KALLUM
The alluring sight of Halen’s tear-streaked mascara tracking her beautiful face keeps me from completely losing my mind in the holding cell.
Apparently, Dr. Stoll Verlice didn’t take too kindly to our ditching him. The monitor was already out of bounds, and along with his tattling report, the feds decided to make good on their threat to hunt me down like the FBI’s most wanted.
It was worth it.
I bring my knees up to the bench and lean back against the wall, savoring the mental image of Halen. A fucking vision of my muse in ruin as she confronted her grief.
Goddamn delectable.
Her sweet taste clings to my tongue, and I’m not sure how I willed myself to stop when I was so close to tearing into her, to seeing her break…but stamina is a virtue I do value.
You can’t spoil your dessert with a hastily devoured meal out of famished desperation.
And one taste only whet my insatiable appetite.
Letting my thoughts roam, I probe the ankle bracelet. Tampering with the device sends off a signal. But like any manmade apparatus, there are always flaws in the design.
The loud click of the holding-cell door grabs my attention, and I drop my feet to the floor. Dr. Verlice shuffles into the room, followed by a rookie agent who looks too young to be out of training pants.
“Professor Locke,” Stoll starts. “We have the matter of your misconduct to address—”
“Where’s Halen?” I demand.
A faint, derisive smirk registers on his pale face. “Miss St. James is none of your concern,” he says, setting binders on the only chair. “But I believe she’s been removed from the case. She’ll be leaving soon—”
I’m off the cot and in front of him before the rookie can make a move to restrain me. I have Dr. Verlice backed against the wall, my hand clamped around his throat.
“I won’t be leaving this case.” My voice drops to a lethal decimal. “Which means, we’ll be roomies again real soon.” I smile, my eyes drilling into his as he trembles. “And you saw how quick it can happen. They’ll never even hear your neck snap.”
The agent grabs my wrist, but not before I’m able to retrieve a necessary item from Stoll’s jacket inseam. I allow the agent to remove my grip on Stoll and, as I back away, I lift my chin, my features carved in stone.
I keep my gaze aimed on the quivering doctor, waiting to see what he decides.
He touches his throat and coughs, but it’s the wet mark pooling on the front of his slacks that makes me smile.
I glance over at the agent, then look at Stoll. “No one has to know,” I say to him.
Humiliation blisters his face. Hurriedly grabbing his binders, he covers himself before he rushes from the room.
Smart choice.
I then look at the young agent, who is suddenly aware we’re now alone. “Take me to the guy who thinks he’s in charge.”
The briefing is still underway when Agent Training Pants leads me into a room full of suited feds and team leaders from the local departments. A giant whiteboard is covered in a distressing amount of false information.
As I pan the space, I recognize Detective Emmons, the crime-scene analyst Devyn, and the two generic feds that have been shadowing me since I arrived.
Then my gaze lands on Halen.
She’s seated in the back, out of sight, hidden away. As if she’s already distanced herself from the case.
Agent Alister stops mid-sentence to look at me, his face bracketed in sharp angles to stress his annoyance. When Halen glances up at the interruption, she’s all I see—and I discern what’s sheltered behind her twisted uncertainty.
Fear and lust.
The two most powerful, primitive emotions.
She hasn’t had much sleep, as evident by the dark blotches under her widened hazel eyes. Temptation tenses my muscles, making it painful to simply stand here, when the urge to gather her in my arms and take her straight to bed is so damn demanding.
“Locke.” It’s Alister’s displeased tone of voice that steals my attention away from her. “This meeting is for officials only. I’ll deal with you momentarily.”
Deal with me. A smirk slants my face at his condescending reprimand, and I tic my head in the direction of the whiteboard. “Satanic practices,” I say, the sardonic question implied.
Alister casts a look at the board, then crosses his arms over his shoulder harness as he faces me fully. “Do you have something relevant to say, Locke? Something helpful? Because, as far as I’ve seen, none of your expertise has been particularly useful. In fact, since my team was able to interpret the symbols without the need of your expertise—” the derision in his voice, by gods “—the FBI is no longer in need of your or Miss St. James’s services.” He directs his attention on the agent beside me. “Remove him from the room.”
The agent hesitates, giving me time to call Halen out of the shadows. “Do you agree with this bullshit, Dr. St. James? After all, you did point out a huge oversight on the feds’ part with the mutilated stag.”
