She shook her head. “These killings are a little more distinct than stabbings, or shootings. Once you start looking for it, you can’t miss it. The police know about it. So does the FBI. The last two times the pattern has sprung up, there have been full-scale investigations. Before that, communication was so primitive that law enforcement never would have had the chance to see what was going on right under their noses.”
“Okay,” John said. “Give. What makes these murders so distinct?”
Shaw locked eyes with him. “I think you already know.”
John started to say that he didn’t, but suddenly a series of disconnected images flashed through his mind. The man with the black sun tattoo releasing blood-red rays in the back seat of an old car; the kid, Brett, a fighter with a mashed nose in the back alley of a bar; the aging Jim Morrison look-alike outside the strip club; the burly salesman in the hotel room…so many more…
“Their blood,” he murmured. “Whoever it is killing these people, she—she drinks their blood.”
Shaw nodded. “Literary and film treatments aside, what we’re talking about here is a…well, we’re talking about a vampire, John. A vampire who is as privy to your thoughts and dreams as you are to hers.”
John felt his mind drifting, as if his rationality had been cut free from its moorings. “And I—we—fit this pattern?”
“Perfectly. The last so-called healer died about thirty-five years ago, just before you were born. His death also marked the end of one of these killing sprees in the Midwest. He—” She bit off whatever she’d been about to say.
“He what?”
She shook her head, then looked at him frankly. “He was murdered. When I read that, it seemed like too big a coincidence, so I looked back at the obits of the three or four other seemingly legitimate healers I’d discovered—the ones who shunned the spotlight and tried their best to live normal lives.”
“And?”
“And they’d all been murdered also. At the same time, the ritualistic killings came to an abrupt stop. The healers are always the last ones to die, and then…nothing. For a while.”
“What does that mean?”
“John,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. “This is what I really called you for, to tell you this.”
“What?”
“The other one, the life-taker, she—and it will be a she—she’ll be coming for you. For whatever reason, and I wish I could tell you something specific about why, she needs for you to die.”
Part II
Chapter 11
Boston, Massachusetts
If there was one thing Phylum hated, it was a pussy, and if this motherfucker wasn’t the biggest pussy Phylum had ever seen, he didn’t know who was. He hadn’t even touched the guy before he’d dropped to the floor and soiled himself, an act that had been accompanied by some pretty revolting liquid sounds, like a toilet being plunged.
He hefted the man by the armpits and dropped him into a chair, grimacing at the smells of piss and shit wafting off Tom Cavanaugh, who was now whimpering like a distressed puppy.
Pathetic, he thought, fucking pathetic.
“Shut up,” Phylum said, but Cavanaugh was blubbering, snotty bubbles forming and then popping all over his mouth. Taking a steadying breath, Phylum said, “If you don’t cut that shit out, I’ll do things to you that you won’t believe.” He bent and lifted Cavanaugh’s chin with a finger. The man’s eyes rolled, so Phylum slapped his cheek, then grabbed his face with one mammoth hand, squeezing his cheeks.
“I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” Cavanaugh said, sniffling. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”
Phylum stepped back and wiped his hand on his jeans. His patience was running thin; behind his eyes he could feel a dangerous buzzing. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Hold it together, he told himself. Just hold it together for a little longer.
Looking down at Cavanaugh, Phylum could see that the man was trying to collect himself—to get his shit together, so to speak. And as frustrating as this kind of behavior was from a grown man, Phylum had to take into account the man’s unique point of view. He’d gotten into bed with the wrong people, borrowing fifty thousand dollars from a loan shark for whom Phylum sometimes did recovery work, and now, one way or another, he was about to pay up. “I take it you know why I’m here,” he said.
Cavanaugh nodded, his eyes fixed on Phylum’s shoes, his hands clasped between his knees. Phylum could see Cavanaugh coming to the humiliating realization that he had gone to the bathroom in his pants like a child.
“Say, ‘yes,’” Phylum said.
“Y-yes,” Cavanaugh whispered.
“And I take it, from your excretory reaction, that you know who I am.”
Cavanaugh nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes, yes,” Cavanaugh said, cringing. “I know who you are.”
Phylum let the silence hang for a moment. He was coming back to himself a little bit; he could feel his emotional horizon returning to level. He liked this part, where the sheep was cowering, the wolf in control. It was the natural order of things.
“Are you going to tell me what I want to hear?” Phylum said. “Or are we going to have a problem?”
Cavanaugh started crying again, the tears running fast and fat down his cheeks and into the scruffy facial hair coating his jaw. Phylum felt his patience slipping.
“You’re making me mad,” he whispered.
“I don’t have it,” Cavanaugh sobbed. “I don’t have it. I need more time, just a couple of weeks. I can get it. I can. I swear.”
Phylum nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He pressed the button near the top of the handle and the blade, bright and razor-sharp, flicked forth with a schnick.
