Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (28 page)

1:16 PM

45

“
Susan? Honey, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Harry. I can hear you.”

A siren whined in the background.

“Harry, hold on, I need to...” Muffled coughing. Continuous. Strangling. “I have my good moments and bad. Like waves. They come and go. You know…”

“I guess, honey. I miss you.”

“Me too, you.”

Pause.

Police Officer Evans led Phillip Denton through the door of the precinct. A look of sheer terror registered on the young man’s face as Evans guided him down the hallway and into an interview room. Minutes later a man and a woman frantically entered and stopped at the front desk. An Officer directed them to a seat in the reception area. They sat beside one another, hands intertwined.

Susan’s voice was light, hardly audible. “Where are you?” She cleared her throat of thick mucus several times during the conversation. “It sounds like there’s certainly a lot going on…”

“I’m at the Precinct.”

“You’re not having a party are you? Without me?”

“Oh, yes, quite a party. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun!”

“You sound tired. And cranky, Harry.”

“I haven’t made it to the hotel yet.”

“How’s it going? Any leads?”

“No. And another girl is missing.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Get some rest. I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you know I’m thinking about you…”

“I love you, Harry, but my eyes are closing. It’s the Morphine…”

“I’ll call you later. My telephone numbers are with the nurses in case you need me. Or with Nancy. Plus, you have my cell phone…”

“Just find that damn killer and get back home.”

“I plan to. Bye, honey. Give the kids my love. I miss them.”

“I know, I know. Good luck, honey. Bye-bye.”

Harry visualized Susan slowly putting the receiver back down in its cradle. Paper thin skin covered skeleton-like fingers. Everything was working on overtime.

Harry stood in the noisy corridor, staring at his cell phone, wishing, hoping, and praying that it might give him some solace. It didn’t.

Down the corridor, Detective Hammer, Police Officer Evans and the young ambulance driver waited in a nondescript room. As generic as they come. Phillip sat in a wooden chair next to a side table. Evans and Hammer stood on either side of the boy. Evans was chewing gum as if he were running a marathon, every so often smacking an internal bubble with his teeth. In the doorway, Harry motioned for Hammer to meet him outside.

Hammer peered out in his direction. “Let the kid go.” Harry said, wishing he had a cigarette, a cigar, or some other filthy habit.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“Good.”

“He was with her this morning. They fooled around. For the record, it’s good to know.”

“For the record, Detective Hammer, this killer isn’t interested in sexual pleasure, or in the act of procreation. This killer is engaged specifically in the defiling and obliteration of it.” Harry looked outside. Palm trees. “Hopefully,” and Harry sincerely meant it, “Phillip will get to see her again. That is, if we do our job right.”

1:45 PM

46

“Our time is the very shadow that passeth away…”

How was I to know? How could I have possibly suspected the little whore to be so clever? It was my own fault, though. Allowing her to stay in that trunk for so long. It was fortunate I had a backup plan. Can you imagine? Finding her, that stupid bitch, waiting for me with that jack in her hand. How dare
she try to fight me? God! And how fortunate for me. The heavens must really be on my side. My sacrifice. They must accept her as my offering. Not like Mother. My poor unsuspecting Mother.

I remove the clothes off her body. It is easy. A flimsy cotton, short sleeved shirt with tiny darts ironed down the back and that nothing skirt; black, short with pleats. Whore’s clothes. I pull her soiled panties off along with her bra. Victoria’s Secret. Garments of seduction. She’s developed for such a young girl. Nubile. Rosebud areolas. Precious. I notice she has a sucker mark. It bleeds down the side of her left breast. A hickey, I think they call it here in the States. Her crotch has a patch of soft, fine hair surrounding it. I try not to touch it with my sterile hands. Too dirty. Filthy. One foot is without a shoe. She painted her toes with dark polish. Black or purple. I can’t tell. Satan’s colors.

She is breathing, but just barely. She isn’t dead.

Good.

