A fire raged in the gaping, open mouth of the giant incinerator, the resultant heat singeing the hair on the thick arms of the man standing before it. With a grunt, he lifted a final shovelful of black coal and tossed the black rock and ash to feed the fire even further. He stared at the gauge, which was nearing nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit.
“Close enough,” he told himself.
The room was hot with the furnace's maw. The fire inside the furnace licked out at the surrounding world like a living creature in search of prey.
Carefully placing the now-hot shovel against the ancient stone walls of his dungeon, the big man reached next for one of two black polyethylene Hefty bags that had been left against the wall as well. With friends looking on, the bare-chested fire-feeder lifted one of the bags and slowly approached the furnace mouth. But before he could fully swing the bag and its deadweight contents into the raging fire, the heat melted the facing side of the bag, causing its heavy and bulky contents to spill out over the filthy bare concrete floor here, creating a kind of sticky gruel of the ancient dust on the stone floor and bodily fluids spilling from the human body parts that the fire-feeder had spilt.
The man stared down at the head, eyes, nose, ears, hair and the left leg once attached to Timothy Kenneth Little.
“Damn you, Little,” cursed one of the other men looking on, whose face was hidden in shadow, lit now and again by the licking flames from the incinerator. “You'll not escape so easily as that. You're in Helsinger's Pit now…”
“Toss the bastard in, eyes directed at the flames,” said another of the onlookers. “So the evil bastard can see the flames as they lick him up.”
The others agreed with a hearty alcoholic cheer, and the bare-chested, sweating fire-feeder did as instructed.
The leg followed.
The second bag was pushed into the fire-feeder's hands after this, and he was told, “Be a little more careful with the rest of him.”
The booming voice of their leader, still in shadow, called out, “Sure beats burying his parts all over the country, wouldn't you say, gentlemen?”
The others laughed and agreed.
“And stoke that fire up to a thousand. I want nothing left to chance; not a trace of Little's head or privates or limbs or bones is to be left. Only ashes.” The second bag, containing Little's private parts, his other leg, and his two arms, was tossed into the inferno. The flames spit out at the men surrounding the furnace as the feeder began shoveling more coal into the mix.
The dark dungeon was alight with a warm glow, and this glow filled the small ministry, who together began a mantra: “Helsinger… Helsinger… Helsinger… sing. Sing for me… sing for we… We provide you with this demonic and foul creature. Banish him forever to the pit. We do your bidding, our God…”
“Some things you can't do on-line,” muttered their leader through clenched teeth.
Lucas was already late for roll call, and he knew he'd be in trouble with Sergeant Kelton, because Lucas's absence had caused a gaping hole in Stanley Kelton's log entry, and Stan didn't like big holes in his little square boxes. However, since he was already late, he swung by Renquist Laboratories, Inc., an independent biochemical and DNA lab in downtown Houston.
He walked in with the two Waterford crystal goblets in their cellophane wraps, each labeled with dated evidence labels which he had snatched from his detective's kit at home. They looked official enough, and he signed as Det. James Pardee, giving them a number where he couldn't possibly be reached, since it was the number for the Houston Rockets ticket office. His plan was to check back with them hourly until they had some results for him, so he would be doing the calling.
“Where is your paperwork on this?” asked the clerk.
“It'll be coming.”
“Coming? We need it with the item to be analyzed.”
“It's forthcoming. My partner'll bring it over this afternoon. Trust me.”
“This is highly irregular.”
“I didn't want to waste any time.”
“We'll at the very least have to tag it.” She typed up a label and placed it over the plastic covering each goblet. 'There's no way I can assure you that these items, without the proper paperwork, will not be lost in the… along the system here. You'll have to sign here to release the items into our custody and sign this waiver form, which relieves Renquist of any responsibility for loss or damage.”
“Understood.” He signed everything as James Pardee.
“Then the City of Houston Police Department precinct number that will be paying for these tests?”
“The Twenty-second Precinct,” he replied, giving them Amelford and Pardee's precinct number. “Paper's on its way; you'll get paid.”
