I am bound painfully.

  I cannot move.

  I can barely breath.

  Tape covers my mouth and I cannot cry for help.

  "Robert! Where are you? ROBERT HELP ME!" My scream is trapped between my teeth, only to be swallowed in a bitter lump.

  This can't be happening.

  No! This can't be happening!

  Who are you ?

  Why are you doing this to me?

  What have you done to Robert?

  "ROBERT!!!"

  There is a voice speaking to me.

  It is the one who asked me the questions.

  The one who hurt me.

  "Christine Liann Webster, in accordance with the thirty-third question, in as much as you stand accused of the heresy of WitchCraft by another of your kind, and as you have refused to admit these crimes, remaining still impenitent, and that on this day evidence of your heresies has been found… "

  Evidence ?

  What evidence?

  What are you talking about? WitchCraft? I don't understand.

  I am freezing.

  Why did he bring me out here in the snow?

  Why are we next to the pool?

  What is that noise?

  What is he doing ?

  "ROBERT, HELP ME!!"

  "… In as much as you have been found guilty, and that you are damned in body and soul, you are hereby sentenced on this day to death. To be executed immediately and without appeal in the manner of drowning. May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on your soul. "

  "… Is Christine Webster," Ben's voice muscled its way into my ears, forcing me back to reality. "Maintenance guy over there ID'ed her. Apparently she lived in a condo about half a block up this street. Got a coupla uniforms checkin' it out."

  "Robert," I muttered.

  "Excuse me?" Agent Mandalay questioned.

  "Robert," I repeated. "She kept trying to cry out for Robert to come help her."

  A jagged shard of agony tore through the flesh on my forearm and felt as though it scraped against bone. I sensed its sickening message deep in the pit of my stomach and all I could do was issue a tired sigh, because I hated the fact that I had become so accustomed to violent death.

  My head was starting to ache and I closed my eyes for a moment.

  "Dammit, Rowan! What did I tell you?" Ben chided.

  "It just happened, Ben," I barked back as I rubbed my throbbing temples. "I didn't have any control over it. Besides, it's what I'm here for, right?"

  "Jeezus… Okay… Shit… " he stuttered for a moment, then decided to take advantage of the situation. "Well, any idea who this Robert is?"

  "A husband. A boyfriend. I don't know," I shook my head as I opened my eyes and began to carefully peel my glove off. My bare hand revealed a smear of blood across its back, now spreading from beneath my coat sleeve. "But it looks like we were all correct. He's victim number five."

  My comment was punctuated by a nearby patrolman's radio as it crackled and spewed forth a dispassionate voice from its tinny speaker, "Yeah, this is Ross. You want to advise Detective Deckert that we have another body up here… "

  * * *

  CHAPTER 14

  "His wrist-watch stopped when the face was shattered," Doctor Sanders told us over her shoulder. She was kneeling next to the latest victim and carefully affixing bags over his hands to preserve any possible evidence. Mundane things such as hair follicles or even a shard of the killer's skin beneath his fingernails could be crucial in the investigation. "Assuming death occurred sometime during the struggle, which is a pretty safe bet, I would place the T.O.D. on or around eleven-forty this evening." She peered over the rim of her glasses at her own timepiece and made a note on her clipboard. "That's just a little over two hours ago which is also consistent with his current body temp."

  "We just missed him," I breathed sadly.

  The harried Saint Louis City Chief Medical Examiner had arrived shortly after the young woman's corpse had been pulled from the depths of the swimming pool. Her counterpart from the County jurisdiction had seen to the care and transport of that body leaving Doctor Sanders free to do the same for Sheryl Keeven. This now being the third murder in one evening, she had scarcely had time to see to the delivery of those remains to the morgue before heading out for this scene. In the somewhat crowded condominium I couldn't help but overhear a veteran detective from the local municipality speaking to another uniformed officer. With a respectful, somber tone he referred to the almost choreographed conveyance of the corpses as a 'dead man's dance.'

