Текст книги "Mark of the Demon"

Автор книги: Diana Rowland

Соавторы: Diana Rowland
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CHAPTER 16

The wood of the door splintered under the impact of the heavy maul. One more hard swing of the maul by the black-clad TAC team member and the door crashed inward. Instantly, the other waiting team members poured through the door, shouting commands and signals to one another as they worked their way into the house, clearing the residence of threats.

I slipped in behind them, mentally apologizing to the landlady for the damage to the door. Ryan came in behind me, and together we slowly worked our way through the house in the team’s wake, guns still at the ready. My heart beat rapidly, adrenaline dumping into my system even though I knew logically that the TAC team could handle damn near anything that could possibly be found. Unless there’s a demon here, I thought grimly. Then it would get really ugly really fast. Warrants were dangerous anyway, and this guy would be ten times as dangerous if he did have a demon at his command.

The interior of the house was painted in unexciting colors, a palette of browns and dark maroons that might have been called “autumnal” a decade ago but now merely made the house feel dark and depressing. No wonder Greg went elsewhere to do his work, I thought. The front door opened onto a living area occupied by a dull brown couch that was so close to the color of the wall that it almost blended in. There was no television in the room, just a floor lamp in the corner and a glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch. A hallway led off to the left from the living room, and to the right was a swinging door that I decided probably led to the kitchen. There were no decorations on the wall, no shelves with pictures or trinkets, no ornamentation of any sort anywhere that I could see. And it was painfully clean. The tracks from a vacuum were still visible in the dull tan carpet, marred now by a multitude of boot prints from the TAC team.

I paused as a fluttering touch of sensation brushed against me—a nebulous whisper of the arcane. I frowned, trying to catch that fleeting sense again. I couldn’t see any arcane markings in the house so far—no wardings or protections, or even traces to show that arcane activity had occurred here. But something wasn’t right.

I heard a shout from beyond the swinging door, then the voice of Sergeant Dimera, the TAC team leader. “Hey, Gillian. You need to get in here.”

I quickly pushed through the door, then stopped in my tracks and let out a low curse. Now I knew what it was I’d felt.

Ryan came up behind me. “Ah, shit.”

Lying in the middle of the linoleum of the kitchen floor was Greg Cerise, spread-eagled like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man and surrounded by a chaotic circle of runes and sigils painted in blood. On his chest, gouged messily as if with a butcher knife, was the symbol, large enough to cover nearly his entire torso. In my othersight, ugly purple clots of arcane potency twisted around the body, bloated and wallowing with hatred and anger. This had been done quickly and nastily—both the murder and the arcane sigils and markings. Even if I hadn’t spoken to Greg a few hours ago, I would have known that this was not done with the same care and precision as the others.

“Is anyone else in the house?” I asked Dimera, not taking my eyes off the body. There was always the chance—slim though it was—that the killer was still here.

Dimera shook his head. “It’s all clear.”

I muttered a curse again and shoved my gun into its holster. “Call this in, please. And we’re going to need the lab.”

Dimera nodded and stepped out of the room, door swinging shut behind him. I could hear him relaying the information on his radio as he moved toward the hallway, checking on the rest of his team. I crouched, looking over the pattern of blood and the markings on the artist.

“These aren’t the same runes that I saw on the other body,” I said, glancing up at Ryan.

“Do you know what they are?”

I peered at the runes that had been painted in blood, then stood and moved to a point near the artist’s head, being exceedingly careful not to mar or touch anything. “Yep. These are diagrams of warding, the kind used in a summoning.”

“So, wait, is this our guy? Did he fuck up a summoning?”

I shook my head. “No, he’s not the one.” Shit. “I just talked to him a few hours ago, which means he was probably killed right after he talked to me.” I felt cold. “This is not an actual summoning diagram. There are certain elements missing. But this was drawn deliberately to be recognized by anyone who is versed in those arts.” I rubbed the back of my neck, tense.