She stared back at him, an owl of a woman, her glasses larger than her face. “All right, Detective-ahh-Pardee. We'll begin to process your request, but without the paperwork, it could get held up. I warn you in advance.”
“It's been a while since I've done this. Can you give me the blank forms? Maybe I can speed up the process at our end if I have them.”
She frowned and her eyes sent shards into him, but finally she relented, nodded, thinking this a sound idea, and with the speed of a Musketeer whipping out a sword, she presented the forms to him.
They exchanged pleasantries and Lucas was on his way, the staid clerk staring suspiciously after him, marking him.
He could feel her eyes on him all the way out the door.
As soon as Lucas stepped inside the precinct house, Stan Kelton was on him like a tick, asking him, “Mister, who do you think you are? Mister, what gives you the right to waltz in and out of here anytime you feel like? Mister, tell me this: What rank are you, mister?” Kelton's eyes grew ablaze.
Kelton never called an officer an officer when he was angry with the officer.
Lawrence burst forth from his office, shouting for Stonecoat to come into his sanctuary immediately. He'd obviously heard Kelton dressing him down, and now it appeared Lawrence wanted the privilege himself.
“Sorry, Sarge,” said Lucas. “You'll have to get in line.”
“Now,” ordered Lawrence.
When Lucas stepped through the door and saw Meredyth, he assumed that Dr. Sanger was once more driving Lawrence up the wall. But Commander Andrew Bryce, seated at Lawrence's desk, suddenly shredded Lucas's assumptions when he held up a police fax alert, saying, “I got this on my machine this morning.”
“What is it?”
“Some disturbing news out of Oregon, a carbon copy killing in the style of our Judge Mootry. Some poor slob named Little, Timothy Little.”
Stonecoat stared at the fax and then across at Meredyth. “Arrows?”
“Two recovered at the scene this time,” she replied.
“And the body?”
“One torso, clothes and all identity taken off, along with arms, legs, head and private parts,” began Commander Bryce, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. “And damned if this isn't beginning to make us look a bit bad, gentlemen, Dr. Sanger. And since it appears you, Dr. Sanger, have shown a hell of a lot more initiative and gumption than some people around here”-he viciously raked Lawrence with his eyes-”I'm having Phil here send you up to this place… Medford, Oregon, to have a look. And as for you, Stonecoat, or should we call you Jack? Jack Plumber?”
“Sir? Plumber, sir?” Lucas feigned ignorance.
“We got a pretty good description on the intruder at the Mootry crime scene, Officer Stonecoat. I don't think we need to play games, do you?”
“Well, sir… no, sir,” stammered Lucas, unsure what to say next.
“At any rate, what we have up north may just be one of those damned copycat things or…”
“Or the same guy at work,” Meredyth eagerly finished for Bryce.
Captain Lawrence interrupted. “Commander Bryce seems to feel that we should send someone up to investigate, Stonecoat, and he suggested that it be you. I have to say, I haven't approved of the way you and Dr. Sanger have gone about this, and I certainly wouldn't send you two to cover traffic at the rodeo, but-”
“But, hell, Phil,” cried Bryce. “You didn't think there was much to this serial killer conspiracy thing. What'd you call it, a cum laude conspiracy angle that Dr. Sanger has put together with earlier cases from the Cold Files, and now this thing in Oregon. Hell, man, it puts a whole new kink into the starch.” Andrew Bryce was boiling over, filling the room with his large, commanding form. He had sharp gray eyes, flinty and hard. Lucas thought him direct and energetic and a leader of men. He liked him. “Now, I want you, Stonecoat, to accompany Dr. Sanger to Medford. See what the two of you can find out up there. See if it has any bearing on us here.”
“You want me to go have a look at what they've got in Oregon?” He wondered why the brass were being so generous to make such an offer. Did they expect it to be a wild-goose chase? Did they expect, even want Lucas to fail along with Dr. Sanger on this?
“Well, sir, if you want me to go, then I'm on my way.” He thought of the crystal goblets and cringed inside.
