“Here.” Doctor Sanders handed me a small glass jar and brushed at her upper lip with her index finger. “Put some of this under your nose. It will help a little with the smell.”
I took the offered container of Tiger Balm and did as she instructed. The sickening reek of scorched flesh had been intense at the crime scene, and that had been outdoors. Here in the enclosed autopsy suite, the odor was nearly intolerable.
The infinitely more pleasant menthol-clove perfume of the waxy salve competed with the airborne foulness as I dabbed it around my nostrils. While there was no one true victor in the battle, as long as I kept my breaths shallow, the atmosphere in the room became at least bearable. I then passed the container quickly on to Ben who already had his hand extended.
Doctor Sanders had just finished tucking her shoulder-length, salt and pepper hair beneath the elastic band of her cap and was now pulling on a second layer of latex gloves.
“I don’t know how you did it, Storm, but in all my years with this office, I’ve never seen a body from an open investigation transferred across jurisdictional boundaries,” she said. “This is definitely a first.”
“Guess it’s just my charming personality,” Ben replied.
“Sure it is,” she grumbled, her voice sarcastic. “Or maybe you just can’t stand to see me have any time off.”
“What can I say, Doc? I like working with the best of the best.”
“So you’ve told me numerous times before, Detective.” She sighed. “Anyway, surprisingly enough, your corpse wasn’t as frozen as one might have thought, so I decided that if I was going to be stuck here all night, I might as well get some work done.” Her back was still to us as she spoke from across the room. “I wasn’t really expecting to have an audience, however.”
The double gloving completed with a loud snap, she returned to the stainless steel table centered in the room and slipped a wide pair of clear safety shields over her prescription frames. “Am I correct in assuming this is the first time you’ve ever witnessed an autopsy, Mister Gant?”
“Yes, you are,” I responded.
“Well, I can’t say that this is the one I would have picked were I in the same position,” she expressed. “Storm, why don’t you make yourself useful for something other than creating more work for me and start the CD player.”
“Yeah, no prob, Doc.” Ben took the mock insult in stride and did as she asked before dragging a tall stool out from the tiled wall and perching his large frame upon it.
Blending into the background from unseen speakers, music began to play on low volume. It took only a moment for me to recognize the beginning notes of Black Cow.
“Steely Dan?” I mused aloud.
“Absolutely,” she replied, giving a tray of instruments a quick once over. “I saw the reunion tour out at the amphitheatre a few years back. There are other CD’s over there if you don’t like the selection.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m just surprised is all. I figured you more for the Bach or Brahms type.”
“Catch me in the morning, although it’s more likely to be Tchaikovsky or Copland.” She paused for a moment then adjusted the overhead light more to her liking. Satisfied, she carefully drew back the crisp white sheet.
Nothing in the way of obvious identifying characteristics appeared to have survived the conflagration. In fact, little more than charred bone remained below the waist of the blackened corpse. The only blatant attribute of the partially intact torso seemed to indicate the female gender-something I had already deemed as accurate by less corporeal methods. Her hair had been completely singed away, as well as most of her scalp. As it had been at the scene, her jaw was locked open in a tortured wail; so intensely silent, it overpowered all sound in the autopsy suite.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I could hear her screaming.
“Everyone left before the snow storm really got going,” Doctor Sanders explained as she began, keeping her eyes fixed on the remains and penning notes on an acrylic clipboard. “Everyone except Cecelia that is. Sometimes I think she’s too dedicated for her own good, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder what I’d do without her. Anyway, this will go a little slower than usual since I don’t have a P.A. here to help.”
After setting the paperwork aside, she adjusted a gooseneck microphone then engaged a recorder, “Case number oh-two-oh-three-oh-oh-dash-seven. Doe, Jane. Remains appear to be that of a Caucasian female, mid to late twenties. The body was subjected to intense heat and flames, effectively incinerating the soft tissues on the lower extremities and just below the pelvic region. Withering of the phalanges and metacarpus is evident.” Shooting a brief glance in Ben’s direction and making a claw-like gesture with her hand, she added, “The fact that her fingers curled into her palms protected the tips. I was able to obtain a decent set of fingerprints for both right and left.”
