Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) Page 7

  “Sweet tea would be great,” Jackson said, and Grayson nodded.

  Corrine removed two glasses from the cabinet and fixed the tea while Eleonore uncovered two plates of cookies and pushed them over.

  “When Corrine is stressed, she bakes,” Eleonore said. “When I’m stressed, I eat. Since I need to lose some pounds, it isn’t a good situation for either of us. Please put a dent in those cookies and save me from myself.”

  Jackson picked up a cookie and took a bite. “This is great, Ms. Archer. You can’t beat homemade.”

  Corrine gave him a small smile, but Jackson could tell she was a bundle of nerves, waiting to see why they’d requested this meeting.

  Grayson took a drink of tea and looked at Corrine. “The reason I requested this meeting is to ask for your help.”

  “My help?” Corrine looked confused. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “We have a situation,” Grayson explained. “Some of the names in the journals have been decoded.”

  Corrine sucked in a breath. “You know who bought Shaye?”

  “Only his nickname,” Grayson said. “All the buyers that have been deciphered so far have been nicknames. But this particular buyer appeared again in a journal dated June of this year.” Grayson glanced over at Eleonore. “There’s no easy way to say this. The man who bought Shaye purchased from Clancy again last month—a fifteen-year-old girl.”

  Corrine’s hand flew over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “We’ve checked the missing children database and have a couple that fit the age range,” Grayson said, “but Lamotte has a theory about why they might not be a good match. I’m going to let him explain it to you.”

  Corrine and Eleonore both fixed their gazes on Jackson, and he felt like he’d been called to the front of the schoolroom. Now that he was sitting in front of a social worker and a psychiatrist, his idea didn’t seem to have nearly as much merit as it did down at the police station.

  Or maybe you’re afraid to disappoint Corrine Archer.

  Fine. So there was that, too.

  He drew in a breath and started talking. At this point, he had nothing to lose but his self-respect. Surprisingly, no one rolled their eyes or stopped him in the middle of his somewhat long-winded explanation of how he’d arrived at his theory, and when he finished he looked at Corrine, then Eleonore, but neither spoke. Corrine wore a pensive look and Eleonore was straight-out frowning.

  “This is the part where you can tell me I’m crazy,” Jackson said, “and that I should never waste your time again with my nonsense.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Corrine said. She studied him for a while, then gave him a rueful smile. “I think you’re a good man who wants to find a very bad man. And I think this case is more important to you than any other because of Shaye. I’ll be honest with you—I was prepared to not like you, but you’re making it really hard.”

  Jackson stared. Of all the things he’d thought Corrine might say, that wasn’t on the list. “Thank you.”

  “As for your theory,” Corrine said, and turned to look at Eleonore. “What do you think?”

  “You mean is it psychologically viable?” Eleonore asked. “Absolutely. But just because something is a viable option doesn’t mean it’s happening in this case.”

  “I know it’s a long shot,” Jackson started.

  Eleonore held up her hand. “You didn’t let me finish. Shaye tells me you have good instincts, and I believe her because she would know. She’s pretty intuitive herself. So if this idea latched onto you, then it’s for a reason and I think that reason is worth pursuing.” She looked over at Grayson. “Obviously, you do as well or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Grayson nodded. “I think Lamotte has a good feel for things. I call it radar, and it’s the reason I asked the chief to assign him to work with me.”

  Jackson felt the tension in his back and neck loosen, and he shifted from stressed to slightly embarrassed. “Thank you. I know it’s a lot to ask, going on a feeling, especially when all identifying the girl is going to do is support my theory that this guy is trying to pick up where he left off.”

  “It tells us about his psychological state and lends itself to intent,” Eleonore said. “That could be useful in identifying him when you get closer.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?” Corrine asked.

  “Assuming the girl was on the street,” Grayson said, “we figured she probably had a less-than-stellar home life.”

  Corinne nodded. “And you thought social services might have a record of a call to the house.” She leaned back in her stool and blew out a breath. “How far back are you wanting to search—six months, a year? Our office probably handled five hundred reports in the last six months alone.”

  Grayson’s eyes widened. “Five hundred? Holy smokes.”

  “They’re not all abusers,” Corrine explained. “Some reports are made by people trying to cause trouble, and many are unhealthy situations due to poverty or ignorance, but yeah, that still leaves a lot of kids with less than what they deserve.”

  “I didn’t realize it would be so many,” Jackson said. “I completely understand if you can’t help. That’s too much to ask.”

  Corrine whipped around and pinned her gaze on him. “Not help? Now you’re talking crazy. When it comes to finding the man who hurt Shaye, I’m the second-most-vested person on the planet. Of course I’ll help. I’ll do anything I can to save another girl from going through that hell. But it’s going to take some time. Fortunately, I’m still on medical leave for another week, but I can’t see it taking less than that to sort through all the records for the last year and try to verify that the teens who fit the description are accounted for.”

  “I’ll help,” Eleonore said. “All I have scheduled next week is a conference, but I can cancel. There’s nothing worse than sitting around listening to people talk all day.”

  Eleonore winked at Jackson and he smiled.