“Good, then it's settled. Dr. Sanger, Officer Stonecoat, there's a military transport waiting for you at Houston Intercontinental Airport. Pack a bag out of your locker and be on your way,” Commander Bryce replied. “They won't hold on to this guy Little's body long up there. They've already held off a day, trying to decide what in hell they've got. Apparently, they've got their hands more than full and haven't had much experience with such problems in the past. For that matter, neither have we.”
Meredyth added, “They contacted VICAP, reported what they had to the FBI, everybody, in hopes someone would come in and give them a hand.”
Stonecoat nodded. “And we're it?”
“Sanger here put out a nationwide alert on anything resembling Mootry,” grumbled Lawrence.
Lucas countered with, “I'd have thought the detectives on the case would've done that.”
“No, they hadn't got round to it, it appears!” bellowed Bryce, his darting eyes finding Lucas.
“Meanwhile, these hicks in Oregon want to call out the National Guard,” added Lawrence.
“Why the over reaction?”
Meredyth explained. 'Turns out he's a millionaire two or three times over, something to do with jet airline appliances and solutions.
I don't know, but the family'll be wanting to feel some closure as soon as possible, and that'll mean releasing the body-or what's left of it-over to them.”
“I see.” Murder always left more victims than the dead one. “And if it is connected to Mootry and Palmer and Reynolds,” she added, “the man's immediate family could also be in danger.”
“Mootry didn't have any immediate family, but if what Dr. Sanger has uncovered has any validity, apparently family members of victims have also been targeted by this creep, so we're letting authorities in this guy's hometown know what's going down as well. Meantime, Stonecoat, you're our guy in Oregon, along with-”
“Yes, sir, Commander.”
“-Dr. Sanger here, and I want you two to report directly to Phil. Anything I need to know, he will in turn report to me.
No more going over Phil's head, either, young lady. I'm not in the least impressed by that sort of thing, you understand? I want you three to work together!”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, obviously happy with having been vindicated, but Lucas wasn't yet sure. It might well be that what had occurred in Oregon had next to nothing to do with Palmer or Mootry or the other cases they had examined. He would keep his counsel and withhold judgment.
Together, Lucas and Meredyth left Lawrence's office, and when the door closed behind them, she gave him the high-five sign, but he only frowned, refusing to return it.
She was surprised by his reaction. “What's wrong with you? Don't you get it? This assignment gets you out of the Cold Room.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes; hopefully for good, if we do well in Oregon.”
“Well, I've got a smoldering little problem of my own right here,” he replied, taking her aside, locating the stairwell.
“Are you crazy, Andrew?” asked Lawrence, the moment Sanger and Stonecoat were out of the room.
Bryce remained impassive, silently moving about the room, lifting little knickknacks and items from Lawrence's shelves, staring at the other man's family photos, pictures of Lawrence as a much younger man in a football uniform and then a Marine Corps uniform. Bryce then stated the obvious. “You were a marine, once, I see.”
You know that from my goddamned record, Lawrence's mind screamed. “Wellllll, yeah… but what's that got to do with anything?” he replied.
“Put in for the Marine Corps once myself, but had trouble getting in. I was too young at the time. Moved on from there… A boy grows up… puts wild notions aside…” What's that supposed to mean? wondered Lawrence. It wasn't like Bryce to wax philosophical. “You going to answer me, Commander?”
“Oh, about sending those two to Oregon? It seems the logical thing to do, wouldn't you agree? I mean, what'll they find in Oregon? Meanwhile, it might keep them out of the way of the Mootry investigation.”
'Then you don't believe they'll find any connection in Oregon? You're hoping that they'll become discouraged with this serial killer notion?”
“Maybe… Meantime, Pardee and Amelford aren't hindered.”
Lawrence wondered about the wisdom of this, but he kept silent on that, merely replying, “Yes, sir.” God, he had to bite back bile to show this man respect, he thought. What had Andrew Bryce done to earn anyone's respect? Yes, he had come up through the ranks, but when was the last time he was on the street, the last time he risked a hair on his politically correct head? Bastard.
Bryce seemed to sense his animosity. He grinned at Lawrence. “Give it all time, Phil. Time is a wonderful solvent for many nasty stains we encounter.”
