HALEN
Dusk settles over Hollow’s Row like a widow’s veil. The texture is silky and fine to the touch, a fragile darkness you can just see past, but shields you from the bright world of gawkers.
The young waitress sets a cup of warm chamomile tea on the unsteady table in front of me. I thank her as I submerge the teabag with a dull spoon.
I imagine the local diner is normally busier at this time of day. Early bird special-seekers mingling with high-school kids just letting out of class. But today, as news circulates of the second crime scene discovered in the killing fields within seventy-two hours, there are far more open bench seats than patrons.
The morose atmosphere thickens with wary glances and whispers our way. The town is curious about us. More so about the two strangers than the two obvious FBI agents seated three tables behind.
“I’ll have the ribeye. Rare. And baked potato with all the dressings.”
I look up from dunking my tea bag to witness Kallum ordering from the waitress. I must wear a puzzled expression, because his mouth quirks into that heart-stopping grin of his.
“Might as well enjoy the local specialties,” he says as the waitress silently ambles off. “I haven’t had much say in what I’ve eaten for the past six months.”
I refrain from mentioning that luxury may soon be taken away again. With what transpired at the second scene, I’m questioning whether Kallum can be contained on this case.
Either way, my attempt to comb through his mind was obvious and sloppy. If I had any sense at all, I’d glean what I can from him about this case and then send him away. Far away.
“Don’t you eat?”
His question interrupts my thoughts, and I remove the teabag and set it on the napkin. “I don’t eat with colleagues.” Or unhinged serial killers. “This isn’t a—”
“Date?” he supplies, his smirk slanting mischievously. “I have no delusions of that fact, little Halen.” He winks.
A tendril of alarm wraps me at the action, inducing a foggy sensation of being outside myself. A sliver of panic coasts through me before I’m able to brush the eerie feeling away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I sip my tea faster than I intend, and my eyes water as I choke back a cough. “Fine.”
Ignoring Kallum’s smug expression, I send a reply text to Aubrey, resuming normal behavior. Kallum will only feed off my unease. He said he wanted to watch me squirm. I’m giving him exactly what he wants.
I have to curb my responses to him. I’m a wilting flower, yes—but how much of it is an act on my part? He makes me feel unstable.
Another text from Aubrey pops up, and I reply, explaining why I’m sitting in a diner as part of my investigation notes. Company phones and GPS aside, I do value my job. Maybe value is the wrong word—need feels more appropriate. What I don’t need is the stress of having to explain my methods—sometimes unorthodox—when I want to explore a lead.
I admit, I stepped way out of bounds when I circumvented CrimeTech and presented Kallum as an expert consultant to assist the FBI. I needed their authority to expedite the process, and I did so in spite of any potential consequences.
Which is unlike me.
I don’t exactly play by the rules, but I also don’t all-out break them.
I used to care more about what Aubrey and my supervisors thought, whether or not I was surpassing expectations, following procedures to keep from disturbing the balance.
I know the exact date those cares faded, and I know everyone in my life is waiting for me to “get better,” “snap out of it,” “be the old Halen”—but I also know that’s more for their comfort level than mine.
Pain makes people uncomfortable.
Strangely, today, that burden didn’t feel as heavy. Even with my guard erected, I found myself falling into an ease with Kallum at the scene I don’t experience with others. I don’t have to force a smile. Place technical labels on my thoughts. Sensor my humanity for his comfort…because he has no humanity to comfort.
It’s easy to forget, while staring into his divine beauty, the brutality and sadistic manner in which he kills. Charismatic smiles and quipping dark humor with the face of an angel—yet a devil lurks beneath, his depths a purgatory stained in red.
This is what I must remind myself when I feel his draw reeling me in. I’m feeling at ease with a sociopath who is adept in manipulation, whose very nature is to set mine at ease before he breaks my face with a tire iron and severs my head.
Perspective.
I sip my tea slowly.
“Where were you just now?” Kallum questions.
Setting the cup down, I link my fingers around the warm porcelain. “I was contemplating how to work with you and keep my distance at the same time,” I answer honestly.
He pushes back in the seat and tilts his head, assessing me seriously. “That’s going to be difficult for you. Is there anything I can do to make it easier?”
“Yes,” I say, locking gazes with him. “Stop calling me things like little Halen and sweetness. Stop undressing me with your smoldering eyes. Stop the flirty banter. For one, it’s disturbing. Two, I know you’re doing it to unnerve me. But we’re not colleagues. We’re not even rivals. We have a deal. One that will be honored on my end if you honor yours. That’s all.”