“What about dental records?” he asked. “I can run a check against missing persons… ’Course she might not have been reported yet.”
“I finished shooting those films just before you arrived. We’ll get them processed as soon as possible.”
I was keeping my distance from the autopsy table-visibly at least. My breathing was thready and thin. I stood transfixed by the process as each passing moment drew me further inward; every second that ticked by was bringing me that much closer to the horror the young woman had faced. The events of the day were exacting their toll. I was tired, both mentally and physically.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was becoming convinced I could hear her screaming.
“There was an odd residue in her mouth.” The M.E. had taken a scalpel from the tray, working as she spoke. “I took a sample for the lab. I’m not quite sure what it is but it appeared to be synthetic. Like plastic.”
A bright flash of the young woman’s torture stabbed into my grey matter like a blunt arrow. Ravenous tendrils of yellow-orange flame raked across her flesh, hungrily rending it from her bones. An anguished scream fought to tear free from her throat, only to be detained by the soggy mass that filled her mouth; denied exit by the tightly stretched fabric that had once been an article of her clothing. A pitiful nasal whine was all she could manage as tears rolled down her cheeks and vaporized steamily in the intensifying heat.
I blinked away the talon of agony that raked through my brain and cleared my throat. I could still feel the thick gag in my own mouth.
“It IS plastic,” I volunteered in a quiet, scratchy voice. “Nylon. He gagged her with her own pantyhose so she couldn’t scream. They probably melted in the heat.”
The sound of Ben scribbling in his notebook filled the silence that followed my comment.
Doctor Sanders held the scalpel in mid-air above the young woman’s chest and stared back at me, unblinking. “I’ll mention that to the lab,” she finally said.
This wasn’t the first time she had experienced one of my ethereal revelations, and she definitely wasn’t the skeptic she had once been. On the other hand, she certainly wasn’t as used to them as Ben, and I understood that at times the intimacy of my visions could be somewhat disturbing.
Turning back to the job at hand, almost painfully oblivious to our presence, she proceeded to make a Y-shaped incision in the trunk of the body. She first carefully forced the blade through the cauterized skin then into what remained of the softer flesh beneath. With three smooth strokes, she exhibited skill gained by years in the profession and it became instantly apparent to me why Ben called her “the best of the best.”
The arms of the Y curved upward below the breasts and to the shoulders. The tail extended downward to the pubic area. With the deep incision made, still using the scalpel, she proceeded to peel back the burned tissues and muscle. She displayed nowhere near the cold, unfeeling demeanor of the M.E. we had met in this room earlier in the day. However, her professional detachment was evident as she pulled the “chest flap” upward to expose the front of the ribcage.
In a fleeting thought, I was reminded of what a perverted killer had done to his victims those few months ago. Mercilessly skinning each of them for a purpose I was happier not knowing. One primary difference was that his victims had been among the living and conscious when he began cutting.
“In case you are interested, Mister Gant, what I am preparing to do is remove the chest plate. This will allow me to extract the internal organs in one block. This is something we medical examiners refer to as the ‘Rokitansky Method.’”
She glanced quickly over at my motionless form before proceeding. The scalpel clattered noisily against the metal tray where she dropped it. Then she wrapped her gloved hand, smeared with blood, around a somewhat larger device.
“I’m not exactly sure how you do what it is that you do, Mister Gant.” She had returned her attention to the corpse as she spoke to me. “Or, how it is that you know the things you know…but, if it would help at all, please feel free to come closer. Just don’t touch anything.”
