The Immortals (26 page)

Northern Virginia
June 18, 2004
Baldwin

K
aylie Fields was smaller than the others. Nestled gently into the base of the tree, the ropes holding her in a loving embrace. Her hair was plastered against her face—she'd been out here during the storm, just like he'd been worried about. Sorrow welled in his chest. He'd been afraid of storms as a child; he wondered if she'd been scared. But that was silly—she'd been dead and lashed to the tree long before the storm broke. There was no way for her to be scared, not anymore, and really, what was a little thunderstorm compared to being kidnapped, beaten and murdered? Her legs were obviously broken, a cruel act Baldwin assumed happened almost immediately after the abductions so the victims couldn't run away. None of the autopsies had shown ligature marks on the bodies—why tie someone up if you could incapacitate them?

Baldwin heard one of the Fairfax County guys stumble off, retching. His first dead body, probably, or his first child victim. Kaylie looked to be peacefully asleep, a vision marred only by the slight scarlet stain spread across her
naked torso and the awkward bend to her shins. Stabbed through the sternum, just like the previous five girls. The Clockwork Killer had struck again.

There were a few differences in this kill from the others. One was the distance from the previous dump sites. The first five victims had been found just off the main hiking trail. Kaylie was deep in the forest, discarded like leftovers from a camping trip. They wouldn't have found her so quickly if it hadn't been for a phone call the parents received detailing the dump site. Another shift in the MO—the call had come from a pay phone in a dark alley in downtown D.C., possibly the work of the killer, or someone he'd paid off to make the call for him. They were scouring the tapes of the cars coming in and out of the park, with no luck. They still had no idea how the bodies were being transported into the park.

He'd never felt a case so far out of his control before.

Charlotte sighed deeply, and Baldwin turned to see her scratching notes.

“It's different,” he said.

“It's him,” she replied. “He's just making us dance.”

 

The day had not improved from there.

The crime-scene techs had worked Kaylie's body to no avail. There was no evidence on the body, nothing in the crime scene, the dump site. The storm had washed away the microscopic evidence they might have otherwise found. Baldwin had them take the soil from around the body, hopeful that they could find something in the alluvial muck that pointed them in the right direction. None of the Great Falls Park Rangers had seen anything. The video cameras had a multitude of cars coming in and out of the park, but all of them checked out. It was as if the killer had flown in, dropped the body at the base of the cliff and flown out again.

Of course that wasn't the case. He had been there. But how? They'd been watching Arlen's house. There was no
movement, in or out, all last night. He must have dumped the body before they'd started watching him—that was the only way.

Unfortunately, another round of interviews with Harold Arlen had been preempted by the expensive defense lawyer that had been retained by Arlen's twelve-step parent organization, who vociferously claimed he was being unfairly railroaded. He used their own work against them—they were watching the house, they knew he wasn't able to leave and deposit a body. Add to that the nagging little question of the lack of physical evidence. The pictures on the computer just weren't enough. Arlen insisted he didn't know how they got there, and if this went to trial, it was possible for the attorney to claim the photos had been planted, or accidentally downloaded. All it would take was one juror who agreed, and poof, no more case. Without corroboration, they just didn't have enough.

The media was losing faith, accusations were starting to fly. And if the pattern was followed, another girl would go missing tonight.

It was late when Baldwin had dismissed the team to get some rest, as if that was possible. He and Charlotte had stayed in the office for a while, waiting. When no call came, they relaxed a fraction, and Baldwin decided that they should get some food, recharge and start fresh in the morning. Sleep had been his enemy this week—he was running on caffeine and takeout, and his body was rebelling. Added to the mix was Charlotte, who jumped him every time they got a few minutes alone. Intense and powerful as the sex was, he was getting worn-out from all the pressure. There was a bit of desperation in their lovemaking now, coupled with a sense of insecurity and fallibility. He was beginning to sense Charlotte would bleed him dry if given the chance.

Yet here he was, spent and gasping on the bed again.

Charlotte was pacing the bedroom. She was naked, her hair flying out behind her with every turn.