I unfold the
white smock I created for her, the one she will wear for the ceremony. I slip her head through the opening at the neck and slide it down over her body. I don’t want to hurt her. My intention is to save her. It has always been to save her. The sleeveless tunic flows over her body down to her toes. It is part of the ritual. No colors. Her hair is wet and sweaty from being in the hot trunk, but some of the blonde curl is still present. I lightly free it with my hand. Her cheeks are full of color. Red like roses.

“Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered…”

I pull her from out of the trunk. I try hard not to catch her skin on any of the metal latches. She must be unharmed, pristine for the ritual. No blood can spill. Grabbing underneath her arms, I drag her through the knee-high weeds to the burial plot. I prepared it especially for her. A new space. Meticulously, I went about clearing it, picking up debris and dead branches. It is far away from the road and surrounded by a fortress of large oak trees. They appear to be a thousand years old. Sunlight reflects through the cloak of swaying, shimmering leaves. The trunks are thick and wide like the Redwoods. I’ve never seen a Redwood, but I’ve heard about their magnificent glory, how tall and powerful they grow out on the Western coast.

This is a sacred act, one carried down through the bloodlines of my ancestors. Unfortunately, I was not chosen to continue the practice. But, I felt it was my duty. My role. My calling. So, I took it upon myself. I say a prayer as I tie her wrists together with sturdy twine and secure them to the post above her head. I have driven the wooden stakes into the earth.

No mistakes this time, Sydia. No escapes…

I dug the holes deeper this time. The ground was not as pliable as my last sacred spot. My old burial ground. It took some time to find this place. I feel it is better. Far from the village. You must get here by car. My hands are blistered from the demanding work. Mother will be so unhappy when she greets me.

I hurry to secure her legs. One to each post. I place the rope through a hole I drilled at the top. I wrap the cord around it several times before tying it. So very tight. Surgical knots work best.

A cough. Her head moves slightly in the short grass. A slithering worm.

Perfect.

She will be awake in time.

“For God created man to be immortal.”

I talk to her sweetly, as if I am reading her a bedtime story. They offered us candy, chocolate, a special treat. I neglected to bring any along with me. I cannot tell whether she hears me or not. Soon, she will. Very soon.

“… and made him to be an image of his own eternity. Nevertheless, through the envy of the devil came death into the world…”

I go to the other leg and tie the rope around her ankle. Tightly.

No mistakes this time, Sydia…

Her foot has turned a slight purple in color. It is a reaction from the carbon dioxide, the lack of oxygen circulating in her system. There is no other way for me to do it. I look up. Her tunic is open. Her legs are stiff from spreading them so wide apart. It is easier this way. I can concentrate on my work. Alone. I don’t have to enlist the aid of helpers to assist me in holding her down.

“The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall be no torment shall touch them…”

I continue my story. My verse of death I picked out specifically for the ritual. I don’t notice the bitch staring at me. I hardly notice anything. My concentration is so focused, so directed. So intense. When her foot slams into my face, shoving me backwards, I realize too late what has happened.

I hear her voice for the first time. It is loud and aggressive.

“Let me go! Let me go or I’ll kill you. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She screams out, loud, blood curdling cries. Worse than Mother ever did. I stand at a distance and watch. She takes her free foot and frantically tries undoing the other one with her painted toes.

Those Satan colored toenails.

I walk up to her.
“You silly bitch.”

She stops fighting. She looks up at me, stunned. Paralyzed. I think she finally realizes whose presence she is in. God. A woman God. Then, she does something I had not prepared for. She begins to cry. Tears fill up in her eyes and roll down the sides of her cheeks.

“Please,” she whimpers, “don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt my baby.”

What can I say?
“It’s Phillip’s baby. It’s Phillip’s semen floating around in your dirty snatch. It’s Phillip who hurt you, not me.”

I lean over and grab her leg. Firmly this time.

I tie the rope around her ankle. She keeps on crying. Whimpering. Pleading. Begging.

“How do you know Phillip?”

“I am doing this for your own good, you stupid bitch. Nobody thanks me. Why? Sexual pleasure is the root of all evil. The base of all of our problems. It caused all of mine and my Mother’s, so shut up, you whore.”