I didn’t move. My eyes were still fixed in the direction of the autopsy table even though the clarity of focus had long since fled. The macabre scene had taken on the blurred, grainy appearance of a poorly received image on an old television. Colors were hastily blooming and collapsing-bleeding into one another in a palette gone berserk as rushing noises filled my ears. Doctor Sanders continued speaking for the recorder, and her words became thick mouthfuls of gibberish joining with the mutated cadence of the background music. My vision tunneled and fire danced across my skin as I realized too late what was happening.
The angry, high-pitched cry of a Stryker saw meeting bone neatly pierced the roaring in my ears. Physical reality spun uncontrollably into formless void as I joined with the young woman on the metal table. Her recent pain was no longer confined solely to somewhere in the back of my thoughts.
Everywhere in my mind, I heard her screaming.
My mouth tastes tinny.
Metallic.
Electric.
Blistered.
Raw.
My chest is shrieking in protest. I can feel my flesh being smoothly peeled back, as though I am being violently wrenched inside out. With each passing second, I become aware of more nerve endings being delivered naked and screaming into the cold antiseptic air.
“Why is she doing that?” a weeping feminine voice asks.
I search through slitted eyes while gritting my teeth against the pain.
I try to turn and suddenly I find myself slowly spinning.
Twisting lazily on an unfelt breeze.
Floating.
“Why is she doing that to me?” the voice asks again.
“Where are you?” I ask as I continue to turn lethargically in a formless void.
I can see no one.
I can see nothing.
“Who are you?” I call out through my agony.
“Why is she cutting me like that?” The voice is beyond weeping. She is sobbing now. Her words break off in hard bewildered pieces between each breath, tumbling forth and shattering in my ears, “Haven’t I been through enough?”
A violent sensation, making agony seem a mere discomfort, bites into my side, gnashing at my bones with countless glittering metal teeth.
My body stiffens.
A tortured cry fills the void.
An angry crimson wail explodes inside my skull.
I’m falling.
Spiraling downward.
Faster.
Faster.
I crash into nothing and splinter into a thousand obsidian shards reflecting the inky darkness. Absorbing and smothering all that is light.
“Mister Gant?” Doctor Sanders’ voice mimics itself in a grotesque parody of speech, casually piercing the ethereal veil. “Did you want to come closer?”
Gradually, I open my eyes.
The black formless void still envelops me.
I can’t see.
Where am I?
Who am I?
Something is tightly stretched across my mouth.
Between my teeth.
It bites into the corners of my lips, abrading them roughly before continuing its constriction around my head.
My mouth tastes of plastic.
Of sweat.
Of blood.
I cannot speak.
I cannot scream.
I can only cry.
“Mister Gant?”
I’m nude.
I’m cold.
I cannot move.
My arms are extended above me, and something rigidly encircles my wrists. I can feel my flesh being torn. I can feel the trickles of my own blood running along my skin from the wounds, mixing with sweat and forming rivulets from the headwaters of my pain.
My mind is numbed by the agony. My muscles are stretched beyond their limits.
Something cold and hard cinches my ankles.
It pulls stiffly downward, unyielding.
The stress threatens to tear me in half.
Sharp spasms rack the muscles along my back, and I arch against it. Bucking against my bonds as best I can.
If it weren’t for the pain, I would swear I was already dead.
A soft-edged whimper escapes my throat.
Hoarse but distinctly feminine.
Who am I?
I cannot remember.
I only know that I am not who I am supposed to be.
It’s dark.
I can’t see.
Where am I?
Who am I?
“Holy fuckin’ shit! Goddammit!” Ben’s voice was echoing distantly. “He’s done this before and the last time his friggin’ heart stopped.”
Doctor Sanders’ voice followed thickly, her words ricocheting from his. “What do you mean his heart stopped?”
“I mean it just fuckin’ stopped! He almost died.”
“Calm down, Storm! He still has a pulse. Mister Gant? Mister Gant, can you hear me?”
My ears discern the mournful squeal of rusted hinges.
I’ve been in the darkness for what seems an eternity.
A faint light filters in from above, and it is almost blinding.
How long have I been here?
I strain to lift my head.