Cavanaugh’s eyes fixed on the knife. “Ahh, God,” he croaked. Phylum could see the man’s survival instincts kick in, could see him begin to evaluate the various escape possibilities.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Phylum said, and Cavanaugh’s eyes shot up to Phylum’s face. “You might make it to the window, but by the time you got your hand on the lock, the blade of this knife would be lodged between the third and fourth vertebrae in your spine. I can do that, and trust me, it’s no party for you.”
Cavanaugh’s eyes slipped toward the door and Phylum’s followed. He smiled. “The door? That’s cute. I can hear what you’re thinking. Did you lock it behind you when you walked in? That’s a big question, isn’t it? If it’s unlocked, all you have to do is pull the door open and you’re home free, right? But what if you locked it? Then you have to turn that deadbolt, don’t you? That could take, what, half a second?”
He moved his head from side to side in a considering gesture. “By that time I could have done a dozen different things to you. Not things that would kill you. No, there would be no point in that. But things that would change your life forever? Definitely.” He locked eyes with Cavanaugh. “My advice? Just sit there like a good little boy and tell me what I want to hear. You could still get out of this with…a minimum of damage. I won’t say none, because that would be untrue, but it doesn’t have to be much, not in the big scheme of things. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The man shut his eyes and nodded.
Phylum blew air between his teeth. “Say the words, fuckface.”
“I-I understand,” Cavanaugh said.
“Good. Now, the situation is this: Mr. Prince obviously wants his money back from you. It’s been three months, and he’s starting to lose faith that you’re going to make good on your promises. With interest, you now owe him…” Phylum thought for a moment. “Something along the lines of fifty-five grand, give or take a few Gs. I understand from your scatological release that you don’t have the entire amount. Can you give me anything, as a gesture of good faith?”
“No,” Cavanaugh said. “I don’t have anything. I’m totally broke. I have like three bucks in my wallet.”
“Alright. I believe you. But I can’t go
back to Mr. Prince with nothing. Put out your right hand.”
“Wha-What?”
“Put it out,” Phylum said. “If you make me ask again—”
Cavanaugh slowly lifted his hand and held it out, gingerly, as if he and Phylum were getting ready to play a game of slap-hand and he’d have the chance to yank it back to safety. It was a nice thought.
Phylum’s own hand shot out whip-quick and grabbed Cavanaugh’s wrist. The man squealed and bucked, his eyes rolling in his head.
“Fucking chill,” Phylum growled. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Phylum left Cavanaugh’s house and dropped a ziplock baggie into the trunk of the Toyota Corolla he’d driven up from New York. In the ziplock were the pinky and ring finger from Cavanaugh’s right hand. And actually, it had been a difficult choice.
Phylum always liked to do things right, especially for employers like Mr. Prince, men who really appreciated quality work, so when he made these little social visits he liked to go the extra mile. That meant two fingers instead of just one. But taking two fingers complicated matters. For example, did he take two fingers off the same hand? That always seemed a little mercenary. The last three fingers—well, two really, since the world now maintained that the thumb was not, in fact, a finger at all, the way it now maintained that Pluto was not, in fact, a planet anymore—always looked so fucking sad. It was like manual deforestation. But if you took one finger off each hand, that really fucked the pooch, too, now didn’t it? One hand you could hide—tuck it in your coat pocket or something—but two? How would you hold your drink at a party? Sign checks? And then there was golf. Phylum loved golf, and he’d been told that Cavanaugh did, too. That had definitely been a factor in his decision tonight.
But in the end, he’d mostly been swayed by marriage.
Phylum was no romantic, but he could appreciate that a fucking pathetic loser pussy like Cavanaugh might one day find a woman who could look past his innumerable faults and see the man sheathed inside that blubbering cocoon of pussy-meat. And if he did, if this hypothetical pussy-meat-loving woman decided that she wanted to marry this quivering piece of shit, he would need to wear a wedding ring. Taking all of that into account, liberating the last two fingers of Cavanaugh’s right hand had just seemed like the right thing to do. Better for Cavanaugh’s love life.
And better for Cavanaugh’s golf game, too, since any old duffer knew the left hand really controlled the swing.
* * *
Phylum’s cell phone rang—the first few bars of Orff’s Carmina Burana—and he picked it up off the passenger seat.
“Phylum,” he said.
“It’s me,” said the voice on the other side of the line, circumspect as always. Never, “Hey, it’s Dan,” or “Hello, this is Steve, is Phylum available?” Always, “It’s me.” Three years of these calls and always the same damned thing.
“Ah,” Phylum said.
“How was your conversation with Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Good,” Phylum said. “We had a…a couple fingers of scotch.”
A considering pause. “So our mutual friend can expect to hear from him soon?”
“Safe to say.”
“Good. I have another job for you.”
Driving at exactly the speed limit, Phylum said, “Hold on,” dug his earpiece from his pocket, plugged it into the ass-end of the phone, and removed his notepad from his breast pocket. He took a pen from the glove compartment and said, “Go ahead.”
The voice on the other end of the line spoke for thirty seconds while Phylum scribbled notes down, and then the line went dead. No goodbye, nothing.
Phylum sighed and shook his head. “Prick.”
Chapter 12
Once again, she was moving north.