His mouth tips into the faintest, knowing smile. “You think my eyes are smoldering?”
“You know they are,” I say. “You’re very aware of your attractiveness, and you use it to disarm people. Your ego is bigger than this entire town.”
A text from Aubrey flashes on my phone screen and I turn the device over.
“Need to check in with the parents?” he asks, his tone baiting. “That must suck to have a curfew.”
His callous remark punches past my defenses, and I look away to drag in a fortifying breath before I can reply. “Kallum, I need to hear you say that you understand me.”
Gaze probing, he says, “I’ll try my best. But you don’t make it easy, either. With your pouty sprite mouth and infuriatingly intoxicating scent. You’re fucking mayhem on the senses.”
The way his gaze darkens, the defiant spark of hunger igniting within the flinty shadows, makes me question how much of it is an act on his part, also.
“Please stop,” I demand, tamping down the reactive flame curling in my belly.
“So you’re the only one allowed to be brutally honest, then.”
I glance away. “You’re right. Your thoughts are valid. I’ll…try to smell less appealing.”
He chuckles unexpectedly, and the deep sound hits my chest, unfurling in a light, fluttering sensation.
This is why I don’t have a partner. Human nature distracts from the work, the purpose. And Kallum Locke is a huge distraction. Besides my body being highly responsive to his, the Harbinger case keeps resurfacing to taint the current case, and it’s increasingly maddening to separate the two when Kallum is purposely trying to put me on defense.
I take a long sip of tea and refocus my thoughts on the second scene, where I’m assuming we’re still dealing with body parts from the same group of victims.
The ears were a degree less difficult to classify and label based on initial observation. The offender severed the entire ear with precision, shaving it cleanly away from the cranium, possibly with some sort of straight razor.
The same thread and weaving technique was used, denoting the same offender.
Kallum drums his fingers on the tabletop. I finally look him directly in his eyes.
“You’re agitated again,” he says, then spins the saltshaker three times.
“That’s because my time is supposed to be spent at the crime scenes, building a profile of the actual scene.”
Instead, I’m seated across from a dangerously delusional philosophy scholar who claims that, in order to further analyze the scenes, he needs to learn the town philosophy.
On the ride into downtown, Kallum suggested our best way to interview the townies was to start with the local restaurants and watering holes. Socialize, blend, become accustomed to their customs. Observe their philosophy, so to speak, before asking the difficult questions which usually shut people down. Like the feds have been doing with their interrogations since they arrived.
Agent Alister wasn’t impressed.
“This town is one whole crime scene,” Kallum states. “When do you think we’ll uncover the tongues? Maybe we can make flyers of those little monkeys to hand out—”
“I’d hate to think this was a stall tactic,” I say, cutting him short. “There are—”
“Yes, I know. Lives in peril. It’s all very dramatic. But let’s consider this…” He leans forward, his height and large persona crowding the small table. “I’m only here for my own selfish need. Which includes this town being my only taste of freedom. There’s no incentive for me to work quickly, is there?”
“I’d say you have that brutally honest thing down.” I pivot back to his earlier comment.
He wets his lips, suppressing a smile. “People waste their lives lying, concerned with what others think.” He swipes a lemon wedge from his glass and squeezes the slice into his water. “Once you realize everyone you know will die—even your helpless victims; if not today, then in just a short matter of years—there’s no reason to care about much of anything.”
I lower my gaze, my throat constricting. “Is that your life philosophy, or someone else’s? Do you have any original philosophical opinions?”
“Interesting you should ask,” he says, smearing the lemon wedge along his fingers. “Considering it’s your perpetrator’s philosophy. I just tend to agree with that aspect of it.”
“How can you know his philosophy? We don’t know anything concrete about the scenes yet.” My tone echos the frustration starting to unravel me. “Matter of fact, how did you locate the second scene? Can you even give me a straight answer?”
“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” His mismatched blue-and-green eyes widen, revealing the unstable current drifting below his smooth surface.
He licks the lemon juice from his finger, triggering a wild flutter in my belly. Incensed, I drop my gaze to the plain-white cup. “Obviously you can’t.”
He reaches across the table and grasps my wrist.
My heart batters my chest as I fight his grip. “Let go—”
“Listen.”
His command hits my body like a crash of thunder. I go still, my heavy breaths the only sound between us.