My ears have grown accustomed to the unbroken silence, and the mechanical snap of a light switch comes like a gunshot.
I can even hear the hum of the electricity as it arcs along the contacts.
A bare incandescent bulb ignites above me, casting harsh streams of light.
I wrench my head away, regretting the act the moment the pain it brings bludgeons me. I blink. I regret that too.
Even blinking hurts.
Slowly, biting back the stabs of misery, I raise my face once again to look around.
I peer cautiously through the stringy mats of my long, flame red hair as it hangs in front of my face, and I try to focus on my surroundings.
A rough concrete wall, grey and pitted with age, confronts me. A large crucifix adorns its otherwise blank emptiness. Countless unlit white candles of all shapes and sizes cover a small wooden table before the shrine.
I am in what appears to be a basement.
Biting hard on the gag in my mouth, I tilt my head farther back, squinting my eyes against the harsh light.
Black iron shackles encompass my scraped, blood crusted wrists. Connected by a heavy chain, they are affixed securely above.
I am hanging from a thick beam.
I am suspended from the rafters.
The small amount of strength I mustered is fleeting at best, and my head tilts back forward of its own accord, bringing my chin to heavily meet my chest.
Breasts.
I am a woman.
Something sequestered in the nether regions of my mind tells me that this isn’t right. I am not supposed to be a woman. Or am I?
I have no idea who I AM supposed to be.
Slow, deliberate thudding partnered with the doleful cry of creaking wood meets my ears and chases my latest revelation away from immediacy-along with its still unanswered questions.
Someone is coming.
HE is coming.
Unfettered, acidic terror rips outward from my abdomen and singes me.
Something warm begins to run down my inner thighs and splatters wetly to the floor.
I have no control as my bladder releases.
I begin to cry.
A strangely familiar feminine voice stretches itself past me in a textbook example of Doppler distortion. “Help me get him on the free table over there.”
“Nooooooooooooo!” My scream is muffled by the soggy, biting fabric in my mouth.
A mechanical sound reaches me, felt as well as heard.
Tick, tick… Click!
Tick, tick… Click!
Tick, tick, tick… Click!
My body tenses as I feel my shoulders slowly and simultaneously ripped from their sockets. Something is pulling down against my ankles and my legs are straining to remain joined with the rest of my body.
The metallic click of a gear ratcheting reverberates again.
Tick, tick. Click!
Tick! Clunk!
“Nooooooooooooo.” My cry is no more than a meek whimper.
Muscles and tendons are tearing. Various spots along my upper back spasm and snap like broken rubber bands. White-hot projectiles of torment race through my nervous system at a quickening pace.
Bursting like bullets from my chest, they only turn to re-enter and retrace every inch over and over again.
It is more than I can stand.
As the light begins to fade, I can see his shadow on the floor in front of me, large and foreboding. I can barely hear muffled words.
Something about proof of my crimes.
Something about proof of my heresy.
Something about evidence to validate my “confession.” Something about begging the forgiveness of God.
Darkness overwhelms me.
A deep voice echoes to me. Someone I should know. A name comes to mind. Ben. “Come on, white man, you sonofabitch! Don’t you die on me!”
I am no longer in the basement.
I am outside.
I am still nude.
It is freezing.
Icy wind is slicing through me like a razor.
My arms are bound behind me, as if it mattered. They hang limp and useless from my shoulders. I am secured to something that is rough against my back. It feels like a post or a tree, but I can’t be sure.
The pain is the only thing of which I am positive.
Even the frigid night cannot kill the pain.
I can taste something oily and acrid mixing with the blood in my mouth.
Something strong.
Something caustic.
It numbs my tongue and burns my nostrils.
The smell of it is familiar.
The memory tickles my brain.
Something about light.
Something about warmth.
Kerosene.
It is kerosene and I can feel it splashing down my body.
Dripping.
Corrosively eating away at my open wounds.
