Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (7 page)

“We’re not jumping to any conclusions
just yet,” Spencer said. “There’s no evidence she was taken.”

Jennings
croaked out a harsh laugh. “Well, where the hell is she then?”

“We’re looking into it, checking with all known relatives and close friends.
So far she hasn’t turned up.”

“Who found the bodies?”

“When the father didn’t show up for work and nobody would answer the phone, his employer sent someone over. The porch door was open and he saw the boy.”

“Did he go into the house?”

“No way. He went back to his car and called the police on his cell phone.”

“So he didn’t see the little girl.”

Spencer shook his head. “Nobody saw her.  Listen, Rick, we have a very strange situation here.”

Jennings
eyed the agent. “She’s missing, right? Either she ran away and hid somewhere or she was taken.”

Spencer
’s expression was dour. “This is the strange part, the part I probably shouldn’t be talking about, but I really do need your help on this. Truth is there’s no forensic evidence in this house that proves she ever existed.”

“
What?” Jennings said.

Spencer said, “Her clothes are in her bedroom along with her toys, pictures, even a birth certificate. She’s got relatives and all the neighbors remember her.
They all say she’s a gifted little girl; some sort of savant actually, and that she has a kind and pure heart. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that there’s no
scientific
evidence that she was ever in this house, no scientific evidence that she ever existed at all, for that matter. No fingerprints, no hairs, no epidermis. There’s nothing in her bed or the bathroom or the kitchen. Nothing! The house is filled with forensic evidence of all the other family members. That’s just normal. When you live in a space you contaminate it with your presence. Either she hasn’t been here in a very long time or she was never really here at all.”

“Come on, Spencer, are all those people wrong? It’s not logical.”

“You see anything this morning that’s logical, Rick?”

“Then what’s the explanation?”

“There isn’t one. Just like there’s no explanation for those bodies over there
that miraculously turned into blocks of salt. Whatever happened to these people goes far beyond our present knowledge of science into the realm of the unknown.”

Sweat poured off
Jennings. He remembered a very young and a very vulnerable-looking Doug McArthur lying in a hospital bed with his face taped up trying to absorb the reality that the two young friends he had been playing with just hours before had vanished without a trace. In his mind the boy hadn’t seen the kids disappear, but he had seen the strangeness in the second floor apartment that preceded their disappearances. And there had been others. Oh yes, there certainly had been.

Spencer was droning on about something in the very background of
Jennings’ thoughts. “Rick, are you listening to me?”

“I hear you loud and clear, Spencer,”
Jennings said, even though he hadn’t heard one word the asshole had spoken. He was still trying to put together those memory fragments, to no avail. He performed an almost military about face and strode back into the living room leaving Spencer with a puzzled expression on his face. The teams were still busy with the bodies, taking samples, photographing, swabbing, examining hair and teeth. Jennings stared at them, shaking his head. “What do you make of this?” he asked a man who looked to be in charge of the forensic team.

“Supernatural,” the small bespectacled man responded, getting up from examining one of the husks.

“Rick Jennings, this is Tad Kohler,” Spencer said, coming into the room. “He’s the agency’s lead CSI on the case.”

Jennings
nodded, avoiding shaking the man’s latex-sheathed hand. “What did you mean by that?” asked Jennings.

“What
?” Kohler said.

“You said supernatural. What did you mean by that?”

Kohler’s laugh was small and a little unsettling. “It was a joke.”

Everybody in the room stopped what they were doing and looked over at Kohler, and
Jennings thought it was because none of this was actually very funny. Kohler nervously cleared his throat. “That’s the only explanation I can come up with,” he said, his face reddening slightly. “Nothing else makes sense.”

“Give me your best shot as to what happened to these people,”
Jennings said.

Kohler looked nervously around the room. All eyes were on him and all ears were tuned to what he might say. “You want logical?”

“I want what you think happened.”

Kohler nodded. “Whatever it was happened fast, okay? I can tell you that. But not so fast that the victims didn’t know what hit them. Just look at their expressions. Tell me they didn’t see their killer.”

Jennings did not respond.

“I think the killer purposely left them this way,” Kohler continued. “He
wanted
us to see their expressions. He wanted us to
know
their terror. I can’t think of anything in the real world that could accomplish something like this.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“These bodies seem to be mummified in some way. But not in the way we’ve come to understand mummification. There were no chemical processes used here, no, these were done almost instantaneously, as if everything that made them alive was sucked out of them. These killings are like a work of art. They were done for effect, for shock value. The sole purpose was to instill terror.”

