Bloodlust (Frailty Book 2) Page 8

If a demon bit a human and that human lived, it was mutated into what Ambrose had become. A deep-seated hatred existed between the two sects, and Ambrose imagined it may have initially begun much in the same way his own had, as a need for retribution for being turned into a monster. Then again, it could just as easily have been something that was an instinct, like any other animal would have ingrained in them.

  In the middle of this war was the one thing that, ironically, connected the two factions: humans. One needed to possess them to survive, and the other needed to feed on them for much the same reason. There would be no sharing or harmony, though.

  When word spread of a possession, Ambrose and his fellow night-stalkers mobilized. The demon was hunted down and destroyed.

  This particular one, the one that had brought his life to ruination, had proven to be very resourceful in its survival, though. Mister Apocalypse, as it now referred to itself, had also grown powerful; more so than any demon Ambrose could recall having hunted.

  He was close though; closer than he had been in a very long time. So close he could smell it.

  The weathered face in the mirror came back into focus. Yes, he could literally smell the foul stench of the demon’s blood nearby.

  Turning his attention, Ambrose walked over to the spot where Roofy had lay on the floor. Dark dried blood stained the area, and crouching in close, Ambrose took a deep breath in through his nostrils. The residue of demon was thick.

  He removed his clothing and stood naked in the candlelight for a moment before dropping down and rolling in the soiled spot. Satisfied that he owned the stench of his target, he sat and considered his next move in the quiet building.

  There was no hurry, as time held little meaning anymore. Thanks to yet another side effect of his mutation, his aging had decelerated quite a bit; about one year for every ten normal human years in his estimation. And the whole night may have very well passed if not for the ring tone that sounded from the discarded trench coat that lay a short distance away.

  Cell phone retrieved, Ambrose answered the call. It was two men that worked as police officers for the Las Vegas Police Department. He had turned them shortly after Roofy disappeared from the coroner’s office, and it appeared that decision was about to bear fruit. An alert had come in on the whereabouts of the Russian, and the two altered law enforcement workers were responding.

  The church was a fair distance from where Ambrose was, so it would take time for him to get there. It was hard to tell how well his two men would hold up against such a powerful adversary. He had to hope they could at least slow it down until he arrived.

  Having dressed, Ambrose headed for the window he had jarred open, leaving the flickering flame of the melting candle to wait out the night alone.

  11

  The bag containing what few possessions Roofy owned hung from his hands, straining his massive arms under its imagined weight. Despite holding so little, it might as well have been a ton of barbells. A series of bad circumstances, the Russian wrestler thought, all building up into a cross that felt almost too heavy to bear.

  Straggling far behind Father Philippe as the two crossed the main chamber of the church, it seemed Roofy’s arms were not the only things suffering from the sluggish impact of his emotions. His feet reacted slowly and his gait had become lumbering, the wooden floor creaking as if answering to the burden of his movements, and his head drooped and body slumped.

  Almost totally across the room from him, the preacher had already reached the door. Opening it, the father was awash with the light pouring in, and from where Roofy stood, the scene of the simple shepherd doing God’s work seemed angelic. Words of welcome could be heard, and two police officers entered.

  Appearing to be in no particular hurry, the two paused to discuss the weather and thank the father for contacting the authorities. Watching the three backlit figures exchange pleasantries, Roofy became aware of a nagging uneasiness building up in his gut, and it was not the overwhelming defeat he was being crushed under as it bore down on him. No, this was deep in the pit of his belly.

  He stopped walking and watched the scene unfold. It felt surreal. “Chto-to ne tak,” he uttered.

  “Of course something is wrong, you fool,” Apocalypse piped in, the words sticking in his head like an itch he could not scratch. “What’s wrong is we should have been long gone from this place.”

  “No. It is not that,” Roofy answered in a low voice.

  “I would throw-up in my own mouth if it was under my control,” Apocalypse fired back. “It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see how big of a failure you turned out to be.”

  The Russian paid the scathing words no attention. The longer the two law enforcement workers lingered, the more the tension mounted inside him. Fighting the urge to back up to a more defensible position, he held his ground. His mind had been made, and he had given the father his word that he would turn himself in. Letting what may be his nerves get the better of him would do nothing but cause more trouble, and he did not want to do that to the man that had taken such good care of him. Being disappointed in himself was bad enough; there was no need to disappoint Father Philippe as well.

  One of the officers broke off from the conversation and began walking towards Roofy. The wait was over, and the moment seemed to hang in time. The big Russian would have put this off to nerves as well, but it was not just that. There were no orders being issued, no sense of threat, and it appeared as if the man were strolling along to meet someone for lunch, not apprehending a wanted fugitive and potential murderer. The uneasiness began building up again.

  “Mister Reiner has been nothing but good and cooperative while in my care,” the father said loudly, turning to make sure that both of the policemen heard him. “I will personally vouch for his character and to the fact that he was willing to turn himself in.”

  Despite seeming to take forever, the officer was narrowing the gap between himself and the ex-wrestler. Roofy tightened his grip on his bag, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. It did not help, and to exacerbate the situation, a scent in the air caught his attention, causing his adrenaline to spike.