  “Thank you, both,” Grayson said. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it. With so many people working on the journals, we don’t have the manpower to run down these kinds of inquiries. If you need anything, please let me know, and I’ll do everything I can to accommodate you.”

  “There is something you can do for me,” Corrine said. “Catch this evil son of a bitch.”

  “That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Grayson said.

  Corrine nodded. “And then give me five minutes alone with him.”

  Shaye hurried into her apartment, secured the locks and dead bolts, and turned on her security system. She grabbed the packages she’d dumped by the front door and headed into the kitchen with them. Her face felt flushed so she grabbed a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator. It was hot and humid, and the combination of that and all the running around had probably caused the faint feeling.

  That’s what she tried to tell herself, anyway, but she knew better.

  The flush was from what was contained in the bags on her kitchen counter and what she intended to do with the contents. If anyone knew what she was planning, they would have told her not to do it, especially her mother and Eleonore. But Shaye wanted answers. The hypnosis she’d strong-armed Eleonore into would take time to set up, mostly because Eleonore would be hyper careful to make sure nothing could go wrong.

  But every second that passed, Shaye felt as though she was falling further behind—that the answers she wanted were slipping deeper into her unconscious, making them harder and harder to draw out. She had to grasp on to them while they were still there. Before her untapped memories faded away into nothing.

  She polished off the water and looked at the packages. She could wait until it was completely dark outside, but that would just be stalling and she wasn’t going to be any more prepared thirty minutes from now than she was already. Besides, the sun was almost gone and with the blinds closed and drapes drawn, the inside of her apartment would look no different than it would in the middle of the night.
She reached into the first bag and pulled out a box of black candles. Just four round pieces of wax, and yet they were so much more. She placed the box on the counter and hurried to close the blinds before she changed her mind.

  With the apartment completely dark, she used her cell phone to guide her back to the counter. She pulled off her shoes and all her clothes except her underwear and placed them on the counter next to the packages, then she reached into the second bag and pulled out a red dress. It wasn’t the same, of course. This was actually a nightgown, but it was the closest she could find to the color and style in her dreams. Her hands shook as she pulled the nightgown toward her head and she paused when she reached her forehead.

  You can still change your mind. You can stop now.

  And accomplish what? Doing this might not yield any results, but not doing it certainly wouldn’t. She shoved the nightgown over her head and the silky fabric fell down her bare skin. It was supposed to be luxurious, but it was one of the most uncomfortable things Shaye had ever put on her body. Everywhere the fabric touched her skin, it felt as if it were burning. She knew it was all in her mind, but that didn’t make it any more comfortable.

  She took the candles out of the box and placed them on the kitchen floor. The bricks were cool and would be a good representation of the stone altar from her dreams. The granite countertop was probably an even better choice, but she didn’t want to risk falling off if a flood of memory took over. The floor was safer.

  She lit the candles and placed them on the floor forming a square. It wasn’t the same as the dream, which featured more candles than she could count, but it would have to do. Hopefully, the effect would be enough. She crouched down, then sat on the floor. Her breathing grew more rapid and she felt her pulse increase. She took a deep breath in and slowly blew it out as she leaned back until she was lying flat on the floor.

  The coolness of the bricks immediately penetrated the thin fabric, and she felt a chill run through her. She closed her eyes and forced herself to recall the dreams—the man with no discernable face, the huddled movement of others behind him, the glow from the candles.

  And she slipped away.

  The cold was almost unbearable, especially to her foot, which still wasn’t right. It always hurt worse with the cold. The candles flickered all around her, creating shadows that jumped on the walls, their ominous shapes seeming to grow in size and proximity. Then she heard the quiet footsteps of the man coming up behind her. He touched her face with his finger, running it down her cheek, and she jerked her head away. She hated his touch but she knew this was only the beginning.

  He moved to the side and she saw the flash of the knife as he positioned it above her. The laces on the front of the red dress were already loosened, exposing a good portion of her bare chest. He lowered the knife to her chest and made a single cut.

  She wanted to scream but knew if she did, he’d only cut her deeper the next time, so instead, she bit her lip until she could taste blood. The cuts always came in threes, so she had two more to endure. He took his time inflicting the next two cuts on her chest, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, biting down harder on her lip. When the knife lifted from her skin after the last cut, she opened her eyes.

  He leaned over and she looked at his face, hoping it would come into focus, but it was a blur of black and red, as it had always been before. He reached down and grabbed the end of the dress and pushed it over her hips, exposing her naked lower body. Her legs twisted inward, involuntarily trying to cover her nakedness. The man leaned over again and dipped his fingers in the blood on her chest, then brought his fingers up toward his face.

  And that’s when she saw it—the mask.

  Shaye screamed and bolted upright from the floor, knocking one of the candles over as she backed away. Her lungs burned and her head ached from her pulse pounding in her temples. She struggled to take in a breath, almost unable to manage it. The candle she’d kicked over rolled into her foot, and she choked back another scream before grabbing it up and throwing it in the sink.

  It was a demon.

  The mask was a horned goat.

