Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (31 page)

“Door propped open?” I queried as I knelt to
inspect the gory spectacle.

“Yeah,” he answered tiredly. “It was
open.”

The other victims, Ariel, Karen, and Ellen
had been splayed out like rag dolls, little care taken as to their
appearance once the ritual was complete. This was different. The
young woman before me lay like an adornment. Her nude body
stretched out upon the bed as if she were a decoration. As if she
were being offered.

Her shoulder length brown hair fanned out in
a silky halo around her head, perfectly arranged. Her arms were at
her sides, unbound, palms upward. Glassy, green eyes stared
unblinking from a slackened face, forever intent upon the textured
ceiling above.

A Pentagram was carefully excised from the
skin of her chest and stomach, even more precisely than it had been
in the case of Ellen Gray. The pentagon created by the convergence
of the lines at the center of the symbol was positioned centrally
and just below her ribcage. At this point, muscle and flesh had
been removed to leave a gaping five-sided hole. Reaching out, I
held my glove-encased fist above the opening, making a visual
measurement.

“That’s where he pulled her heart out,” I
ventured bluntly. “Directly through the center of the Pentagram.” I
hated the fact that I had become so clinically detached from these
horrors. It was beginning to make me feel almost inhuman.

“You think this might be some kind of copycat
deal or something?” Deckert asked. “This one’s not bound up like
the other three.”

“No,” I expressed positively. “It’s the same
guy. The pattern of flaying is too much like it was on Ellen Gray.
That detail never made it to the media, so it wouldn’t be able to
be copied.”

Deckert grunted agreement. I could tell that
he hadn’t really believed we were dealing with an imposter, but
someone had to ask the question.

“Does it smell different in here to you?” Ben
asked. He had been quietly scrutinizing the scene ever since we
arrived. “Sweeter than before. Kinda reminds me of some opium I
took off a dealer I popped a couple’a years back.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” I answered,
still kneeling next to the corpse. “Hallucinogenics were sometimes
used by ritual magicians in days gone by. I expect you’ll find that
some was added to the incense he burned.”

“I still don’t get why she isn’t restrained
like the others,” Deckert asserted. “Shit, she looks like she just
laid there and let him do it. No fight, no struggle.”

“She probably couldn’t,” a new but familiar
voice issued from behind us.

I turned to see Doctor Sanders peering over
the rim of her glasses at us. She looked back down at the clipboard
she was holding and finished signing whatever document was attached
to its face and then handed it to her assistant.

“You mind expanding on that a bit, Doc?” Ben
asked.

“D-Tubocurarine chloride,” she stated
matter-of-factly as she stepped past him.

“Dee Tube of what?” Deckert voiced in a
confused tone.

“D-Tubocurarine chloride,” she repeated.
“It’s a curarine derivative.”

“English,” Ben urged.

“Curare,” she returned seeming somewhat
annoyed. “You know, poison darts, all that jazz. Tubocurarine is
commonly used as a paralytic agent for patients experiencing
violent and uncontrollable seizures. The tox reports came back on
the Tanner and Barnes cases. They both had it in their systems. I’m
willing to bet we’ll find it in the Gray case, and this one as
well.”

“Would the individual still be able to feel
pain?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered with a nod, “The
patient would remain conscious and fully aware. Totally capable of
feeling pain, just unable to move. The effects are usually short
lived but drastic.”

“That would fit with what this S.O.B. is
trying to accomplish.” I offered.

“But that still doesn’t explain why the other
three victims were restrained, and this one isn’t,” Deckert
observed. “If he shot the others up, why didn’t they just lay there
too?”

“I can shed some light on that for you. May
I?” Doctor Sanders looked at me and motioned to the body.

I stood and moved back as she leaned over and
turned the young woman’s lifeless arm slightly to allow a better
view. Expertly, she ran the index finger of her gloved hand across
the cooling skin and brought it to rest. “Right here,” she
announced. “He injected her intravenously. The other three were
intramuscularly.” She left her finger where it was until we had all
inspected the puncture wound then gently rolled the arm back
against the body. “Tubocurarine chloride is some pretty wicked
stuff, but it’s unpredictable when injected into muscle. Dosages
are pretty tricky as well because just a little too much can cause
respiratory arrest.”

