looked for yet?
Kwon had sent some blood down for a toxicology work-up, but he seemed convinced that the green brain was somehow a major factor in the death.
Unfortunately, so was Curran.
He already knew what to expect from the toxicology screen. There’d be substantial amounts of glucose present, the result of an incredible surge of adrenaline just prior to death. Curran had seen the toxicology reports from six other cases back when he’d been with the FBI.
Toxicology hadn’t helped one bit.
Nothing had.
He wheeled his way down the Jamaicaway, rounding dangerous curves that sent most drivers whimpering for second gear. Curran handled them at forty miles per hour, enjoying the slight fishtail action of the car before he righted it again.
It had to be him. The same killer Curran had unsuccessfully tracked. A killer so adept at dealing death that his victims showed no signs of it, other than the green brain.
The sole souvenir of their demise.
Curran drove past Holy Name on Centre Street. The spire rose high above the other rooftops nearby. Almost like it was calling out to get his attention. But he hadn’t been to church in years. His faith had suffered. Curran wasn’t sure it could ever be salvaged.
Not after…
He blocked the images and drove on, anxious to get home.
His mind’s eye played back the image of the corpse on the floor of the nightclub. According to the wallet the first uniforms found on him, Gary William Fields was thirty-two years old. His short brown hair and thin mustache made him look older while the sleek black satin shirt, gold chain, and tight black pants made him look sleazy.
Witnesses? Hardly. Curran frowned and skirted another pothole. The people closest to Fields when he suddenly dropped said that they hadn’t noticed a thing. And the club had been far too crowded for it to seem unusual if another person wandered close by.
The club’s video surveillance system covered everyone coming into and leaving the club, but Curran doubted he’d get lucky there. Thousands of people passed through the doors of a club each night. Still, it was a lead one of the junior grunts in Homicide would no doubt get stuck with. Especially if they eventually got lucky.
Luck.
Curran sniffed. As if such a thing even existed.
He slid the window down and tossed the cigarette butt into the slipstream. What made Fields so special that he had to die tonight? And would this mark the start of another wave of bodies just as it had all those years ago?
The key, he decided as he turned on to his street, was Fields. In the morning, he’d pore through the computer databases and put a picture together of what Fields might have done that warranted someone killing him.
Curran felt pretty certain he knew who had killed him.
But after so many years, he wondered why.
In the darkness he felt the pressure of its gaze. The heavy stare cloaked his mind from an unseen source, boring into his skull with relentless zeal. He could feel it lapping at the fringes of his subconscious, tasting and drooling with desire at the thought of causing mayhem in the city.
The velvet voice oozed over his mind, seeping into his head. It repeated itself over and over again like a mantra of evil.
Curran wanted to shout but his throat felt thick. He wanted to claw at the voice but a million arms grabbed him and held him fast. He struggled but nothing would work. His legs felt rubbery and his arms were pinned behind him.
In the darkness in front of him, a face emerged. But it was unlike any he’d ever seen before. It didn’t look human. It didn’t look like anything he knew.
Two cold yellow eyes swept over him. He felt himself go cold as the stare bore down on him.
From a gaping maw a spindly tongue rolled out, flicking at the air by Curran’s face. Flecks of spittle dropped onto Curran’s skin and he almost retched. The tongue touched his cheek. Curran grimaced as the wet sandpaper rubbed against him.
The voice spoke inside his head again.
“Why are you back?”
“Why now?”
“NO!”
Sunlight exploded into Curran’s eyes as they snapped open. He shot upright in bed, whirling his arms around trying to punch and kick at the same time.
“-wha?”
The alarm clock on his nightstand read 6:30.
Curran slumped back against the pillow.
A dream?
“Jesus Christ.”
A nightmare?
The sheets — what Curran thought were arms holding him — had wrapped themselves around his body. They felt wet. Sticky. Soaked with Curran’s sweat. In the struggle of the nightmare, he’d managed to get tangled up in them.
Or was it a nightmare?
The voice.
Curran rubbed his eyes. That voice. It spoke to me. And I spoke to it?
Impossible.
He felt wrecked. Like the four hours had rushed by in the space of five minutes. Curran glanced at the bedroom window, at the gray daylight poking in through the wooden blinds he’d installed a few months previously. Another cold November day.
But Curran wasn’t thrilled at what today might bring.
More sleep, he thought as he closed his eyes again. He needed more sleep.
If he could just keep the dark at bay.
And the evil he knew it contained.
Curran took Centre Street down to Columbus Avenue to work after he’d showered and shaved. Next to him on the seat, he’d brought a large container of orange juice and a banana muffin — testament to his fledgling exercise program. Curran wasn’t fat and he wasn’t out of shape, but he did want to lose a few paunchy pounds.
He sighed when the glass brick building that house the Boston Police Department headquarters appeared. A few years before, the department occupied a white stone building over on Berkeley Street just outside of Copley Square. Over the years, the number of cops inside had grown while space had dwindled. The city finally coughed up some money and built a new police headquarters.
Curran would have rather stayed at Berkeley Street and he knew plenty of cops who felt the same. The new building looked like someone had gone bargain shopping on the set of the Brady Bunch and pocketed the savings. The building was a shoebox of glass bricks and blocks. Even the simple sign wasn’t original. It was a direct rip-off of the one used by Scotland Yard.
Curran parked his car and walked into the building, showing his identification to the bored desk sergeant before heading upstairs on the elevator to the homicide division.
He sat at his desk, placed the bag of orange juice and muffins on one side and then unlocked his file drawer.