“It’s working,” said one of the female techs who kept glancing furtively around the room as though the killer might reappear at any second for another round of fun and games.

Suddenly the whole room went still, not a soul stirred, everyone alert for what Kohler might say next and perhaps dreading it.

“We’ll have to get them back to the lab, of course,” Kohler continued, “you know, before I can draw any final conclusions, but . . .”

“But what?” Jennings asked. The room was suddenly alive with electric energy. Jennings could see by the look on Spencer’s face that he was just as creeped out as the rest of them. “You have something more to tell us, Kohler?”

Kohler was now looking a little sheepish. “I don’t know.” He faltered momentarily. “It’s just a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah, you feel it too, don’t you? I can tell.”

Jennings did not answer the man. He might have to be truthful with him, and right now the truth seemed much too weird. He felt static run in the hairs on his arms and gooseflesh erupt over his entire body. Inside the room you could have cut the dread with a knife.

“It’s like there’s something still here,” Kohler said, looking around the room as his eyes darkened with terror. “Some kind of residue or something left here by the killer. It feels like evil.” He pointed at the Aramaic words written on the wall and the symbol beneath them. “He left that for a reason. These people were
more
than murdered,” he said. “This is some sort of warning, perhaps an omen of things to come. If I was a religious man, which I’m not, I’d say that their souls were taken. That’s what it feels like to me, anyway. Empty. Yep, I’d say somebody or something walked right in here last night and took more than these people’s lives, it took their souls.”

August 12, 1996. Regressive Therapy

“To the best of my knowledge the visions began when I was nine years old,” Doug said, “and I always associated them with that punch Tommy Ricker gave me in the nose. I could be wrong about that but I don’t think so because there is not a conscious memory of anything even remotely similar to those experiences before that day. From then on it seemed that I was in possession of some terrible power of sight, something that would haunt my life for years to come. I tried to dismiss it, I tried to deny it, but every time I became complacent something would happen that reminded me of who I was and of the terrible things I was capable of seeing. Yes, I believe it all began the day Tommy Ricker broke my nose.”

“That’s a very good beginning, Doug,” Dr. Pasternak said in a soothing voice. “Just
lie back and relax. I’m going to take you back to that first incident. I want you to tell me in your own words what happened on that day. I want it to be as if you’re there and you’re living it all over again. Think you can do that for me?”

Doug swallowed nervously. “Sure,” he said, “but I’ve already told this story a thousand times. I told the other doctors and the police . . .” Doug’s friend, Portland Police Lieutenant, Richard Jennings was in the room and Doug gave him a helpless stare. “You know the story better than I do.”

“Yes, Doug, you’re right,” said Jennings. “I do know it very well. What Dr. Pasternak and I are hoping to do is open a new doorway, bring something through that perhaps you’ve forgotten, some key that might shed a little more light on what actually happens to you during these incidents. If we can do that then maybe we can figure out what’s causing it to happen, and just maybe, if those kids are still alive, we can find them.”

“You guys think I did it, don’t you?” the young man said. “You think that if you can get me under hypnosis I’ll confess and then you can solve the damned case.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” said Jennings. He was sitting across from the couch on which Doug was reclining. “How long have I known you, Doug?”

“About ten years.”

“That’s right. Since you were eight years old, since the time of that first incident. And I’ve never believed that an eight year old boy could do the things that happened to those people. Nobody believes that. What Dr. Pasternak and I are trying to do, is exactly what he said we were trying to do. Deep hypnosis can sometimes dig
beneath
the conscious mind to areas of the brain that might store forgotten or forbidden information. Now, I think it’s worth a try if it can save those kids. Don’t you?”

Doug’s eyes moved from
Jennings to Pasternak and then back to Jennings again. Finally he nodded, staring at Lieutenant Jennings as only one who truly trusts another human being can do. “Okay,” he said, “but I think it’s too late. Tommy and Savannah’s voices faded long ago.”

“
But don’t you think it’s worth a try anyway, Doug?”

“I guess so,” Doug said. “If you think it will help.” 

“All right then,” Dr. Pasternak said. “Any time you’re ready.”

The eighteen year-old licked his lips and said, “I’m ready. You can start any time.”

“Now, Doug, I’m going to count slowly backwards from ten, and as I do so, you’ll begin to feel sleepy. By the time I get to number three your eyelids will be too heavy to keep open. By the time I get to number one they’ll be closed and you’ll be sleeping soundly and peacefully. Okay, here we go. 10, 9, 8, 7, you’re getting sleepy, 6, 5, 4 . . . your eyelids are getting heavier, 3 . . .”

