Crusade, it had been founded by the Knights Templar.  Logan felt a strange sense of awe mixed with discomfort as he entered the chancel.  Long ago, he had stopped attending church, but he could not deny the overwhelming power that seemed to permeate the Gothic arches and murals and dark woodwork.  Removing his hat, he dipped his fingers in holy water and crossed himself out of habit, afterwards feeling a little embarrassed with how ingrained that had been on him that he would just perform the motions twenty years later.  A large, round stained glass window with Christ at the center surrounded by his angels caught his attention.  He stared at it for a long moment. 
Which of your angels would help me to fight Death?
he wondered.

A deep voice addressed him.  “Inspector Tummond?” 

Logan pivoted.  “Professor Chetham,” he said, and smiled.  “You startled me.”

Chetham chuckled.  “My apologies,” he said.  “Thank you for coming so quickly.  I must confess, I am still quite excited over the discovery, and I have a feeling it may be just the thing to help solve this case.”

“You have my full attention, Professor,” Logan said, feeling his pulse quicken at the prospect of a breakthrough.  “Does it pertain to the astrological symbols?”

“Oh, no,” Chetham said.  “It was something I came across quite by accident, actually.”  He walked over to one of the pews, to where a soft leather portfolio lay.  Opening it, he pulled out the photographs Logan had left with him during their last encounter.  “I had reached into my satchel for something else, and these photos, which I have carried around with me, tumbled out onto the floor.  As I bent to pick them up, the angle of the image in this one caught my attention.” He held up the picture of the doll found with Thomas Cotton.  “Upon first look, you would see the mouth made up of uneven teeth.”

“Yes,” Logan said, nodding.  “I had noticed that, myself.  The spacing it off.”

“And therein lies the clue,” Chetham said, face pinched with delight.  He tapped on the photo with one fingertip. “Theymay
look
like teeth, but they are
not
.”

Logan frowned, looking from the professor and back down at the photograph again.  “What are they, then?” he asked, confused.

“They are
letters
,” the old man replied.  “More specifically, they are the
Ogham Alphabet
as used by the ancient Celts.  Each letter represents a tree.  To read them, you turn it so that the center line is now vertical and the individual lines are spelled out from bottom to top.”  He demonstrated by reaching up, carefully taking the photo from Logan, and rotating it to change the angle of his view.  “There.  See how they are grouped, with wider spaces between each set?  Here you have one half line, pointing to the right – that is
Beith
, or ‘birch.’  Traveling upward, you have two lines together.  This is
Onn
, which is for a shrub called a ‘gorse.’  Two half-lines to the right of the center is
Luis,
for ‘rowan,’ and three half lines to the left of center is
Tinne,
‘holly.’  In the end, you have ‘B-O-L-T.’”  He smiled, and reached up to remove his spectacles.  “It spells out ’Bolt!’”

The crack of a pistol being fired broke the air.  Professor Chetham jerked, body lurching forward slightly.  He blinked in surprise and then looked down at his chest, as a red stain began to spread across the front of his pale blue waistcoat.  When he raised his head again, a thin stream of blood dribbled from his lips.  He dropped to his knees and then sprawled face-down on the floor, his spectacles still in his hand.

Logan looked up sharply, seeing a figure standing in the doorway at the entrance to the chancel.  Tall and thin, with pale skin, black hair and blue eyes – eyes that had once belonged to a helpless altar boy.  Now, instead of pleading, they regarded Logan with cold detachment.  Logan gulped, and forced himself to speak the name he had only just recently recalled.  “
Oliver Bolt.
”

“Hello,
Inspector.
”  Bolt glanced around.  “Well.  Look at this.  Here we are, once again, inside a church.  Brings back memories, doesn’t it?  Do you ever find it amusing that they refer to it as a ‘sanctuary?’  I, for one, never felt it lived up to its meaning.”  His lip curled in disgust.  “It’s just another place of
pain
and
lies
.”

“I know,” Logan said remorsefully.  “We both lost our innocence…”

“So you
do
remember,” Bolt said.  His voice was soft, void of feeling.  One corner of his mouth tugged upward but the smile never reached his eyes.  “I wondered how long it would take…how many
children
I would have to kill before you received my message.  Although I will admit, I was prepared to go through every month of the year, until the anniversary.”

“Anniversary?” Logan repeated, hoarse from shock.  In a span of moments, a man had been shot dead right before him, and a person from his past – someone he had all but forgotten until yesterday – stood before him, confessing to the murders of three children.  He stepped around Professor Chetham’s body and slowly started to move forward but Bolt jerked the pistol in silent warning.  Logan maintained his position.  “What anniversary?”

“The anniversary of the day you turned your back on me,” Bolt replied, in that same level tone.  “It was in the spring, Easter Sunday…the last day of Aries the Ram, and the day before Ostara, the Vernal Equinox.  Father Joseph found me making a sacrifice of eggs to the Virgin, a practice to insure fertility of the coming crops.  My mother taught me this when we lived in Killarney woods.  She taught me so many things, about animals, and trees…all while living in a forest of ancient yews which grow up through the moss covered, limestone bedrock.” 

He pulled his other hand from behind his back, to reveal a wooden rod nearly the length of his arm.  One end had been rounded off and smoothed down, almost phallic in shape, with a series of bands carved along the shaft as though it had been turned on a lathe.  The end that Bolt gripped still bore its natural bark, along with sprigs of dried conifer leaves.  Bolt held up the staff, taking a moment to admire it.  “The Yew is not only a symbol of death,” he said.  “It also represents silence…mystery…”  He looked up at Logan again.  “And victory.”

