obnoxious clamor reached my ears and then fell silent. I closed my eyes and decided I must be dreaming, then rolled over. The noise, now more clearly a ringing sound, filtered into my ears again and was followed by Felicity’s sharp elbow poking me in the ribs.
“Aye, Rowan, get the phone, then,” she mumbled from her own half dream state.
I rolled back to face the nightstand and groped for the receiver. When my fumbling fingers finally located the device, I grasped it and lifted it from the cradle, cutting off the noise mid-ring.
“Hello,” I croaked, my voice permeated with sleep.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Ben’s tired voice came rhetorically from the earpiece.
“You’re not in my driveway again, are you?” I mumbled.
“No,” he replied. “But I can have a squad car there in about fifteen minutes if you don’t feel like driving.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, quickly becoming more alert.
“Number three” was his only reply.
CHAPTER 12
I jotted down the address and nudged Felicity into wakefulness. After dragging on a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, I started a pot of coffee and proceeded to put on my socks and tennis shoes. By the time the coffee was finished brewing, my wife had dressed and was sitting at the breakfast nook with her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
“You want some of this?” I asked her as I filled an oversized travel mug with the hot black liquid.
“Aye, is it decaf?” she asked sleepily.
“No. Sorry.”
“I shouldn’t then,” she said with a slight yawn. “The doctor said I should be avoiding caffeine, what with the baby and all. I’ve already broken that rule a couple of times this weekend.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed. “Would you rather skip this and go back to bed? I can go by myself.”
“No.” She shook her head and stifled another yawn. “I’d rather go along and see if we can catch this guy. That way we can all go back to bed and get some sleep.”
I tucked the address into my shirt pocket and snapped the lid onto the travel mug. Upon opening the front door, we were greeted by slightly cooler temperatures than earlier in the day, though the air was still heavy with humidity. Moments later we were on our way, my petite wife behind the wheel.
The clock was just clicking over to 2:30 A.M. when we rolled to a halt on what should have been a quiet side street in the small suburb of Stone Knoll. The scene was similar to the methodic confusion I had experienced just one night before, minus the rain. Felicity was quickly mesmerized by the flickering lights and sat momentarily transfixed until I rescued her from the stupor with a gentle nudge.
News vans were already rolling in on the scene as we made our way past parked patrol cars to the crux of the activity. A uniformed officer executing his duty blocked our path as we neared the yellow tape that cordoned off the house.
“You’ll have to move back folks,” he stated evenly as he insinuated himself between us and the end of the driveway. “Press isn’t allowed in this area.”
Apparently, we had been mistaken for members of the media, and I quickly understood why when I remembered the bulky camera bag slung over my wife’s shoulder.
“We aren’t with the press,” I told him. “I’m Rowan Gant, and this is my wife, Felicity. We were called here by Detective Benjamin Storm.”
“Hold on just a second,” he returned with a nod and then spoke into his radio handset.
A few seconds later, Detective Carl Deckert came out of the front door and trundled down the driveway to the barricade where we stood.
“Rowan, Felicity,” he greeted us, nodding at the officer who acknowledged and extended a clipboard for us to sign in. Deckert waited patiently for us to finish then held up the tape so we could duck under and shook our hands quickly as we walked.
“Ben’s inside. Sorry no one was out here to meet you,” he apologized. “But it’s a little on the busy side around here.”
“Aye, that’s understandable,” Felicity told him, her voice laced with a full Celtic lilt.
“So you’re pretty sure it’s the same guy?” I asked.
“Pretty sure,” Deckert answered, pulling out surgical gloves and handing them to us as we neared the door. “But there are some changes in the M.O. That’s why you’re here.”
“What kind of changes?”
Deckert opened his mouth to reply and then paused for a moment before continuing, “I’d better let you see for yourself.”
“Do you always carry these things around in your pockets, then?” Felicity queried, indicating the gloves as she drew them over her hands.
“In my line of work…” he shrugged and then added with a grin, “Besides, my brother-in-law owns a medical supply company so I get ‘em cheap-as in free. So… if you don’t mind me askin’, what’s with the heavy accent all of a sudden?”
“What accent?” my wife asked, cocking her head to the side.
“She’s the real-deal Irish,” I interjected, answering for her. “It tends to really bleed through when she gets tired.”
“O’Brien, yeah.” He nodded. “Makes sense. Just wasn’t expectin’ it.”
“You get used to the linguistic flip-flops after awhile. You should hear her when she’s had a couple of drinks.”
“Aye, will you two quit talking about me like I’m not even here, then?” Felicity declared.
“Sorry, honey,” I told my wife as I turned my attention to her. “Now, when we go in, ground, center, and be careful. You’re gonna feel a lot of stuff flying at you, and if you don’t watch it, you’ll zone out. Trust me, I’ve already been through it. If you feel like you’re headed for trouble, get out.”
“Okay.” She nodded assent, and I literally felt her falling into a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern that mimicked my own. “I’m ready.”
We entered and followed Deckert toward the rear of the house, carefully weaving our way around crime scene technicians who were focusing intently on their jobs. The cold aura of death surrounded us as we advanced down a narrow hallway and through the doorway at its end. The frigid atmosphere permeated the room, stabbing me with its sharpness. A quick glance at Felicity showed me she was feeling it as well.
The room was simple, basically rectangular in shape, with an antique chest of drawers dominating one corner. Against the wall, a matching dressing table resided. The makeup and perfumes that adorned the top of the table were neatly arranged to the back, and occupying the center were two hardened puddles of candle wax, one white, one black. Next to them, a wine glass was wrapped around its volume of crimson liquid. An ornate, pivoting frame, supported by similarly carved wooden arms, was canted slightly against the wall. The mirror it had once held now lay shattered, spilling like silvery gems across the floor. The once hidden wall behind it now bore the pastel- shaded image of a Pentacle and three familiar words inscribed in a dripping scrawl.
A queen-size bed, stripped of the top layer of linens, jutted out into the middle of the room from the wall opposite the dressing table. Occupying the center of the bed was a long mass covered with a white sheet. Hands protruding from beneath the edge of the fabric and bound to the headboard with duct tape gave clear evidence as to the identity of the mass. The pungent odor of burned sage and rose oil still hung cloyingly in the air.
Ben was talking to the medical examiner when we walked in, and he looked up as we ventured farther into the room. The forensics team had recently finished dusting for fingerprints, and the dark grey powder coated any likely surface they had checked.
“Keep it up and the department is going to have to issue you a badge.” A grim-faced Dr. Sanders greeted us as we stopped at the foot of the bed.
