Caterpillar, a Paranormal Romance With a Touch of Horror (2 page)

“You just
stumbled
on the body?”

“Yes.”

“Inside?”

I toyed with several sarcastic responses before I decided a polite one was undoubtedly the wiser choice.  “Yes, inside.  Upstairs.  In the master.”  Evidently there was some sarcasm in my tone anyway, and Deputy Bivens took exception to it.

“Look, lady, we’re just here to make sure this is a legitimate call, ok?  We have to establish there
is
, in fact,
a crime scene.”

Sweeping my hand toward the door behind me, I said, “Establish away.”

The deputies whispered quietly to one another then they split up.  Bivens stepped past me into the house while the other milled aimlessly around the front yard, keeping an eye on me and Rainn. 

Within minutes, Bivens re-emerged.  He spoke softly to Caldwell, who then turned his back on me and mumbled an assortment of codes into the radio at his shoulder.  When the disembodied voice on the other end of the radio assured them back up was on the way, Caldwell advised us to stay put while they secured the perimeter.  Having no intention of moving from my spot, I sat on the stoop and watched the scene unfold. 

After securing the grounds, Caldwell cordoned off the house with yellow crime scene tape.  It became immediately apparent that the tape was like a supernatural beacon, calling to all manner of law enforcement personnel. 

The crime scene investigators arrived first.  They poured out of a nondescript van, each carrying large cases of equipment, the mysterious contents of which enabled them to unravel the mysteries of the world, or so it seemed.

It was surreal, the way it happened, as if I were watching it from far away and without sound.  Even Rainn was completely silent, something I’d never before witnessed. 

Within minutes of the crime scene crew, two men in plain clothes arrived in an unmarked car.  After watching them move about the scene, checking this and that, talking to this one and that, I quickly deduced they were detectives.  Eventually they made their way to me and then on to Rainn for some of the most extensive questioning I’d ever endured. 

I was interrogated by several people before they let me go.  I couldn’t remember any of their names and had already forgotten most of their faces.  I just wanted to go home for a bath, some peace and quiet and a nervous breakdown.  Was that too much to ask?

I looked around for Rainn, but she was nowhere to be found.  I asked one of the cops still milling about. 

“I think she’s going stick around and get a ride home with Townsend,” he answered shyly.  He was a fresh-faced boy who looked to be even younger than me.  I wondered if what he’d seen inside was bothering him like it was me.

“Thank you.”

I turned and made my way toward my vehicle, stumbling twice in the dark yard as I went.  At that point I didn’t care, though.  My pride was the least of my worries.  I just wanted to get out of there. 

The drive home was a blur.  My mind whirled with the sights and smells from the big Tudor home, sights and smells I didn’t think I’d ever be rid of. 

By the time I wandered back to reality, I was sitting naked in my bathtub, surrounded by scented candles and immersed to the chin in bubbles and very hot water.  The silence around me was deafening after the commotion of the crime scene.  An unfamiliar cry, a wounded howl, broke the stillness in my bathroom and I dissolved into a flood of tears that lasted long past my hot water.  I lay in the tub and cried to the point of emotional exhaustion, rousing myself some time later to reheat my water and finish my bath.

After my fit had faded, I gave myself the scrubbing of a lifetime.  When the water had cooled for the second time, I dragged myself out of the tub to towel off.  I had donned my favorite silk robe and was squeezing water from my hair when the doorbell rang.  A little shiver of apprehension vibrated along my spine. 

Who on earth could that be? 

I wrapped my hair in a towel and rushed nervously into the living room.  I flipped on the front porch light and stretched up on my toes to peer through the peep hole.  There was a stranger on my stoop. 

Memories of the gruesome scene from earlier flitted through my head like a Faces of Death slide show, minus the faces.  My slides contained only blood and detached body parts. 

Understandably cautious, I thought it would be wise to ask some questions before opening the door and for the first time in my life, I wished I had a shotgun close at hand.  I’d never made a habit of keeping weapons around, though, so I crept quietly into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find.  Not a shotgun, but it would do. 

I stood facing the door, wielding the gigantic blade like I knew what I was doing.  In my meanest voice I growled, “Who is it?” 

“Detective Tegan.  Atlanta Police Department,” said a deep voice.  A rash of cold chills broke out on both my arms so pleasant was his voice.  I looked back into the peep hole.  His voice suited his appearance—dark and dangerous.

Before I could ask, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bi-fold wallet and held his badge up to the door.  He could’ve gotten it from a box of Cracker Jacks for all I knew, but it looked legitimate.  Besides, what choice did I have but to believe it?

“What is it that you want?”

“I’m looking for Catherine Deen,” he answered.

“Why?”

“I’d like to ask her some questions,” he replied vaguely.

“About what?”

There was a long pause and I thought I saw his jaw clench.  “Something she saw today,” he responded tersely, obviously not long on patience.  

I knew that policemen had a job to do and I respected that, but he hadn’t had the day that I was trying desperately to leave behind.  So, it was with great reluctance that I unlocked the knob and flipped the deadbolts open.  I left the chain in place and opened the door a fraction, leaving myself the tiniest bit of protection.

