MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 7

“A man lay here,” said Erik. “Or an extraordinarily tall woman. He washed his face; those appear to be his whiskers in the sink. The woman’s attire implies that of a prostitute, but there’s no evidence of sexual contact, especially sexual violence. There’s blood on the sheets; the man entered this room after the murder. By why would two men leave while one stays behind to take a nap?”

“But attention to detail is,” concluded Davis.

Erik moved through the rooms, retracing the path Davis Holden had just traversed, mumbling to himself. James looked over his shoulder, pulled out a notepad, and began documenting the necessary information.

“Broken glass under the table – judging by the fall it wasn’t done intentionally. Knocked over by the woman? And the wine, or whatever that is – get a chemical analysis done on that. It’s too sticky, and it doesn’t smell right.

“The bed’s a mess; either he’s a real uneasy sleeper or there was a struggle. But it would appear that he was the only one who slept here, so that–” Erik gestured to the main room “–must have occurred before he came in here.

“Bloody fingerprints on the doorway and floor – he stood here and fell to his knees. Observing his own work – or coming to grips with it?” Erik knelt by the door. “Then he leaves – there’s blood on the door handle. And no other sloppy handprints. There are other fingerprints, sure, but no one else was this messy. Wonder why…”

Davis Holden stared at Erik in startled awe. James watched the detective with mild amusement.

“Yeah,” said James. “He does that.”

* * * * *

Outside, James Mathus and Davis Holden clutched steaming mugs of coffee. Erik Strand stood a few feet away – seemingly oblivious to his surroundings – and stared out across the street, making the remaining Police officers curious and uncomfortable. They bustled around him as he stood, unmoving. The ambulance pulled away, carrying away the corpse. The crime scene was slowly losing fervor. Davis had made his official statement to the press, and had wandered back, eyeing the two Federal Agents suspiciously.

“You mentioned circumstances,” Holden said warily.

“If this is an isolated incident, then Erik and I shake everyone’s hand and go home,” said James. “But we’ll examine the evidence and determine if this is a federal matter.”

“We’ve been contacted by someone locally who we believe has information about the series of homicides,” Erik chimed in.

James rolled his eyes. “Remember what I told you about discretion?”

“The suspect in the earlier cases,” Davis asked carefully. “Was he ever identified?”

“Yes,” James nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Arrested?”

James was silent.

“You have his whereabouts?”

James pursed his lips. “He has been dead nearly ten years.”

“So you believe this is a copycat killer?” Davis cocked his head to one side.

James had no answer.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 6

He felt the man’s eyes on his back as he looked under the bed, pushing the comforter aside with a pen as to not contaminate the scene with his own hair or fingerprints. He paused for a moment longer than necessary before standing, then he rose to his full height and looked the heavy man in the eye.

“Detective Davis Holden?” the man asked. He pulled back his trench coat and revealed his badge, a red and white flag across the blue and goal seal – the standard FBI insignia. Davis shook his head in disbelief.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Davis said. “I guess if you’re here I can just go home.”

“Not so fast, Detective,” said the Agent. “Let’s get introductions out of the way first, then you decide. I’m Special Agent James Mathus, and my guest is Special Agent Erik Strand.”

“Well, I can give you the tour,” said Davis. “Is this still my crime scene, or should I just hand everything over and let you figure it out?”

“We’re not enemies yet, Detective. We’re here strictly to observe,” said James. “For the time being.”

Davis looked over the two men. Agent James Mathus was red-faced and tired, an Agent here out of obligation rather than his own impetus, but the other Agent – Strand – he couldn’t get a read on. Strand was young, but was meticulously observing his surroundings. Holden knew a professional eye when he saw one in action.

James finally broke the silence. “Why don’t you show us around? It’s a nice place you’ve got here.” James chuckled to himself; the detective didn’t appear to appreciate the joke.

“You know almost as much as we do, I’m afraid,” said Davis. “Single homicide – yet unidentified woman – ritualistic or spiritual in nature. No indication of sexual assault. Language of the symbols yet unidentified – looks like Aramaic, but I can’t say for sure. Beyond that, there’s a surprising amount of evidence – fingerprints everywhere, at least three sets. That, with the three decanters, implies a group brought her here.”

