The Immortals (10 page)

McKenzie stooped over the letter, looking closely. “Looks like it. Tim will have to do a presumptive test.”

“What's the black underneath?”

“There are words handwritten under the symbols.” “Can you make it out?”

“I think so.” He picked up the letter, moving it back and forth in the light. “It looks like it reads, ‘Blood is intensity, it is all I can give you.'”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He met her eyes. “I have no idea.”

She turned to Greenleaf. “We need a computer. I want to see this ‘movie' they're talking about. Have you watched it?”

“Just the beginning. I…I couldn't go any further.”

Greenleaf blanched, and she felt the dread building in her stomach.

 

It only took Greenleaf a few minutes to get them ready—he'd been anticipating their desire to see the Web site immediately. Daphne had a laptop already tied into the high-definition screen that was used for presentations. She dimmed the lights a bit, apologizing—the screen showed up better in the dark.

Taylor shook her head. What now?

She could see that the video lasted twenty minutes, and didn't want to imagine what might be contained in that time period.

The film began in darkness, a pinpoint of light in the center growing larger and larger until they could clearly see it was a full moon. A deep voice narrated, one that sounded familiar, but Taylor couldn't place it. The words were a jumble, overwrought with purple prose, but their message was clear. The vampires were recreating their race from the nonbelievers. It reminded Taylor of any number of ads for horror films she'd seen over the years—films she would never, ever watch. She lived horror every day, had her own nightmares. She certainly didn't need someone else's twisted imagination inside her own head.

The narration ceased, silence crowding through the speakers. The distinct sounds of footsteps grew louder as the shot came into focus. She recognized the scene—it was filmed from the front lawn of the Kings' house.

“Fast-forward,” she said.

“It will take a minute. The upload isn't done yet.” Daphne fiddled with the controls, tried sliding the play bar forward, but it wouldn't move. “We just have to wait for it to load all the way.”

It didn't take long. The next scene flashed up, and Taylor leaned forward in her chair. It was a long shot of the hall leading to Jerrold King's bedroom. Taylor sucked in her
breath as a hand appeared in the frame, pushing open the boy's bedroom door. King's body was spread-eagled on the bed, naked. The camera never panned to his face, just showed the long shot, then his torso. He appeared dead.

The disembodied hand disappeared, then came back into the frame with a long, wicked, gleaming knife. Taylor forced herself to watch as the knife got closer to Jerrold's body, and the tip pierced the boy's flesh, loving, gentle, then whipped into slashes and circles, the pentacle appearing in a blur of motion. The wound oozed, but didn't bleed freely—Jerrold was newly dead, but dead for all that.

The scene cut to an open mouth. A high-pitched laugh, disembodied and androgynous, filled the frame. The camera pulled back slightly, enough to allow a vision to appear, a specter in black, unidentifiable but with black hair. The camera zoomed onto its chin, then did a close-up on the mouth, black-stained lips drawn back in a grin, as sharp, pointed fangs drew closer to Jerrold's stomach. A pointed tongue flicked out of the mouth into the fresh wound, lapped up a bit of Jerrold's blood. The lips tainted red, and were licked suggestively. Taylor noted absently that they looked chapped.

“Jesus,” McKenzie muttered.

“Stop it there,” Taylor said. Daphne clicked the pause button.

Taylor stood, hoping that movement would settle her stomach. She flipped open her cell phone, called Forensic Medical. Kris, the receptionist, answered. Taylor asked to speak with Sam.

A few moments later, the phone clicked and Sam came on the line.

“I'm glad I caught you. Have you started the post on Jerrold King?”

“I'm about to. Stuart's working the prelims now.”

“Catch him, quick. We might have the killer's DNA on King's body.”

T
hey watched the rest of the film in horrified silence. The tableau was repeated three more times—the vampire arriving at the scene, carving open the flesh of the dead. The dancing figure in black, fangs and lips growing bloody again and again. The only reason she recognized the bodies was because she'd been at each scene. The killer had been very careful not to show the victims' faces outright.

They scrutinized the repetition, looking for anything that might reveal the killer's identity. The editing was superb, cutaway shots of deepest black inserted at the perfect time to obscure the identity of the film's star. There was never more of the murderer shown than the leering mouth, and that hand draped in black clutching the knife.

Taylor had Daphne rewind and forward the film several times—it seemed like the act of licking the wounds was the same every time. She didn't know what that meant. Had the killer only licked the wound of Jerrold King, or all the victims'? She filed the thought away.

It wasn't until Brandon Scott's scene that it all changed. Brandon was caught by surprise, obviously changing to go for a run. He turned to face the camera, shouted “No” several times, then was attacked with a fury. The cat-o'-nine-tails bit into his flesh again and again, his hoarse cries became begging screams.

The shot faded into a haze, and it was over, Brandon Scott's shrieks of agony settling into a silence that echoed through the conference room. Brittany Carson's attack had not been documented.

They were all dulled for a moment, absorbing. Taylor was the first to regain herself.