The whole diner fades away as Kallum’s long fingers circle my wrist, his heat bleeding into my skin. Then, with his other hand, he places the lemon to my knuckles. Applying delicate pressure, he slides the peel down the back of my index finger, setting off a riot of heat and frenzy to my nervous system.
As he moves to my middle finger, dragging the slick pulp over my skin, I stare at his hand wrapped around my wrist, at the inked sigils stained into his fingers. They’re unique to him. The designs don’t pull up on any rune chart that I’ve searched.
I feel every slippery pass of the lemon over my heated flesh, and I know he feels the tremble in my body.
“Lemon has amazing cleansing properties,” he says, “making it a natural disinfectant.”
My throat tightens. I swallow past the ache lodged at the base, trying to control my breathing. My rapid heartbeat pulses in my veins, fighting against the press of his fingers.
“Those same cleansing agents hide aroma,” he continues, “masking most scents for at least a while.” He reaches my pinky finger and pauses, forcing my gaze up to lock with his. “Your guy masked the scene to hide the scent. He covered the perimeter. Maybe before, or even after the first scene was discovered.”
I find my voice. “That doesn’t make sense. Why hide one scene and leave the other out in the open?”
He turns my hand over, commencing to apply the lemon to the underside of my fingers. The sensual feel sends a shiver up my forearm, and I struggle to keep my eyes open. The rush of blood sears my veins.
“Psychology isn’t my department,” he says, setting the wedge on the table.
As I try to pull away, Kallum maintains his firm hold on my wrist. He draws my hand toward his face and, for an alarming moment, I fear he’s going to lick my fingers…and what havoc that will wreak on my composure, until he brings my hand to his nostrils and inhales.
“No more traces of Halen.” A sly smile crooks his lips. “If I bathe you in lemon, we can solve at least one of our dilemmas.”
He lifts his fingers one-by-one, letting me slip free. As my agitation ebbs, I rub my hands together to remove the excess lemon juice, effectively removing the tingling, lingering sensory of his touch.
“It’s not that he’s worried about being caught,” I say, making an effort to sort the offender’s logic. I retrace our conversation at the killing fields, about the perpetrator having a site he used for practice. “He just doesn’t want to be caught before he’s done.”
“But done with what is the question.” Kallum eases back against the bench, a defiant gleam behind his shadowed eyes. “I’d also wager uncovering his practice site will make him desperate.”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“What? Answer your questions? Help tease the answers from your mind?”
“Touch me.”
In response, Kallum’s teeth clench, feathering a muscle along his sculpted jawline.
The waitress arrives with his order and places the plate in front of him, severing the tense connection. She leaves without inquiring if we need anything, turning away before I can get a read on her expression.
I shake my head, further clearing my thoughts. “These people are victims themselves,” I say, wondering if she’s related to one of the missing locals. “Questioning them directly won’t work. We need a different approach.”
Kallum unrolls a cloth napkin and lines up the silverware, then selects the steak knife. Placing the tip of his finger to the knife point, he inspects the serrated edge. “Don’t you think it’s strange she’s not questioning us?” he says. “Wouldn’t she be curious about the victims? Who they are, their names?”
I twirl the tea bag string around my finger and glance at the waitress taking an order from the agents. She’s maybe twenty-four. Heavily lined eyes, wearing a thick, trendy headband. “People are untrusting,” I say in answer. “Especially after the way this town was spotlighted in the media years ago. The judgement, the rumors. Their guards are up.”
I turn my attention to Kallum, who’s staring at the steak knife with too much interest. And I realize how easy it would be for him to pocket such a weapon—to lose control of his barely contained urges, as he so clearly demonstrated earlier, and use it on Dr. Verlice, or on me…
He chuckles and wipes a hand over his mouth. “Halen, if I had something diabolical planned, I wouldn’t make it so obvious.” He picks up the fork. “At the institution, I wasn’t even allowed to have thumbtacks. I’m acclimating to my new surroundings.”
His gaze darts to my arm and the long-sleeved thermal before he cuts into the steak. “Besides, you can’t make good on what you owe me if you’re dead,” he says, and way too casually for my comfort.
I push my arms under the table. “As long as you cleared that up, I feel much more at ease,” I say, my tone heavy with sarcasm.
He chews the bite of steak, then: “Even if you can’t trust the person, trust their intent.”
“And what is your intent for me?”
He waves the fork. “My intent involves you very much alive.”
“All right, since we’ve thoroughly beat around the vagueness of that bush, I know you have some theory about the hemlock.”