As all eyes turn to her, Alister levels the young agent with a warning glare. He doesn’t like being called out on his oversights. “Get him out of my room—”
“I’d like to hear what Dr. St. James has to say.” Devyn stands in the middle of the room. Surrounded by the members of the local department, she addresses Alister. “And, no offense to the feds, but this isn’t your room or building. It’s town owned, paid by our taxes.”
Alister has gone furiously silent. Then, aiming a narrowed gaze on Halen, he says, “We have a lead in a neighboring town on an occult practice that delves into satanic rituals. This is where we’re focused, and the profile only derails.”
Devyn shakes her head. “I read the profile,” she says. “As did my colleagues and Detective Emmons. We have three suspects—”
“The FBI still has jurisdiction over this case,” Alister snaps. “No one is conducting any interviews outside of the Bureau’s investigation.”
“If you look for the suspect anywhere other than Hollow’s Row, you’ll waste precious time.” Halen remains seated, but her voice carries over the room. She glances at Devyn and gives her an appreciative nod.
Devyn follows up. “No one is pissing around jurisdictions, but the feds questioned everyone in this town except the actual suspect pool.” Her features draw together, conveying the weight of her next words. “And the fact is, Agent Alister, this is our family out there. Our friends. Our town. Our department should clear our suspects before crossing town lines. And for that to happen, we need very clear answers on what we’re looking for. Not vague parameters based on data and speculation.”
Hands anchored to his hips, Alister only nods once at Halen, giving her permission to respond to Devyn’s request. My hand curls into a fist at his disrespect toward her.
Devyn seats herself and breaks out a notepad, clicks a pen loudly. “What about the occult link? What do we look for?” She directs her questions toward Halen.
Tablet in hand, Halen stands. “It’s my opinion that the occult shouldn’t be a focal point. Occult practices aren’t sinister by nature. They’re merely hidden from general society.” Instead of giving this lecture to Alister, she turns her focus on Devyn and the locals, where it might resonate.
“The occult can delve into magick, Witchcraft, Wicca,” she continues, “or it can even explore Satanism. However, it’s man who’s flawed. Man can take any spiritual concept, any higher wisdom intended to enlighten, and in his selfish vanity, greed, and desire for power, corrupt absolutely. We’ve seen it throughout history with world leaders and tyrants who destroy and kill in the name of a higher purpose or god. But it’s man who is evil, not the practice itself.”
Alister opens his mouth to interrupt, but Halen pushes on, undeterred.
“As far as the profile, the offender is twisting an ideology for his own vanity. He perceives Frederick Nietzsche as something of a prophet, treating his philosophical work, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, as a guide and instruction manual, written for those deemed worthy to decipher the three stages of ascension into a higher being. The overman.”
As I start walking toward the back of the room, Halen visibly stiffens, like my nearness causes her physical discomfort. I don’t stop, and neither does she.
“The offender may be a loner, a recluse,” Halen says. “Someone you don’t see enter town often. He keeps to himself. He may not even live here full-time, keeping a temporary vacation home. This is because, as he identifies with Zarathustra, he’s spent months or even years in solitude ‘meditating’ to become enlightened. He’ll be friendly if approached, but it will feel forced, contrived. He views small-town life as mediocre, its people as lesser humans, because they’re content to live without the suffering and struggle to obtain a higher purpose in life.”
She’s dug into the archives. While I was sitting stagnant in a wrinkled suit for hours, Halen was poring over research, tying up connections—connections she formulated while embraced in my arms as she submitted to our frenzy.
“He will be intelligent,” she says. “Book smart. He may or may not have attended college, but he didn’t graduate. His knowledge of Western esoteric sects and philosophy is self-taught. Somewhere in his life, someone important made him feel inadequate. He has a superiority complex, but loathes intellectual debates. He feels a strong link to the master philosophers and may even believe he’s a reincarnation of one or many of them.
“But the most troubling aspect, and the reason apprehending the offender is crucially time sensitive is that, while he believes he is worthy of ascension into the overman, he has weaknesses holding him back.” Her gaze darts to me briefly where I hover at the end of the row, and everything left unsaid and unfinished blazes between us.
“His doubt is manifesting into a delusional state,” she continues, “where, if he can’t conquer his fear, if he cannot overcome his weakness of the flesh, out of desperation he may turn toward a primeval alchemy, one incorporating human sacrifice, to achieve his goal.” She takes a steadying breath as the weight of her words bears down on the room. “By sacrificing his victims to Dionysus, he will make himself less human, thereby separating himself from his mortal aspect and allowing himself to ascend and become other, divine.”
