CHAPTER 20:
It dawned on me as we stood there that Ben had been inordinately quiet ever since making his comment to Mandalay about her memory for facts and statistics. I looked over to find him staring blankly in my direction as he slowly massaged his neck. His face was creased with an unmistakable look of consternation, and his eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into space. I couldn’t tell for certain if he was looking at me, past me, or through me, and for a moment I wondered if he had even been paying attention. Of course, I knew better. He didn’t miss much, and his next words were a testament to that fact.
“So we’re lookin’ for some kinda seriously sick psycho-bitch who just became a serial killer,” he mumbled before I could say a word; his dark eyes were still glazed and unblinking. “Given what she did to ‘im, that’s kinda obvious though. Ya’ got anything else, Row? Anything at all?”
“No, Ben,” I replied. “Sorry. I know it’s not much help.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t matter. That ain’t what I asked you ta’ come here for anyway.”
“Why then?”
“There’s somethin’ else I want ya’ to look at.”
“What?”
“Remember that design that was carved into Wentworth?” he asked.
“You mean the heart shape?” I asked. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, Felicity and I had a theory about that. We were thinking maybe it’s a tattoo of some sort.”
“That a Twilight Zone thing?”
“Yes and no. I did have a quick flash of a similar symbol, but actually the tattoo idea is just a mundane theory.”
“Yeah, well I think you might be able to mark that one off the list. Let’s see what you make of this,” my friend said, then finally blinked, turned his head slightly and called out, “Yo, Marty, you done with the table?”
“Yeah,” the photographer replied. “Just be careful, it’s touchy.”
Ben turned his gaze back on me then pointed across the room. I followed his finger to a round table positioned in the corner. The horrific centerpiece on the bed had been the immediate focal point upon entering the room, and I hadn’t even noticed the table until just now when he pointed it out.
Two straight-backed chairs, one of which was still neatly tucked beneath, flanked the piece of furniture. The other seat, however, was pulled out as if someone had been sitting there. A glowing swag lamp was suspended only a few feet above the center of the table’s surface to cast illumination downward on that specific section of the room. It wasn’t the brightest light in the place by any means, but it was more than enough to highlight a yellowish substance that appeared to have been poured onto the table.
“Go have a look,” my friend instructed. “Just don’t touch it.”
I turned and gave him a puzzled glance then walked the twenty or so feet across to the corner. Agent Drew was already well ahead of me.
After only a pair of steps, what had at first appeared to be a random spill began to reveal a pattern. After another few steps, that pattern looked deliberate. A short moment later when I found myself standing next to the table, I was staring down at a tangle of yellow lines that were clearly so intricate as to be considered artful.
More than that, however, what the lines formed was eerily familiar.
On one third of the table had been drawn a cross. It wasn’t your typical cross however, instead being a pair of intersecting lines that were exactly the same length. At each of the vertices formed by the four ninety-degree angles of the intersection were scribed smaller crosses. At each end of the vertical line resided yet another cross. These, however, were encompassed in small circles. Starbursts adorned the ends of the horizontal bar, flanked inwardly by ornate, leaf-like designs. A complex filigree of both thick and thin lines slashed across the arms of the cross in both perpendicular and diagonal swaths then sprouted outward, through, and around the base design.
Positioned near the center of the artwork was a cigar-judging from the size, a petit corona. The band, however, told a more intriguing story. If the words could be believed, the stogie was contraband-a real-deal Cuban cigar.
Opposite the roll of tobacco was a bone that appeared like it might have once belonged to a chicken drumstick. At least that is the animal I suspected it had come from, even though it had obviously been stripped, bleached and well dried. Still, considering that I had seen this symbol before and knew what it was meant to represent, I was fairly confident that my identification was correct.
Gracing the next third of the table, next to the cross, was another complex drawing. The basis for this one instantly struck a nerve, as it was a heart pierced by a dagger. Within the confines of the outline, carefully spaced and curved gridlines created an almost three-dimensional quilted look to the heart itself. Around the outside, an intricate frill decorated the border, and splaying out from it was yet another purposefully twisting filigree.
Planned within the branching design were two blank patches. One of which held a filterless cigarette. The other, a glass filled with a translucent, brown liquid, which I had an inkling would prove to be rum.
By sight, this second drawing was as equally familiar as the first, if not more so considering my recent vision. Unfortunately, that was where my experience with it ended, and I did not know its inherent meaning. However, I knew all too well the significance of the cross, and that just told me that I now knew where to look in order to find the other.
And, it wasn’t in a tattoo artist’s design book.
Below the two symbols, filling the last third of the surface was an even more recognizable depiction of a circle divided into thirds by curving lines. It too was intricately filigreed but still obvious in its design. Positioned within its borders was what appeared to be a tube of lipstick and a small bottle of perfume.
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered under my breath.
Apparently, Ben could still hear me because he replied with, “Yeah, fuckin’ weird, huh? The bone is what made me call ya’. That, and the heart, obviously. Either way, when I saw the bone the frickin’ hair on my neck stood up.”
“What?…” I shook my head for a second before what he said registered then I began to stammer, “Oh, yeah… Yeah, that’s… And…” I finally stopped myself before I could look any more the fool and asked, “Does anyone know where the victim is originally from?”
“Why?”
“Because this doesn’t make any sense.”
“So it’s just crap?” he asked hopefully. “It’s not what I was thinkin’ it might be?”
I shook my head vigorously. “That depends on what you were thinking.”
“What is it?” Constance asked.
I shot her a quick glance. “Do you remember a little while ago asking me if there was an occult element to Wentworth’s murder?”
“Yes,” she replied. “You never really gave me a firm answer on that.”
“Well I am now.”
“Jeezus… Fuck me…” Ben muttered. “I just knew you were gonna say that. I just knew it.”
“Well, it’s why you wanted me to come here, isn’t it?”
“Fuck no,” he spat. “What I wanted was for ya’ ta’ come in here and say ‘what the hell is that?’ then get mad at me for draggin’ your ass down here. What I didn’t want was for you ta’ actually tell me it’s some kinda hocus- pocus shit.”
“Why are you getting so wound up about it?” I asked.
“‘Cause the last time you told me the crap was the real deal it got way too weird.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is the real thing,” I told him. “Most of it, anyway.”
“Whaddaya mean most of it?”
“Well, it has all the elements, but given the scene it’s definitely been bastardized to fit an agenda.” I pointed to the table and moved my finger slowly about. “These designs are what’s called veve. They’re ritual symbols used to represent godlike spirits known as Lwa. This one…”
“So, you’re saying this is some kind of WitchCraft?” Agent Drew interrupted, his tone still overtly skeptical but somewhat less confrontational than before.