Doug’s eyelids fluttered then closed and his breathing became rhythmic.

“. . . 2, 1 . . . Now, Doug,” Dr. Pasternak said. “What are we going to talk about?

“The day Tommy Ricker broke my nose.”

“Very good. Try to remember everything, all right? Every little detail.”

“Okay.”

“What are you doing at this very moment?”

“I’m playing with Tommy and
Savannah in the front yard of their apartment house. It’s directly across the street from the house where I live with my parents. We moved there when I was two. Tommy and Savannah have been my friends for as long as I can remember. Tommy is nine and Savannah is seven.”

“Are their parents home today?”

“No, they had to work. But Janet’s upstairs.”

“Who is Janet?”

“The babysitter. She’s sixteen.”

“Do you like Janet?”

“Yeah, I guess so. She swears a lot and spends most of her time eating and watching TV. And she smokes. Sometimes her boyfriend comes over.”

“Is her boyfriend here on this morning?”

“Yes. I saw his car come up the driveway. It’s a red Camaro, a really cool car, and loud. When Janet’s boyfriend got out of the car he made a mean face at us kids before going inside. He was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and sun glasses.”

“What’s happening now, Doug?”

“Me and Tommy Ricker are having a fake Kung Fu fight.”

“A fake Kung Fu fight?”

“That’s right, fake Kung Fu fights are one of our favorite things to do. We pretend to be guys like Chuck Norris and David Carradine. But our favorite is Bruce Lee. He’s the coolest one of all. I know he died a long time ago, but he’s still the best, and today I got to be him.”

“How did that happen?”

“Me and Tommy drew straws and I drew the longest one.”

“I see. How do these fake Kung Fu fights work, Doug?”

“We fight each other without actually hitting the other kid.”

“Oh? Can you explain?”

“It takes a lot of skill.”

“Yes, I’m sure it does. Please explain.”

“One of us swings around with a punch and comes real close to the other guy’s face. Then the other boy throws his head back, or to the side and pretends he’s been hit. The punch is usually accompanied by a noise the puncher makes with his mouth which sort of sounds like a fist hitting flesh. We twist and spin and kick out with our feet, coming as close as we dare to the other guy’s face. These fights can last as long as ten or fifteen minutes. Usually we end our stunt fight by wrestling each other to the ground and laughing.”

“All in good fun, then, huh?”

“It’s the most fun thing we do.”

“But on this day something goes wrong, doesn’t it, Doug?”

“Yeah, I get distracted by something just as Tommy comes around with this monster punch.”

“What distracted you, Doug? Do you remember?”

On the couch Doug’s eyes were closed and his head gave a quick shake. “No. Maybe I saw something out of the corner of my eye, or maybe Savannah said something. I don’t know. She usually stands on the sidelines refereeing. Or it could have been something else. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is how much it hurt when Tommy Ricker’s fist hit my nose. At the instant of contact it’s like this universe of stars explodes inside my head. The next thing I know I’m on my back in the driveway with Tommy and Savannah standing over me, their scared faces blurring in and out of focus.

“‘Hey, Doug,’ Tommy Ricker says, grabbing my arm and shaking me. ‘You okay?’

“When I try to sit up a huge lightning bolt flashes across my vision, accompanied by a slash of pain so brutal, I might have died in that instant. My body convulses then stiffens, and I cannot move as a picture begins forming in my mind.”

“What do you see, Doug?”

“The Ricker’s second floor apartment. I know the place, and there is no question about what I’m seeing. I’m standing in the doorway on the threshold between the living room and kitchen. I can see the kitchen’s sideboard with the sink faucet protruding above it. The faucet is dripping, each drop forming on the rim like a tiny diamond before breaking free and dropping into the sink. I can distinctly hear the drops as they fall slowly into the dishpan: drip . . . drip . . . drip. The sound seems amplified somehow, so loud that it makes my head hurt.

“On the couch in the living room I see the baby sitter with her boyfriend beside her. They’re making out. The television set is on and I can hear Bob Barker’s voice, and he’s saying,
‘Tell them about the prizes, Johnny.’

“But the baby sitter and her boyfriend are not the only ones in the apartment. There is someone or . . . something else there.”

Doug stiffened and tried to sit up.