“What ‘victory’ did you hope to gain, Bolt,” Logan demanded, “through the torture and murder of innocent children?  Given what
you
endured, I should think you would have sought vengeance against the priesthood – instead, you chose to visit your wrath upon little boys.”

“But I did all of this for
you
, Inspector Tummond.”  Bolt’s smile grew wider, stretching across his thin face.  “I did find it rather amusing when I discovered you had gone on to work for Scotland Yard.  I wonder how many people have seen your back when you have turned on them during their darkest days, their times of need.”

“You sodomized children!”

“Yes, I did.  With this.”  Bolt waved the rod back and forth, lazily twirling it across the backs of his fingers like a walking cane.  “I made it myself; do you like it?  It’s proved to be very useful.  That was one of the breadcrumbs I left for you on the trail, a clue that might lead you to solving the mystery and prove that you are worthy of the title which you now bear.”

“It took me years to clear my mind of what I saw that day,” Logan muttered.  “It haunted me, the guilt I felt for not speaking out.  I never set foot into a church again until today, never prayed again.  What happened to you – what I saw – it changed me.”

“Yes, you poor dear,” Bolt clucked his tongue in mock pity.  “It changed me, as well.  After Father Joseph made several similar attempts to drive the devil out of me – first with candles anointed in holy water, and later with his prick – I lost all faith. Not only in what my mother taught me, and what my aunt and the church had wanted to teach me, but faith in myself.  Once we reached Liverpool, my aunt had wanted me to continue my studies in our new parish but I refused.  I received horrible beatings for my insolence.  One night, I decided I had had enough.  I ran away.  Cold, hungry, and wandering, I chanced to meet a traveling troupe of actors.  They took me in.  They taught me trades such as carpentry, painting, and sewing.  I learned to make the heads for puppets for Punch and Judy shows, and eventually I took to the stage as part of the chorus.”  He pressed his free hand to his heart in a tight fist.“Those people became my family.  They accepted me, and never questioned when I would wake up screaming in the night, gripped by the terrors of what had happened to me at the hands of Father Joseph.”

“You should have confronted Father Joseph,” Logan said.

“Oh, but I did.”  Bolt smirked.  He swung the yew club in his hand.  “I confronted him quite…
thoroughly.
”

Logan’s jaw went slack even as Bolt’s words chilled him to the marrow.  “What did you do?”

“Just paid him a little visit,” Bolt replied.  “It was just this spring.  My troupe hadtraveled to Ireland to perform in Dublin.  I took a few days to venture back to theKillarney parish where my nightmares began.  Father Joseph was still there, did you know?  Still in the same church…  He looked much older, of course, but I remembered him.  I never
forgot
him, really.  It is not something you
do
forget, the face of the man who violated you every Sunday for nearly a year.” 

Logan gulped, feeling bile rise in his gorge.  “What did you do to him?” he repeated, not sure he wanted to know the answer. 

“I did to him what he did to me,” Bolt said with a casual roll of his shoulders.  “I approached him in the vestibule.  He did not remember me, not by face.  Of course, I had
disguisedmyself
, using a wig and makeup that we use in the theater – oh, and my compliments to the artist who captured my likeness when I posed as an older man buying those little boys.  Whoever did that is really
quite
good.”

No wonder no one recognized him from the drawing,
Logan realized.  “Father Joseph,” he said, bringing Bolt back to that subject.

“Patience, Inspector,” Bolt chided him.  “You shall hear the whole, exciting tale – although I wish you had been there to see it all unfold.  After all, you have been audience to my performances in the past.”  He cleared his throat and continued.  “I told Father Joseph that I had come seeking absolution.  He said he would be happy to take my confession.  I asked if I could speak to him in the sacristy, as I had a fear of being in small, enclosed spaces.  As one seasoned by the stage, I had no trouble convincing him of my fear and he agreed to honor my request.  Once I had him in the room where it all began…?”  Bolt chuckled, shaking his head.  “You would be amazed what a man will do, when he has a pistol pointed to his head.  I made him bend over, and I shoved one of his candles right up his arse.  I think he might have remembered me, then.  Afterwards, I made him eat a whole handful of yew leaves.  As I sat and watched him die from the poison, I thought about all the pain he had caused me, all the wounds that I carried over the years which would never heal.  I even took a little souvenir – I shared it with you, as well.  The black cloth on the doll?  It came from Father Joseph’s fascia.  I did not think he would be needing it, anymore.” 

The light click of footsteps on the stone outside the door caught their attention; Bolt twisted around to look behind him.  Logan took that opportunity to lunge at him.  Bolt saw him coming.  With a snarl, he swung the yew club.  It struck Logan on the right side of his skull and sent him sprawling to the floor. 

That’s when he heard Ruby scream. 

“Logan!”

Looking up from hands and knees, the world tilting around him, Logan saw Bolt holding Ruby.  He still had a grip on the club, his arm wrapped around Ruby’s waist and holding her firmly at a slight angle across the front of his body like a shield.  His other hand held the pistol, barrel aimed at Ruby’s temple. 

“Oh, my – and what is this, now?” Bolt cooed.  He cast a sly glance in Logan’s direction.  “Would this be your lady love, Inspector?”  He pressed the gun into her cheek.  “Answer me!  Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Logan blurted.  “As the Lord is my witness, I love her.”  He managed to get to his knees.

“Stay down!” Bolt ordered him.  He stroked the metal barrel along the rim of Ruby’s ear and looked at her.  “What about you?” he asked.  “Do you love the good Inspector Tummond?”