I’m sure that at the other scenes the sensation had probably been masked by a host of conflicting energies occupying the room, namely evidence technicians and cops. As for the night of my direct encounter, I was too busy dealing with my own fear to take much notice of anything else.
This, however, was different. It was the first instance in which I had been alone and unthreatened in her world. Although, whether or not I was truly unthreatened remained to be seen.
Even as I concentrated on the aching in my skull, an intense and very pleasant tickle slowly undulated through my groin. I instantly caught my breath and even felt myself rock slightly as my knees seemed to buckle momentarily. Even though it was a shock, the level of pleasure the sensation carried with it was unlike anything I had ever felt before. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of what had caused it, but at the same time it felt so amazing that I found myself consciously wishing it would happen again.
Out of reflex I looked down. Even though no one was here but me, I couldn’t keep from making a self- conscious check to be certain I wasn’t embarrassing myself. Surprisingly, given the nature and intensity of the sensation, what one would assume to be the affected body part appeared to be at rest, and nothing was out of place.
But, then, when I gave it some thought, I suppose it shouldn’t have been such a surprise after all. There was something about the sexual energy that was alien, and having been down this road before, I knew exactly what it was. The arousal was patently feminine, just as the fear was wholly masculine.
I simply stood there for at least a solid minute, maybe even two, struggling to center my thoughts on the ethereal migraine and deny the other sensation. If my ploy was truly working I couldn’t say, but since there was no repeat of the tickle, I pressed forward.
Continuing around the end of the bed, I made my way over to the table. Its surface was crusted with reddish-brown smears of dried blood in various patterns just like the mattress cover. One recognizable outline was almost certainly that of a knife or maybe even a pair of scissors. Others were not so defined, some of them large, some of them small. I had seen what Miranda had done to Officer Hobbes back in Saint Louis, so I knew mutilation was a big part of her sick turn-on. Therefore, it really wasn’t a stretch for me to imagine a severed body part or two from the victim being responsible for the more generous stains.
Here and there, around the edges of the table, a silvery glint of bi-chromatic fingerprint powder glimmered in the soft light. A basic effort to go through the motions, I assumed, because I’m sure the police didn’t really expect to find anything by way of a usable print here.
Thus far I had been observing a hands off policy, making it a point to look but not touch. I wish I could say the decision was because I didn’t want to disturb anything given that the scene had apparently not yet been cleared. However, noble as it sounded, that idea had become moot the moment I pushed open the door. I had broken the seal, so if the police needed to return in search of further evidence, I had already rendered anything they might find inadmissible because I had contaminated the room, thereby breaking the chain. I wasn’t really certain whether what I had done was a misdemeanor or a felony, or even what penalty it carried. But, I was definitely hoping I wouldn’t be finding out anytime soon.
To be painfully honest, the real reason I was keeping my hands to myself was self-preservation because I feared my inherent predisposition for uncontrolled psychometry. Simply being in this room had already bombarded me with more than I was sure I could handle, the most recent sensation being a case in point. Actually touching something could put me into a spiral, sending me through an ethereal event from which I might not recover.
It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. Over the years I’d almost died more than once while channeling homicide victims. I wasn’t too keen on it then, and I definitely wasn’t interested in becoming one of Miranda’s fatalities by proxy now.
Squatting down, I brought myself to eye level with the bed. I don’t know what I thought I was going to see from that angle, but one never knows until he tries, so I did. I panned my gaze across the tableau and tried to visualize what had gone on here one short week ago. Having had what amounted to my own firsthand experience, I expected it would be relatively easy to do. What I didn’t expect, however, was the visualization coming upon me with a vengeance.
In front of me, there is a nude man tied to the bed, a standard clothesline rope criss-crossing beneath the metal frame and securing tightly to his wrists and ankles. An extra loop of the rope is visible around his neck. The reason for it becomes clear as I watch him struggling against the bonds. Each time he pulls against them, the noose tightens and he begins to choke. I can actually hear the distant echoes of him gagging, muffled though they are, as his mouth is covered with a wide swath of duct tape which is wound about his head and lower face.
I watch as, with each desperate twist or pull, the rope bites deeper into his throat, forcing him to cease his fight. A look of suddenly realized terror is filling his eyes, and between each bout of choking himself, he lets out a nasal whine.
I know that seeing this should disturb me, but it doesn’t. Not in the way that it should.
What actually does disturb me is that I feel no compassion as I watch him. No empathy. But, even that isn’t the worst of it. If I was feeling nothing at all, perhaps I could make sense of my uncharacteristic disregard by attributing it to a forced clinical detachment.
But, unfortunately, that isn’t the case.
I am feeling something.
I am amused.
Worse than that, the tickle has returned, and I am becoming increasingly aroused by his plight.
Though the immediate feelings I had sensed upon entering the room had been a combination of both killer and victim, my primary concern for my own safety had been in regard to him. Not her. While I’d had my brushes with channeling killers, they were always alive when I had done so. Though I knew that this one, or at least part of her, wasn’t, I hadn’t considered it as fully as I should have, and now that changed everything.
The dead were the ones who spoke loudest in my head, and they were the ones who most often tried to pull me deeper into their world in an effort to make me understand. I suppose I couldn’t blame them for trying to get their points across any way they could. Dead or not, everyone has a story to tell, and it helps if someone will listen.
But, this one didn’t just want someone to listen. She wanted someone to control. Though I could feel the victim and hear his anguish, he was a bit player on this mental stage. Miranda had a far stronger presence, and she intended to dominate the scene now-just as she had done then.
That was one of the problems with channeling. It didn’t really matter what you as the channeler wanted or even what you personally found to be distasteful. You were simply a conduit, and it was all about the likes and dislikes of the one flowing through you.
I definitely didn’t want Miranda this close to me, but it was too late. She was already inside my head, or I obviously wouldn’t be feeling the things I did. It was this realization that I clung to, using it as a shield against her onslaught and denying her control over me. My gut feeling was that I needed to cut and run right away because I no longer feared becoming her victim, I was afraid of becoming her. Given the pure insanity of that very thought, I was starting to believe all of this wasn’t just a risky move-it was a flat out mistake.
But, I also knew that if I left now, I would leave empty-handed. All the deception and trespassing I had engaged in so far were only worth the gamble if I was going to have something to show for them in the end. I had to keep going until I found something tangible that would help me locate-and stop-both of these killers.
Of course, a raging psychosexual event that might possibly leave me blithering in ethereal bliss was definitely not the result I needed, especially when one considered the imagery that would bring it about. Unfortunately, that seemed to be where this was all heading, and very quickly at that.
Since running wasn’t an option, I decided maybe I should find a different way to approach all of this. But, before I could do that, I was going to have to back out of the path I had already taken.
I started to stand up but found I was once again frozen in place, unable to make myself move. I chose to try the same thing I had done earlier-I blinked hard and willed the image to go away
But, when my eyes fluttered open, it remained. In fact, it seemed even more tangible than it had before. It looked real enough to reach out and touch, and I even found that I had to stop myself from doing just that.
Trying again, I drew in a deep breath, shut my eyes, then slipped my thumb and forefinger beneath the rim of my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. After a moment, I let the breath slowly out through my mouth and allowed my hand to fall. With trepidation, I opened my eyes once again.
He still hadn’t gone away, and now it was even worse- because he had company.