“It’s a message,” Ryan said, voice quiet. “To you.”

I looked at him sharply. “Or a test. To see how much I know, how much I can see.” The implications of that were deeply unsettling. He knows I can use the arcane. So what will his next step be? I must be getting close. But if I was close, why did I still feel like I was stumbling around blindly?

“Kara! Ryan!” Garner called. “Come see this!”

“You go,” Ryan said. “I’ll stay here and make sure no one messes this up before it can be documented.”

I nodded, then headed through the living room and down the hall toward Garner’s voice. As soon as I entered the room, I knew why he was so excited. “Oh, wow.”

It was a workroom where Greg had obviously done a great deal of the final work on the comic. Framed covers of the series were arrayed on walls that had been painted in chaotic patterns—wild colors that clashed with the black-framed pictures and presented a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the rest of the house. Interspersed among the covers were photographs of varying sizes, thumbtacked or taped to the wall, and each photograph had several drawings surrounding it, tacked up in similar haphazard fashion.

“Oh, wow,” I repeated, stepping into the room, looking more closely at the drawings that surrounded the photographs. Some were just pencil sketches, others fully inked and colored. I shifted my attention to the photographs. “It’s more victims. Holy shit. They’re all here. All the victims.”

“Plus a bunch of others,” Harris said, expression dark. “We have our link now.” He jerked his head toward the door. “So, our guy is dead? Did a victim fight back and do him in?”

“No, he’s not the Symbol Man,” I said absently, eyes still traveling over the pictures. “But the Symbol Man sure as hell knew him or worked closely with him.” I tapped my chin. “Did Greg do all of the work on the comic himself? If not, we need to get a list of everyone else who worked with him. Check them all out.”

Garner shook his head. “It looks like he did all of the work by himself.” He let out a low whistle. “Amazing that he turned out such an impressive product on his own.” He glanced up at me. “Comics usually have teams of people who work on them. Different people do the concept, script, penciling, inking, coloring, lettering, and so forth.” He touched one of the framed covers. “He was talented, that’s for sure.”

I stepped closer to the wall of pictures. “All these people. He used them as models.”

“Maybe he wasn’t very good at drawing people out of his imagination,” Garner offered. “Lots of artists use references. In fact, there are websites devoted to pictures that can be used as references for comic artists.”

My mouth twitched. “I take it you like comics.”

Garner grinned shamelessly. “Love ’em.”

I couldn’t help but smile. And people said Iwas weird. Garner looked far more like a jock than a comic nerd, with his tanned face and surfer-blond hair. “Okay, so he took pictures of these people so he could use them as models? Why these people?”

“He probably didn’t want to pay for regular models,” Garner said. He tapped a latex-gloved finger on the wall. “All these folks are homeless or drug addicts or prostitutes. He could probably buy a couple of hours of their time for about ten bucks or a hot meal.”

“But there are a lot of pictures here. More than the victims that we already have.” I narrowed my eyes. “Which means that some of these people are possibly still alive,” I said. “We need to find them.”

“That’s going to be tough,” Harris said, tucking his thumbs behind his belt as the buttons on his shirt strained dangerously. “But if we can find even one of them, we’ll finally have a strong lead.”

I clenched and unclenched my hands. “We’re close. I can taste it.”

Garner nodded at me, but Harris was silent, his gaze traveling slowly over the display on the wall. “Why don’t you think that this artist is the killer?” he asked. “All the links are here. It seems possible that his death was a retaliation, either by someone he knew or a potential victim.”

I shook my head. “The way that Greg was killed and the way the blood was displayed around him doesn’t indicate a revenge or self-defense death.” Harris should know that. Was he just brainstorming again? Or was he baiting me? Testing me? It was so hard to tell with him. “The pattern is too accurate,” I added, more to myself than to him.

“Accurate?” The beady gaze fell on me.