“You sound surprised,” James said.

“Usually when someone – or a group of someones – commits murder, they work a little harder to cover up their identity. But as you can see, there’s a lot here, we just have to go through it. So grab a coffee and a bagel, or whatever it is you secret agents do when real Police are working, and we’ll get back to you.” Davis was being unnecessarily rude and he knew it, but his position as lead detective was not one he took lightly. His experience with the Intelligence community was that they expected the unreasonable but offered very little in return.

“I see you’ve worked with us before,” said James with a smile, not wanted to rise to the insult. “But you’re just going to have to trust that we want this crime solved as badly as you. We’re not here because we want to steal your collar. We truly are here to observe, lend our assistance where we can, until circumstances require us to do otherwise.”

“Until circumstances require otherwise,” Davis grumbled.

“Indeed,” said James, matter-of-factly.

“You’re going to have to be a little forthcoming,” Davis said. He had no patience for mind games. “If we are to communicate.”

“Actually, Detective, we really don’t.” said James. He sighed. It was clear Davis was not easily swayed – this could either be a great boon or a hindrance. “We need to determine if there’s a connection between this and similar murders.”

“This has happened before?” asked Davis.

“Yes,” said Erik from the doorway. Davis raised one eyebrow –he had not heard Erik walk in, nor had he yet heard the Agent speak. “Years ago. An incident in New Orleans. A series of incidents, actually. Similar to this.”

James grimaced. “Agent Erik Strand, this is Detective Davis Holden. Discretion is not one of Erik’s strong suits.” Erik looked at him, not comprehending the comment, and then smiled a little too widely and continued to examine the room. He nodded stiffly at Davis, not bothering to greet him.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 5

* * * * *

I I I

* * * * *

The investigation was simple enough, all things considered. The crime scene was horrific, naturally – a woman had been ritualistically murdered – but the perpetrators had not been careful; there were fingerprints abound, hair and saliva in the sink. What was interesting, in particular, was that no care had been put into covering or destroying evidence. Great lengths had been put into the ceremony – that much was obvious, the girl had been cut up and decorated for something very specific – but once the ritual was finished whomever orchestrated this seemed to have packed and left. Little physical evidence from the ceremony itself was left; the murder weapon was missing, for one, but the room was awash with information. It wouldn’t be hard to place someone in that room, with a little investigation.

The maid had discovered the woman the next morning; the Police had arrived, prints were lifted, forensics took photographs, the tiny cogs of the machine known as Justice began to turn. Once the initial shock over the nature of the crime had diminished, the officers-on-duty began to trust the system, and believed amongst themselves that this crime would piece itself together rather easily.

Detective Davis Holden didn’t trust anything that came easily. Forensics was taking boot prints from the ash and melted wax when he arrived. His immediate thoughts were as such: Someone came here with a purpose. This wasn’t a crime of passion; someone was methodical and careful with the murder. The process was far too ceremonial; the woman was part of the process, but not essential to the process – it was possible that the woman was chosen arbitrarily. Someone didn’t care if there was evidence; too much was left behind to be an accident. Even when the perpetrator was caught – and there was little doubt in Detective Holden’s mind that suspects would be arrested – there was more to this murder than immediately met the eye.

He noticed the two men in long coats almost immediately. He had been keeping an eye out the window – the crime scene was on the first floor of the hotel, and the press were having a field day outside the line of yellow police tape – and he saw them approach, flash their identification, and then take their time making their way inside. He saw them speak briefly with the Chief of Police, and was mildly surprised that the Chief did not immediately escort them inside. He saw the Chief gesture, and the larger of the two men shook his head.