“That's it. We have to get this video down from the site now,” Taylor said. Lincoln would be able to handle that. “How many people have seen this?”

Daphne pointed to the counter. “It's going viral. It's only been up since late last night, and we're already at five hundred thousand views.”

McKenzie glanced at the page. “Can you tell who posted it?”

“I was looking at that before you came. There's no real way—the user name is generic, letters and numbers, nothing personal. This is the first video posted using that name, there are no identifying details. Obviously, the company will have more information.”

“Lieutenant?”

Greenleaf was still sitting, his face pale.

“Yes?”

“Was that, I mean, could that?” He breathed out in a great gust. “Was that
real?
”

Taylor was suddenly very conscious of where she was. They were sitting in the conference room of the statewide newspaper, owned by a national media conglomerate, Gannett, and this would be mind-blowing, startling news that would capture the headlines for days. A scoop like this could sustain them for weeks.

“I'm not sure,” she said carefully. “It seems this video has some elements of reality to it. But David, don't run it. Please.”
The Tennessean
had a robust online community with breaking news updates sent to computers, phones and PDAs all over the city. A rallying cry like this would force the video even further into circulation. Then again, maybe
it would crash the server and they'd have half their work done for them.

Greenleaf didn't look her in the eye, but nodded. She hoped that meant he'd sit on it, at least until they could get the video taken down.

“Thank you. Daphne. David.” Taylor shook hands with Greenleaf, who was actively sweating. She couldn't blame him—that would have horrified anyone. She was feeling rather sick herself. There was no doubt about it—the video most certainly was real.

 

Taylor and McKenzie took the security films with them, headed to the CJC. Tim Davis had the letter in evidence and was bringing them a copy with his results. Taylor had phoned ahead to Lincoln, warning him about the video upload. He said he'd get right on it.

Taylor was still a little shaky. She slid behind the wheel and turned to McKenzie, watched him placidly click his seat belt home.

“I can't believe this. I can't remember a murder case that had an accompanying video. Have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked.

He nodded. “Once, unfortunately. This guy in Orlando was making snuff films in his basement. He killed three girls before the Orange County Sheriff's Office got to him. But those were getting sold on the black market, through the fetish sex clubs, not being broadcast to anyone who wanted to look. And I didn't see the victim at the scene where it took place, either. It's not without precedent—we're living in our very own brave new world.”

McKenzie had jotted down the symbols from the letter and was staring at them with an intensity that she thought might burn a hole in his notebook.

“What do they mean?” she asked.

“I don't know. I think they're meant to be pagan, or at least symbolize the occult—that much I can tell you.”

“Really? So they match with the pentacles?”

“Yes, to an extent. Here's the irony. The pentacle is a symbol of protection. It's a sign of unending life, the cycles of the year, the interconnectedness of the universe. It doesn't represent evil, and it's not meant to invoke fear. It's a very misinterpreted symbol.”

Taylor glanced over at him. “McKenzie, how do you know that?”

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed loudly. “Listen, this is going to sound ridiculous, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I was kind of into this stuff when I was in junior high. And high school.”

“You were a Goth?”

“Well, yeah, sort of. I got into it to avoid dealing with my sexuality. It was a great release, and there were a lot of other kids who were
confused,
as well. We did a bunch of experimenting, and I ended up with…quite an education.”

“Renn, you never cease to amaze me. So you can be our resident expert in all things occult?”

“I guess. But do we have to tell everyone? I feel sort of dumb about it.”

“We'll see how dumb you feel when you've helped close seven murders in one fell swoop, okay? Tell me more about the video. You said the pentacle was for protection. The victims certainly weren't protected, so maybe they were meant for the killer's security?”

“It's much more than that. The fangs were real. Whoever starred in the film had them created, filed, lengthened with bonding agents to look that way. There are dentists that will do that kind of work. We should take a still shot around to some of the local cosmetic dentists and see if any of them recognize their handiwork. We're dealing with someone who believes they are a vampire. Most are content to role-play—there are very few genuine sanguine vampires out there. Combine that with the symbols—this is someone who is trying out several different religions, trying to find their place.”

“Sanguine?”

“Blood drinking.”

“Right. So this was a religious killing done by a blood-drinking vampire?” she asked, her sarcastic incredulity ringing though the car. Hell, she didn't believe in vampires. Or witches, for that matter.

“No. It doesn't feel like we have a true believer on our hands, someone who is against the pagan world and trying to make a point. This feels more like seeking to me. Someone searching for answers, for their place in the world. The symbols from the letter are old markings. A couple of them are obvious—the pentacle again, the moon and sun represent the seasonal cycles of the earth, the cross and the thunderbolt. The inverted triangles and the circle with the cross inside, they may mean something else. It could be a bunch of drawings meant to look like pagan symbols, too. They may mean nothing to the killer, outside of looking interesting. You never know.”

“So if the symbols aren't meant to portend evil, what the hell is this self-described vampire doing sending letters with them? And why does it say ‘we'?”

“More than one, probably. A coven. If you could drop me at the library, I bet I could find their meanings quicker.”