“Yes,” I replied. I’d worry later about being thought a nutcase. Catching this guy was the important thing now. “Those aren’t random scribbles around the body. It’s just not possible for someone who doesn’t have intimate knowledge of the arcane to be able to set a scene like that. The odds of a potential victim being knowledgeable about that sort of thing are pretty extreme.” I ran a hand through my hair. “No, I think that Greg was starting to figure it out, so he was taken care of.”

“So it’s likely that he was involved.” Harris frowned as he scanned the wall of photographs and drawings. “Perhaps there were two killers, and the other one decided to get rid of Greg before he squealed.” Harris looked back at me, his arms folded across his chest.

I took a deep breath, controlling my annoyance. It was possible. As much as I’d liked Greg, that didn’t mean he hadn’t completely snowed me. “Yeah, it’s definitely possible,” I admitted reluctantly. And Tessa hadsaid that there were two. I opened my mouth to say more, then stopped. I’d told Greg that I was a summoner. There weren’t too many people who knew that. My aunt, Ryan, and Greg. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you could determine just by looking at someone. Well, not for humans, at least. There were some demons that could sense a person’s ability to summon.

So, either Greg told someone that I was a summoner, or I’ve had a demon sniffing around me without my knowledge. The latter was fairly unlikely, though not impossible. Any creature with enough skill in the arcane could remain undetected.

“Detective Gillian, are you all right?”

I realized that I was staring off into space. I jerked my attention back to Harris. “Yeah, sorry, just had a thought.”

“Care to share it?”

I flexed my fingers, excitement growing. “He’s screwed up. It’s the first time he’s screwed up.”

Harris unfolded his arms. “How?”

“Killing Greg. Now we knowthat the Symbol Man is connected to Greg somehow. He must have felt that he had to eliminate Greg. Maybe Greg was going to rat on him or something, I don’t know.” Another thought struck me, but this revelation was not quite as pleasant. “He screwed up—and it doesn’t matter to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“The diagram around the body. It didn’t serve any purpose except to taunt us.” Taunt me, I corrected internally. “But he doesn’t care, because he’s almost done.”

Garner was watching me intently as well. “With his preparations,” he said.

I nodded.

“And you think that he’s preparing for a big demon calling,” Harris said.

“A summoning, yes.”

Harris frowned. “So it’s possible that this is gearing up to be a big finish, like a cult,” he stated. “We could be looking at a large number of people at risk. And he might kill himself as well. He has nothing to lose.”

I blinked. Where the hell was he getting this from? I shook my head. “Oh, you mean like a murder-suicide thing? Hell, no. He wants the power. The whole reason he’s preparing so carefully is because he doeswant to live through it.”

Harris’s frown deepend. “Detective Gillian, how is it that you are such an authority on ritual murders?” There was challenge in his tone, and I had to take a mental step back. He was considered a local expert on cults and ritual murders, and I was totally stepping on his toes. Only problem was, the arcane wasmy area of expertise, and I couldn’t say so. Damn, but I wished Ryan was in here for this.

I took a deep, steadying breath, framing my words as carefully as possible. “I’m not an authority on ritual murders,” I said, then held up my hand when he began to speak. “However, I’ve grown up with and around people who are considered experts in arcane lore, mythology, voodoo, Wicca, the paranormal, and other alternative forms of religion and mysticism. I recognize the patterns on the kitchen floor and, in my opinion, they were placed there by someone who intends to summon a demon.”

Harris narrowed his eyes, face reddening slightly. “All right, let’s assume that our killer really does believe this shit. In your opinion,”and the word was drawled out in a manner that was barely short of being insulting, “is he going to want a pile of victims for his big shebang? And what is he going to do when the demon fails to appear?”

You should be asking what arewe going to do when itdoes appear, I thought grimly. “He’ll try again, if he survives it. He’ll start over from scratch if he has to.”