“So it’s possible that the other victims
weren’t completely paralyzed,” I thought aloud.

“Precisely,” Doctor Sanders affirmed. “Based
on the differing amounts between the Tanner and Barnes cases, I’d
venture to say that the killer was experimenting. It can also
depend on how long it was in their system because it can metabolize
in as little as thirty minutes.”

“What about the fact that the killer ingested
blood from the victims?” I queried. “Wouldn’t the drug affect him
then?”

“Doubtful.” She shook her head. “He would
have to ingest much more than he has for it to have an effect on
him, and even then it’s unlikely.”

I continued to stare quietly at the lifeless
body so neatly arranged upon the bed. The killer had been more
precise with his movements, more exacting. Nothing was wasted.
After a few moments, I realized I was holding my breath. I let it
out in a long sigh. The cloying odor of the opium made my nostrils
tingle as I drew in a fresh breath. Something was rattling around
in the back of my brain. Something recent. Something I should
know.

“I guess this clears the kid,” Deckert was
speaking to Ben. “Maybe,” Ben answered, “maybe not. His fingerprint
was still on that candle. Maybe there’s an accomplice. Like a cult
thing or somethin’.”

“No,” I volunteered over my shoulder without
taking my eyes off the corpse. “There’s only one killer. I would
have felt it if there were more.”

“Hey, Doc.” Ben turned his attention to
Doctor Sanders. “Have you established a time of death yet?”

“I’d place it around eleven last night, give
or take an hour,” she replied. “I can be more specific once I get a
liver temp, but between ten and midnight is your ballpark.”

The sigh that Ben Storm let out was barely
audible. I suppose I heard it simply because I could also feel the
tension as it drained from him. I could sense him relaxing as if an
unbearable weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. I felt
all this because I had been aware of his thoughts. I had known what
he was thinking ever since I had climbed into his van less than an
hour ago.

“Feel better now,” I asked without
turning.

“Huh?” he grunted.

“Do you feel better now that you know I
didn’t commit this murder?” I turned to face my friend.

“How did...” His voice trailed off as he
looked at me, obviously both surprised and embarrassed.

“What are you talking about?” Deckert
inserted, genuinely befuddled.

“I had a vision tonight,” I explained.
“Something of a nightmare I suppose. In it I saw that this murder
had occurred, so I called Ben and told him.” I didn’t go into the
details of his not believing me. “Of course, being the good cop
that he is, when the body was found, he immediately considered me a
suspect. That is, until the doctor here established that it
probably all happened while he and I were sitting in his living
room drinking a beer.”

“Rowan... Look, I’m sorry man... I...” Ben
stuttered.

“Forget it,” I told him sincerely. “You
didn’t have any choice. I know I sounded like a lunatic when I
called you...”

“Yeah, but you’re my friend,” he protested.
“And after everything that’s happened... Well, I shouldn’t have
doubted you.”

“Really, Ben. It’s okay. I would have done
the same thing if I were in your position. Let’s just figure out
who it is, so we can stop him.”

“How did you know anyway?”

“Like you said. I
just
ain’t natural
.” I smiled.

He nodded and returned the smile, and I knew
that the matter was settled.

I turned back to the neatly arranged
sacrifice. The earlier thought was clawing its way forward from the
back of my head, tearing painfully at my brain. I knew for certain
that the answer was right in front of me. I just didn’t know why I
couldn’t see it.

Her arms were at her sides, palms upward—an
act of supplication. Her hair was fanned out like a diaphanous halo
floating around her head. The flaying was precise and clean.

Deckert and Ben were still talking behind me,
discussing the question of whether or not this event actually did
clear R.J. of the crimes. I pressed myself to tune them out and
listen only to the rhythmic patterns of my measured breathing. I
wasn’t about to try channeling this young woman, especially without
Felicity here to anchor me on this plane. I simply wanted to read
the room with something other than my eyes. I wanted to know what
the killer was up to. What he was trying to accomplish.