“It's him, goddammit. We know it's him. There's got to be something there. Something that tells the story. Where is he keeping them? How does he disappear with them so easily? Everyone is on the lookout. We've had units on Arlen for days now, there's no way he slipped out without our notice. We're chasing a fucking ghost.”

“He's not a ghost. He's right there in front of us. We're just missing the clues.”

She turned on him, small white teeth bared in a grimace. “What could we have missed? We've been in his house. We've watched him. He's the single most perfect reformed child molester I've ever seen.”

“Exactly. That's what's wrong with him. He's too perfect. He
will
slip up, Charlotte. We are running out of time, yes, but he will make a mistake.”

“How many girls need to die before we figure out what that is, Baldwin?” Her voice caught. Add vulnerable to the list of qualities he never thought he'd see from her.

“Come here,” he said.

Obediently, she walked to the bed. “Again,” she said, husky, demanding, and he almost laughed.

“Charlotte, I'm only one man. I don't think it's possible for me to—”

She proved him wrong, once more.

Nashville
7:30 p.m.

S
usan Norwood was meek and docile in the presence of her parents. Taylor wondered if her mother knew about her alter ego, Ember, and her boyfriend the drug dealer, Juri Edvin, aka Thorn. If they didn't, they'd find out soon enough.

Mr. and Mrs. Norwood looked smaller today, shrunken with grief. First their son murdered, then their daughter accused. They didn't smile when Taylor and McKenzie entered the room. Miles Rose got to his feet and shook Taylor's hand, pulled her out of earshot of his clients.

“This better be good, Lieutenant. Her parents are squawking about having your badge for holding a minor against her will without bringing them in.”

“Quit posturing, Miles. You know as well as I do I'm allowed to talk to her without her parents around. Besides, said minor ran from me, tried to hit me and was read her rights before a word was spoken. She's being charged with murder, assaulting an officer and fleeing the scene. This isn't some sweet little innocent you're trying to protect.”

He showed her teeth in a semblance of a smile, a rat on a floating barrel, then went to his clients and sat down. He
ran his hands through the fine black strands that raked across his balding pate. She always felt like she needed a shower after shaking hands with Miles Rose.

Taylor sat across the table from them, introduced McKenzie to the Norwoods. The niceties observed, Mrs. Norwood asked, “Is there news on our son's murderer, Lieutenant?”

Taylor said, “Good question. Why don't we ask Susan that? Susan, what do you think about all of this?”

The girl glared at her, and Taylor raised an eyebrow. Still under her parents' control on the surface, at least.

“Why in the world are you asking Susan? She had nothing to do with any of this. And I want to know why she was taken and held last night, Lieutenant. What exactly is going on here?”

Taylor sat back in her chair. “Your daughter is dating a drug dealer, for starters. He's implicated her in a murder he committed.”

“What in the world? That's it. We're leaving.” The Norwoods jumped to their feet.

“You can go, but Susan stays. We're charging her with first-degree murder.”

Laura Norwood started to sputter, and Susan let out a howl. Miles Rose leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands across his belly, visions of dollar signs dancing in his eyes.

Mr. Norwood said, “But she's a juvenile. Surely you can't charge her. She's done nothing wrong.”

“That's right. I haven't done anything. I'm not involved in this.” Susan glowered at Taylor.

“Let me tell you a little story, okay? You can correct me where I'm wrong. You've been hanging out with a boy named Juri Edvin, also known as Thorn, who is supplying half of Hillsboro High School with drugs. Vi-Fri ring a bell? Your boyfriend gave a dosed pill of Ecstasy to Brittany Carson, then stood outside her window watching her die. He left his DNA on the wall of her house, there's no mistaking
it. Aren't you and Brittany friends? Juri said something to that effect yesterday.”

“This is bullshit,” Susan said.