The faintest hint of a sneer curled Harris’s lip, barely long enough for me to register it before the professional mask came over his face again. He gave me a nod and left the room without speaking. I watched him leave and sighed. It was obvious that Detective Harris didn’t give a rat’s ass that I had a clue about the arcane. In fact, it probably made him think even less of me—I was obviously a fruitcake who couldn’t be trusted to make a logical deduction.

Garner cleared his throat gently. “He, uh, seems very literal, but I’ve worked with him before. He’s actually a pretty good detective.” He glanced up from the stack of papers he was searching through and gave me a wry smile.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Yeah, I’m sure he is. And this has to be one of the stranger cases that he’s handled.”

To my surprise, Garner shook his head. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. He’s worked task-force stuff with us before on some seriously freaky cases, with mass murder and suicide, cult stuff, ritual sacrifices. This is pretty tame, actually.”

I tried not to smile. Except that this stuff was real. And maybe his other cases had been real as well, or more real than he could know. “Well,” I said, “fortunately it looks like we might be on the right track.”

“Kara?” Garner lifted a piece of paper out of the stack he was searching, an astonished expression on his face.

“Yeah?” I said. “Zack? What’s wrong?”

“Kara … this is … you,”he said, then slowly extended the paper to me.

Ryan stepped into the room behind me, moving to peer over my shoulder as I took the drawing from Garner. “Jesus Christ,” Ryan breathed. “It’s you … but, wow. It’s like an über-you.”

I could only stare. It was a drawing of a woman dressed in classic fantasy female-warrior regalia—metal and leather bra, matching short skirt, elegant metal vambraces on her arms, hair flowing free. In other words, unspeakably impractical for any sort of actual fighting. The woman depicted held a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other and was shown facing down what I knew perfectly well to be a reyza—fierce expression emblazoned across her face. The woman was beautiful and strong and feminine, and everything about her gave the impression that she was a total badass.

And it wasme. I couldn’t deny that for an instant. Holy shit. Is that what he saw in me?The preacher had said that Greg drew the potential in people. Is that my potential? Could I ever be that strong and beautiful?

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or depressed.

“I especially like the outfit,” Ryan said dryly from behind me.

I turned to glare at him. He just grinned. “I think you need to start wearing something like that to work,” he continued.

I couldn’t help but smile, obscurely grateful to him for giving me a point of levity. I didn’t want to think about how far short of that picture I actually fell. “It’s a cool picture, that’s for sure. However, I can promisethat you’ll never see me in that outfit.”

But I did tuck the picture into my notebook. Rules of evidence be damned.

CHAPTER 17

The sky was alight with the pink and orange of dawn by the time we finally finished processing and searching the house. To Harris’s and everyone else’s disappointment, there was no secret basement that concealed a torture and execution chamber, no hidden closets containing arcane implements of death and destruction, and no evidence whatsoever that Greg had actually been the serial killer, or even connected to the killer, other than the pictures in his workroom. I made my way home, blearily stumbling through the back door of my house, barely remembering to lock it behind me. I stripped off my clothes and collapsed onto my bed, falling asleep within half a dozen heartbeats.

I woke late in the day with dim and scattered memories of dreams containing Rhyzkahl—hazy threads of images that bore little resemblance to the powerful sendings of his previous visits. I lay on my back, looking up at the wood of my ceiling, allowing myself to wake up fully. Those were probably actual dreams, I decided, as I tried and failed to remember the content. Dim snatches lingered briefly—images of Rhyzkahl scowling at me, calling to me, and a jumbled memory of me rolling over in bed and telling him to go away and let me sleep. It had to have been a dream. SurelyI hadn’t told a Demonic Lord to go away and let me sleep.

The clock on the nightstand showed seven p.m. I sat up, running my fingers through my tangled hair. My internal clock was completely screwed up now, after staying awake two nights in a row. Again.