  9

  He watched from the woods as the old man backed his truck up to the garage and climbed out, using his cane to steady himself. Beaumont came out the front door and waved, then went back inside. A couple seconds later, the garage door opened. He lifted his binoculars and spotted the two of them loading boxes into the back of the man’s pickup truck. It took them several minutes to get the boxes in and a strap around the back to secure them with the tailgate open, then Beaumont pulled two beers out of the refrigerator and they stood outside by the truck, talking.

  Wasting my time is what they’re doing.

  He checked his watch. Eight p.m. As soon as the old man left, he’d strike. He’d been ready to make his move earlier when he’d heard the old man’s truck approaching. It would have been simple to kill the old man, but he had performed the ritual only for Beaumont. The One loved sacrifice in his name, but he required obedience, and ceremony was important. Killing the old man would require acts of penance, and he didn’t have the time or inclination for that right now.

  The One also required death by his hand. It was supposed to be visceral and personal. Things that separated him from the sacrifice—like guns—were profane and therefore forbidden unless for self-protection. Killing them both by hand was possible, but it presented more difficulties, especially as he anticipated the cop might be a challenge. It was best to wait for the old man to leave. After all, how long could he possibly be? It was probably past his bedtime already.

  Mosquitoes buzzed around his head, sounding as if they were in stereo, but they never landed on his skin. Even insects knew his power and were afraid. Soon Shaye Archer would understand his commitment to the One. Soon, she’d know what real sacrifice meant.

  Finally, the old man handed Beaumont the empty beer bottle and began the climb back into his truck. Beaumont headed up the porch and waved to the old man before walking inside, closing the door behind him. It took the old man a while to get into the cab and situated, but finally, the truck started up and the garage door began to close. The headlights came on and a couple seconds later, the old man pulled out of the driveway and headed down the road toward town.

  The front room of the house was dark, but he could see light in the back of the house. He’d found an old real estate listing for the property and knew the kitchen was in the back corner where the light was coming from. He’d originally thought he’d wait for Beaumont to go to bed before breaking in, but his patience was running short and it was a long four-mile walk back to the grocery store parking lot where he’d left his car. Besides, the thought of seeing Beaumont’s face when he realized who he was and what was going to happen was giving him a hard-on.

  Power was an incredible thing. Power over life was the ultimate.

  He pulled on his gloves and mask and stepped out of the woods. The porch light trailed across the front lawn, making his passage to the house an easy jaunt. When he reached the house, he skirted the edge of the porch and located a window for one of the spare bedrooms. It took him only seconds to cut out a piece of the window pane and open the window. He paused for a moment, waiting for an alarm, but as he’d suspected, Beaumont hadn’t set it yet.

  Silently, he slipped through the window and into the room, the thick carpet masking the sound of his passage. Country music wafted down the hallway and he grimaced. He couldn’t stand that redneck crap. Only the lowest of the species thought such trash had merit, but then Beaumont was a cop and a Roman Catholic to boot. It went without saying.

  He did a quick scan of the other two bedrooms and the two bathrooms before heading for the front of the house. He crept down the hall, pausing for a second when the floorboards squeaked, but continued when he heard no movement from the other end of the house. When he reached the opening for the kitchen, he flattened himself against the wall and pulled out his knife.

  He said a quick prayer to
the One and took a step around the corner, arm lifted and ready.

  The room was empty.

  He frowned and scanned the room. Two other doors. One led to the patio and the other to the garage. He crossed the kitchen and checked the patio door, but it was locked. That left only the garage. Maybe Beaumont was out there working.

  He inched over to the door and leaned against it, but couldn’t hear anything over the obnoxious, blaring sound of steel guitars. Deciding he was well over all of this, he turned the doorknob and stepped into the garage, prepared to strike.

  The garage was empty.

  What the hell was going on? He’d seen Beaumont go back into the house and the old man leave. The bedrooms and bathrooms were clear, and he’d walked through the living room. The kitchen was empty and the back door was locked. Unless Beaumont was hiding in a closet, the only other place he could be was the garage, but he wasn’t here, either.

  Maybe he was hiding.

  Maybe he’d heard the man enter the house and had closed himself in the pantry. Beaumont was a cop, so anything was possible. He walked back into the kitchen and that’s when he saw it—the message on the chalkboard hanging on the kitchen wall.

  You missed me, asshole. Smile for the cameras.

  Cursing, he slammed his hand on the board and rubbed off the mocking words. Beaumont must have sneaked out the back door, maybe escaped in a boat. But how did Beaumont know he was coming? He’d been careful. He’d never been seen or caught on the security cameras. How could Beaumont have known?

  It was pointless to ponder that fact now. The bottom line was that Beaumont was gone and now he had to start the search for him all over again. And now that Beaumont knew someone was tracking him, he’d become even more elusive. He could be anywhere.

  He needed to move faster and more efficiently before this got away from him.

  And he had to find Harold Beaumont.

  Harold climbed out from between the boxes in the bed of Old Joe’s truck, a little worse for the wear due to the bumpy road, but a lot better off than he might have fared if he’d remained in his home. Sure, he could still shoot like Clint Eastwood, but every cop knew that if a man was stalking you, he’d eventually get you.