I peered out at the detective.  Out and up. 

Detective Tegan was tall, well over six feet.  I could see that he was broad-shouldered beneath his black duster and looked to be fit and muscular.  His hair was dark, dark brown and a little shaggy, but attractively so.  Disheveled, I’d have called it. 

His eyes were a pale, piercing blue rimmed with lush, dark lashes and set under sharply arched brows.  Five o’clock shadow dusted his lean cheeks and square jaw, framing lips set in a grim, straight line.  

“Ms. Deen?” He was frowning.  He didn’t look any happier to be visiting me than I was to be visited. 

“Yes?” 

“May I come in?”

I was suddenly uncomfortably aware of my nakedness beneath the thin material of my robe.  Then I remembered that I was also without makeup and had a towel on my head.  I reached up to touch my scar then quickly pulled my hand away.  There was no hair to pull down to cover it; it was all up in the towel. 

I nodded once then closed the door to remove the chain.  I remembered the knife in my hand and quickly stuffed it in the sofa table drawer before releasing the chain and opening the door.  I stepped to the side so he could enter.

“Detective Tegan, Atlanta PD,” he repeated, stopping in front of me to offer his hand.  “Ms. Deen.  May I call you Catherine?”

“Cat,” I corrected, automatically reaching out to grasp his proffered hand.  It was big and rough and warm and it made me shiver just a little. I’d never felt so self-conscious—or so aware.

“Cat,” he repeated, his icy
blue eyes locked onto mine. 

His presence overwhelmed the small space of my living room, filling it with an intimidating masculinity I wasn’t used to.  I could see him scanning the room, taking it all in: brick-colored furniture, warm wood floors, pale yellow walls.  He walked around the loveseat and sat, leaning back against the pillows, throwing one arm across the back, obviously very much at ease.

I shut the door, leaving the locks open in case I needed to make a hasty escape.  I moved past the loveseat to sit on the sofa.  The two pieces faced one another and, like two puffy parentheses, framed the fireplace that dominated one wall of the room. 

I sat carefully, perching on the edge of the cushion.  My knees were clamped together so tightly my thighs ached, but I wasn’t about to relax them. 

“How can I help you?”  Hands clasped in my lap, I tried not to fidget. 

The detective’s eyes shifted to my chest and I realized that my posture had my more-than-a-handful breasts straining against the thin material of my silky robe.  My nipples puckered tightly in response to his scrutiny.  My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“How can I help you?”  I repeated, trying to appear calm and unaffected by the combination of my dishabille and his presence, but it was a gargantuan effort.  My insides were quivering. 

“I’m sorry to bother you so late and without calling in advance, but I was in the area and thought I’d stop and speak with you before heading back into the city,” he explained.  “I’d like to go over what you saw this evening.”

“I’ve already told the police everything I know.  I’m sure it’s all in the report.”  I didn’t want to go over the whole thing again.  I just wanted to try and forget about it so I could get some sleep.  I’d have plenty of time to think about it the next day, and the next, and the next.  I could be deeply scarred and profoundly traumatized then.

“I read the report, but I’d like to hear your first-hand account,” he stated, his cool blue gaze direct and unwavering.  I doubted he’d leave until I gave him what he wanted so I yielded with as much grace as I could muster under the circumstances, which wasn’t much.

“Oh, alright,” I said on a sigh. 

I went through the entire ordeal again.  He only stopped me twice to ask questions.  When I was finished, Detective Tegan watched me thoughtfully for a few excruciatingly long seconds then scooted to the edge of his seat with a humph.

“Well?” I prompted, expecting him to declare that my uncanny powers of observation and recollection had pointed him to the killer and he was leaving to go arrest him posthaste.

Instead, with the tight dismissive smile that only law enforcement officials can achieve, he said, “I appreciate your cooperation.  I guess it’s time I get back to Atlanta,” which told me absolutely nothing.

I rose as he did and walked behind him to the door.   He turned to me, hand on the knob, and asked suspiciously, “When had you been in the house last?”

“I-I’m not sure.  I’d have to check.”

Another humph.

He’d opened the door and stepped onto the porch when I realized that I hadn’t mentioned the vortex symbol on the window.  “Have they figured out what that marking was?”

“You saw that?” His expression was suddenly intense.

“That swirly thing?  Yeah,” I admitted, wondering why he was watching me so closely.

“No.  We’ve sent it to our guy who works in Symbology.  We’ll see what he finds.”

“Oh.” 

“Not planning on leaving town any time soon, are you?”

For the first time since his arrival, Detective Tegan was making me feel like a suspect.

“No.  Why?”  I could feel my hackles rising.

“Procedure.”

Procedure, my butt!

“Thank you for your time,” he said, dismissively.  Before he turned to leave, he reached inside his coat and produced a business card.  “Here’s my card.  If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call.”

I took the card from between his fingers.  It read “S. Tegan, Detective” with some numbers below. 

“What’s the S stand for?”