“Nice punning segue. But can I enjoy my dinner first?” he asks. Then, as he looks at the overcooked meal: “Enjoy might be too generous.”
“Talk while you eat.”
“Savage.” But the dark twist of his mouth implies how much he embraces being just that.
I watch as he uses a butterknife to slice the baked potato with dexterous movements, as if he relishes the way the tight skin splits on meeting the steel.
“The hemlock is more mysterious,” he says. “I need more time to work it out.” He takes a bite of potato and pins me with an amused look, suggesting he’s not talking about the hemlock at all.
“As I’ve said, we don’t have time.”
He sets the silverware on the plate. “You want conjecture?”
“I want conjecture, theories. I want everything rattling around that demented brain of yours. That’s why you’re here. An expert to give an expert interpretation. It’s not up to you to solve the case, to be a hero.” I stress; there will be no renegotiating his deal. “You explain the philosophy and theology to me. Then I explain it to the FBI in a workable profile so they can find a suspect.”
He regards me with tapered eyes. “I have another request.”
I expel a slow breath and push back against the bench seat. “Fine.” I relent. “But then I get a request.”
“Tit for tat. This game could get interesting.” He cuts a bite-sized section of steak. “While we’re together, dissecting this town and spinning theories, I’d like it if you didn’t refer to me as delusional. Demented. Deranged. Or any other demeaning terminology, but especially those that begin with the letter D.” He pops the steak into his mouth, watching me expectantly.
I nod slowly, running the tip of my finger around the rim of the cup. “I can accommodate that request.”
“See how easily we’re acclimating,” he says, pushing his plate aside. “Now, what can I do for you?”
My gaze drops to his fingers interlinked on the table. “What are the meanings of the sigils?”
He holds my stare a beat too long before he looks down at his hands, flexes his fingers. “Unfortunately, I can’t say.”
“That’s not how this works.” I push my cup aside and raise my hand to flag the waitress.
“You don’t understand,” he says, and I lower my hand. “I can explain the concept of sigils, the theology, the history. But every sigil is unique and, once charged, should never be thought of again. I’ve purged the meanings from my mind.”
I watch as he flattens his palms on the table, then I glance up to gauge the candor of his expression. I believe him. I believe he believes himself. Dr. Torres made a comment about the mind being the most powerful force, and how Kallum’s belief system, his obsessions, rule him.
I wet my lips and fold my arms on the table. “If you need to forget them, then why tattoo the marks on your skin? Wouldn’t that be a constant reminder?”
His face breaks into an easy smile. “Such a logical mind,” he says.
“Is that an insult?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all.” He turns the silver ring around his thumb. “The sigils are neither names of demons nor angels. They’re neither good nor evil. The psyche is more powerful than any manmade deity, and the subconscious can be invoked to obtain our most coveted desires.”
I’m hyperaware of how his heated gaze drags over me, stopping on the pendant around my neck.
“Every sigil is personal,” he says, “and I find permanently etching my most coveted desires into my skin satisfying. It helps with the unhealthy cravings.”
The air charges between us. The psychologist in me wants to probe further, to uncover the desires he obsesses over and how much control they harbor over his actions. Whether or not those sigils parallel with the Harbinger killings, and if he forced himself to “purge” his actions once carried out.
I hold Kallum’s intense stare, sensing a dare, a challenge—but knowing I was shutout the moment I tried to push at the crime scene.
He covers his mouth as he leans on his hand. “It also helps curb envy in the academic realm, knowing you have an edge over your rivals. Put your wants, your aspirations, even your fears, into the sigil, then release it. Far healthier than spite.”
Suppressing my own desires for the truth for how that spite ended in his rival’s murder, I change course. “You answered my question.”
“But you have more.”
“I know you have some initial theory on the hemlock. I’d really like to hear it.”
He drapes his arm over the seat back. “At the first scene—what we assume is his exhibit—it’s not about the shocking display of dissected eyes. The symbolism is not art, or representation.”
“But it was important enough that he arrange them precisely.”
“Precision…perhaps. I’ll leave the psychological profiling to your expertise. I’m more interested in the number. Three trees. Three rows of thirty-three sacrifices. Three, three, three. Do you see the pattern?”
“The perpetrator likes the number three. So what…an OCD tic?”
He shakes his head slightly, his dark hair drifting over his forehead. “You’re thinking too much like a psychologist. Think like a criminologist. You know, that career you gave up major accolades for.”