“Susan!” Mrs. Norwood thundered at her daughter. “Where are your manners? Apologize to the Lieutenant this instant.” She fumbled for a tissue in her capacious bag. “This is obviously some kind of mistake. Susan and Brittany
were
friends. They used to babysit together. Then Brittany started attending St. Cecilia's on a scholarship, and the two of them stopped hanging out as much. Brittany started seeing one of Susan's old boyfriends, and they had a little falling-out. But you were still in contact sometimes, right?”

“Shut. Up. Mom.” Susan's jaw was clenched so tight Taylor was afraid she'd break her teeth.

“You were the one who gave her the drugs,” Taylor said, incredulous. “You killed her.”

“That's not true. It was Thorn. He gave her the drugs. I had nothing to do with it. With any of it.” She looked around wildly, seeking support. Her parents were staring at her in horror. Taylor leaned closer to the girl.

“Susan, he said you told him to, but it was you all along. You went there together, forced her to take the dosed pill, and once she'd taken the drugs and was down, you carved the pentacle into her stomach, just like you did with your brother and Mandy Vanderwood and Brandon Scott and Chelsea Mott and—”

“No! That's not what happened.”

Susan's parents were ashen, her mother let out a tiny cry. Taylor ignored them, leaned into Susan's face.

“Then why don't you tell me, Susan. Tell us all what happened.”

The girl started to cry, long, racking sobs. “It was Raven,” she said finally, hiccupping. “Raven made us do it.” At the name, she dissolved into a puddle of incoherent cries, clutching her stomach. Neither one of her parents leaned over to comfort her.

Taylor wasn't inclined to show the girl any leniency,
either. She held the key to this case, tucked deep into her bratty little mind. “Who is Raven, Susan?”

She shook her head, a low moan escaping her lips. “I can't tell you. I'm bound from saying his name aloud. Bound by blood, bound by fire. Bound together, a funeral pyre.”

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Norwood asked. Taylor ignored her.

“Susan. Can you write it? Can you write his name down?”

“No. I can't betray him. He'll kill me.” She singsonged the rhyme again.

“I can't believe this,” Mrs. Norwood muttered. She reached over, grabbed Susan's hands from her face and slapped her. “Stop being like that this instant and tell the lieutenant who this Raven is. Right now.”

Taylor was around the table in a heartbeat, got Mrs. Norwood to her feet. “Ma'am, that's not necessary. Perhaps you and Mr. Norwood would care to step outside while I finish Susan's interrogation.” She wasn't giving them a choice, shot Miles Rose a hard stare. He rose and patted Mrs. Norwood on the arm.

“It might be best. I'll stay, I won't let them hurt her.” They didn't listen, were staring at their daughter as if she were a stranger.

“She was involved in our boy's death?” Voice soft, Mr. Norwood was still processing, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy seeking water.

Her mother was yelling now. “That's not possible. Susan, tell them right now. Tell them you weren't involved.”

The girl straightened in her chair. “I wasn't involved in the murder of my brother, Lieutenant. He wasn't supposed to be a part of this.”

“Holy Jesus, you do know something about it. Why, Susan? Why?” Her mother was getting overwrought. Taylor didn't want her hitting the girl again; that simple action shed quite a bit of light on Susan's home life. Taylor slipped
a hand under the mother's elbow, touched Mr. Norwood on the shoulder.

“Best let me take it from here. Why don't y'all step out into the hall for a breath of air?”

It took both Miles and Taylor to get them out of the room. Sobbing, Mrs. Norwood allowed her husband to put his arm around her, still staring trancelike at his daughter.

When the door closed, Taylor looked back to the girl. She unfurled the parchment that Ariadne had drawn, put the picture on the table. Susan stared at it, eyes wide.

“Is this Raven?” Taylor asked.

Susan didn't say anything, just nodded.

Taylor rolled the paper back into a tube.

“Tell me everything,” she commanded.

 

Raven drove the Rat back to Fane's house. He turned onto her street and saw the maelstrom—vehicles, uniformed officers walking in and out, even someone with a dog. Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Where was Fane? Where was she?

He texted her, desperation making his hands shake so hard that he couldn't get his thumbs on the keys properly.