“Kendra Darlene Miller.” A dark voice accuses me, “You have openly admitted your crimes of heresy and of engaging in the practice of WitchCraft.”
An enormous, gloved hand roughly grasps my jaw and forces my face upward.
Oily kerosene drips from my soaked hair and into my eyes, burning them.
Blurring my sight.
“I hold before you evidence. Evidence recently obtained from your apartment which validates your confession of these crimes.”
Through my clouded sight I can scarcely make out the silver shape of a pentacle dangling from a chain.
A necklace.
My necklace.
His proof.
The hand releases its grip, and my head is dragged rapidly downward by gravity.
I can hear shuffling footsteps amidst the bitter, sighing wind. The footsteps come to a halt behind me.
An involuntary shiver trickles through my freezing body.
“We, by the mercy of God,” the dark voice begins in an imperious tone, “seeing that you, Kendra Darlene Miller, have been accused before us by public report of heresy, and that you have for many years persisted in those heresies to the great hurt of your immortal soul; and We, whose duty is to exterminate the plague of heresy and WitchCraft, wishing to be more certain of whether you walked the path of darkness or light, have diligently examined you, and find you are indeed infected with the said heresy.”
“No. This isn’t happening,” is the only thing that passes through my mind.
“In as much as you have duly and properly admitted your crimes, and having before us the Holy Gospels that our judgment may proceed as from the countenance of God, by this sentence we cast you away as an impenitent heretic, Witch, and Concubine of Satan, and do hereby deliver you unto the power of our most Holy God. As you are damned in body and soul, your sentence on this day is death. The sentence is to be executed immediately, without appeal, in the manner of expurgation by fire.”
“No! No! This can’t be!”
“May The Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon your soul.”
I cannot move.
I can hear the scraping of a match against stone.
I cannot scream.
I can hear the explosive spark as the match ignites.
Somebody please help me!
I can see the faint shadows cast as the flame on the match head flares and settles to an even burn.
NO! THIS ISN’T HAPPENING!
I am crying.
Thunder crashes in my ears as the kerosene ignites.
Hot yellow agony licks across my body.
“He’s posturing.” The distantly familiar female voice pierces my nightmare. “Look at his hands.”
“GODDAMIT, ROWAN, NO!” I can hear the deep voice now. The one called Ben. “You’re NOT gonna make me tell Felicity you’re dead!”
Fire clings to me in a vicious shroud. I’m holding my breath as the flame washes over my face furiously catching my hair and blossoming upward with yet another loud crash.
I want to scream as the angry blaze literally cooks my flesh.
A sudden roar mixes with the rush of the fire and marries with a high-pitched grind before fading away on the night.
Flames consume all that is.
A sharp sting ripped through my left cheek.
Of all the hurt I was experiencing, this was the least. At the same time, it was the worst.
There was something different about it.
Sizzling noises.
Crackling noises.
I know that they are coming from me.
The gag is burning.
A pair of pantyhose melting into my skin.
I can’t hold my breath any longer.
Maybe I can scream.
I gasp.
Liquid fire rushes down my throat.
Expanding through my lungs.
I choke.
No sound comes past my seared lips.
The bizarre, piercing discomfort attacked me again. This time, my right cheek reported the sensation. Off in the control center of my brain, a series of comparisons took place. A vague recollection of something called the plane of physical reality was suddenly rushed to the forefront.
I snapped my eyes open.
I awoke to find myself sprawled on a metal table in what I knew to be an autopsy suite at the city morgue. Ben was towering over me, one meaty paw entwined in the front of my shirt, the other reared back in preparation to impart a serious-looking backhand to my face. Just as I started to cringe, I caught a swift motion from the corner of my eye and saw Doctor Sanders reach out to grab his wrist.
“Hold it, Storm!” she barked as she leaned in and brought her concerned gaze to meet mine. “Mister Gant, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
I felt Ben’s hand relax and release my shirt immediately following my gravelly-voiced answer, which simply came out as “I could really use a drink.”