“Just relax, Doug,” Dr. Pasternak said, placing his hand on Doug’s chest and gently easing him back down onto the couch. “Whatever it is can’t hurt you. Remember, you are under hypnosis and merely recalling those events. You’re not really there, even though it seems like you are. Okay? Are you ready to go on?”

Doug nodded his head as tears squeezed out between his closed eyelids and ran down the sides of his face.

“All right then, what do you think you see in the Ricker apartment besides Janet and her boyfriend?”

“Some sort of swelling. I don’t know. I don’t actually see it at first, but I can feel it.”

“A swelling, Doug? What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not sure. It’s like a bubble or something. That’s all I can think of, and it’s trying to suffocate me.”

“Suffocate you?”

“Yeah, it feels like that. Like it wants to suffocate me.”

“All right then, go on, Doug. Tell me what’s happening now.”

“Well, in the far corner of the living room, behind Janet and her boyfriend, I think I see it, and it’s not a bubble at all, but more like a person, and it’s dressed in some sort of dark robe or something. And it’s very tall. At first it doesn’t move and I think it’s a statue of some kind, or a mannequin, you know, like those things in the department stores they hang clothes on. But in the next instant it seems to move forward a few feet, but I don’t actually see it moving. It’s some sort of . . . faze-shift or . . . streak that looks like stretching metal. All silvery or something. I know it sounds stupid but that’s what it looks like to me. One minute it’s over here, and zip, just like that, it’s over there. It makes my head ache to see it. Like my mind can’t quite figure it all out. It’s like magic or something. I don’t know. I’m concentrating; trying to see it better, trying to bring it into focus. But it’s useless. Doing that only makes my head ache worse, and I feel like I’m gonna puke. I just can’t figure it out. I suppose I’m a little bit grateful for that. Something about its swelling presence terrifies me.”

“I see,” said Dr. Pasternak. “What’s happening now?”

“Janet’s boyfriend—his name is Lance—has his hand inside Janet’s blouse; he’s trying to get it off her. I can see that her resistance is only mildly serious. It’s sort of like they’re playing a game.

“‘Please, Lance, stop it,’ Janet says, taking his hand out of her blouse.

“Lance gets this wounded look on his face. ‘Aw, come on, Janet,’ he whines. ‘You know you want to.’ He puts his hand back on her breast and begins to knead it, you know, like it’s a ball of dough or something. He looks really stupid doing that.

“‘Get your hands off me!’ she says, firmly this time, throwing his hand away from her.

“But Lance is having none of that; he suddenly turns mean, draws his hand back and slaps Janet across the face. ‘You teasing little bitch!’ he says. His face is all twisted up with rage and he grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her like a rag doll. ‘You want it and you know it.’

“‘No I don’t,’ Janet whines, struggling to break free of his grasp. ‘I don’t want nothin’ from you, you asshole.’

“‘Yeah, well you’re gonna get something’, Lance says. ‘I didn’t drive all the way over here to play tiddlywinks.’ He grabs a fistful of Janet’s blouse and pulls hard, tearing it, exposing one of her breasts.

“In my peripheral vision I see the shifting figure move closer to the pair, only this time it seems to be fluttering as well as streaking, like my eyes are opening and closing real fast. You know, like that REM sleep we learned about in school. I’m so scared I just want to shrink away in terror.

“Janet begins shrieking hysterically, slapping at Lance’s face with both hands. ‘You bastard,’ she screams. ‘Let . . . me . . . go!’

“But Lance doesn’t let go, and Janet’s blouse tears almost completely off her as she bolts from the couch. She manages just one step before Lance catches her foot, tripping her. She goes sprawling and he is on top of her in an instant. She is struggling and shrieking wildly. He rolls her over and tries to unzip her jeans. She lashes out and digs her nails across his cheek.

“He lets out a bellow of rage, puts his hand to the wounds, pulls it back and gawks in amazement at the jagged lines of blood on it. Janet wriggles out from under him and kicks him in the balls before taking off for the stairs.

“‘You little
bitch,’ he cries. He struggles to his feet, hanging onto his crotch and goes after her. And then . . . and then . . .”

Doug stopped; his mouth was working but no more words were coming out.

“And then what?” Dr. Pasternak said, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Something bad happens.”

“What happens, Doug? What’s happening at this very moment?”

Lieutenant Jennings also slid forward to the edge of his seat, and the look on his face was one of intense anticipation. Doug’s head was rolling back and forth on the pillow and small beads of sweat had broken out on his brow.
His eyeballs were rolling beneath his closed lids.