On that note, Commander Bryce abruptly turned and disappeared, leaving Lawrence alone with his office and his own counsel. He turned to the PC behind his desk and called up a bulletin board he liked to play around with; he found it helped him to unwind. Maybe he'd go searching for some familiar log-ins and friends on the Internet. Friends and acquaintances on the Internet seemed controllable, predictable even. These people in the real world, especially those he was supposed to supervise, caused him so much dull pain, he could easily lose control and use his gun on them, or on himself, he thought now.
In the stairwell now where Lucas had taken Meredyth, the two waited for a passing pair of blue-uniformed cops before they spoke.
“Precisely what kind of a problem do you have, Lucas? This is great, what Bryce has done. He's giving us a chance to prove what we know.”
He didn't readily answer, beginning to pace instead.
“Spit it out, Stonecoat.”
He told her of how he'd gone to Mootry's mansion home, and how he'd finagled his way into the crime scene. “Damn! Then it was you! When? How?” She was full of questions.
He gave her the details, including his theory about the cutter being clever in knowing precisely where to cut. “No, the autopsy reports were sealed to protect the integrity of the evidence collection process and to help the detectives.
How could you know that?”
“The lack of blood evidence.”
“I see you've gotten down to it, and here I thought you weren't interested. Silly me.”
“I just went to get the feel of the place.”
“So, whataya think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think? He was murdered, and not in a kind way.”
“Yeah, everybody knows that, Ace Ventura, but you must've come away with more than that.”
“Well, I did… and that's my problem.”
“What do I need here, pliers? What're you talking about, Lucas?”
He told her how he had lain in Charles Mootry's bed, over the very spot where the arrow had gone through the man's heart. “I wanted to become him for that moment,” he explained. He told her how he'd wandered the house and noticed a pair of errant coasters and the two goblets he'd discovered in the dishwasher.
“Wait a minute… are you saying that you took them?”
“They're at Renquist as we speak.”
“The labs?”
“And I need these forms filled out and initialed and stamped by the captain over at the Twenty-second Precinct to get the results and the goblets back.”
“Damn, I knew you were a little loco, Lucas, but this…”
He gave her a self-deprecating little shrug, like a boy, she thought. Then he asked, “What can I say? More to the point, what can I do?”
“I've got a secretary who can help us.”
“A secretary? How's she going to help?”
“You wait and see how he's going to help.”
She guided him to her office two flights up where they found her secretary on the computer. The young man turned and beamed at Dr. Sanger and smiled at Lucas, extending a hand. He was clean-cut and clear-eyed behind a pair of fashionable half-tinted glasses.
“Officer Lucas Stonecoat, this is Randy Oglesby, the best man I ever saw with a computer. If he can't fix your little problem, Lucas, no one can.”
“Maybe, but what I'm asking could get you both into deep… trouble. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
'Tell Randy your problem, and we'll take it from there. Meantime, I've got to grab a few items from my office in preparation for our trip.”
“Trip?” asked Randy. “What trip. Doctor?”
She explained they must be in Oregon this afternoon. “There's been another crossbow killing, Randy.”
“Jesus God, another one? That's so… so weird, so out there, you know?”
“Yeah, we know what's out there, don't we, Lucas?”
“I wish we knew a little more about what's out there, exactly what we're looking for,” he replied, but she rushed off, only half listening to his complaint. Lucas then turned to the eager young male secretary and explained to Randy about the Twenty-second Precinct voucher forms, finishing with, “I'm sure you can't do a thing about it, so thanks anyway…”
“You mean even if you could overlook the dangers of hacking into the Twenty-second's accounts receivable's routing problem, could I put aside my petty morality and conscience? Is that all?”
“Something like that.” Lucas instantly liked the kid with the lopsided grin.
“Hacking. I live for it, officer, so I'll see what I can do.”
“In that case, I'll need one more favor.”
He nodded, his red hair bouncing. “If I can, sure.”
Lucas asked him if he'd act as a courier when the results were in, fetching them from Renquist Labs and keeping the results in a safe place until his return.
“Anything else?” the kid half joked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You don't ask much.” Again it was in a kidding tone.