She didn't answer.

Oh, Azræl, hast thou forsaken me already?

He slammed on the brakes, put the car in Reverse and shot back up onto Hobbs. What to do? What to do?

The light turned red at the intersection of Hobbs and Estes—he was stuck. He took a moment and looked inside, feeling for the tendrils of the souls of his followers. He found none. He was abandoned. All the tenuous threads to his coven had been broken. A heartbreaking sense of loneliness crashed through his body, leaving him breathless with the pain of knowledge. He was alone. Oh, what had he done wrong? The spells were right, the actions just. Why was this happening?

“Why?” he screamed, smashing his hands on the steering wheel.

They wouldn't talk, he was sure of that, but he needed to run, just in case.

He'd been running too much lately.

He turned into the driveway of his house and rushed inside, gathered all of his material goods—his Book of Shadows, his portable altar. His laptop, stuffed into his book bag. A change of clothes and his cloak, his makeup bag. His athamé, slipped into a sheath of soft leather. The tickets to Los Angeles. There was still hope.

He went downstairs, aware that he was breathing fast and hard, like he'd been running for miles. Panic. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart, then entered the cool, drafty basement.

The smell had dissipated, the freshly poured concrete thin but solid underfoot. He walked over them, blatant disrespect showering down with each step. The bastards. This was all their fault.

He knew the combination on the lock to the safe. He turned the dial to the right numbers, smiled when he heard the
thunk
that indicated the safe was unlocked. He opened it, reached in, helping himself to the provisions. The metal weapons clanged in his bag. He tossed in as many rounds as he could, then swung the door shut on the empty safe.

Fury, fright, loneliness, all rushed into his mind. He felt the rage begin to build, turned and struck the cinderblock wall. Again, and again, until his knuckles bled, then he turned his hand and pounded his fist against the cement. A red haze covered his eyes as he fought the intractable object. He didn't know how long it lasted, but the release of pent-up anger helped; as the blood dripped from his fist, he could see clearly again.

He glanced at the floor, the new cement dark against the old. He couldn't take the chance of them coming after him.

A canister of gasoline stood quietly in the corner. Raven's eyes fell on it and he smiled. How fitting. That's what he needed to do.

He took his bags upstairs, lugging the heavy one over his
shoulder. He loaded it all into his car, then went back into the house. The gasoline, just enough for a lawn mower date on a given Saturday afternoon, splashed merrily against the walls, the stink welcome in his nose. It was time to shed the chrysalis once and for all.

He took a cigarette from the pack of Camels that had sat on the counter for the past three weeks, the lighter, too. He was careful not to inhale—he would never sully the temple of his body with something so unnatural. A few puffs got the end glowing red, and he threw it down the stairs to the basement. There was nothing.

Frustrated, he took the lighter and a dish towel, walked halfway down the stairs, lit it and tossed it to the floor. A thin blue flame ran from the rag, and the fire caught, chuckling into a roar as it found the edges of the gasoline.

Raven rushed out of the house and jumped into the Rat, his worldly possessions lined up behind him, the stink of fear and regret washing away as he started the car and pulled out of the driveway for the last time. He glanced back, swore he saw a flame waving goodbye to him, and then the house was engulfed.

There was only one place where he would be safe tonight. He drove the car west, to his graveyard, to shelter under the oak. In the morning, he would show them all what it meant to be a God.

 

Ariadne woke with a start. The image from her dream was vivid against her closed lids. She let it coalesce for a moment, then sat up and began to draw. Bars. A uniform. The pale face of a young man, far from home. Sadness in his eyes.

Then a fire, a raging inferno took him, burning his soul. The boy appeared under an oak tree, in a graveyard, curled into a ball, weeping.

Ariadne knew where he was.

She laid back against the pillows, noted absently that it was deeply dark out. She'd been asleep for several hours.
After a few moments, she threw back the covers and went to her altar, intent. She must meditate on this vision. Find the right path to combat the evil.

If the police wouldn't listen to her, she'd have to do this alone.