“Please, I beg of you. Don’t hurt me!”

“Why didn’t you say that to Phillip? He has hurt you more than anything I could ever do to you.”

“You’re crazy. You’re really crazy.” She licks her dry, cracked lips with her tongue. Like Mother.

Actually, this is when I most enjoy my job. When I’m playing God.

“In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die,”
I say,
as I lay the wooden box beside me in the clearing between her legs. I have purposely cut the grass extra short. So I can see better. I open the lid. Inside, my exquisite instruments. The tools I will use to connect her with me, making her one with my Mother…

“… and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us, utter destruction.”

I roll out another piece of white cotton material and open it, exposing the bones extracted from a male rooster. They’re brittle and sharp from drying in the sun. A coffee can lid, rusted but fine-edged. I lay them both out on the cloth precisely in the order in which I intend to use them. Then I wait for a sign.

“… they are in peace. For though they be punished in the sight of men, yet is their hope full of mortality. And having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded; for God proved them, and found them worthy for himself…I bless you, I become you…I am you.”

I stand up and step across her slight waist. I kneel down by her face and make the sign of the cross. The silly bitch has the audacity to spit at me. Me. God. I smile, reassuringly and push her hair away from her mouth. She tries to bite me. I stand up and laugh.

“I am doing this for your own good. You have to believe me.”

I step back, sit down and cross my legs Indian-style in my sacred space. I raise the white tunic to her waist. She raises her hips from off the ground, like they all do. Writhing around like a slithering worm. It is of no use. She cannot, will not escape. I take the last piece of cloth from the box and open it. No words have been written. No words need to. Not yet. Soon the words will read: FOR THEIR SINS. I will use this girl’s blood. The syringe is in my box. It will spell out the message. That comes later. Much later. It can wait. I look up, past the covering of green trees, weighted down with heavy branches and full of leaves. I stare at the sunlight bearing down upon us. And I wait. The sign will come. It always does.

The terrain is abandoned.

Shadows dance like ghosts.  I take hold of the metal lid, careful not to cut myself. Through the haze of red dust and dry heat, the horizon holds gentle a sky soaked with blood. I must turn this gown to colors. Colorful and alive, it will soon dance off the table… off the body…

“I don’t need comfort, Mother. I will not cry. I will be here for you. I am your keeper.”

“You’re crazy. What are you going to do to me?”

I block out her voice. I have to. Otherwise, how can I work? How am I to commune with Him?

“Mother, make her stop. Make her shut up. Please. I insist. This must go as planned. Perfectly.”

Blonde, wavy hair blowing in the distance. I hold Mother’s hand. I will deliver her to safety. I will deliver myself. I have to. Father will help. I know it. Now, she will be well. Now she will be saved.

The girl with the blond, curly hair stares at me. She opens her mouth to speak. She appears so young, so scared…

“Please, I am begging you, listen to me. I want to have this baby. Please, don’t do this. Please.” She screams louder. She understands now what she must do. How she is to play a role in this sacred act. “PLEASE! LET ME GO YOU STUPID BITCH!”

I touch her lovingly with the white cloth. She has somehow confused me. She is the stupid bitch. Not me.

I am God.

Her body is a volcano of fever. Sweat. Then, she pisses on my hand. Sometimes, they defecate, too. I come prepared. In my box, I bring along plastic bags just in case. And sterile wipes.

Her voice knows no boundaries of pain.

I see Him now, like a beautiful white angel, coming to save her. To save me. I return my attention to the act.

My sign has come. Like an omen. I am a prophet even at my young age…

I make my first incision. I must be complete.

They were…

Blood sprays over me. A thin, light mist. The white gown, now sacred, comes alive with color. I lick my lips. I taste the metallic salt. Blood gathers. The berry colored fluid pools. It soaks into the material like a thirsty sponge. I look for the rise, the interesting way her pelvis moves to meet my skillful hands. I get carried away. I take more than necessary.

They did…

Save some for sewing, Sydia.

The lavender, purple and orange colors combine in this ritual dance.

I steal one last look at Mother.