  Opening his eyes, the policeman was no more than ten feet away, and the smell was getting stronger. There was no mistaking the musky stench. Almost like a wet animal, Roofy thought, every muscle tensing up. Sunglasses made it impossible for him to see the man’s eyes, though, and it was obvious from the man’s appearance that it was not Ambrose in the uniform. Feeling off-guard, he tried frantically to decide what to do.

  Apocalypse seemed to have already made up his mind. “They’ve found us, Idiot! Attack before it’s too late!”

  “Quiet! I need to think!” Roofy said sharply and took a step back, causing the man approaching him to pause.

  “We don’t have time for your small brain to think this through! Hit him!” Apocalypse answered back in his head.

  “Roofy, my son,” Father Philippe yelled from across the room, holding his hand up as if to motion for the Russian to stop, “please, you have to remain calm.”

  But the big wrestler felt frantic and conflicted. He took another step back, and the man in front of him took a set of handcuffs out from a pouch on his belt.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and put them large mitts behind your back,” the man in uniform said, matching Roofy’s movement with a forward step.

  “Niet,” Roofy replied. “Give me a moment.”

  “They’re not here to invite you to tea,” Apocalypse shouted, “They’re hunting us!”

  “Don’t make me have to force you, big man,” the uniformed man said, and a cocky smile crept slowly across his face as he licked one of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

  Teeth, Roofy thought, and the Russian’s instinct kicked into survival mode. The bag he held had little weight to it, but he swung it with all the strength he had anyway, connecting with the man and sending him off-balance and to the floor in-between two of the p
ews.

  “My son,” Father Philippe yelled, “please stop this!”

  But Roofy knew how much danger they were in. He started to yell for the preacher to run, but he did not get to finish the sentence. Two hands grabbed the holy man’s head from behind, wrapping around his face, and, with terrible speed, snapped his neck. All the big Russian could do was scream in disbelief and anger.

  As loud as the sound was, he could still clearly hear the demonic words echoing in his head, “Told you so.”

  12

  “All I’m saying is it’s like Superman without his cape…or Thor without his hammer…or,” Dwayne did not get to finish his sentence before Laura cut him off.

  “You read too many comics, you know?” she asked rhetorically, sorting through the folder of information she was accumulating on the case. “I thought you only did smut magazines.”

  The forensics officer leaned in closer over the detective’s desk. “They don’t have anything on you, girl.”

  Laura rolled her eyes and responded, “Who? The men in tights?”

  The comment was met with a laugh. “Okay. Okay. All I’m saying is, when you were sporting the skirts and tight blouses, you made a statement.”

  “Yeah. I believe the statement was, ‘I’m a total tease-bitch,’“ Laura said dryly.

  “No,” Dwayne rebutted indecisively, “Well… yes…maybe. So it intimidated a few people. And maybe a few guys were dreaming about you while they were plowing their old ladies or pumping the pipe in the bathroom…”

  “Ewww,” Laura inserted, her face contorted to accent the word. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

  “The point is,” Dwayne continued unhindered, “you made a statement. Even if it was not always the one you intended, you still stood out. People noticed you and what you did. Now, you just, well, blend in.”

  Laura’s eyes did not leave the paperwork she continued to sort, group, and document. “What’s wrong with blending in?” The question came out as monotone as any other comment she could have made, but what Dwayne had said did itch at her.

  Wasn’t blending in what she had wanted? She had certainly made every effort to disappear into the crowd. There was the toned down make-up, standard issue clothing, and less intimidating and confrontational demeanor. Okay, she thought, that last one still has a long way to go. And, most importantly, absolutely no fetish encounters. Hell, no sex at all.

  Still, shouldn’t making progress feel like an accomplishment and not a loosely used term? Her therapist said change took time; one emotional folder at a time. Right now, her emotional folders were fuller than her case load, although this one seemed more messed up than she was.

  And the more she attempted to change herself – to undo the knot – the mess just seemed to get more tangled. ‘Out of this chaos, you will emerge as the person you should be – the one you really want to be.’ That was the other thing the therapist kept repeating. Funny thing about change, though, Laura thought, isn’t it something you should really want. She was not so sure transformation was what she desired.

  “That’s why the comics are about extraordinary people, like Superman,” Dwayne responded, shaking Laura out of her thoughts, “because if they were about everyday people, no one would read them. Who wants to read a series about Clark Kent? Boring.”

  “I hope I’m not paying you to investigate the funny pages, Mister Early.”

  Laura knew the voice before she even jerked her head up. Chief Epps had a way of sneaking up on people, and it certainly had snapped Dwayne to attention. It was not too often she heard the man in charge use last names either, unless he was in a very serious mood. Then again, the habit of using them did seem to come up a lot with Dwayne. She made a mental note to try to remember to ask the forensics officer about that later.

  “What are you doing here so late, boss?” she asked.

  “Let’s go to my office, Detective Stenks,” the chief replied back, with an extra amount of insistence in his quietly commanding voice. “You too, Early.”