The truth of that fact occurred to her as she sat in the back seat of a black Pontiac Firebird, wedged between two sleeping Mexican children, a boy and a girl.
She’d picked up the ride about three hours ago, in the northern part of Atlanta. The driver, a Mexican man named Pablo who spoke only broken English, smiled and said, “Charlotte,” when Rose asked where they were headed. She’d already passed up two rides by the time the dented Firebird happened along, a trucker headed south to Florida and a college kid on his way out to Ohio, and now she knew why she’d waited.
Why north?
She’d never spent much time up north, and her travels had never taken her further up than Pennsylvania. What’s more, the feeling that she was being…directed somewhere was powerful, which disturbed her greatly.
For her entire life, Rose had been a creature in charge of her own destiny. There were limitations to what she could do and when she could do it, sure, but in the overall scheme of things, she made her own way, the rest of the world be damned.
And now this.
She thought of Mike Clover, now a hundred and fifty miles behind her, and felt anew the contrary emotions the man had provoked in her. The raw, animal attraction, the need for him in a way she couldn’t explain.
And the hate that had risen in her last night when she’d murdered the homeless woman in front of him.
Why had she done that? If she had protested long and hard enough outside the restaurant, he would have let her go eventually, even if he didn’t want to. He was a nice man. And he had cared about her. Even after a couple of days, he had cared. The part of Rose that depended on reading people and their emotions knew that.
If she had just let things be, she could have gone back to him the next night, and he would have welcomed her. She was sure of it.
But she hadn’t done that, had she?
Instead, she had very carefully chosen the one thing that would expel him from her life forever, and then she had done it, almost thoughtlessly. Between the time she climbed into Mike’s car and when she killed the bag lady, there had been a distinct absence of thought, of consideration. A forced absence of thought, more like it.
The worst part was that, looking back now, she thought she knew why she had killed the homeless woman. There had been the need to kill, that feeling inside of her head and chest that she’d experienced hundreds of times before, but she could have held off, could have stopped herself for long enough to get far away from Mike before…before. But her need to take life, to refill whatever horrible and constantly lowering reservoir existed inside of her, had nothing to do with what she had done. But she thought she knew why she had.
Mike Clover had become a weakness for her. He made her vulnerable. Rather, he would have done so if she’d pursued things with him.
Sitting in the back of the Firebird, she thought about that. Yes, it made sense. Living the way she did, the only way she could, being attached to anyone else opened her up to danger. Alone, she could move as she needed, leave any place at the drop of a hat. She could listen to her instincts, which had kept her alive this long.
What she had done in Atlanta had nothing to do with Mike. It had to do with her nature, what she was, and what she had to do to survive. Move, kill. Being with a man had never been a part of her life; having a child…
Rose leaned back into the leather of the seat and heard springs squeak like mice behind her. She closed her eyes, tried to relax, opened her eyes again.
To each side of her, the children, young, maybe eight and ten years old, breathed softly in sleep.
Rose had been sitting with her shoulders tight, her hands in her lap. Now she raised them and draped one around the shoulders of each child. The girl slumped over into Rose’s lap and rested her head there, muttered something in Spanish, something that ended with papa. Rose lowered her hand to the girl’s black hair and stroked it softly.
As she did, she thought of the children whose lives she had taken. Not many: fifteen, maybe twenty, over the years. Killing never gave her joy, but she had learned to anesthetize herself to it. Had to. Killing children, though… There was nothing worse than that. Rose shuddered and looked down at the side of the sle
eping girl’s face. Smooth, dark-skinned, deeply-dimpled cheeks.
She tried to stop it, but the memory came. Only months ago, just before her wandering had brought her to Florida, she’d found herself stuck in the harsh winter of the Kansas prairie. For a while her time in Kansas had gone well; she’d found a quaint town and no end of barns in which she could spend the days, her sleep undisturbed, deepened even, by the sounds and smells of horses and other livestock. Then, one night while she was preparing to head out for the hunt, a gentle snow had evolved into a full-fledged blizzard and Rose had been stuck, stranded, in a barn miles from the closest town.
She shivered now, thinking about it, the warmth of the car so contrary to the cold of that winter landscape.
For hours she had tried to relax herself, striven to deny the burning need inside of her body, in her stomach, her brain, but finally it had been useless. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she had found herself standing in hip deep snow outside a window of the farmhouse. On the other side of the glass, lit by a bulb burning in the hallway, a little girl of seven or eight lay nestled beneath her quilt, hands holding bunched fabric beneath her chin.
Rose shuddered. She could feel the cold of that night on her skin, in her bones. She could remember the thrumming, frantic need zipping its way through her veins, throbbing behind her eyeballs, bulging in her throat. And then she remembered feeling surprised at how easily the window slid up in its frame…and how sweet the little girl’s blood had tasted sliding through her lips, coating the inside of her mouth, slipping like salty, coppery wine down her throat and into her stomach…the relief, the power.
Rose felt a sudden swell of anger, was caught off-guard by its force, felt her body tense with it.
Why did she have to be like this?