  Robert Webster's body was positioned, for the most part, just as it had been found. He was sprawled against the wall in the small dining room that adjoined the kitchen. He was still fully clothed and bore none of the signature markings that had screamed so prominently from the bodies of the previous victims. A double strand of nylon cord was still looped tightly about his throat and bloody abrasions were visible along his neck where he had apparently clawed at the makeshift garrote. The opposite end of the thin noose trailed out across the floor, ending at a jumbled pile of beige vinyl strips—The remains of mini-blinds that had once been mounted over a now bare window.

  'Gal. 3:1' was harshly scribbled in black on the wall directly above him. A wide tipped magic marker was found on a nearby counter and had already been bagged by the CSU Technicians.

  Various signs of a brief struggle were obvious throughout the room. Mini-blinds that had been unceremoniously ripped from their mountings now lay in a crumpled heap. A chair overturned near the table. A potted plant that had once resided on a shelf now resting on the floor, its terra cotta planter shattered beyond repair and dark soil sprayed across the tile in a wide caricature of a comet tail. The cluster of Aloe Vera that had once called the clay pot home now sat upright in the middle of the debris field almost as if it had been placed there purposely. I made a mental note to myself to re-plant it once the crime scene had been cleared. I saw no reason for it to become a victim too.

  As futile as the struggle turned out to be, at least Robert Webster had put up a fight.

  "Sure doesn't fit the profile of the other murders. Actually, it looks more like he wasn't expecting the husband to be here," Ben muttered as he surveyed the scene. "That could kinda blow a hole in the stalking theory."

  "Maybe not," Agent Mandalay offered. "If he's stalked all of the other victims I doubt he's suddenly going to change that aspect. Could be that the husband was normally gone on Saturday nights."

  "Yeah. Like bowling or somethin'," he nodded as he spoke. "Good point. We'll check it out."

  "He was never intended to be a victim," I announced. "This was quite obviously unplanned. You're right, I don't think he was expecting him to be here… "

  I tilted my head to the side and stared at the shaky inscription on the wall. It was plainly scrawled in extreme haste. What was even more perceptible, to me at least, was the fact that it had been done as an afterthought.

  The visual inconsistencies were by no means the only problem with the setting either. There was no feeling of greater purpose for this killing as there had been for all the others. My empathic senses registered none of the conviction and fiery intent that had thus far been woven through the fabric of horror that shrouded each successive scene.

  What I detected instead was blinding anger, and to my surprise, painful sadness. All the product of a presence recently in the room… A presence that had been at every other site… A presence that had until now conveyed only misguided determination coupled with the passing of a terrifying judgment.

  "… In fact," I finally submitted, "I think he could be upset by what he's done here. I think he may even be feeling very intense remorse and he's trying to come to terms with what he has done."

  "How do you figure that?" Ben asked.

  "The Bible verse," I answered with a nod in the direction of the wall. "Galatians chapter three, verse one. 'O foolish Galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not obey the truth, before whose eyes Jesus Christ hath been set forth, crucified among you?'…

  "I think the killer is trying to tell us that this man was bewitched by his wife and her path, and for that he had to die. Kind of a guilt by association thing."

  "You sure he didn't just kill him because he was in the way?"

  "In reality that's probably exactly what happened. But remember, this individual doesn't kill just for kicks. He has an agenda and in some perverse way, he still respects life—But only the life of the good and righteous as defined by his religion. This is his way of justifying his actions as much to himself as us."

  "Man, I know its been a while since I've been to church," Ben declared, "but I sure as hell don't remember the Bible advocating all the shit this asshole is doing."

  "It doesn't in a literal sense," I replied, "but it IS written in a way that leaves itself open to a wide range of interpretations. The killer is picking and choosing passages and taking them out of context in order to vindicate his actions. Notice they always contain a key word—Witch, bewitched, wizard, sorcerer… "

  "This guy is just plain demented," Mandalay expressed.

  "You'll get no argument from me on that account," I told her. "But in this case, I doubt even he believes the message he left behind. I think he might even be in some severe emotional pain over this. That's what I'm feeling anyway, for whatever it's worth."