But that’s not the full scope of what she’s come to realize. I can sense her holding back.
If we take into account the literal vein to which the offender is interpreting the metaphors, then it’s not a huge leap from sacrifice to cannibalize.
Actually, it’s not a leap at all—it’s a bridge.
Zarathustra could only find characteristics of the overman among the herd. He sent those he referred to as “higher men” to his cave where he proclaimed these men were bridges to the overman. Then they feasted.
With the way Halen is avoiding eye contact with the locals, it appears she’s drawn the conclusion that, maybe the offender is weary of feasting with his chosen higher men and he’ll soon feast on them in order to take their overman aspects within himself.
“So this sick fuck is carving off pieces of people because he’s a weak pervert, is that what you’re saying?” Detective Emmons asks. The sharp edge in his tone cuts through the tense room. He runs a hand down his unshaven face in an impatient manner.
Halen lowers her tablet, her expression somber. “Essentially, yes.”
“And you’re positive the victims are alive?” Emmons presses.
Halen’s lips pinch together in a tight grimace. “I’m not the one to answer that question, Detective Emmons. I’m sorry.”
While Alister directs the chief medical examiner to confirm his findings, I close the distance between us, sensing the muddled emotions within her. Today, her confusion is stronger than her grief, and it’s draining.
I move to stand beside her and notice the suitcase on the floor. “You’re not leaving.”
Without acknowledging me directly, she slips her tablet into her bag. “I am officially done here.” She delivers her point by slinging my words from last night back at me.
“No, you’re not done. You’re running. There’s a difference.”
Frustration seizes her petite frame, and she drops her satchel on the seat of the chair. “You’re right. I am running. I’m running away from you, Kallum. Is that what you want to hear? Well, I admit it.”
The accident report detailed Halen as the driver in the car wreck that claimed the life of her fiancé. I wasn’t aware of her other loss, of her miscarriage, until last night. She didn’t have to say it aloud; I read the painful truth in the way she touched her stomach, the devastating pain that wracked her until she could no longer hold herself up.
She’s been running from that grief since the day she was released from the hospital. Concealing her scars. Hiding from her life, reality. Immersing herself so far down in her cases to escape the pain.
And now, to escape it once more, she’s even willing to sacrifice the truth she so desperately craves.
“You’re leaving without your answers,” I say to her. “But we both know why that is.”
When she finally looks at me, the depth of her resentment damn near flays me alive. I made her want. I made her feel. But my worst offense: for a brief moment, I made her forget.
And that truth hovers in the tense space around us, adding weight to her own self-deprecating feelings where, if she scrutinizes what happened between us too closely, she’ll have to face the frightening realization of what she’s capable of.
How will she rationalize getting off with a killer?
I hurt my doctors. I kill my rivals. I’m a delusional, psychotic serial killer. I’m a disturbed practitioner of chaos magick.
All she accepts as fact in order to reckon how she was manipulated into feeling a sick attraction to the villain.
I’m okay with being her sickness. I can even be her antidote.
Leaving all of it unsaid, she gives her attention to the front of the room, where the loud disturbance of Detective Emmons scraping his chair back gains everyone’s notice as he pushes to his feet.
He straightens his wide police hat. “Then why the fuck are we just sitting here, listening to bullshit theories instead of interrogating every single possible suspect right now?”
Emmons makes his point by storming out of the room. A number of his colleagues silently follow after him.
Agent Alister regains control of the room and proceeds to update the whiteboard, then starts handing out personalized assignments. The whole while, I refuse to release Halen from my gaze, studying the way she blatantly avoids my presence.
“That was impressive, Professor Locke.” Devyn stands opposite of us, a row of metal chairs before her.
“On your part, too,” I say, still keeping Halen in my sights. “I thought I was the only one who got under Alister’s skin.”
I catch her smile in my peripheral, then she directs a serious look toward Halen. “Based on what you said, I think we have a main suspect,” she says to her. “There’s this hermit guy who lives in a creepy gothic mansion on the outskirts of town. I know, not politically correct, but that’s actually what people call him. Hermit Guy who lives in the creepy mansion. Since you owe me one, I’d really appreciate it if you’d come with me to question him.”