They would come inside on their own time; Holden would get his answers then. He continued his examination of the room, making his way slowly through the crime scene, soaking it all in. Holden was a thorough man and a methodical man, or an infuriatingly slow and deliberate man, depending on the perspective. He had made his way to the bedroom – someone slept there, a man by the looks of it – when the two men came in. They were quiet at first, and Davis was content allowing them to play their hand first. His gut told him who they were, but he waited, taking mental notes and directing his officers to examine and photograph what he found.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 4

Rosalyn found herself, to her surprise, quite cognizant of the fact that she was in a dream. She looked around, bewildered, and was quite startled to find herself in a bedroom. An antique vanity sat across from a four poster bed, flowers bloomed in the bay window, and outside everything was so brilliant: the oranges and reds and browns of early fall seemed so vibrant. The arching branch of a maple tree cut though the horizon, and Rosalyn began to remember. This was her room, but it seemed unfamiliar somehow, it seemed so bright and warm – not the drab and lonely bedroom she returned home to each night.

As if guided by an invisible hand, she crossed the room and sat before the vanity, noting the expanse of makeup and jewelry, trinkets she recognized but hadn’t seen in years. She looked up at her reflection and froze. Her hair was dark brown, with vibrant red highlights, and not a hint of gray.

She was getting ready for a date, she remembered. She was going out that evening. She had met a man, a wonderful and handsome man, and she was joining him for coffee – a simple act that would resonate in both of them for years.

And suddenly she was years older and miles away, wearing a magnificent blue gown, her favorite pearl necklace around her throat. Her husband was across from her, looking dapper in his back suit and complimentary blue shirt. They were out to dinner with a family he knew. He joked and laughed with the couple next to him. She remembered where she was, and when, and a feeling of dread passed through her, a cold shiver, a breeze that cut through to her bones. This was the very last time they were out together; the evening where suddenly he collapsed and never stood up again.

In her dream she knew how it happened; she anticipated his movements. She fell asleep thinking about that moment, she relived it every morning that she woke and he was not next to her. She could picture in her head with chilling detail how he stood without warning and clutched at his chest, tearing at his tie as if it were choking him, how he suddenly turned and stared at her, a look of sad resignation in his eyes, and collapsed without a sound.

But this time was different. He stood, his back arching in pain, clutching his chest, tearing at his tie. The patrons of the restaurant gasped, scattered, and in her dream she was frozen – intensely aware of everyone else in the room, aware of their thoughts and their fears, the startled expressions – but this time he turned, he reached out a grasped her arm – and in the dream it felt so real, more real than anything she had felt in a long time. He dug his fingers into her arms until she cried out in pain. His mouth moved, trying to form words, he was so close she could feel his hot breath on her face. Finally, finally a sound escaped his lips.

“You must find him,” he said, his voice throaty and hoarse, carrying a sadness and regret so unlike him. He stared deep into her eyes and she felt open, naked, somehow completely exposed. She started to respond but found she couldn’t speak.

“You must find my son,” he finally said. He looked at her as though she was no longer there; she realized he was looking through her, looking at someone else far, far away. His eyes relaxed, a look of recognition crossed his face.

“He will find you,” he said.

She woke with a start, sure she had been dreaming but uncertain of what, if anything, she had seen. Fragments of the dream seemed to surface, like fish breaching a pond and disappearing underneath rippling waves, and she felt a sudden desolate loneliness, a frantic desperate need to remember. There was something she was trying to grasp hold of, something she needed to know, but the dream was lost. She looked over at her husband, watched his deep, rhythmic breathing, and for reasons she could not explain, she began to cry.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 3

* * * * *

I I

* * * * *

Rosalyn Price sat at the foot of the hospital bed, with a copy of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park open in her lap. She brought the book, as she did every day, with the intention of reading but she rarely finished more than a few pages. Instead she sat lost in thought, or stared longingly at her husband’s pale body, still and tranquil. He looked peaceful most days, but sometimes would shiver and stir, as if uncomfortable or restless. The doctors assured her it was natural, but could never seem to provide a satisfactory explanation as to the cause.

Her husband was permanently comatose, they explained, and there was little to do but wait and see if he recovered on his own. Three weeks she had been there; three weeks of patiently waiting by his side; three weeks of reading interesting bits from the newspaper or reciting letters from her grandchildren. Sometimes she would sleep, restless and uneasy in the bedside chair, with troubling, disjointed dreams. She would wake with a start each time, never quite sure what her dreams had meant, never quite able to remember them.

