Breathing.
Listening.
He stayed absolutely still.
Did anyone see him come in? Were they calling the police right now? He didn’t want to lose his job again. He didn’t want to be fired for breaking the law.
He did want to put Darius away. Although he doubted if there was a cell that could hold him. And truthfully, Curran wanted to see him dead.
He glanced around the house, trying to decide what direction to proceed in. Old lessons from his FBI academy days in Quantico came back to him. Of course, those lessons were based on having obtained a proper search warrant. Breaking and entering, well, that was another story.
Probably not the best decision I ever made, he thought as his breathing returned to normal. But it’s definitely necessary.
Necessary because Curran still wasn’t sure if he could commit totally to the notion of supernatural influences unless he found some sort of hard evidence.
But he felt certain about one thing: that Darius was indeed the serial killer he’d been tracking for years. Darius was the reason for Curran’s plight. The reason for his termination at the FBI. And the countless deaths that had marred cities across the United States.
Curran wanted to stop it.
Soon.
Now?
He sighed. He’d accept the consequences of breaking into a suspect’s home, if there were any, at a later time.
For now, he had business to conduct.
Immediately to his left, a tall thin coat rack stood silently guarding the entranceway. Underfoot, a thin Persian carpet in muted blues and maroons ran from the doorway to an intersection of stairs and a hallway.
He walked toward the hallway. A tall table he thought might be cherry stood under an old silver-framed mirror. Atop the table, an assortment of unopened mail — mostly bills — awaited inspection.
Curran ignored them. He didn’t think incriminating evidence would be found opening Darius’ credit card statements. At least not yet.
He moved right down the hallway, investigating a sitting room with two high-backed chairs and enough shelves to make a small library. Curran scanned the titles on the bookshelf but found nothing relating to Satanism.
Not even a book of ghost stories, he thought frowning.
He sighed and moved on to the next room where he found a large roll top desk, recently oiled, and still shining in the dull afternoon light. Atop the desk was a Rolodex filled with names and numbers of fellow antiques dealers in cities across the world.
Should he copy the information down? He shook his head. It would take too long.
He’d been right at least, judging that the interior of the house would probably look a lot better than the outside. Darius obviously had a degree of understated taste. Quiet wealth masked lightly in the guise of old pieces of furniture no one but the experts would know were valuable pieces.
He frowned as the thought entered his mind. Would a demon — a real servant of the Devil — have need for such things as the very human trappings Curran had seen so far?
He came to the staircase and took the steps up, marveling at the intricate molding running along the baseboard and the delicate handspun spindles adorning the railing. The house had been built to stand the test of time. The higher ceilings confirmed it was about a hundred years old.
On the second floor, Curran found the master bedroom. A California king-sized bed hugged the far right corner of the room. Deep maroon sheets bunched up in tight piles on the mattress. Someone didn’t sleep very well last night, thought Curran.
Twenty-pound dumbbells lay in another corner, their black iron plates showing scars from repeated daily use. Otherwise, the room was Spartan. Polished hardwood floors seemed free of dust bunnies. Darius kept the place pretty clean.
Curran opened the closet and found an assortment of handmade Italian suits, the kind without any labels in them. Silk ties by the dozens hung in rows organized by decorating styles. Plaids on the right and stripes to the left with paisleys in between.
Rummaging in the back of the closet produced nothing of interest aside from a bunch of old boxes filled with back issues of antiques magazines.
Curran closed the closet door and sighed.
A search of the six-drawer oak bureau revealed nothing other than the fact that Darius wore boxer shorts.
Curran chewed his lower lip.
Damn.
The master bathroom revealed nothing exciting. Darius apparently took some measure of pride in his appearance judging by the volume of moisturizers and vitamin supplements housed in the medicine chest.
Curran checked the razor and found it a single blade type like the kind the old style barbers used to sharpen on the strips of leather.
The shower itself was immaculate. No buildup of curly public hairs or straighter head hairs clogged the drain. No soap scum marred the shower doors.
Guy’s a neat-freak, thought Curran.
In the second floor hallway he paused, looking toward another room that had the door closed. Another staircase lead up, probably to an attic.
Curran could either check out the room or head further upstairs.
Something inside of him said no. Curran suddenly felt a strong pull to return to the downstairs. Before he realized what was happening, he let himself get swept along with the pull and soon wandered into the kitchen downstairs.
Darius liked to cook.
Three garlands of garlic hung from a hook high on the wall. Expensive looking cast iron pots hug over a center island while the stove top had the look of a professional grill. Baskets of onions and potatoes pyramided up in the pantry along with walls of cookbooks.
Curran poked into the cabinets and under the sink but found nothing out of the ordinary.
He found the cellar door almost not knowing what he’s discovered.
It latched at the top and also at the bottom.
Curran undid the latches.
The clicks made a hollow sound that echoed loud across the kitchen, bouncing into other rooms.
A cool breeze swept over him again. Curran almost smiled. I guess, he thought, this is where I’m supposed to go.
He opened the door.
Darkness greeted him, swallowing up the light spilling down from the kitchen. Curran stepped down on to the top step.
And then closed the door behind him.
The darkness seemed absolute and he guessed Darius must have covered up the cellar windows to keep prying eyes from seeing what might be going on down here.
Curran noticed the cold breeze had disappeared.
He stepped down lower, feeling the hard cement wall with his right hand, hoping to find a light switch. The cement crumbled in places, breaking off and making small noises as it plummeted to the wooden steps, bounced and then hit the floor.
His eyes seemed to be adjusting, but to what? The darkness continued to remain impenetrable.
Unless Curran found a light switch soon, he’d never be able to see what was down here.
I should have left the door open, he thought, but then frowned. If Darius came home unexpectedly, the open door would let him know someone was in the house. Better to risk the darkness than Darius knowing he was