The one good thing about having slept all day was that I knew it would be easier to be out most of the night looking for people. I showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt that was uncharacteristically devoid of anything police-related, strapped on the ankle holster that held my little Kel-Tec .32 under my jeans, and pulled my shirt down over the holster on my belt that held my Glock 9mm. And, no, I wasn’t going to call Ryan to come with me on this. I wanted people to talk to me. Fed Boy would more likely scare people off.

I drove slowly through town, considering where to start. Beaulac was not exactly a bustling metropolis, even though its population and the population of the entire parish had swelled dramatically after Katrina, much like all the other parishes that surrounded New Orleans. And, of course, that unexpected growth had resulted in an increase in the number of “problem” neighborhoods. Areas that were previously “not so nice” had morphed into “don’t go there after dark,” much to the dismay of the community leaders.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Some of those areas were exactly what I needed. But even armed, I was reluctant to go in without backup. However, I could think of a number of places where I’d be able to find people who could help me out. In fact, the outreach center where Greg had done so much of his work was probably the best place to start. With any luck, Reverend Thomas would be around and able to identify some of the pictures.

I drove past the outreach center, scowling as I saw that the doors were closed by a metal gate. Obviously the people who ran the center were smart enough to maintain a certain level of security on the building. But that also meant I wouldn’t have the chance to talk to Reverend Thomas tonight. There was a small group of about half a dozen people clustered out front, though. I peered at them as I drove by, then smiled in satisfaction as I recognized a face. Reverend Thomas wasn’t the only one who might have some information.

I parked a short distance down the street, then grabbed my stack of pictures and made my way toward the group. They parted before me, giving me a wide berth. Even in plain clothes, I knew that my whole bearing shrieked “Cop!” I scanned the faces quickly, giving them small, tight nods—nothing too friendly just yet.

“Whatcha want here, Sarge?” A grizzled black man with a shortage of teeth spoke. He looked to be in his mid to late forties, with broad shoulders, thick muscles, and scarred knuckles. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at me.

I gave the speaker an easy smile. I knew this one, which was why I’d decided to stop and talk to him. I’d arrested Tio a number of times, but I was always cool with him and he was always cool with me in return. He’d never gone so far as to be an informant, but he helped me out in other ways, such as vouching for my integrity to others who weren’t sure that I could be trusted. Once upon a time, Tio had tried to make it as a boxer, but then he lost one fight too many and ended up eking out a living by more-questionable means. He’d had fights with most of the other cops in the department, but I was always able to talk him into the handcuffs. Good thing, too, since I knew he could totally kick my ass.

“Hey, Tio. Just looking for some people,” I said as disarmingly as I could. “I ain’t bringing no trouble here tonight.”

He curled his lip. “Wit’ warrants? No one here gonna help you snatch up folk.”

I shook my head. “No, man, it ain’t like that. I ain’t hookin’ anyone. I’m looking for some people to make sure they don’t get hurt. You know, I’m doing that protecting-and-serving shit.” I gave him a grin. My years as a street cop had taught me many things, and the most important one was that it was a whole lot easier to get help from people if you were nice and friendly with them. The second-most-important thing I’d learned was that there was also a time to stop being nice and friendly.

To my relief, he laughed. “Protect and serve! Yeah, you right. So how you gonna protect and serve us out here?”

I could sense the others in the group watching the interplay intently. I knew that getting any help from them depended completely on what happened with Tio. I pulled out the picture of Greg and showed it to him. “See this guy? I’m trying to find out if anyone out here has ever seen him around, talking to anyone, offering them jobs or anything like that.”

Tio glanced at the picture, then shook his head. “Nah, he looks too friendly and nice to be down here. He’d stand out like … like a little ladycop.” He tipped his head back and laughed.

I laughed with him, allowing myself to share in the joke. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’m telling you, I wouldn’t be doing shit this crazy if I didn’t really want to help these people out.” I leaned in a bit closer. “Look, y’all know about the Symbol Man, right?”

Tio scowled. “That is some fucked-up shit, ladycop.”