Halen shoulders her bag, and I take note of how she hoists the strap onto her left shoulder rather than her dominant right, and the way she’s buttoned her thermal all the way to the top.
Halen expels a breath as she faces Devyn. “I’m relieved my profile was of use to you,” she says, “and as much as I want to help further, and I really appreciate all you’ve done, Devyn…” She stalls. “I’m off the case. If I go with you, my presence will only hurt your investigation.”
Devyn’s pursed features convey her dismal acceptance. She shakes her head. “Fucking feds.”
Halen gives her a fragile yet genuine smile. “I’ll make sure Professor Locke can help you. He’ll be of more use than me anyway. It was his expertise that built the profile, so he should be the one to help conduct interviews.”
“That’s not happening.” Alister approaches, all bluster as if the two women standing here didn’t just take him down a hundred pegs. “Childs,” he addresses Devyn. “I’ve appointed a few agents to accompany you to your suspect’s residence. They’re leaving now.”
With a guarded look, she nods to Alister. “All right. At least we’re moving forward.” She touches Halen’s arm. “Thank you for all you’ve done to help.”
“Good luck, Devyn.” Halen watches her friend head off toward the cluster of suits before she starts to turn away.
“St. James, Locke, a word.” Alister pivots, expecting us to follow.
Halen’s gaze fleetingly touches mine before she trails behind Alister toward a glass-enclosed office.
After Alister closes the door, Halen removes a printed report from her satchel and thrusts it toward the agent. “Here is the final profile. Any required follow up reports will be issued to you through my department.”
Alister accepts the report without looking at it and sets it on the desk. Then he taps his phone screen. A printer wakes and starts scratching out papers.
Halen grips the strap of her bag, uncertain. “As I’m of no more value to the case and my investigation of the crime scene is complete, I’ll be leaving today. However”—she glances at me—“Professor Locke should still be considered a valuable asset and remain on the case, as his expertise will be needed to decipher any future crime scenes or discoveries.”
“Like the discovery your department sent me just a few moments ago?” he admonishes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently, your investigation isn’t complete. Unless your updated profile takes into account the markings found beneath the reed grass. Or was I supposed to receive that update from you by telepathy?”
Halen raises her chin defiantly. “It was my department’s discovery,” she says, “so it went through the proper channels—”
“What markings?” I interrupt their exchange. “Why wasn’t I told?”
Alister turns a riled expression on me. “You were in holding, and are not privy to every update. Only the ones I sanction.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” I give him my back, turning toward Halen. When she doesn’t respond, I nod. “Because of the engravings. Turnabout’s fair play, then.”
She expends a lengthy breath. “I’m not that petty to risk lives. As Agent Alister stated, you were in holding, and I had already been removed from the case.”
“You’re no longer removed,” Alister butts in. “I have a team of field agents already en route to the killing fields to start removing the reeds so the markings can be processed properly.” He glares between us, giving us each a stern, reprimanding look. “Forty-eight hours. I want a goddamn real suspect, and you both have forty-eight hours to give me a name.”
Glancing at the floor, Halen battles some internal struggle, then meets Alister’s scowl. “Yes, sir.”
My insides flame with the primal urge to make him bloody. She’s not subservient to him.
As Halen heads for the door, he adds, “Oh, Dr. St. James, one more thing.” She hovers in the doorway. “Since Dr. Verlice has given his notice and has officially quit the unit, you’ve been assigned as Locke’s psychiatrist.”
“Agent Alister, that is not my area of special—”
“Do you not have a doctorate?” He cuts her off, issuing his rhetorical question before he turns toward the desk printer. “Then put it to use. With the urgency of this case and time constraint, as you yourself underscored, we’re utilizing all our resources.”
Alister holds out the printed pages to us, a thin stack in each hand. “So we’re all on the same page, here’s the Bureau’s official lab results.”
Resigned, Halen accepts the report and exits the office, not giving Alister the opportunity to bark another command. I take my copy and curiously look it over.
• Organs and body parts were removed from bodies within forty-eight hours of discovery of the crime scenes. No signs they were stored or frozen. Denotes offender is holding victims in nearby vicinity of the crime scenes.
• No drugs or foreign substances discovered in organ and skin tissues.
• Stag/deer analysis. Inefficient volume provided and/or corrupted saliva in discovery for testing purposes. Casts prepared of teeth imprint to search in databases.