  "Yeah, we should all feel real sorry for the fuckhead," Ben spat sardonically.

  "On the one hand, this could give us some breathing room," Agent Mandalay ventured. "If he really is broken up over this or whatever, then maybe he will shut down for a while. Decompress. Stop killing."

  "Uh-huh," Ben admitted, "I'm all for anything that'll stop the body count from rising, but it's gonna make the prick a helluva lot harder to find if he just withdraws."

  "He will withdraw for a while, I'm sure. How long is anyone's guess," I declared. "The feelings of sadness I'm picking up are far too intense for him to keep going without first coming to terms with this. But something tells me that he'll cycle through it. He's not finished with what he set out to do."

  "Of course not," Ben expressed. "We could never be that lucky."

  "Another thing," I offered. "I don't think that killing the husband was his only mistake. Something just doesn't click with this scene."

  "Whaddaya mean?"

  "Take a look around. No books on WitchCraft or Wicca in the house. No pentacles or other symbols. No trappings of the religion anywhere in here that I've seen."

  "So maybe she kept all her stuff hidden or somethin'," Ben shrugged. "Like to keep friends or relatives from knowing."

  "Maybe, but I don't think so this time. There's something else too… Like I said before, he passes judgment on his victims. It's very formal and strict. Even more so than pronouncing sentence in a court of law. It's important to him that the accused be fully aware that WitchCraft is considered an unforgivable crime."

  "Yeah, so? I'm not sure I'm following you."

  "Do you get the feeling that he didn't do that this time or something, Rowan?" Mandalay asked.

  "Oh no, he pronounced sentence all right," I shook my head. "But what I picked up when they were recovering her body was that she didn't understand. The fact that he accused her of being a Witch made absolutely no sense to her."

  "So you don't think she was a Witch?" she pressed.

  "I'm almost positive she wasn't."

  "Then she doesn't fit the victimology any more than the husband," Ben expressed. "What would have prompted him to pick her?"

  "I wish I knew."

  Further musings were cut short and our small cluster grew larger by one when Carl Deckert trundled through the doorway from the living room. He had been out leading the door-to-door interviews and from the look of his face had only just now come inside.

  "Okay, here's the run down," his voice issued as he sidled up next to us. "We got nuthin' in the way of witnesses."

  Out of habit he removed his fedora and smoothed back his disheveled, greying hair, then perched the hat back atop his crown and tilted the brim upward out of his face. His fleshy cheeks were flushed bright red and he was visibly winded. A cloud of coldness still seeped from the fabric of his coat to noticeably chill the air around us.

  "Looks like almost everyone was at a meeting of the Condo Association when all this apparently went down," Deckert continued. "Nobody saw or heard a thing till the security guard found the pool gate open."

  "Nobody ever goes to those things," Ben stated incredulously. "What's up with that?"

  "I always go to mine," Constance confessed. "Second Friday of every month."

  Ben stared back at her briefly. "No offense, Mandalay, but you might want ta' get a life."

  "Well, I am on the board," she admitted.

  "Correction," Ben chided. "Change 'might want' to 'desperately need.'"

  "Yeah, well how's this for a kick in the teeth," Deckert remarked dismally before she could retort. "They were listenin' to one of the local department's finest talk about settin' up a neighborhood watch program to supplement the hired security."

  "How's that arm?" Ben asked me as he guided the van onto the exit ramp from highway forty.

  "Sore," I answered flatly. "Still throbbing a little, but it'll be okay."

  We were both exhausted and there was no doubt in my mind that we were operating on automatic pilot. I wasn't entirely sure what was keeping my friend going at this point. I knew for a fact that for every ounce of energy I had lost through the painful physical manifestations of my unknown ethereal guide, Ben had expended more than double that amount in worrying about me. Personally, I felt like I could sleep for a week and my mind was all but completely numb. How he was even managing to stay awake was beyond me.

  "What about the pool water thing and all that? Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor about it?" he urged.