“I know it is, Tio,” I said, lowering my voice. “But I’m gonna catch that fucker.” I pulled out the photos taken from Greg’s house of the latest victim—photos that showed her as a living, breathing, smiling person, not as a shredded, tortured corpse. I passed the top photo to Tio. “This is his last victim. You know who that is?”

Tio’s expression went stony. “Yeah. I know her. Knew her. Katy, dunno her last name. Saw on the news that someone else had been cut up by this asshole. Didn’t know it was her.”

I kept my face from betraying my elation at the identification, partial though it was. It was still far more than we’d had. “It was bad, Tio. You know I’ve seen some nasty-ass shit, but this guy’s the worst.” I gave him a level look. “I really need the help of y’all on the street.”

“Katy was cool,” he said as he pushed off the wall. “She was a bit fucked up, but she was tryin’ hard. She didn’t deserve that shit.”

“No one deserves what this guy is doing.”

Tio cracked his thick knuckles. “Lemme see that first guy again?”

I handed the pic over, trying not to let my relief and excitement show. Tio stepped into the light from the street-lamp and peered more seriously at the photo.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I seen this guy around. He comes and sits in the center here and draws, and then pays people ten or twenty bucks or so to pose for him. Seen him other places too.”

“Where else?” I fought to stay calm. I couldn’t appear too eager for the information or it was going to start costing me.

Tio scratched his stubbled chin as he considered. “Shit, I dunno. Mebbe down in the park.”

“Does he ever take pictures of the people when they pose?”

Tio nodded. “Yeah, that’s usually what he does. So is this the guy? This the killer?” He clenched his hands into fists. “Man, I will fuck his shit upnext time I see him!”

I reached out and took the picture from Tio’s hand. “No. He’s dead now. The Symbol Man got him too.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” I pulled out the page that I’d created with the pics of the unidentified people on it. The ones who I hoped were still alive. “How about these people? Do you know where I can find them?”

Tio peered at the page, then motioned one of the other bystanders over. A skinny white male with poor-quality tattoos on his arms shuffled up. Tio showed the page to him.

“I think I know some of these folk,” the second man said. “I mean, not personal, like, but just seen ’em out, y’know?”

“I really need to find these people,” I said. “I think that they might be in danger from the Symbol Man.”

Tio’s brows drew together. “Why he be goin’ after them?”

“I can’t really say right now, but we’ve gotten some leads that might”—I stressed the word—“link all these people—the ones who’ve already been killed, and then these folk—together. I just need to find them.” I gave Tio an earnest look. “If they’re scared of the police, at least let them know to be careful. Tell them not to go anywhere with anyone they don’t know.”

Tio was silent for several heartbeats and then nodded. “This one here’s AnnMarie,” he said, pointing to a picture of a white girl with a fleshy face and dark hair. “And this one’s Skeeter.” He indicated a picture of a rail-thin black man, then glanced around the crowd. “Anyone else know these folk?”

I tried not to react, but my relief was damn near overwhelming. Some of the others began to make tentative identifications, and I scribbled names quickly, breathless. With Tio cooperating, the others were a thousand times more likely to contribute what they knew. There were no last names, but it was still a phenomenal improvement over the nothing that I’d had before.

Tio looked up at me after I finished writing. “That gonna do ya?”

I gave him a smile thick with gratitude. “It’s a terrific start. And if you can spread the word to anyone you know, that would be fantastic too.”

He nodded once, serious. “I’ll take care of it, ladycop.”

“All right, Tio. I appreciate it.” I handed him a stack of copies of the pictures, then gave him a handful of my business cards as well. “If anyone’s willing, I’d reallylike to talk to them. We need every break we can get on this case.”

Tio tucked the cards and the pictures into a side pocket of his pants. “You got it, ladycop.”

“Cool. Stay out of trouble, Tio, all right?”

He winked and grinned. “Trouble finds me.”

“Then run from it, ya big goof!”