I stretched my senses outward, closed my
eyes, and concentrated on the sound of my own heart. I raked my
senses through the ethereal atmosphere only I could see. I let
every molecule of residual energy run through my otherworldly
fingers like ghostly grains of sand. To be inspected. Scrutinized.
Discarded.

Nothing.

I could feel nothing but darkness and death.
It was just like the other crime scenes. It was as if no ritual or
ceremony had ever been performed in this room.

“
This is just the dress rehearsal,” a
child’s tiny voice echoes in my brain.

“This is just a dress rehearsal,” I whispered
aloud as my eyes opened wide.

“What was that, Mister Gant?” Doctor Sanders
looked up from her work.

“A dress rehearsal.” I made the comment
louder now as the thought scratched its way up through my brain to
reside clearly and positively in the front. “Look at the way she’s
arranged.” Ben and Deckert had broken off their conversation to
listen to me. “Her hair. Her hands, palms upward in supplication or
offering. The detail of the flaying. The opium in the incense.” By
now I had moved around the bed motioning to each of the points I
had mentioned. “The whole ritual has gotten more complicated each
time. The first three were for practice, and this one was the final
dress rehearsal.”

“Dress rehearsal for what?” Ben appealed.

“For the invocation,” I answered quickly.
“For the actual ceremony.”

“No offense, but so what?” Deckert
interjected.

“So it’s something that has bothered me ever
since the second murder, but I could never really put my finger on
it.” I continued, “I’ve never felt any residual energy from the
crime scenes. I know that means nothing to you, but to me it’s
important. I’ve just been assuming that I was missing something,
and now I’m sure that I was.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“The refinement in the
ceremony with each murder. This has all been one big rehearsal for
the final ceremony. This was the
dress
rehearsal
. The next time it’s going to be
for real.”

“That still doesn’t tell us anything,”
Deckert returned. “It just means that the asshole is going to kill
again. That is, unless you’re trying to tell us you actually
believe he’s going to summon up a demon or something.”

“That’s entirely beside the point,” I
returned. “I’d rather he never get a chance to even try. All of
this DOES mean something though. It tells us WHEN, and in a certain
respect, WHO he’s going to kill next. That’s what I’ve been
missing.”

“How’s that?”

“Based on some of the things I dug up when I
researched ritual sacrifices.” I continued, “If I’m on the same
page he is, and I’m pretty sure I am, he’ll plan to perform the
ritual on a full moon.”

“Anyone got a calendar?” Ben called out.
“When is the next full moon?”

“This Friday,” I told them before anyone else
could respond.

“Okay, so that’s the when.” Ben looked at me
expectantly. “What about the who?”

I bit back a rush of bile in my throat at the
thought, then quietly uttered the answer, “He’ll believe he needs a
virgin.”

“A virgin?” Deckert posed, “How the hell is
he going to know if the victim is a virgin?”

“A kid,” Ben answered him flatly, still
holding my gaze.

“A kid?!” Deckert exclaimed. “Holy fucking
shit, you can’t be serious!”

“Tell me I misunderstood, Rowan,” Ben
appealed, eyes still fixed on mine. “Please.”

I couldn’t.

I just looked away.

* * * * *

There was a note waiting for me when Ben
dropped me back at home later that morning. Felicity had already
left for a photo shoot she had scheduled, and she was letting me
know that she would be home later in the afternoon. I showered and
changed clothes while the coffeepot performed its prescribed duty.
After grabbing a cup and filling a thermal carafe with the
resulting brew, I settled in at my desk upstairs.

I hoped that doing some work would take my
mind off the events of the past days and allow me at least some
small period of rest. Much to my chagrin, I found the reason behind
why the previous week had been so grueling. I was entirely caught
up. No unanswered support calls. No clients needing upgrades or
modifications. I had nothing to do.

I was just preparing to call it quits when I
noticed the yellow pickup slip in my box. It had been lying there
since Saturday afternoon, completely forgotten. The odds were that
the package was a software backup from a client needing a minor
modification or a database recovery; either of which would only
amount to an hour or so worth of work. In any event, it was better
than nothing, so I snatched up the canary ticket and made the short
drive to the post office and back.