  "I already did, Ben. Doctor Sanders, remember?"

  "Yeah, I know, but… "

  "I'll be fine," I interjected with a weary yawn. "Stop being such a mother hen."

  "Okay. Fine. I'm too goddammed beat to argue with you about it anyway."

  "Good."

  He cautiously turned through the blinking yellow traffic signal at the intersection and continued down the salt and cinder dulled asphalt strip. Streetlights cast yellowish glows at evenly spaced intervals along the roadway, forming harsh puddles of sickly light separated by thick, blue-black shadows.

  "So you gonna be able to make it in the morning?" Ben finally asked, switching the subject to the hastily scheduled emergency meeting of the Major Case Squad, which was in reality only a few painfully short hours away.

  "Yeah, I'll be there."

  "Shit, I oughta just go on in now," he lamented. "I'm barely gonna have enough time for my head to hit the pillow as it is."

  "You should really go home," I told him. "You need the rest as much as I do. Besides, I'm sure Allison would appreciate it."

  "Yeah," he agreed. "She sure as hell didn't know what she was getting into when she became a cop's wife."

  "Have you heard her complain about it?" I asked.

  "Nope. Not a word," he replied. "She's really great about that."

  "Then I would expect she probably knew what she was getting herself into. Give her a little credit, Tonto."

  "Yup. I's'pose maybe she did."

  By now he had turned the Chevy down my street and was slowly pushing it the last few blocks toward my home. Leafless tree branches bowing under the weight of ice and snow hung low over the roadway, forming an eerie canopy. I was already starting to imagine that I could feel my bed.

  "Oh, by the way," Ben started as a thought was suddenly remembered and brought to the forefront, "the Bible they found next to the pool house was book marked just like the other two. The same passage as from the Sheryl Keeven murder was highlighted. First Samuel, 15:23. Whaddaya make of that?"

  "Off the top of my head, I don't know," I answered as he hooked the vehicle into my driveway and rolled it to a halt. "Maybe he assigns a particular significance to each passage and applies it to the victim based on that."

  "Yeah. That's what we were thinkin' too."

  "We still need to figure out the why's and wherefores behind how he picked his latest victim to start with."

  "I hear ya'… That's kind of why I asked… So that passage doesn't mean anything in particular to you?"

  "Not in that respect, no. It fit Sheryl Keeven but not Christine Webster. Sorry."

  "That's okay white man, just thought I'd check."

  "I'll sleep on it and maybe it'll make more sense in the morning," I offered.

  "Yeah, go get some rest," he told me as I unlatched my seat belt then popped the passenger door open.

  As I climbed out I looked up at the thick comforter of grey clouds hanging low in the sky and could feel the utter stillness around me. The fatigue coursing through my body was so viscid that I felt enveloped in a total fog.

  I just looked back to my friend and said, "Gonna snow."

  I could hear the dull, muffled bong of our antique clock announcing the hour as I twisted my key in the lock and pushed the front door open. The final measure of the tone sharpened for an instant then it faded away to silence on the cold breath of the night. I quietly pressed the door shut and latched the deadbolt before proceeding to unzip my coat. A tired glance at my watch told me the evaporated peal had been the last note in a trinity of chimes. It was three A.M.

  "Can you tell me why you're shutting me out of this then?" Felicity's somewhat slurred voice, brimming with a musical Irish lilt, pierced the darkness as I turned.

  I was startled enough to involuntarily flinch at the question and almost drop my keys. I had fully expected to be subject to the wet nosed greetings and cursory inspections customarily doled out by the dogs. The throaty trilling and prancing rub of one or more of our three cats dancing around my ankles wouldn't even have surprised me.

  What I hadn't been prepared for at all was my wife curled lazily in a chair, camouflaged by a crocheted afghan of dark muted blues, still awake, and palpably angry. My eyes were fairly well adjusted to the dark and I could just make out our black cat, Dickens, huddled in her lap, soaking up the attention her fingers were absently paying a spot just behind his ears.

 

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