She turned the ignition over, edged out onto Broadway. “Sure, but why not look online?”

“Well, I could, but I've got a hunch about these. Have you ever heard of the Strega?”

“No.”

“Stregheria, or Italian witchcraft. It's an earth-based religion, pagan to its core, probably the oldest of the pagan religions that's still practiced today. Nature is life, and magick, spelled
M-A-G-I-C-K,
is knowing how to control the interconnectedness of all the natural forces of life. Strega look for ways to manipulate the earth through their worship. It's a positive journey. They aren't worshiping the devil or anything like that. No animal sacrifices to dark angels. Not anymore, or at least not publicly.”

She glanced over at him, saw he was trying to tease. It didn't work, they were both too rattled. McKenzie continued, looking out the window.

“Some of these look suspiciously like Strega symbols. We're talking mythology worship here, the polytheistic society. Earth, moon and stars, all represented by the different Gods and Goddesses.”

“Let me guess. You speak witch, too?”

He shot her a look, saw she was teasing him back. “You're funny. Didn't you study the classics in college?”

“I took a class in mythology to satisfy one of the liberal arts credits I had to take, but that's it. All I remember is Zeus and his lightning bolt and something about the Tower of Babel.”

“Poor you. It's very cool stuff. All of the pagan religions are based in polytheistic pantheon worship. The Christians had to work within the confines of the pagan structure when they converted the masses. That's why Catholicism has so many pagan rituals. The incense, the candles, the feast days, the saints. Mary correlates to the Goddess, Christ to the God. The saints are also a direct corollary to the pantheon of Gods and goddesses. They represent the same things, protection for specific parts of life—crops, welfare, war. It's fascinating, actually.”

“Honey, we're in the belt buckle of the Bible Belt. They didn't teach us about that. It is interesting, but what does it have to do with this case? You think we're dealing with pagans? I thought you said sanguine vampires.”

He sighed. “I'm thinking that there's more to all of this than meets the eye, and I'm trying to keep an open mind.”

“Well, I think we're dealing with crazy people, people who took it upon themselves to kill seven children. I can get all romantic about the old ways too, but that's not going to solve this case. I have to produce a suspect, and fast. Which means regular old police work instead of a history lesson.”

“Let me go do some research. The killer might be in an altered state, especially if he's under the influence of drugs.
We can't forget that someone shot the video, and that shakiness means handheld camera. We're certainly dealing with more than one person.”

“Great. Just what we need.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe the killer in the video is the person Lincoln saw in the videotapes we took from the scenes last night. God. We have seven dead, one clinging to life, a letter from someone claiming to have killed them and a film of the whole event. Vampires and witches running amok in Nashville. This will definitely make the national news,” she muttered, turning onto Eighth Avenue, then onto Church.

She stopped in front of the Nashville Public Library. The soaring three-story stone edifice with its Roman columns seemed overwhelmingly prescient. Great, she was going to be seeing symbols in everything now.

A homeless man wandered near the car and glared at her, then turned back to his meandering shuffle, across to the park to join his cronies. The irony wasn't lost on her—the library and its traditional representation of enlightenment and education being watched over by the forgotten people.

“Do you still want to go with me to Hillsboro? I can pick you up on the way.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. I'll call you in a bit. This shouldn't take me long.”

He climbed out of the car, already lost in his world. He disappeared through the ornate doors and she sighed. She didn't know why, but seeing him walk away reminded her of Memphis. James “Memphis” Highsmythe, the Viscount Dulsie, special liaison to the terrorism Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico for the Metropolitan Police at New Scotland Yard, to be precise.

Baldwin had seen Memphis in Quantico last week, moving into his new office. She hadn't told Baldwin that Memphis had also been in touch with her.

Memphis had been good for the past few weeks. After their interlude in Florence, a kiss that stayed with her for days after, she'd received a few discreet texts and e-mails,
nothing that couldn't be shown to Baldwin if the question arose. But yesterday, before she'd been publicly reinstated, a bouquet of white roses had appeared on her desk. The card simply read,
Love, M.

She'd gone through all of the appropriate emotions, and the not so appropriate ones, as well.
Love, M,
indeed. It would have been fine—nothing—really, if Baldwin hadn't seen it. He hadn't said anything, but clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscle jumped deep in the flesh. She hated Memphis for upsetting Baldwin, hated him for being so arrogant as to send her roses with a card that read,
Love.
But she was happy at the same time, and didn't understand what that meant.

She got mad thinking about it again, slammed the car into gear and pushed the accelerator harder than necessary, making the wheels squeal under her as she shot away from the curb. Distracted, she barely watched the lanes in front of her, crowded with tourists intent on crossing the streets against the lights to enjoy a few hours of entertainment on Lower Broad. She finally got fed up, cut across to Union Street and flew up Fifth, wrestling all thoughts of Memphis back into their appropriate place. She couldn't keep doing this, but she didn't know how to make it stop. She didn't want him. That should be all that mattered. Yet thoughts of him kept crowding in at the most inopportune moments.