“You may have to use an alias to get the results. They may ask you to sign, also.”
“What's my name?”
“Pardee, Detective Jim Pardee. And if that's a problem for whatever reason, use Detective Fred Amelford.”
The kid smiled up from his computer, even his eyeglasses alight with the possibilities of intrigue. “I've always wanted to be a detective.”
“It's not a game. This is very serious. If you're caught-”
“I say I was working under Dr. Sanger's orders,” he finished as she emerged.
Stonecoat laughed. “You're a fast learner.”
'That's what I noticed about Randy the moment I hired him,” Meredyth added. “Just what've you two cooked up? No, don't tell me. I really don't think I want to know.”
“I'll fill you in on the ride over to your place and on the plane,” Lucas suggested, and they were off, leaving Randy Oglesby to stare after the couple. He wondered what Stonecoat expected to lift from the goblets he'd mentioned.
“This guy's got balls,” Randy told his computer as the screen flashed before him with the information needed to forward a voucher to Renquist from the Twenty-second Precinct. “Piece of cake. Give me something challenging, people!” he said to himself, recalling his darkest secret, something he'd never told anyone, not even his parents. When he was still just a kid in high school, he had hacked his way into HBO, and it was he who was responsible for the 1986 interference with the HBO signal. He had sent his own signal over nationwide television at HBO's expense, and it had read: I'll never pay for free airwaves. After that, he had avoided electronic capture by downloading everything, completely gutting his system, and starting all over again. He had simply pulled the plug on any possible investigation that could lead back to his PC in Steubenville, California, where he had grown up.
Randy had very much liked the mission Dr. Sanger had last put him on: sending out a request on the law enforcement Internet regarding any and all unsolved murders in which crossbow-styled weapons or arrows were used. The notion had tickled him at first, and then it revived some old memories of a game of cat and mouse played out on the video screen between the forces of good and evil, but the forces had become blurred with a madman named Helsinger and his henchmen each in turn taking on the name and the ritualistic quest of their leader to seek out and destroy evil. But it was evil as defined by the original game-player, Helsinger 1, who could be anybody who initiated the game. It was a lot like Dungeons and Dragons, but all mixed up with Ravenloft and vampires and vampire-stalkers, as well. It got a lot of play back then, Helsinger's Pit as it was called, because eventually the evil one's hacked-up parts were returned to the so-called pit from which they had emerged-Satan's underworld.
Randy had quit playing the game years before, having become bored with it, having graduated to more sophisticated software. Still, he thought it odd how so often life imitated art, for then only comic characters were firing harmless arrows from crossbows at imaginary, albeit human, targets, but here and now, some damned fool was out there in real time and in real space butchering men like Judge Charles Mootry, and now some guy in Oregon, in the same or similar fashion as in the game he'd nearly forgotten.
He was reminded of the song lyrics, “It's a strange, strange world we live in, Master Jack…”
He wondered when, if ever, Dr. Sanger was going to share what they had learned on the Internet regarding bow-and-arrow deaths across the nation and throughout the world. They were more common than first thought might allow. Most were hunting accidents, granted, and some were spear gun accidents between diving buddies, but others had gone down as outright murders, most remaining unsolved, and some were as far away as Spain and Great Britain and Prague, while others were closer to home: Washington State, L.A., Nebraska, Oklahoma, Miami, Chicago.
Dr. Sanger hadn't told Randy what she'd done with the list, but from what he'd gathered, he knew she hadn't initially shared it with Captain Phillip Lawrence, that she more likely took it over his head, possibly to Commander Andrew Bryce. Then all of a sudden everything was popping and stripping. She was now headed for Oregon, where the latest crossbow killing had taken place.
Fascinating stuff, and he was proud to've played his small role. Dr. Sanger had also confided somewhat about Lucas Stonecoat and how hard she had worked to get the former detective, now in the Cold Room, to work alongside her on uncovering the truth out there. Maybe by Randy's helping Stonecoat with his problem, the favor would bounce back someday. He sent the electronic impulses that would fax Renquist all they needed from the Twenty-second Precinct to arrange billing for the work on the goblets.