mean, Big Ben, it all looks the same to me.”
“The same?” he blurted, disbelief underscoring the words. “I’ve been movin’ ‘em for half an hour. You’re not very observant for a Feeb, are ya’?”
“Give me a break. There must be seventy of them for God’s sake. Any more and we wouldn’t even be able to see the Christmas tree.”
His tone turned momentarily boastful as he pointed at the middle of the front row. “Seventy my ass. There’re a hundred and twenty-two countin’ the new guy there.”
“He have a name?”
“Not yet. Still thinkin’ about it.”
“I see. Well, suffice it to say you just made my case for me.”
“But the same?” he groused. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? It doesn’t look the same.”
She shrugged. “Sorry, but it does to me.”
“Dammit…” Ben muttered then huffed out a heavy sigh as he began to point. “Well, okay… So, what if I put Big Ben over there instead, and then put all the…”
Constance cut him off before he could continue. “Ben, relax, will you? They look just fine the way they are… And they looked fine when you started this… And they even looked fine when you set them up three week ago.”
“To you, maybe,” he grunted. “But they gotta be just right.”
“They’re fine,” she repeated a bit more forcefully, while continuing to stare at the display. After a moment she clucked her tongue and said, “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to explain to me exactly how you became so obsessed with nutcrackers.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“One hundred twenty-two of them, Ben? And you buy at least one new one every year.”
“I collect ‘em. It’s a hobby.”
Constance shook her head. “Sure, okay. Whatever you say. Now quit playing with your dolls and come show me where you keep your paprika. Rowan and Felicity and your sister are going to be here soon, and I still have to change. I’d really like to have dinner ready on time.”
“Paprika… Ain’t that the red stuff ya’ use ta’ decorate deviled eggs?”
“It’s not for decorating,” she sighed. “It’s for seasoning. You do actually have some, don’t you? Please tell me you do.”
“Hell, I dunno,” he grunted as he followed her toward the kitchen. “I try not ta’ cook unless I absolutely have to.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed. Well if you don’t have any, then you need to run to the store.”
“Why me?”
“Because I’m cooking, and like I said, I still have to change before our guests arrive. Not very observant for a cop, are you?”
He chuckled. “Funny. Real funny.”
A muted electronic tone sounded and then began to warble into a series of syncopated notes that steadily gained in volume. Ben pulled the chirruping cell phone from his belt and gave the screen a glance before quickly flashing it at Constance.
“Speakin’ of our guests…” he announced and then exclaimed, “Oh, damn! I was s’posed to call Row about Firehair’s present.” He unfolded the phone then placed it against his ear and answered with, “Merry freakin’ ho, ho, ho, Kemosabe…”
At first the only thing to greet him was a muffled thud.
He tried again. “Hello?”
This time the thud was replaced by a loud crash issuing from the small speaker. The noise was sharp enough that Ben jerked the phone away from his ear before bringing it back close enough to listen. A skittering hiss rolled out behind the crash and was punctuated by a hard clatter and thump.
“Rowan?” he barked. “Are you there?”
In answer, a woman’s angry scream bled into his ear, only to be joined a split second later by his friend’s voice calling out to him before it was suddenly choked off in a howl of pain.
Ben all but screamed into the phone, “…ROWAN? ROWAN?! GODDAMMIT! WHAT THE HELL’S HAPPENIN’ OVER THERE?! JEEZUS H CHRIST… ROWAN!”
Eight Months Earlier
Saturday, April 22
9:32 A.M. – Flight 1695
On Final Approach To
Dallas Fort Worth International Airport
CHAPTER 1
“Revelations?” My wife, Felicity, whispered the question.
“Chapter six, verse twelve,” I replied. “And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake… And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood…”
“I suppose it’s ironic, isn’t it then?”
“That’s one word for it,” I replied. “Not the one I had in mind though.”
“They’re just stories, Rowan,” she said. “You of all people know that. You can even quote them better than most Christians. The Bible is a book of allegorical prose. It’s filled with misunderstood and misinterpreted metaphors and similes from a different age.”
“I know,” I sighed. “But everything has an element of truth to it somewhere… And sometimes…with everything I’ve seen… I just… Well, I just have to wonder if some prophecies are universal… If perhaps we’re driving ourselves headlong into the darkened abyss of our own insanity. Why else would so many people do the horrible things they do?”
“Don’t overanalyze,” she offered. “Just try to forget about it. This is over. You’ve earned a rest.”
I gave my head a slow shake. “Something tells me it isn’t.”
“Why?”
I let out a heavy sigh and pulled her closer as I struggled to find the words to express what I was feeling. “This wasn’t right… I mean, the way it all happened. The killer escalated far too quickly. From a victim who disappeared several months ago, to a sudden spree.”
“I’m sure the serial killer experts have an explanation for that.”
“You’re right, they probably do. But something still feels very wrong about it to me… And, that isn’t the only thing. Ben made a valid point back at the rest area. I just handed him an address for the killer, and here we are. We all know that isn’t how it happens. Everything usually comes to me in cryptic messages I have to decipher. That’s how communication across the veil works. It’s like a language barrier.”
“Maybe you’re just learning the language then,” she replied.
“Maybe…” I said. “But that’s not how it feels. It’s almost as if someone was translating for me.”
“Who?”
I sighed again. “That’s the problem. I have no idea. I feel like I should, but I just don’t…”
“Sir… Excuse me, sir…”
The voice drifted into my ears and floated around inside my skull like a distant whisper. It faintly registered, only in as much as I knew it was there, but nothing more. It seemed my misfiring neurons were still fixated on the endless loop of a perplexing memory that refused to be ignored.
“Maybe you’re just learning the language then,” she replied.
“Maybe…” I said. “But that’s not how it feels. It’s almost as if someone was translating for me.”
“Who?”
I sighed again. “That’s the problem. I have no idea. I feel like I should, but I just don’t…”