“This isn’t a test, Professor Locke. You’re not here to quiz me.”
He licks his lips, dragging his tongue between the seam of his mouth as his invasive gaze pushes against me. “Three is the sacred number. Three is the triad, the trinity. The beginning, the middle, the end. Body, mind, spirit.” He cocks his head. “Every civilization, every religious sect has some reference to the number three. Not to mention, just about every secret society.”
A strange awareness crashes over me as he says this last part, some element of the crime scene trying to link together. I look down at the table, letting my thoughts drift.
“Secret society…hemlock…” I say aloud, attempting to fit the puzzle pieces together.
“Good girl,” he says. “There are a few societies, some public, some hidden, that mention the insane root. But I think what you’ll find is your guy is very much hidden. Let’s try out your favorite research tool. Google ‘hemlock,’ and see what fascinating details pull up.”
With a resigned breath, I flip my phone over and, swiping away the many messages, perform the search. A description with an image of the plant pops up, and as I scroll farther down the page, I see a familiar name.
“Socrates.” I blow out a puff of frustration. Kallum stated the answer already with his vague wisdom quote earlier. “Why do you find it difficult to say things clearly?” I set my phone on the table and look at him expectantly.
A gleam flashes behind his eyes, and he smiles. “How is that any fun?”
“None of this is fun.”
“Then why do you do it?”
At my obvious loss of patience, he concedes. “Hemlock and Socrates go together like small-town USA and apple pie. Ironically, I think, in this case.”
I rub my forehead. “Shit. I’ve already fallen down this research hole once. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle…”
“But that was before you acquired my services,” he says. “The philosophers of Western esotericism. There are others, of course, but all schools of thought circle back to the three masters.”
“Explain it to me clearly, without veering off on tangents with pantheons and mythology. Just the historical facts.” I finally succeed in gaining the waitress’s attention and ask for the check as Kallum delves into the details.
Apparently, Socrates was tried in ancient Athens for moral corruption of youths and impiety—that is, sacrilege against the gods. The charge claimed he tried to introduce new deities into society, and this has always been deemed blasphemous across most religions.
Found guilty on both counts, the jury sentenced Socrates to death by execution, where he was forced to commit suicide by drinking a hemlock concoction.
“I could expound for days just on Greek philosophy alone but,” he says, “as you’ve so adamantly declared, you don’t have days. And I’m guessing the cliff notes version won’t impress the feds.”
“Can you surmise it in one word? Just…give me some base to stand on.”
His smile stretches, making a slight dimple pop in his cheek. It’s a cruel sight.
“Nietzsche,” he declares.
By the time I’ve paid for Kallum’s dinner on my company credit card and we exit the diner, the sun has completely set on the town. The chirr of crickets are too noticeable with the lack of vehicles on the road.
The street lights glow against a black, moonless night sky, illuminating the stretch of sidewalk. As I start toward the hotel, Kallum turns back toward the diner.
“I forgot something,” he says.
“You don’t have anything.”
While the agents watch Kallum, I light my phone screen and scroll through the missed calls and texts from Aubrey. I frown at the device. I don’t remember turning my ringer off.
Kallum returns wearing a sexy grin, his ego on full display. “Let’s walk,” he says. He glances back at the agents before he slips a folded piece of paper into my hand. “I agree with your assessment that this town’s guard is too high, that we need a stealthier approach.”
“That’s not how I worded it.”
“And then I remembered… I’m a college professor.”
I discretely unfold the note. It’s an address with a girl’s name: Tabitha.
“Kids use any excuse to party,” Kallum says. “Especially tragedies. This town needs a lubricant, and a party full of young, gossiping locals might reveal some insight.”
I raise an eyebrow, admittedly impressed. “How? She wouldn’t even ask if we needed refills.”
Kallum turns smoldering eyes on me. “I winked and showed her my ankle monitor.”
I stop walking. As Kallum turns my way, I stare at him, look deep into the beautiful blue-and-green of his eyes that wound as sharply as they captivate. Suspicion crowds the small span of air between us, and I question his true motivation for helping.
“Be careful,” he says as he dips close. His warm breath fans my lips, and my own breathing shallows. “You know what Nietzsche said about staring into abysses.”
He backs away, leaving me with the lingering sensation over my lips. As I watch him walk off, I finally inhale.
The abyss looked at me the day Kallum first laid eyes on me and, if I’m not careful, he’ll pull me right into the pitch-black void of his soul.
