“Not like this,” I replied.
“So why do ya think she’s not… you know…”
“…In pain right now?”
“Yeah.”
“My guess is that the asshole got off, and he’s taking a break.”
A hush fell over us all on the heels of my comment. What I had said wasn’t something new. Even the FBI agent at Quantico who’d worked up the profile of this killer had commented that the torture was probably the acting out of a psychosexual fantasy. I guess hearing it said aloud, as opposed to reading it in a report, simply made the sick concept a little too personal.
“Let’s hope it’s a long one,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, my voice cold and flat.
The sullen quiet crept in again. I looked out into the darkness as we merged quickly onto Route 3 and started north. The morbid atmosphere in the van continued to bloom, eventually becoming more than my friend could bear.
“Friggin’ dark out tonight,” he finally said. “Must be the clouds.”
“Wouldn’t matter if it was clear,” I offered. “It’s a crone’s moon.”
“Do what?”
“Crone’s moon. The darkness prior to the new moon,” I explained.
“That something special?” he asked.
“It’s a time of introspection,” I replied with a humorless half-chuckle, given the circumstances. Then I paused before adding, “It can also be a time of some very serious dark magick.”
“I thought Witches didn’t do black magick.”
“I didn’t say black. I said dark.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A big one.”
“They’re arguing…” a thin and very weak voice came from behind me.
I turned slowly back to Felicity and saw that she had lolled her head to the side and her eyes were open, staring directly at me. Her cheeks were still damp with tears, and she looked exhausted. Her features were drawn and severe, telling me that she was still dealing with a healthy amount of pain.
“Felicity?” I asked.
She gave her head a barely perceptible shake. “No… Felicity is coming for me.”
The voice was my wife’s, but the inflections were someone else’s entirely. Gone was her Celtic lilt, something that even at its faintest was still perceptible. The pattern of her speech was now fully Midwestern American, and even more specifically, south county Saint Louis.
“Kimberly?” I asked out of reflex.
“Yes…” she whimpered, the single word coming out as a dying whine.
I pressed forth. “Who’s arguing, Kimberly?”
“They are…”
“Who are they?”
“The ones who hurt me,” she whimpered.
I felt like I was talking to a small child who couldn’t reason through a general question. With the sense of urgency I was feeling, I was having trouble maintaining my patience and in the end I couldn’t keep the insistent tone out of my voice. I shook my head at her and snapped, “Who, Kimberly? Who is he arguing with?”
Felicity’s face contorted with a look of fear, and she simply whined. I immediately damned myself for losing control.
“Ssshhh,” I shushed her softly as I reached out and stroked her hand. “Ssshhh… Kimberly, I’m sorry. It’s just that this is important.”
“Is Kimberly Forest actually talking to you?” Constance asked, incredulity underscoring the whispered question.
“I think so,” I quietly replied over my shoulder. “Or her subconscious mind at least.”
“Jeezus…” Ben muttered, then asked in a louder voice. “Is she sayin’ that there’s more than one of ‘em?”
“Who is that?” Kimberly asked, a new thread of fear weaving through her words.
“It’s okay, Kimberly,” I replied. “He’s a police officer. He’s coming with me to help you.”
“Help me!” she pleaded, calling out with a fleeting burst of energy. “Please, help me!”
“She could hear me?” Ben asked.
“Apparently,” I told him.
“Pleeeeaaaasssseee…” she whimpered.
“That’s what we want to do,” I soothed as I turned back to her.
“Can you ask her where she is?” Constance pressed, still keeping her voice low as if she was afraid she would interfere.
“Please help me…” Felicity’s voice whined again before I could answer.
“We are,” I told her. “We’re coming with Felicity to get you.”
“Please…”
“But, listen to me carefully,” I continued, struggling to keep calm. “We need your help. We’re trying to find you right now, but we don’t know where you are. Can you tell us?”
“I don’t know…”
“Can you tell me what you see?”
“It’s dark,” she replied.
“Okay,” I said. “Are you in a house?”
“I think so,” she sobbed. “They come down stairs to hurt me.”
“Did you see the house from the outside?”
“No…”
“Nothing?” I pressed.
“No…”
“So much for that,” I barely heard Constance whisper to Ben.
“Kimberly,” I said. “You have to help us find you. Is there anything at all you can remember?”
“They’re arguing again…” she replied, totally bypassing my question.
“Ask her who,” Ben called out.
“Who is arguing?” I asked, completely forgetting the earlier exchange.
“They are.”
I sighed and quickly reformulated the question. “Kimberly, can you tell me who is arguing with who?”
“Her…” she said. “He’s arguing with her.”
“Her?”
“Yes, her…” she moaned.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“The dyke,” she muttered. “He’s upset about what she did to my face.”
“What about it?” I asked.
“He’s upset that she burned my face,” she whined. “He keeps saying ‘You don’t hurt face.’”
“That must be why the torture stopped,” I offered to Ben and Constance.
“If we’re lucky maybe they’ll fuckin’ kill each other over it,” Ben mumbled.
“Ask her if she remembers hearing or smelling anything that might help?” Constance whispered.
I relayed the question.
“Sometimes the music…” she told me.
“What kind of music?” I asked.
“Death Metal.”
I flashed on the driving thrum that had accompanied the onset of several of my episodes. I’d heard of the particular genre she mentioned, but was unfamiliar with it, that was until now. It would seem that the angry music not only had an explanation, it had a name.
I was just about to press her for more when I heard Mandalay’s voice, noticeably louder than before.
“Watch it, Storm,” she instructed.
“I see ‘em,” he returned.
“Wait a minute… Is that…” Constance’s frightened voice trailed off.
“What the fuck…” Ben sounded confused. “How the hell did she…”
I turned to see what was happening just as he exclaimed, “Jeezus H. Christ!”
The van violently lurched as he yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. I fell sideways as I twisted, crashing hard against the side of the passenger seat. The van shuddered and there was the sickening sound of locked brakes and rubber squealing against asphalt as we careened off the side of the road. In the split second before we slid nose first into the ditch, I caught a shadowy flash of what had just put us there.
Directly in the middle of Route 3, with a single palm pressed stiffly out toward us, was a petite woman with pale skin and long, spiraling, auburn hair.
CHAPTER 39:
“Everybody okay?” Ben called out, voice not quite frantic, but carrying a definite edge of concern.
“Yeah,” Constance replied, nodding her head vigorously.
We hadn’t crashed so much as we had simply skidded off the road. The van was angled diagonally into a shallow drainage channel, causing us to pitch forward and to the right. We were shaken up, but that was about it.
The headlights were now cocked at such an angle that they were shining against a grassy embankment. The autumn-paled vegetation was now reflecting some of the light back, bringing a dim luminance to the interior of the vehicle.
“Row?” he inquired.
“I’m fine,” I returned, pulling myself up using the back of Constance’s seat for leverage against the odd angle.