• Hemlock. Confirmed species: Cicuta douglasii. The cicutoxin results in delirium, abdominal pain, nausea, convulsions, vomiting, and severe seizures within less than an hour of ingestion, most often leading to death.
“You got something else to add, Locke?” Alister asks.
I fold the pages and slip them into the inseam of my suit blazer, then I let my facial features rest in their natural, callous state. Alister notices the difference in the shift.
“Why not spotted hemlock, the species of hemlock that killed Socrates?” I ask, reasoning. “Would be more historically accurate and true to the offender’s theme.”
Alister only stares blankly at me. “I’m not a botanist, Locke.”
I nod slowly. “This species of water hemlock? It’s the most poisonous, and one of the most lethal in the world.” In other words, the offender deviated from his narrative for a reason. “I’d be careful who I offend in this town, Alister. After all, the suspect is most likely a local, and the locals are the ones preparing your meals for the time being.”
His face flushes, anger protruding the veins in his neck. “You think you’re smarter than everyone else,” he says, gauging me with narrowed eyes. “I see how you look at her.”
A current of rage simmers in my bloodstream, and I drop all pretense. “I see how you look at her.”
His jaw sets, and he nods slowly. “Get the hell out of my office.”
I hold his incensed gaze with a smug smile. Then I leave, knowing we’re far from done.
I reach the front doors of the building in time to catch Halen’s low ponytail disappearing into the crowd of media camped out in front of the police station. She weaves a path through a throng of reporters, rolling her suitcase behind her.
Carving my way through the crowd, I catch up to her on the sidewalk. “I think I’m in need of a session. I have some issues to work through, Dr. St. James.”
“I’m not your doctor,” she says, picking up her pace. “That would be unethical.”
My dark thoughts are full of how unethical we could be together.
I turn my thumb ring a few times, then: “Your profile didn’t have any mention of The Three Metamorphosis.” I glance over at her, she walks faster. “You didn’t give the locals any of the details.”
“They don’t need all the details. That would only muddle the facts. They just need to know the description of the offender to locate a suspect.”
“Aren’t you curious about this suspect?” I ask, my stride matching hers.
She reaches the paint-chipped door of the hotel, and I open the door for her. She hesitates a moment before walking through. “Devyn is smart and capable,” she says. “If the hermit is their guy, she’ll know what to do.”
“If it is him, he won’t be at the mansion. You know this as well as I do. He’s already descended from his cave, he’s walking in the steps of Zarathustra. There’s only one way to draw him out.”
“I’m not interested in any more of your methods.”
“Because you’re scared to confront the truth of what’s between us.”
Halted at the stairs, Halen stares at the patterned, threadbare carpet. Then she says, “There’s nothing between us,” as she picks up her suitcase and starts up the steps.
I wait until we reach the landing before I challenge her. “The taste of you lingering on my tongue says differently.”
Her beautiful face flushes with the palest hue of pink. “I know your ego won’t allow you to accept this, but you’re not special, Kallum,” she rebounds. “I’ve gotten carried away before while putting myself in the mind frame of an offender. And that’s all last night was.”
“You really do lie so pretty, sweetness.”
Her features draw into a serious expression. “It was your goal to debase me,” she says. “You wanted to see me squirm and to humiliate me. You got what you came here for. I got what I needed to finish the profile. So let’s drop the acts now. We’re working this case for another forty-eight hours, then it’s over.”
“Then you can run. Before that, though, maybe we should check out the markings at the crime scene. The ones you kept from me.”
She turns toward her hotel room “You can do whatever you want, Kallum. I’m going to get some sleep.”
“And where are you going to do that?”
She reaches into her pocket for the key, muttering with a breathy curse she’d already turned it in at the desk.
I lean against the doorframe and hold up the room key I swiped from Stoll. “I have your key right here, roomie.”
She directs a glance down the hall, as if considering her options, a weariness sinking her shoulders. Then she snatches the key from my hand. I enter my room as she enters hers, meeting her in the open, adjourning doorway.
“I prefer to fuck with the lights on,” I say. “What’s your preference?”
Hand braced to the doorknob, she says, “Goodnight, Kallum.”
As she swings the door shut, I catch it, keeping it wedged open with my shoulder. A smile curls my lips. “Sweet dreams, Halen.”
Heated tension gathers in the narrow doorway before I allow her to close the door. I hear the rattle of the chain as she slides the lock into place.