  The two exchanged a quick look as Laura gathered up the contents of her folder and they fell in behind the superior officer. She immediately noticed the new addition to the chief’s office upon entering: a large dry erase board with details from the previous incarnation of superheroine murders and the most recent. Pictures, scribblings, and lines of connection provided a chaotic jumble with more question marks than facts occupying the space. It had been so long since he had put this much personal detail into something that Laura had to put some thought into it to recall the previous event.

  Travis Daggert was the name that came to mind. It was one of the first major cases she had been assigned to, and she had worked closely with the newly appointed chief to crack what seemed like an unsolvable serial killer manhunt.

  At first, no one had even realized the murders had been related. Female bodies began to turn up, but there were none of the normal details that are typically associated with related crimes of this nature: ages varied, as did races, causes of death were different, some having died from knife wounds, others by strangulation, etcetera, and the locations were all over the central Virginia area. The only thing that ended up drawing them all together was the fact that each crime was so unique. The perp was going out of his way to make it seem they were not related.

  Added to that was how careful and patient the killer was. There was no time-line and no critical evidence, other than the fact that each woman had been sexually assaulted, a point that was not particularly unusual as far as cases like this were concerned. Well, Laura also recalled, each of the women were single. Some were widowed, some were divorced, and some just broke up with significant others. However, there were plenty of females in that situation throughout the state, so it was hard to use that as an investigation launching point.

  With all other details being so nonspecific, it was also frustratingly difficult to tell if new crimes were committed by the same suspect. Give the purposefully random victimology, it was also nearly impossible to determine when he started his spree. Typically, someone would not just jump into the deep end of the murder pool. The perp may have raped a victim or two previous to graduating to being more dangerous, or he may have assaulted or robbed or stalked or committed any other number of offenses prior to having to escalate to get more of a thrill or to fulfill his fantasy.

  Laura disagreed with that approach, though, when she was brought on board, suggesting the unsub’s M.O. of making each murder unique demonstrated that this killer was, himself, special. It made sense to her, and while the other detectives clung to the stereotypical psychological profiles, Laura championed her line of thought.

  She had even felt shocked and somewhat taken aback by the fact that so many were quick to dismiss the notion as part of her lack of experience. Was it that much of a stretch to think that someone may have put that much thought into their killings, especially when a plethora of knowledge and history was out there for anyone to study and learn from? Were the others too jaded by the years of staring down horrific crimes to allow themselves to see outside the box?

  True, Laura had been through criminology schooling and law enforcement training, but everything she knew was documented in books, demonstrated on popular television shows, and only a search away on the internet. Any individual with an inclination for committing a crime could educate themselves on what had and had not worked through historical reference. Throw in brushing up on the latest forensic techniques, a working knowledge on how to circumvent legal missteps by taking advantage of the loopholes, and some patience and a person could quite successfully enjoy their deepest, darkest fantasies without spending a minute locked in a padded room. All it took was control.

  That’s what Laura had decided it came down to – control. Not just control over the physical aspects, though. No, for a person to be capable of such gruesome pleasures without getting caught they would need to control their impulses, not be ruled by them. It was a thin line to walk, and it was one she
identified with when carrying out her own questionable fetishes.

  It was also one she believed Travis Daggert had come close to mastering. This suspect had planned carefully over a long period of time to perpetuate his sick lineage of death. He had been born with the desire and suppressed it long enough to prevent himself from doing something spontaneous, which usually led to doing something stupid and getting caught. No, he had been in it for the long haul.

  Bodies mounded up and kept coming, as she and senior detectives disagreed over an approach and ran into an unending number of dead-ends. For Laura, the glaring question was how the perp knew so much about the victims. If he had that much time to plot his moves then it stood to reason he had access to details of these women far in advance. He knew they were single. He knew where they lived. He may have even met them. This man was hand-picking the targets that best fit his scenario.

  One perspective was that the unsub was using dating sites, but Laura had been quick to point out the lack of details available there. The killer would have had to establish a connection with each of the victims and, given their vast physical differences, that seemed unlikely. Not to mention, many of the women did not have social media accounts.

  No. She was convinced his job gave him all the information he needed. Problem was – what job allowed a person access to someone’s personal details, as well as allowing someone to physically meet or see the victim prior to acting on their plan of attack. Suggestions included being in the medical field, working at a library, or even being in law enforcement. Laura felt it was more obscure.

  Gut feelings were something she had grown to trust emphatically, and even at the early stages of her career in the investigative division, her instincts were talking to her. She began looking for connections through agencies, such as the Department of Motor Vehicles and Social Services. It meant making a sickening amount of calls and spending hours at those locations pouring over leads. Nothing panned out.

  Nothing until she happened to peruse the pages of a newspaper one morning while drinking a Grande Latte at Starbucks. Tucked towards the back, behind most of the major stories, was a list that got printed once a year. The subject of this particular article was people that were owed money by the Commonwealth of Virginia; more in particular, its Unclaimed Property Program.