“If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.” She read the line again, blinking her heavy eyes. She may have dozed off again, she wasn’t sure, and she traced her finger along the page, trying to find her place. She felt herself growing tired again, her eyes began to lose focus, her shoulders began to slump.

Her husband stirred, trembled and Rosalyn bolted awake. His mouth seemed to move, but she was never sure anymore what was real and what was her imagination, her desperate anticipation, willing him to wake up. Air moved across his lips, and for a moment Rosalyn thought, believed, dared hope beyond desperate hope that he was trying to speak; that he would form words, any words at all, and she would know that he was still there, trapping inside a fragile body, but still there. She touched his hand, gently squeezed it, looking for some sign that he acknowledged her presence, recognized where he was, understood she was waiting for him. He did not move again and she slumped over, deflated, and turned back to her book.

“The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.” There was something about that phrase that suddenly seemed so profound, so distinct and potent that she stared at the book in shock.

She sat for a moment, motionless, clutching the book, and then her husband seemed to relax. His face regained its calm; the tension seemed to dissipate from the room. Rosalyn smiled and allowed herself also to relax.

As if on cue her head fell heavily against her chest, and her heavy eyes drooped and finally closed. Rosalyn slept, and almost immediately, began to dream.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 2

Vladimir stopped. The bright light hurt his eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He stood in the bedroom doorway, a sudden shock, a paralyzing fear glued his feet to the floor. Bile rose in his throat; his head spun.

The first thing he saw was the woman. A table had been pulled to the middle of the room, a large round table with ornately carved legs, and the woman was strewn across it, completely naked, her arms and legs splayed out as though she’d been crucified. Elaborate patterns had been carved into her skin; concentric circles across her arms and shoulders and strange symbols – what looked like some ancient language – across her breasts and abdomen. The wounds were still fresh; blood welled up and dripped from her body to the floor. Her head lolled to one side, her eyes stared up and out into nothing. Her mouth was open, but her ample breasts were still; no breath escaped her lips.

He could tell within a glance that she was dead.

Around the room were the remains of an elaborate ceremony. Black candles on the floor circled the table; several had been knocked over, all were extinguished. Ash and soot was everywhere ­– somehow smeared across the walls and covering the countertops in the attached kitchenette. The hotel paintings had been torn down and something had been written on the walls, some great symbol or map or chart. It looked as though it had been drawn by hand, some horrific finger-painting with red paint or wine or…

Vladimir felt his knees go weak, felt himself fall, but he was disconnected. His mind was slowly giving up, unable to process his surroundings. His hand reached out on its own accord to catch him, but he did not feel it. His fingers reached out but did not grasp, and he fell to his knees. Memories came flooding back to him, images flashed before his eyes like sparks from a flame. He lurched and twisted, the shock to his mind was like a physical blow. His arms stretched out before him, barely holding him off the floor and finally he saw, above his forearms where he’d washed minutes earlier, crimson stains across his elbows and upper arms. He looked down at himself in horror. He was covered in blood: fresh wet blood was splattered across his clothes; two bloody prints were pressed on his shirt where he’d wiped off his hands. His stomach lurched; panic exploded in him like shattering glass.

He had another momentary flash of memory: an image of the three of them – the two men and himself – circling the woman, raising ornamental glasses and drinking deeply something that resembled wine, but was thicker and darker and tasted mildly of salt. One of the men held a knife, and he cut the woman as they chanted. But Vladimir was not himself; he was but he wasn’t, as if he was looking through someone else’s eyes, as if he’d taken a step back and was watching it all happen from a distance. His arms moved on their own accord; someone laughed with his voice; he spoke words he did not recognize. The woman was alive, albeit just barely, and her eyes rolled back in her head and she moaned nonsensically; her mouth shaped words and phrases he did not understand. One arm flailed out – one apparently not secured to the table – and struck him, knocking the decanter from his grasp. The glass tumbled and time seemed to slow; he watched the glass twist and turn, striking the table and spinning on end, shattering on the floor, spilling its content in a messy red puddle.

Then Vladimir was back in his own head, his body a heap on the floor, his stomach retching and his head pounding while the fragmented pieces of memory forced their way to the surface.

He fumbled with the door, leaning heavily on the frame while one hand clutched at his chest, and staggered into the hallway. The door clicked closed behind him. Down the hallway and outside he stumbled, into the disorienting light of the late morning.

Vladimir ran.

MILES: Chapter Six, pt. 1

* * * * *

I

* * * * *

VLADIMIR VESCO WOKE and didn’t know where he was. His mouth was dry, his head ached. Am I hungover? he thought. Have I been drinking? He reached instinctively to rub his shoulders – something was wrong, some deep muscle pain wracked and twisted across his neck to his arms and down through his back as well. He sat up, the pain momentarily distracting from the disorienting feeling of waking someplace unfamiliar. He head felt several sizes too small, and he squinted into the painful light emanating from a bedside lamp. He reached out clumsily, nearly knocking the lamp over, and fumbled until he found a switch, a tiny button hidden under the base of the bulb.

That light extinguished, he looked around the room. There was a low glow coming from the blinds; he could still see in the blue half-light. An article of clothing had been abandoned at the foot of the bed – a shirt or a blouse – something definitely female. A woman’s room, he thought. I’m in a woman’s bedroom. No, that wasn’t right, either – the room had no feeling, no personality. The single painting above the bed was bland; there were no photos on the walls, no bookshelves, nothing to indicate that anyone actually lived here. I’m a hotel room, he realized. With a woman? Is this her room? Did we get it together? He stood, unsteadily. He was shaky, dizzy. Drinking like this was out of character for Vladimir – like most Russians he loved fine Vodkas, but he rarely drank so much to feel like this, and never so much to black out completely. That was for teenagers, he thought, chuckling to himself. That action he found surprisingly painful; his throat was raw and his voice hoarse.

On the floor across the room was another article of clothing – something dark, a skirt perhaps? It was hard to tell in the low light. Vladimir looked down on himself; he was fully clothed. Strange, he thought, that he would still be dressed. Something was on his hands, something sticky. He wiped them on his shirt, which was moist with sweat anyway, and found his shirt was also covered in the same dark, sticky mess. Perhaps we were drinking wine, he wondered, and we spilled it. He briefly toyed with the idea of turning the light back on, but his head still hurt and his eyes stung, and he quickly rejected that idea.

Water – he needed water first, then answers. He could hear the faucet on in the bathroom; water steadily splashed and a light was visible under the partially open door. He stumbled toward the bathroom. This room must have been expensive, he thought. A master bedroom and bath, with a sitting room through the door. More clothes were strewn on the floor: nylons, a high-heeled shoe and a black lace-lined bra.

He pushed open the bathroom door, not caring if anyone was inside or not, but still surprised to find that it was empty. He turned the light off before allowing himself to enter; the fluorescent glow was too much for his aching head. The water still ran in the sink, a steady gush, and he felt his way across the bathroom, navigating with his hands. He washed his hands, scrubbing off the sticky mess, and rinsed until his hands no longer smelled of soap. He did this almost entirely without looking, for even the low light from the bedroom burned his eyes, and he kept them mostly closed. He leaned over, cupping his hands and lapping up the water, gulping it down, almost choking. Finally satisfied, he splashed water onto his face, ran his fingers through his hair. His head still hurt and his muscles still ached, but at least he was no longer thirsty. He turned off the water, and the room fell silent, eerie in its stillness. Something was wrong, he thought. He still had no memory of the previous night. This bothered Vladimir. He still had no sense of where he was.

He had a momentary flash of recollection – a brief image of two men approaching him, men in suits. Did he know them? He could not remember. There was a sense of familiarity about them; they had met before. They must have gone for drinks, and then he met someone and…

Nothing. He was drawing a blank – everything else was merely conjecture, supposition. The memory was gone, and with it any rational explanation as to what he was doing in a strange woman’s hotel room.

She must be in the main room, he thought. He started toward the door and nearly tripped – the other shoe was on the floor of the bathroom: black, heeled and strapless. He tried to think of something to say. Was this someone he knew? Doubtful. He braced himself, tried to steady his nerves, and wracked his brain for something charming, something gracious or polite or disarming. Perhaps he should start with an apology, explain that he couldn’t even remember her–